Neverending Voyage

Left Home - the other side of the voyage is not voyaging at all

2007-01-04T07:21:00.000-08:00

Left home and left out. It's been a long time, not that nothing has happened - my life feels like a drama - but nothing to write about, or perhaps I just lack the ability to make my experiences coherent in English. I'm motivated now by lack of Bill. He's gone to Florida to settle my mom into the apartment for the winter, as we promised her. She loves it already. He's helping her find her way around the community and get to banking and shopping by bus. He helped her get her community ID card, and got her started on her social circle by driving her around to visit people. My mother's apparently in love with him. She is planning to visit an old friend, who's dying. This is not somebody Bill or I ever met or spoke to, but she thinks it would be just fine if he came in with her on her visit. "He can chat with her husband." This is really about her own interests - she wants to show him off, and she wants him there on the spot when she's ready to leave. I have urged him not to impose the presence of stranger in the home of a dying woman. The outcome probably depends on whether there's cake in the house of the dying. I'll find out later.
So he's with mom, getting along with her as I never have. Last night he called me from the restaurant where they were having dinner (in Florida, my mother MUST eat dinner at 4:30). It seems that, halfway through a turkey wrap, my mother notice a horse and carriage go by (they were downtown, in the charming part of town) and it triggered memories in her. She told Bill about how my father took her out to a nightclub, and afterward they went for a ride in a horse-drawn carriage, and that was where he proposed to her. How come she chose to tell this story to Bill? Why did I hear it for the first time from him, instead of her, and why so late in life? So distant from my mother and my husband, I realize how intensely I miss having a meaningful mother-daughter relationship. For a lifetime, our exchanges have been angry and critical. She relaxes and opens up with Bill (as I do) as she never did with me. I am terrified that my relationship with Leah mimics my relationship with my mother. I know it leaks through, I hear myself saying to her some of the things my mother said to me; I hear hostility in her voice sometimes (much more controlled than mine) but I plug along hoping for the best. I love her so much. Could she be as angry at me as I am with my mother?
I've been sick with a terrible cold. I'm sure that if I felt better, well, I don't know what I'd do if I were better. There's no point running off to Florida, Bill will be back Friday, and after all - he only left on Tuesday! I miss, miss, miss him, and I'm so jealous of his easy relations with my mother. I should have gone with them. Of course, that would have entirely changed the nature of their shared visit. Had I gone, I would have nothing to envy. I can't wait for him to come home and make me feel normal again.

The third, the fourth....

2006-11-28T08:36:00.001-08:00

So now I'm commuting on a regular basis (although I have only one more commute planned before returning to New York full time to sell my apartment). One of my trips was just horrible - a 9:45 from LaG to FtL, which, because of weather, didn't leave till 3:00 a.m. The worst part was that JetBlue had three different recordings on it's departure information line about the same flight number - one leaving on time, one leaving at 12:30, one leaving at 3:30. I went to the Airport at 11:15 and waited. The best part was the flights were SO delayed, that by the time mine boarded, the weather had totally cleared, and the flight was uneventful, although it didn't arrive till 6:00 a.m. on Friday morning, and I slept through the day.
I'm feeling better about the community - Bill was right, there are people our age. I don't think I can get to know them until we're there full time, of course, but it's a relief to see people in their 60's who dance and play together. If it is possible to find friends, I'll be content to grow old there, perhaps. The problems? Our maintenance increaased $50 a month, and we were assessed $50 a month for a year - covering increased insurance rates and repairs to staircases. The apartment is, after all, too small. It was a terrible (and ultimately expensive) error on my part - I won't be happy till I flip it and buy bigger. I'd be happy, I guess to buy in the community or nearby - it's the facilities that are most important to me, but this is costly and fatiguing, changing apartments AGAIN within a year or two. When we settle in, we'll fix up a little, cosmetically, and then sell and rebuy.
In the meantime, after this week, we're in New York. Mom goes down January 2 (Bill's decided to drive home next week, and fly down before my mother and get her settled).
Drew is hardly in contact with me - he sends brief emails and doesn't respond to my phone calls. Today he sent me a longer note, telling me about his and Nicole's work plans (ever-changing). He sent a link to many nice photos of him and his family. It was nice to get that. I sent him a guess-where-I-am phone message from Kravis Center on Nov. 22, with the sound of the live cast of "Jesus Christ, Superstar" included. For Christmas, I made a blanket for Kay, and since he hasn't given us clues about what they want, I'll send a family gift of a food basked of some kind.
Ben's Ben. We're having trouble thinking of a nice Christmas gift for him. I'm crazy about the guy.
Leah's pregnant. I made a little carriage blanket, and we're in the process of ordering shower gifts. For Christmas I got her maternity clothes, and I got Colin 2 books about making furniture, at Leah's suggestion.
I'm worried that all the cost of buying the Florida Place, maintaining the Queens place until it's sold, flying back and forth, may prevent us from traveling much over the next couple of years. I'm really concerned about that, because travel has been an important part of Bill's and my life together.

The third, the fourth....

