Mindfulness and Margaritas

This year has been hard. Maybe not the hardest year of my life. But definitely NOT the easiest, either. It's been a roller coaster of stress, learning, mistakes, joy, accomplishment, emotions, hard work, mindfulness and margaritas. I've been working for a place for many years that I've fallen in love with. That's a complicated relationship- loving your work like I do. Loving work like I do, means I make sacrifices maybe I shouldn't make (for my family's sake, or my own mental health!). It means being invested far beyond my pay-scale and my sanity-scale. It means not being able to set boundaries and not really understanding how detrimental that is on my spirit. It means the potential of being taken advantage of, or becoming resentful for the feeling of such (be it perceived or real). It means serving others to the point of draining myself empty and still expecting to perform super hero acts on an empty tank. You get the drift. It's tough. If nothing else, it certainly blurs the lines of work life balance to the point of delirium. I tell you this not to discourage you from falling in love with your work. On the contrary, loving what you do is a beautiful and quite rewarding experience. But this journey, as rewarding as it has been, has also had some pain. It's had some hard lessons. I want to share them. I want to encourage you BOTH to take the leap and do what you LOVE, but also, learn from my mistakes before you take the leap. (Or at least let me buy you a cup of coffee when you experience some of the same stuff and we can trade stories and life lessons.) I'm not writing this to talk about the work I do. I'm not going to dive into the dramatic retelling of this comedic course of events or that soap opera of disasters. I'm not even really writing this to give any real nuggets of wisdom. I'm writing this more or less to process the journey I've been on the last year. I'm probably even writing it (and this is more likely) so that I don't forget the incredible lessons I'm being exposed to. I am in the middle of a tough year. A season I've kindly asked the God of this Universe to end. I've asked nicely. I've demanded. I've negotiated and maybe tried bribery. But, I'm still in the middle of this very tough year. Margaritas have become a norm to cope. It's true and I'm not even mad about it. I've enjoyed the new wind down ritual. I want to be honest. I'm not perfect (oh, the shock). Some parts of my journey are legitimate circus acts (shit storms, if you will). I have my pride, probably more than I should carry around. And I have developed this beautiful little new attitude of "entitlement". I want to talk about how this little beast of a thing emerged. My entitlement attitude crept in ever so slyly. The daring, ballsy bug crept in through the door of exhaustion. The door wasn't locked because it has long been left open from my willingness (nay, my ABSOLUTE NEED) to take on the world in the form of a "hero". I'd said yes to everyone and everything in my path. I'd made the assumption I could do it all, without taking into account logical reasoning of basic biology or time. This shifty lil thing caressed my weary mind with sly notions on how to "compensate myself" for the sacrifices I was making. But, really, this critter was shifting my focus from service of others to service of self. It shifted my mind from healthy relationships to manipulative musings. And in less eloquent verbiage, it seriously turned me into a greedy, whiny person who became less and less able to problem solve as the circus became more and more unmanageable. I allowed this thing to wiggle into my heart and create resentment where instead I should have been mindfully contemplating productive solutions. This villain, named Entitlement, changed my attitude from helpful, to spiteful. I'm embarrassed when I look back on some of the notable moments where my attitude of entitlement got the better of me and out roared a demanding, strong willed, selfish Rosie. Those were bad days. Bad moments. God, I'm thankful I work with people who all love their work as much as I do. Because they loved me through those yucky moments. It's scary to me to think, the different path I'd be on if they gave up on me. What about the people out there who let that creepy lil life sucker sneak in their doors of weariness and despair that didn't have people surrounding them with compassion? What happened to them? Well, they are the people we all encounter on a daily basis who throw fits about their cold soup or imperfectly made, overpriced coffees. Those people, used to be kind and flexible somewhere along their journey, just like I was. (At least I'm betting that's true.) I could have become one of those people (my road rage would signify I was fully there, but I'd like to keep that immature behavior for a bit longer--- it's Oregon, you gotta be aggressive to get places!)... But that's lesson one--- I see myself in every person I meet that is rude, or unreasonable in a moment of confusion, miscommunication, frustration or any of the other "tions". I see the desperation and need to be gratified just to avoid being drowned by the heavy sea of being taken for granted. I know what it feels like to attach myself to a little tiny concept like "being right" as if it were the saving grace for a never ending abyss of feeling "overworked and underappreciated". A wrong cup of coffee all of a sudden represents years of self-worth being cast aside as if it were "just another cup of coffee". Self worth isn't fixable like a cup of coffee is. Remake the coffee. Self worth isn't remade, though. There's no "reset button" for self worth. It's so intricately wound around all the things that we entangle ourselves with. So, here's lesson number one on the Rosie log of "Hard Year Lessons". COMPASSION. In every face, in every heart I encounter I want to choose COMPASSION. Why? Because I am THEM. They are ME. I know what it's like to feel entitled to the perfect cup of coffee when my bank account is low and I work so hard that my kids never see me and my husband gets a shitty wife for a companion because I've chosen to work overtime for a job that keeps demanding more and more of my time. (Yes, that's pretty dramatic, but on a bad day--- that's so real I can taste the Dutch Bros mixed with my salty tears) I want to be the compassionate one when someone is throwing a fit. Maybe they are in the wrong, I know I was in the wrong a million times over when I made my demands out of exhaustion, fear, insecurity, defensiveness.... But--- I got lucky when my entitlement was returned with compassion. I'm thinking, I'd better return the favor. Not once. Not twice. But continually. Until there is a moment when someone is shifted by my compassion. Even if I don't see the shift. But compassion is truly the only killer to that monster I call entitlement. I used to think ACCOUNTABILITY was, but I'm learning, compassion is much, MUCH more powerful. Lesson number two on this journey has to do with my ability to set boundaries. I have NEVER