2006-11-28T08:36:00.000-08:00

The second commute

2006-11-07T11:01:00.000-08:00

An eventful flight, returning for the second time to Florida. Feeling a little more upbeat - On Wednesday or Thursday I called Joan (met in the library on the first trip, remember?) and told her Iwas returning, did she want to meet for lunch Monday, and she said yes! I packed some more clothes, hangers, stuff Bill wanted. Took my meds after boarding, then had two Bailey's early in the flight. Just before landing at Ft Laud, I started feeling hot and vaguely naseous. I didn't really need to, but just to "do something" about how I felt, I got up to go to the bathroom. Once inside, I knew I might faint. I concentrated on getting my clothes together, and struggled to unlock the door so I wouldn't die alone at 38,000 feet. The last thing I recalled, before I went down, was pushing down on the handle to open the bathroom door. The next thing I was aware of, I was on the floor (not sprawled, feeling really good, believe it or not, that I had all my clothes on), and three flight attendants were asking if I was okay, giving me water, offering to have paramedics waiting at the airport. It took me a while to be able to stand up. I still don't really know what happened - it's taken days for all the bruises to rise and show themselves, I must have landed like a rock and bounced, because I have a dark, painful bruise on my left hip and a large yellow one on my right calf, among others. My whole body hurt afterward.
I slept late Friday, and by Saturday felt better. We took a long bike ride on A1A between Juno and Jupiter beaches, got some other exercise along the way.
Saturday night, Donna and Gary, and Max and Harold came over. We had some wine, and went to dinner at PF Changs. Seeing friends is a very normalizing thing to do.
I spent the better part of Monday morning trying to find Joan's phone number, with Bill's help. I must have thrown it away - fortunately, I had written it down in my calendar entry for the lunch date, so I hadn't really lost it. I called at 11 a.m., having discussed lunch at 12-12:30 when we first spoke. She wanted to meet later - I think I woke her up, but I really didn't feel like indulging her if she didn't keep her appointments. She agreed to meet at 12:30, but she didn't want me to pick her up. I ended up walking to the bagel shop, and we had a nice lunch. It's a start.
Bill and I are proceeding along our original path. If it's possible to get our homestead protection this year so be it. If not, I'm planning anyway to get a Florida driver's license and other indicia of residency. Bill has insurance in New York until April 1, so he's decided that he'll get the license now, and he'll have to bite the bullet later, with the cost of registering the car and buying insurance in Florida higher than it is in New York. We're moving forward.
Now, we plan ahead. This Friday night, weather permitting, I'd like to go to Meisner Park in Boca, for browsing and people-watching. Bill wants to find a swing dance. If we can't find one this week, there's one in Hollywood in a couple of weeks (Hollywood's a haul, but not impossible for a night of dancing). In a few weeks we'll visit Aunt Rose, maybe see my cousin, Sandy. Making progress.

The first commute

2006-11-01T08:05:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday - my first flight down, alone, to see my honey in Florida. We have spoken, literally, hour by hour since he left home the previous Monday morning, bins piled atop the car, the back seat removed and the space filled to the roof with boxes and clothes and hangers, two bikes and a stepladder anchored at the rear on a climsy and uncooperative bike rack. The Beverly Hillbilly, my Billy, on his way to the promised land. I stocked up on lowfat dinners and waited out the days, and then Thursday came. After work, I went home, and with more than three hours to go, called a car for the ten-minute ride to the airport. Checkin was a breeze - curbside luggage surrender, and the luggage guy also gave me my boarding pass. This was the only pleasant surprise. The plane left an hour late, so I ended up in the airport for four hours. I looked all over the place for a nice restaurant - money's no object when Bill's a thousand miles away - but all I could find was grease, so I had grease for dinner. I would have enjoyed a nice sandwich and the luxury of an Amstel Light, but the meal I got didn't merit anything that pleasant as an accompaniment.
Arrived at about 1:30 - it was thrilling to finally see Bill, and the late hour didn't spoil our reunion. He had pushed our two twin beds together, and we cuddled happily all night long, happy in our element, wrapped up snugly like one person, which we are not.
On Friday morning we got up slowly. I cooked a failed breakfast of eggbeater omelette with tomato, toast and jelly. The eggbeaters worked bettwer a few days later, after I had some practice. We went to the pool, the exercise room, then began the hard work.
Friday afternoon, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. We shopped. Shopped for faucets in the bathroom and kitchen. Shopped for food, shopped for odds and ends, shopped for patio furniture that will satisfy Bill and my mother. Dealt with the minor emergencies that are the stuff of homeownership, albeit very-tiny-homeownership. We laundered, cleaned, argued over temperature and humidity settings, over the opening and closing of doors and winders and those infernal vertical blinds that seem to comprise at leaast half of the entire mass of the state of Florida. Privacy, security, comfort, taste. We are not one person.
On those days, too, we encountered. Encountered management to obtain our ID cards, gate-opening clicker, community directory and information. There are two nice, fast computers for the use of residents, but instead of setting them to prevent downloads to the hard drive, they prevent dangerous data by keeping the password a secret. In order to get online, we have to ask someone in the office (during office hours) to enter the secret code to let us in. Encountered the beaurocracy at the tax office, finding out how expensive it is to become Florida homeowners, Florida auto-owners, Florida Drivers. Encountered neighbors: "What are you doing here" "You don't belong here" "Your husband, maybe he looks a few years older, but you?" Joined the library, where computers apparently operate on dialup. I get involved in a conversation there with Joan, who lives at King's Point but does not socialize there or use the facilities. She can't stand seeing people with walkers, who talk about nothing but conditions, medications, diets - She's there because she and her husband, who works, inherited the place. They have one car, she's alone all day long. Been there three years, no friends. I gave her my phone number, she gave me hers.
Sunday night I melted down. How can I live in a place where nobody's my age, nobody wants to know me, there's nobody I have anything in common with, everything's slow, hot, damp, expensive, we're treated like idiots. I need a social life, a family life - Bill doesn't. Bill loves the gym and the weather and he's found a skate club, but he's been chastened by our experiences at the tax office - we can't get a homestead exemption without fudging the application (the NY star exemption year overlaps into the next Florida real estate tax year), so we might not get the homestead exemption for 2006; it's real expensive to register your car here; auto insurance is expensive. Enthusiastic as he is about the place, when I start crying about feeling pressured and worried that I've made a terrible and expensive mistake, he is very cooperative and sympathetic - we decide not to worry about homesteading for this year. We'll sell in New York and we can stay in Florida while we plan any further moves. We'll proceed with homesteading for the following tax year (2008) and hope the market stays low so our assessment won't rise. Thepressure's off. By Monday night, I'm actually looking forward to my trip home, looking forward to walking out onto Northern Boulevard and seeing the Empire State Building in the distance. I can relax again.
We rise Tuesday morning at 3 a.m. I don't do anything in a hurry, and then it's nearly 4 a.m., and with a more-than-half-hour ride to the airport, we have to shake our tails. I have found a sweater that my Mom knitted, I'm pretty sure it was the last one she make for Drew, and one she made for Leah - the first - with a little bonnet. I pack these to take home. I'll ship them out with gifts for Christmas, for my grandchild and grandchild-to-be. I'm looking forward. I got to the airport about 4:30, and the security gate doesn't open till 5.
At Dunkin' Donuts, I get on line for a large, mixed caf-decaf with two sweet n'lows. The line isn't too long. Ahead of me in line, a dwarf is ordering his breakfast. His head and body are perfectly formed. His voice is deep and resonant. He has thick, black hair. What a handsome man he would be if only his legs were regular, I think. Then, I thank God, who has seen fit not to create me a dwarf.
Coffee in hand, I sit down to watch ESPN, the only thing broadcast in the sitting area outside security. Later, as I enter, there's some small to-do about my taking some footfungus medicine on the plane with me (I have no checked baggage) because it just looks like nailpolish, it is marked as "lacquer", and has no prescription markings on it. At last, I win the battle. On the plane, I rise to allow my my seatmate to pass. It's the dwarf, who chats about the condo he inherited, where he wants to retire, why don't immigrants learn to speak English. After a while, I open my book and read, nod off, time passes. By 9:30 a.m. I have landed, found and taken the express to Grand Central, and I am sitting at my desk, on the internet, eating breakfast. End of the first commute.

More before we go....

2006-10-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

Bill has begun moving boxes of stuff to his car, and I notice that despite the real grief I feel over "losing" New York, I'm beginning to think like an outsider. I find that I still love walking across the 59th Street Bridge on my way to work, but while on the span the noises and soot are troublesome, and I get angry about the rudeness of bikers who don't stay in their lane, and the whole thing looks dirty to me lately. I am easily annoyed by the crowds as I negotiate the crosswalks, and am less enthusiastic about being in the Grand Central area in general, even though this has been, at least for the last several years, my favorite part of the City. Tonight I'm going toLincoln Center to hear Prokofiev, and I'm not sure that I won't feel like my old habit of walking there from my office won't feel just plain old and tiresome, instead of familiar and comfortable. In any event, this concert season (some of which I'll attend with friends, because Bill's going to be in Delray), is part of my "goodby to New York" process, so I don't want to miss it. On the 25th, the day before my departure, Beth and I will be hearing a Beethoven program. I truly enjoy attending these concerts with friends - many of my friends like and appreciate classical music even more than Bill does - but still, Lincoln Center has been a common pleasure for Bill and me since the early days of our relationship. Fortunately, most of my subscription runs from January, so he will be here to share it with me.

I am still comfortable about leaving Ben and Leah up North. Bill's begun speaking a little about his relationship with Caitlin, and how little he sees her even now. He's always distant and analytical when he speaks about family - you wouldn't think he has any feelings at all if you took him at face value - and I think he regrets how things have gone between the two of them, and that those regrets are more poignant now that he contemplates going so far away from her.

preparing for the commute

2006-10-15T10:16:00.000-07:00

We've packed everything that's excess here in New York, for storage, and everything that's basic for while we or my mother stay in Florida. Bill's taking it down October 23 by car - I've seen his magic balancing act, boxes stacked on the roof of the car, as we rehearsed the feel of driving that wayj. He'll also remove the back seat of the car, and stuff boxes in there and in the trunk, and he got a bike rack to which he'll mount and chain our bikes. All this moving before we actually move will save us money when we have to hire a mover later on, and anyway, we have to leave our furniture and winter clothes, because I'll continue working all winter while we try to sell the New York apartment.
I know I need to at least try to network and make friends before I make the big move. I'm flying down on the 26th, the first commuter flight - I'm returning to NYC every Thursday morning on the 6am flight and taking the express bus into the city to the office, and every Thursday night, I'll head back to Florida. This routine only lasts through the beginning of December, when Bill and I fly back to NY together. Then mom goes to Florida to stay till the end of March. By then, hopefully, the apartment here will be sold and we'll move down south. I gotta tell you. I don't have such a great feeling about this. I really hope that the time I'm spending with Bill during my commute (basically all of November) results in some satisfying social connections because decorating will only occupy me for a limited time....
I'm not sure why this feels so difficult for me. Drew's already across the country, and it will be awfully hard having a close relationship with him and with Kai regardless of where I live. I only see Ben about every month even though he's not far from me, but it feels okay to see him a little less and call/e-mail a little more instead - I guess I just like him and don't have too many issues about spending time with him, at least not right now. Leah and I have always been close, and talk at least once a week. I like Colin, and he seems finally to be reasonably comfortable around me. They live less than 3 hours from here, and she's pregnant - In this case, I will be sacrificing time that I could spend with her, and developing a relationship with her child-to-be. But I recognize that it's pretty ordinary for people to retire and move away - I just wish I could be more at ease, let go of what's gone before, try to maintain contact with old friends, and so on. Right now, it feels so painful.

Cruising and Continuing the Transformation to a Floridian

2006-10-11T08:28:00.000-07:00

So we continue our NYC tourism in preparation for the change - We recently went to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, for me a first since childhood. I have memories of walking around with my older brother, George, and my parents walking behind me. I recalled the Japanese garden especially, and it's still there, of course-much less exotic than in my recollections. A beautiful place still. The trip afforded an opportunity I have made from time to time in recent years - a pilgrimage past the house of my early childhood on Lincoln Place at Utica Avenue, where I lived from the age of 5 until I finished 5th grade, when I moved to Laurelton, in Queens.

We cruised from 10/3 until today from New York to San Juan, St. Thomas and Tortola, returning this morning. Out and back, in New York Harbor, it's hard for me to imagine my immigrant forebears on deck as they passed the statue of Liberty. To this day, I feel my heart swell every time I see her, amazed like a new arrival, thrilled like a tourist, patriotic like a veteran passing the symbol of the things strived for, things we need to see, things that embody and give shape to our love of cuntry and pride of place.

I should say something about the cruise itself, since this is, after all, a travelblog. Carnival's bording procedures sucked. Its method for gathering the information it required of us as passengers was disorganized and ineffective. Its response to our complaints about the time we wasted because of the ship's demands for duplicative information and documentation from us was a total failure. The food, however, was great. Service was excellent (if a little intrusive, in the case of the cabin service). There was nonstop entertainment of all kinds, and since school was in session, there weren't many children running around, nor were there loud young adults making fools of themselves at their parents' expense. It was really quite pleasant. San Juan (we only had an afternoon) was so hot it was difficult to enjoy the lovely old city. We walked around the forts and the town center, and we were glad to get back on board early in the evening. St. Thomas was interesting. The shopping areas were difficult to navigate and annoying to be in - cabbies whistled and talked, trying to get you on board - I stopped responding, and I left as quickly as possible. The beach was stunning - I'd love to fly there again for just a few days at a resort. In between we visited the St. Thomas Synagogue - yes, that's the name, named for the Island, not the saint - thinking if we walked over and were lucky, it would be open after services. In fact, there was a service going on, which we attended most of. A family from Boca had come across for a destination bar and bat mitzvah for twins! The building itself is simple and pretty, with sand covering the marble floors and a wroght iron mogen dovid arching over the exterior stairs. The rabbi was reform/progressive, praying in Hebrew and signing with his hands (though nobody was deaf, to my knowledge), and the cantor seemed more like a folk singer than anything else. It was nice! On Tortola, Bill located a botanical garden which was charming (Carnival didn't let us know it existed - I guess because they didn't sponsor tours there).

We have a couple of concerts coming up at Lincoln Center. Then, further farewells to New York will have to wait while I prepare to begin commuting from late October to the beginning of December. The birth of my first grandchild in June, and the news that my daughter is expecting in March or April, make preparations for a final departure from New York particularly poignant - each milestone bringing me closer to an adventure I'm not sure I welcome, and at the same time dragging me a little further from my family. I know this is the way things go now - Drew and Kai are already 3,000 miles away from me. I'm pretty mobile - maybe the distance will not be too terrible a barrier, and in the meantime, I'm checking out ways to stay in touch - maybe my kids would accept a webcam as a gift, and schedule monthly chats with me. I'm looking into it.

Beginning of the End

2006-09-23T07:34:00.000-07:00

It's the beginning of the end of my life as a New Yorker. I have a series of commutes planned between The City and Floriday this fall. In the winter, Mom will use our new apartment in Delray Beach, while we prepare to sell the Queens apartment. By April, 2007, I'll be a citizen of Florida. I'm might nervous.

In preparation for the big change in my life, there are things I have to do - sort and discard things, plan for commutes, adjust to the idea of being without Bill for the days I'm in New York, since he won't need to commute with me. But mostly, I have to say goodby to New York, where I've lived all my 57 years, where I greet each morning's trip outside with the wonder of a constant tourist. I am making a list of places to see and things to do, since so much remains. I haven't visited a botanical garden as an adult, nor have I ever gone to Ellis Island, Governor's Island, nor, till yesterday, Welfare Island.

Welfare Island, now Roosevelt Island, can be reached by Tram, F train, and the Welfare Island Bridge, on foot or by car. The Tram was also on my to-do list. Bill and I drove to Long Island City and walked the bridge, walked around the southern part of the Island, and took the tram to The City. We took that train back into the Island and stopped for coffee and a blackandwhite before we walked back through the town and across the bridge to our car. So, we didn't see the whole island (we'll take our bikes in, soon), but we did use every pathway in, and got a sense of what it's like. The views from the tram have no parallel - the are unique perspectives. We took pictures of each other, and they'll go in my album.

In less than two weeks, we're going on a cruise. I plan to wear sexy tops without a bra - a thing I am pleased to say I can do without looking foolish, even at my age. I will allow myself one or two occasions of drunkenness, which Bill loves. I expect to gain weight. And when I return, I will make it my priority to go once more to Fort Tryon Park in Autumn, and to the Cloisters to see the Unicorn Tapestries.

In the White Mountains

2006-07-27T16:59:00.000-07:00

August 12 to 19, this year, we take Bill's daughter, Caitlin, who is 13, to Purity Spring. It's a homey, old-timey inn and resort. In the winter, it's King Pine Ski area, but now it's just Purity Spring. It's a really cozy and pleasant place, especially with kids, since the management doesn't actually care if your toddler is loud and messy in the dining room. That isn't to say you can't have a romantic grownup vacation there - you just have to plan to eat a little on the late side, cause you know, those kids are always hungry and drag their parents into meals the minute they smell the mac and cheese.

In any case, my three kids, now adults, practically grew up there. We went for at least a week every year, the same week, with family and friends, and other families/ couples/singles from around the country and from Canada came the same week every year, so we got to know them all and looked forward, from one summer to the next, to seeing them. When I got divorced from Jeff, the annual use of our special room became, for a while, an issue of contention - I won - haha! I continued to take my youngest child up at the appointed week, I went up also with two boyfriends at various times. Recently, my children returned for a small family reunion there, and they say the place hasn't changed much. We're making this trip because, in a moment of insanity, I suggested it, and Bill rarely says no to me!

So I anticipate my return, with Bill and Caitlin. I contacted my Canadian friends, urging them to consider coming down oat of up north (no, that's not a spelling error-just how they speak), but couldn't convince them, so it's just us three. We're not getting the big, expensive room in the building with the water mill next to the dam that holds back the clear, drinkable lake water. The Mill building used to be, when I first started going there, a falling-down barn with signs warning me to keep out. It was renovated to relative luxury, and now houses a good gym, and nice pool, and three nice bedrooms with fridges and microwaves. My extended family used to take the building over on "our" week, and I've had up to 7 people sharing our room when my kids were young and brought friends. Instead, we've booked a smaller space in another, older building, and I'm hoping to get the room I remember that has a little sleeping nook arranged so that there's a tiny bit of visual privacy at night. Bill's been asking me how we're going to find time to be alone. We're pretty old, but we are, after all, still sort of newlyweds. In any case, I've him he can just forget about it.

Now, when I'm with Caitlin, I don't take on a mother's role, nor do I think I act like a friend. She lives in a female-centric home and is isolated from her father by her mothers animosity toward him and by her stage of life - now is the time for her to conspire with her friends not to let either parent know too much about her or get too close. For me to be too motherly, or too friendly, would be a challenge to her loyalty and an insult to her adolescence. I only attempt to exercise authority over my property and premises, and don't attempt to tell her how to do things, nor encourage her to share feelings. She was 9 years old when I met her, and I don't see her that often. She resists intimacy with her father, so it would be presumptuous to believe that she'd let me get to know her very well. My feeling is, I'm just around. As she gets older, if she likes me (and by the way, I like her very much), we can be friendly.

For the moment, I'll be happy if we share a room, in peace, for one, measly week. When we return (or sooner, if things go badly and I have to flee to the computer to vent), I'll let you know how it went, and tell you more about the resort itself.

Traveling Back in Time with Mom-4 days in Delray Beach

2006-07-25T06:04:00.000-07:00

The time I'm traveling back through is my own - I am reverting, becoming a child, enduring my mother's attacks.
Did I tell you what we were doing in Delray Beach? Bill and I are shopping, with my mother, for an apartment that she can use in the winter - an apartment WE will pay for. This is happening because, apparently, I have confused emotional business with family business. She likes Kings Point (best clubhouse) and Lakes of Delray, the community she used to own in.
I had misgivings about Kings Point from the beginning. The last time I was there, my father was talking about suicide. I remember the place as dismal, dingy and forlorn, with parking places up against patios and garbage bins in every path. These memories surely were colored by my sad experience there, so I'll keep an open mind, especially since it's so affordable. We house-shop, and I say, "What do you think of this apartment, Mom?" and she answers, "Why do you wear such low-cut blouses? Is this how you want people to think of you? You can't wear your bikinis here you know, the men will go wild!" We spent most of a day moving between car, oppressive heat, cookie-cutter apartments (they were perfectly nice inside), more heat, fatty food, etc. until Bill decided the development looks like a barracks. I could see that my mother was crestfallen, but I had to tell her I agreed. I was, after one day of shopping, furious at her for her comments, furious at myself if I endured them, more furious at myself when I barked back, which I certainly did. On day 2, we looked at Lakes of Delray. I heard more of her litany of criticism, her opinions about what was the best investment I could make (the apartment that she wanted most), her praise of my darling husband who is, in fact, a saint. I found an apartment I liked, he liked, she liked. Guess what? My mother knows the owner from back when she lived in the building across the way. She wants to know if she should call her old friend, or let the broker deal with her. If she calls what should she say? If her friend sees our names on the contract and calls my mother, what should she say? I was now under pressure from the broker to take action. My mother announced she should be the one interviewed by the condo association, since she's a former tenant. She's almost totally deaf. This is not amusing. She would not hear what was asked, she would guess about what she was supposed to be hearing, and answer the question she thought she was asked. Don't think that would go well at all. She wants to advise me about what to pay. She wants to know if I think the real estate attorney is any good - while we're sitting in the chair at the attorney's office. She is amazed at the cost of attorneys. She wants to know why I have my jacket on when it's so hot. She wants to know what she said that's so terrible, because I have stopped responding, and I'm glaring straight ahead.
The next day, we will visit Aunt Rose in Melbourne. This is supposed to be a happy surprise for my mother and my aunt - Bill and I reserved the day for second-looks, but we found an apartment we can all be satisfied with, so the day is free. My mother is truly surprised when we announce our plans the night before. Naturally, we need to call ahead. My mother insists that we tell Rose to make us lunch. My mother is usually the one who hosts her sister; now she wants to be paid back. I ask my aunt, now about 87 years old if she can make us lunch. She is clearly flustered. She has no food in the house except tuna, which I can't stand. I want to pick a pizza up, to make things easy, but Mom's standing next to me as I'm on the phone, telling me it's Rose's turn to make lunch - nothing else will do. And so I insist. After our two hour trip, we arrive, and Rose seems exhausted - she went to the store that morning, in the heat and bought us a roast chicken and some potato salad. When we sit down to eat, the two of them begin to bicker - old angers and dissapointments begin as a thread in the background as they chatter about nothing important, and explode, finally, into an outright shouting fight - they are angry, then crying, hurting each other, and pieces of potato salad are flying out of their mouths, and they seem so terribly, terribly sad and frail and old, and saddest for me, I see between them what I'm feeling between me and my mother.
Three hours after we arrive, we are heading back to Delray and my mother wants to know if she is like her sister, mean and unkind, she means, and I can't say, because she's been mean and unkind to me for so long, and I feel only meanness and unkindness toward her at that moment.
It's Monday, our last day in Florida, when I see the attorney, make the offer, run back and forth with copies, inventory contents of the apartment I want, and finally get on the plane to go home with mom and with Bill, who's been trying to keep me from going off the deep end. I am hoping this deal will fall through (it probably will), and although I have a second apartment in mind, I'm probably not going to make an offer when the time comes.
I can't believe, after all these years, that we trigger each other the way we do - we set each other off like bombs.

I'm shell shocked. I'm back at work, and I just spoke to my daughter on the phone - telling her I hope that in whatever ways I've hurt her, whatever errors in judgment I've made, I hope she can forgive me. She wants to know if it isn't, in any case, time I let go of my anger toward my mother, but I can't say I've grown up enough to do that - unlike my own daughter. This wasn't just four days in Delray Beach looking for a vacation home. It was a very expensive, exhausting and embarrassing trip from my present to my lingering past. I'm still a child with my mother, and this was the worst trip of my life.

Not Traveling Alone

2006-07-19T13:36:00.000-07:00

As you can tell from my Sultan commentary, I don't like traveling alone, and won't do it again for a while. I have three trips in the works, and Bill will be there for all of them - Florida, White Mountains of New Hampshire, and a Cruise to Puerto Rico and some other places. But Florida and New Hampshire, well, they involve more than Bill and myself.
Tomorrow bright and early we are heading for Delray Beach, Florida with my mom - 83 years old, nowhere near death, but slow and fragile. We're house hunting in Delray for several days, in the worst heat of the summer, with a woman who can barely see, hears next to nothing. She's diabetic, has poor balance, and is no longer able to conduct a lengthy conversation or follow the logical progression of an argument for very long. She's emotional, defensive, sometimes hostile (and I'm not that nice, either). Since the house we're hunting is for her, we can't actually leave her behind, but I worry that she won't really be able to shop. Now if I didn't have other obligations, and I had all the time and money it takes, I could spend as much time as needed, see a few places each day, help her make a careful decision. But in the space of 5 days (including travel days), we need to see lots of places. We arrive Thursday afternoon and plan to drive around the neighborhoods we're interested in. Friday and Saturday must be concentrated shopping days. Sunday is reserved for second looks, and we come home on Monday afternoon. If we don't see anything good on Friday or Saturday, we'll drive up to visit an elderly aunt in Melbourne. I expect my mother will not hold up well, that I'll be too hot and too short tempered. Bill, of course, will keep either of us from really exploding, but I am truly worried about how to get along sharing one hotel room (Mom and Bill are both very interested in saving a few dollars) for what might be a very, very, very long weekend.
In August, we take Bill's 13-year-old daughter to an inn in Madison, NH (near North Conway). Could this be the opposite of my Florida trip? I remember the days when I took my kids to the country. At that age they truly resisted any involvement on my part in their activities, and I think it will be that way with Caitlin on this trip. So instead of my mom's neediness, whining, and demands, I expect that Caitlin will be whiny and demanding, but that once she gets what she wants, she'll want US to take a hike. I haven't taken a kid on vacation in at least ten years. Mercifully, she is the sort who occupies herself, and if she feels shy, she doesn't show it very much. Where I worry about the trip with Mom, Bill worries about the trip with his daughter - it wasn't his idea, it's for a whole week, he doesn't always like being responsible for her, blah, blah (it's blah, blah when the worry is his, not so with my worries...).
It will be very interesting (at least to me) to see how each of these trips plays out. I'll let you know soon enough.

Sultan, WA July 13-16, 2006

2006-07-17T06:29:00.000-07:00

Surprise for me, my son moved there about 6 months ago. Within a span of about two weeks, Drew announced that Nicole was expecting, she missed her family, there was lots of good work in the Seattle area, and then they were gone. The baby was born about 6 weeks ago- Kai Zavier, or Kay Xavier (haven't seen it in writing yet, but I've seen his picture, and he's beautiful, and so is my son). So when Kai was born I didn't rush out, I let the first frantic weeks pass, and I have just returned from my first visit to Sultan (Yes, there's a statue of the Sultan of Sultan WA on a road I didn't get to see).

So here's the first piece of the story - this is my first real, faraway trip without Bill. All my old fears and insecurities are back in full forse in his absence - I couldn't walk into my motel room without Drew accompanying me upstairs, couldn't sleep without pills, could barely take care of myself - ordinary washing and toothbrushin was an ordeal. I had nobody to cry to and I felt terribly alone - here I was seeing my son after so long, filled with emotion that he finds embarrassing, and no Bill to take the edge off. I don't like waking up alone in a strange place, it's as simple as that, and I don't intend to do it again if I can help it.
Look, I love Seattle, which is about an hour south of Sultan, so I went prepared to love the area, and yes, as a vacation spot, it's pretty nice. The town itself, however, is more than a pass-through for me, since Drew lives there, and it has some problems. It looks distinctly not prosperous. Drew tells me there's crime (not violent - robberies, burglaries, etc.) at the same time that Nicole tells me that no, it's not odd that some guy in a truck cruised up to me and told me he just dropped a guy off somewhere and did I need a lift - everyone's friendly here. The grocery store sells outdated food. At least one of the businesses pays its employees in credits for the goods it sells - we're talking furniture and gift items, not food - and the credits are redeemed at the retail price of the goods taken by employees in payment. You can't always get tea with your breakfast here in coffeeville.
From a visitor's point of view, it's a different story. I stayed for about $55 a night, tax included, at the Dutch Cup motel - very run down looking on the outside, no milk with the coffee offered in the morning, but with clean, large, quiet rooms, good TV and comfortable, king-sized beds and very big, fluffy pillows. They don't clean the rooms unless you ask. There are four bars in town, and although I just go home and go to sleep at night, the whole town is busy drinking and karaoke-ing, except for the thieves and burglars. People are friendly - everyone says hello. As a New Yorker, I'm creeped out when the guy I have to pass on the balcony on my way to the motel room tips his hat, smiles, and says "evnen, maam", but I guess I can believe that his intentions were honorable.
The weather was beautiful - we were on the western side of the Cascades, so we had all the advantages of Seattle. It also gets a lot of rain, as Seattle does, and Nicole's father says there's a high suicide rate that he attributes to the chronic dampness and wetness. Sultan is surrounded by national forests, national parks, camping, hunting, fishing, gorgeous lakes and streams, all of which I'll get to see if Drew remains there long enough. I remember this topography and climate well and fondly - a couple of years ago Bill and I spent a late spring touring Seattle, Mt. Rainier, and the Olympic Peninsula.
We drove upstream for about two hours on the 14th, to a town named Leavenworth - a pseudo-Bavarian vacation village where there are actually, people who seem to speak with a German accent. It's a little overdone, pretty expensive, but fun. It looks like a place I could stay for a couple of nights if I were on vacation, rather than visiting. There's actually music playing in the streets all day long - Nicole says they often have oompah bands, but on the day we were there, it was recorded.
If I had the means, I'd love to spend a couple of weeks with a really good camera, driving the roads of the state photographing espresso shacks, and self-publish a book of photos. There are windmills, Bavarian cottages, and a variety of clever shapes to these places, as well as actual shacky-looking things wence cometh, nevertheless, very exotic coffees and shakes. On the way to Leavenworth, we passed one next to a metal hut that was a location for "Harry and the Hendersons".
Back to Sultan - the good things: Well, for one thing, my son and grandchild are there. Gas prices are almost thirty cents a gallon lower than prices here in Queens. There's a terrific bakery (only one - it has a big "bakery" sign outside, high up on a pole). It's the home of the 2002 girls soccer champions. A train goes through, but doesn't stop. The air smells clean.
My evaluation: It's actually a really, really good place to visit, as a stopoff on your way elsewhere, but I definitely wouldn't want to live there.
Next trip is definitely to a place no normal person would choose this time of year - Delray Beach, FL at the end of July, with my frail and elderly mom - I must be insane.

Il Percorso de Principe - Paradise Gained

2006-06-14T07:36:00.000-07:00

Several months ago, when my husband Bill and I started planning our most recent trip to Florence, I went hard to work researching. I wanted to make sure that I got to see the city in a way I couldn’t the when I was there for four days in 2002. When I came across a reference to the Percorso de Principe, or Vasari Corridor, I flipped. I’m a lover of art, and had been fortunate to see galleries, museums, churches and public spaces all over Europe, but this was an opportunity to see something utterly off the beaten path - A part of the Uffizi open only by special booking (and at high price), with art treasures I had never before seen in galleries, or, to my knowledge, even in photos.

I spent hours on the phone trying to reach someone at the Uffizi. Don't believe that stuff about "Press number 3 for English". The only English I heard was, "no, no, no" followed by “chiuso, chiuso.” I checked out the postings on slowtrav.com, my travel bible, and elsewhere, from lots of people were trying to get into the Corridor, who had the same problem. Everybody was asking why the Uffizi had no information, they asked about rumors that the Corridor wouldn't reopen, they had booked tours through tour agencies but couldn't get confirmations...NOBODY I was aware of, not a soul, was actually getting in.

In early April, not very hopefully, I booked a May 11 tour of the Percorso through SelectItaly (U.S. $88), with the understanding that no tour would take place if there weren’t enough people. That was a condition I could live with – my real worry was that the Uffizi just wouldn’t open the doors. I repeatedly asked for confirmation and got none, although I was promised I'd have news two weeks in advance of the booking date.

In fact I left for Italy April 27 - TWO WEEKS before May 11, with nothing but promises. There were still no postings on SlowTrav, and no word from elsewhere, of anyone being allowed in or even having confirmation of a tour date. Look, it wasn't killing me - I had five weeks in Florence to look forward to - but I really wanted this.

After all my worry, my and despite problems printing the voucher and having to do just a bit of running around Florence to find the local agent, I showed up at the appointed place and time, thrilled that I might soon ACTUALLY be underway. My voucher was vague about where to meet ("across from the main entrance" but there are two of those). There was nobody with any sign referring to the Corridor or to SelectItaly, but ultimately I found other people waiting for the same tour, and....

The tour began in the Uffizi proper, with a survey of the highlights of the collection. I've been there and done that, and saw galleries about four years ago, when I toured the museum without benefit of guide. What I thought was familiar, however, became new and more interesting than ever as our small group moved along from room to room –so the works were not new to me, but the analysis offered by our guide brought a new life to the way I looked at each piece. Especially valuable to me was the historical perspective offered by our guide as she compared similar works of art, helping me understand the meaning of small differences in otherwise similar compositions. She also addressed the way paints, panels and canvases were prepared to create particular effects in the finished works – an area of art I frankly had little knowledge of, which added substantially to my appreciation.

At last our guide announced that we were about to enter the Vasari Corridor. A door I would never have noticed was opened for us by an escort, and we passed out of the Uffizi, and into heaven.

The Vasari Corridor runs from the Palazzo Vecchio to Pitti Palace across the river. It winds its way across the Ponte Vecchio, above the famed jewelry shops, with windows looking out on stunning views – often strategically aimed into the windows of nearby palazzi. By itself, there is nothing about the interior of the Corridor that struck me as beautiful. It was interesting, nevertheless, to consider it in a historical context as an architectural and political coup for the Medicis, who wanted a path between the palaces, and managed to have parts of it constructed inside the houses of several aristocratic families whose misfortune it was to live where their chief neighbor wished to pass. In addition, it contains an entrance to the Church of Santa Felicita, where in a luxurious balcony almost at ceiling height, the wealthiest of the wealthy could enjoy the mystery of the communion without mingling with those below.

The Percorso's contents, however, are dramatically different from what is seen in the Uffizi’s galleries. The works that we find inside are not really the greatest of the great, but they’re terrific, fascinating, and unique. A great surprise of the corridor came right at the beginning, as we walked past an area damaged by the 1993 mafia bombing of the Uffizi. Within the Uffizi’s public galleries, there is no remnant of the event, but within this more private space, we saw original paintings utterly destroyed by the blast, a painful sight and a reminder of the nature and extent of the damage done.

There were two very interesting collections in the Corridor that really deserve attention. One was of portraits of artists, and the other of miniature paintings. The artists gallery included everyone of importance, including many of the masters whose works appear on the walls of the Uffizi through current artists. Woman artists are well represented (not always the case). The miniatures were simply charming. The works span a long period of time, and are of a quality that makes me wish I had been aware of their existence long ago.

At some point in our walk, our attendant opened up one of the porthole windows and beckoned us to look. There, beneath the corridor stretched the Ponte Vecchio, teeming with tourists and vendors, noisy and colorful. It was a view from a perspective impossible to duplicate from any other vantage point – it took my breath away.

I really feel lucky that I got to see the Vasari Corridor, with all its historic twists and turns and its odd, quirky collections. Hopefully, my good fortune signifies a sea-change in the booking process, and others will find the process of booking smooth and quick. It was fascinating from more than one point of view, and I recommend it to all lovers of art, architecture and history.

yah ta, ta ta ta, yah ta, ta tatata; Florence Chabad

2006-05-29T07:20:00.000-07:00

So every restaurant has the same food-panini, pizza. Oily food, and my stomach is acting up. I ate at Kasher Ruth, and loved it. Then I saw a picture of Rebbi Schneerson in a storefront, and someone said the Lubavitchers have singing and dancing. I walked by the storefront on a Friday night, and there the Rebbe was, and he invited us to dinner, or lunch on Saturday. I remembered the yummy Kosher at Ruth, but thought lunch was less of a moral commitment than dinner, and so we showed up for a lunch on a Saturday. It was beautiful. Prayers, an amusing and not too stressful homily, and a wonderful lunch of salmon, salad, and turkey stew! Then, the tables were thrown aside (literally), I was yanked off Bills rib as a screen was thrown up, and the service (on the men side of the room) took 20 minutes.
The following Friday I bit the bullet and went to Synagogue. You can watch the light change through the stained glass windows of a synagogue that looks just like a church in many ways. The Chabad dinner included singing and clapping, routine prayers at the table and another lecture, but no service after. There must have been 30 of us, all tourists, most Americans. I know there were several orthodox visitors, for whom the kosher meal was a must. All in all, it was a lot of fun, and when I get home, I will send donations both the the Synagogue via the Florence Jewish Community, and to the Chabad.

The good and bad in Florence

2006-05-18T03:20:00.000-07:00

What's good in Florence? San Marco. here, in a place where art doesn't seem to have a beginning or an end, where on any given day you can announce, without having looked to the left or the right, that you've seen a Ghirlandaio, several Della Robbias, plenty of Vasari, San Marco stands out. The repository of the Greatest of the Great-Beato Angelico works intended only as inspiration for meditation by the monks who lived here, one of whom was Savonarola. Even Cosimo dei Medici came here on retreat (he got the good rooms). The most stunning illuminations I've ever seen, case after case of images that leap out of their confines. Having been there, I now have to wonder why, when San Marco is mentioned, it's always Venice that comes to mind - but that's no longer so for me. What else is good? In this city, you can probably walk to anything you need or want to see or do in the course of your ordinary life, taking a bus only when required to avoid terrible weather from time to time. It is so compact, stores are small so you can find things on every corner instead of needing to travel to a central place (except for the fresh food market - but you wouldn't need to go there every day, anyway, and when you do you'll be looking at another good think about Florence). May is good here. We arrived April 27, and had one afternoon rain. There were night storms. Nothing else. People here are patient with my terrible Italian. On my first trip they responded to questions in English. This time, almost all the time, they respond first by correcting my grammar, then by answering in clear Italian. This is very good progress!

What's bad in Florence? Certainly not enough to overcome the good. The computer keyboards. The dogshit on the street (but not as bad as Paris), the same stale sandwiches in every caffe, the exchange rate. Crowds, sometimes. My children and friends are not here. I looked forward to meeting my friend, Angela, in her hometown of Modena, but her husband's mother is very sick, and we had to cancel. I', so disappointed, but what can we do?

All the tiny little Saints

2006-05-08T08:40:00.000-07:00

I've been here almost two weeks, and I've seen so many saints! On May 1 we went to Prato - a pretty big city, pretty industrial, but its old core is coherent, walkable, doesn't look at all as if it's connected to anything larger than itself. There, at about an hour past the announced start time of 6 p.m., came the procession, in medievil garb, with banners and trumpets, into the piazza of Cattedrale di San Stefano, where there's a pulpit built outside the church, on a corner of the building high above those assembled below. Outside, we all stood gazing upward as censors swung, perfuming the air, and the Bishop paraded with some others in formal dress, three times around the pulpit, in and out of the church, and each time held up for us to see a glass holding the Sacra Cintola, a belt worn by the Virgin Mary. It was the first of the relics I've seen here in Prato, Lucca, and Florence, with more to come. The belt, a piece of someone's arm, part of a skull, a finger, bits of bone and hair, entire, uncorrupt corpse of Santa Zita. These must have been very small people, before they were saints. Tiny little armbones, hardly any hair, All of Santa Zita can't be more than 4 feet. They probably hardly ate at all. They were busy being devoted, or poor, or giving food to others, or waiting for god, or whatever, they certainly didn't spend their days dining. The priests and bishops, on the other hand, must have eaten well. I surmise this because I have seen the vestments preserved in the church museums alongside the relics, and they're huge, and bright, and bespeak a life of plenty would be required to fill them out.
Florence is loaded with people - tourists, shopkeepers, restaurant workers. Everybody on the street eats pizza and sandwiches, and nothing else - at least in public. I can't afford the fat steaks, so I don't get to see much beside panini on dryish bread, with dried salami crust hanging out the sides, or slices of pizza that were there 5 hours ago, or last night. Today I had a treat. Since I was going to the Synagogue anyway, I ate at Kosher Ruth's vegetarian, where Bill and I shared a mixed plate of delicious mediterranean treats - couscous, felafel, humus. The waiter brushed aside my comments on the incredible beauty of the temple and the sense of connectedness to my past that Jewish historic sites offers me. For his part, the beauty is meaningless. There wasn't a minion for Saturday Afternoon prayer, so the temple had no bueauty and no use. He went home and prayed there. The Synagogue is really quite odd, in addition to being beautiful. It has a pulpit, exactly like those in churches, which I was told, with a shrug, was of course never used. It also has something in the foyer that looks like a baptismal font. I didn't ask any questions about that. I wanted to visit the old cemetary, but it's only open once a month - yesterday. They'll open it for me again, for 80 euro. I'll have to pass.
Tomorrow or Wednesday, we go to Pisa.

FIRST TRAVEL FIGHT

2006-04-26T06:50:00.000-07:00

Bill and I dance. Ever so often, one of us makes a mistake often enought to irritate the other, and the dance fight ensues. It's a rare event, but disturbing if it occurs at the beginning of an evening, because the balance of the night will invariably be a disaster.

Likewise, the travel fight. It usually takes place at the end of the trip. It usually happens on a subway platform. I question Bill's travel plan, ask why he thinks this is the right train. He orders me on board, and the battle is joined. Well, we leave in half a day, and our first fight has already taken place. A few days ago, we drove to Kennedy Airport to pick a location to meet - Bill's going to the airport by bus from home, I'm taking the airport bus from Manhattan at mid-day. We checked two locations at the Delta terminal, both made unsatisfactory by security efforts - no seats, have to present documents as you pass doors, etc. This morning, he drove me to my train station, and as I left, I told him I'd meet him at the first place we checked. He said, "Oh, the one where...." and proceeded to describe the second place. I said no, the place on the ground level that looks like... and he said, oh, that place is on the second level, not the first. I jumped out of the car and screamed, "just find me!" and slammed the door. I'm so wound, it's beyond belief. This never happened before-is it a dance fight, predictive of a horrid time ahead? I got to work and checked my emails. There were about ten of them from Slowtrav people -I'll write about slowtrav one of these days - wishing me a wonderful trip, a safe trip, a happy trip, an exciting trip. Suddenly, the morning argument seemed less like an omen of terrible things to come, and more like the ordinary effect of preflight jitters (did I tell you that even after more than four years of fairly constant travel, I still have to medicate myself to get on the plane?) that accompanies all trips to one extent or the other. There are about 2 hours left in my workday. I plan to leave at noon, catch the airport bus a little earlier than I need to, and munch on a veggie wrap as we course down the Van Wyck. See you in Italia.

26 hours to go

2006-04-25T13:03:00.000-07:00

26 hours to go before I leave for 5 weeks in Florence. I waited most of my life to start traveling. My first European trip was in September, 2002. Since then I've probably been to 15 European cities, Buenos Aires, Mexico City, Canada (Montreal, PEI, Halifax), Mardi Gras, FL several times, Southern California, all over New England, Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula, Hawaii, Chicago...I think I can go on forever. I travel with my husband, always on the cheap, and I can't believe how thrilling it is to wake up after an exhausting trip and begin a day in a place that's fresh and new and strange. This, though, is the dream of a lifetime. After years of practice and self-teaching, I have 5 weeks to practice speaking Italian in Italy. I'm flying first-class standby, a form of stress-torture not comparable to anything else I've experienced. I don't know when I'll get out of Kennedy Airport, or even where I'll arrive, but I'll drink champagne and eat well on the way. I decided only recently that I should keep a record of my impressions, so, here is where I begin - with my pre-trip anxiety. See you all sometime after I arrive in Florence and find an internet cafe.