been good at setting boundaries. I like being liked way too much to set boundaries. I like being a "hero" way too much to say "no". I like being CAPABLE too much to walk away from situations that need to be put on pause (or walked away from all together). I am in the process of saying good bye to the job I have loved so dearly, and in part, I'm saying goodbye because I didn't have the ability to set boundaries. I bet, in hindsight, if I had set healthy boundaries earlier, I'd be keeping this job and it wouldn't have overrun me the way it has. I wasn't able to set boundaries, though, because I thought that by setting boundaries I was admitting defeat or failure. This isn't just work related either. I've been taken advantage in friendships and relationships for the same reason. I've never believed someone would keep believing in me or working with me if I set boundaries. Boundaries, to me, always seemed like a luxury I never would be worthy of. Watching my husband encourage me to take days off when we couldn't afford it, or having employees tell me I was amazing even when their paychecks were low because I couldn't fix the glitches in our system or having employers tell me they thought the world of me when I responded emotionally when I should have responded professionally all taught me that boundaries are FAIR. All these examples taught me that boundaries are not something someone earns, but are something EVERYONE DESERVES and has access to. I was given a gift with this lesson. I want to give this gift to others. I want to look you, and every person I have the honor of speaking to, in the eyes and inspire all to SET BOUNDARIES. Strong people do it (which is quite contrary to my original belief system). Healthy people learn their limits and embrace them without insecurity. It is NOT unreasonable to know your limits. I have honestly spent most of my life feeling like if I meet a "limit" I am somehow failing. I had a conversation with my husband the other night about my lofty personal standards. He asked me "who told you you had to be perfect?" No one. I told myself that. I learned this behavior over the years. I told myself the repeated lie that if I wasn't completely on top of every aspect of life I was useless. I am the one who took the praises of others ("Rosie, you can do anything you put your mind to") and turned it into my own personal demand ("Rosie, if at any time you CAN'T accomplish something because you are capable of ANYTHING, you are failing in SOME way"). This is hard, because, I'm stuck with ME. I can't walk away from ME. I have to FACE ME. I'd be one thing if I developed this unhealthy expectation of myself because I had a demanding employer or an abusive relationship. I could detach myself from people and situations if that were the case. But here I am, realizing that no one is asking me to be perfect but ROSIE. How do I tell ROSIE to lower her standards? How do I reinvent the goals, the motivating factors, the thought processes of what has been driving me for the majority of my adult life? I am terrified that this reinvention of ME will in turn create someone less thrilling, someone less impressive, someone less than..... But that's the honesty of my journey. I don't have an answer to this one. I don't even have a plan. I just know that I better figure this complex correlation between perfection and relationships and self worth and capability and boundaries before it causes more damage on my heart and renders me ineffective to the nurturing and serving I love to do for others! I know I'm no where near done in accounting for this season's lessons, both practical or humorous. This season has been richer in depth than that. But I'm still ruminating on the themes and concepts of this ripe time. I am so lucky (at least, this I know) that I have been given the tools to look at life with this "learning lens". Otherwise, this season would have broken me ten times over. I would have thrown fits, walked out on people, given up on opportunities and been completely unchanged by the difficulties and obstacles I've faced. But I am so thankful for whatever it is that resides in my being that says "this pain, too, has great value". I am so grateful that I have people around me who remind that experience and interactions all build upon each other to create a performance bigger than the little circus ring we're currently staged in. There are definitely parts of this act that feel like the lion's gotten out and is about to devour the acrobats while the elephants stampede the crowd and the ringmaster is all tangled up in their their own stinkin whip and can't control anything that's going on. But, I know better. I know this is not as chaotic as my anxiety and insecurities would have me believe. I know this, too, shall pass. I also know, I want to be better because of it. Whatever this "it" is, I want it to be a rich part of my journey. Not a waste, not a mistake, not a bitterness building blob of misdirection. This will be a season of learning that I shall never forget. I want to be mindful enough in every moment of this season to absorb the experience as an unforgettable memory. At first, and at many times throughout, I have been so tempted to disconnect. Emotionally go numb. Remove myself from heart to heart, relationship connections. Hide from the chaos in general. But that would also mean missing out on the beauty of being human in an existence that is so "life like". This is L.I.F.E. Living, breathing, existing L.I.F.E. I can't spend it trying to fast forward to the next season every time a circus appears because I prefer jazz music. I want to be mindful of each moment regardless of the theme. Painful- I'm present. Joyful- I'm in it. Educational- I'm immersed. Difficult- I'm thinking of solutions. Simple- I'm connecting my senses to the simplicity to find peace. All of it- being mindfully immersed in these moments means I get to experience this season, not mentally block it out. Being mindful means this stress doesn't overshadow the incredible developments my children are undergoing. It means my husband is my best friend not my business partner. It means my friends are the people I laugh with not the people I use as punching bags for tension release. Mindfulness means connecting to your moments with every fiber of your being, without fear. Without reservation. I'm into that, totally. Mindfullness and Margaritas. I'm into those too. They help. **Cheers, from my fancy margarita glass**

Chapter 4- The Louvre

The next morning, we slept in. Late. Resting. Refueling. When we did wake, we had no plans. No agenda but to let Paris introduce itself to us. We would wander and it could do the talking. We would gaze and it could do the revealing. We walked to a little market right around the corner from our hotel entrance. It was a convenience store, in a way, but with broken old wood flooring. Dirty. Everything smooshed into a 2 aisle capacity. We entered the place in hopes of finding what we would call breakfast. The tan skinned man sitting behind the counter shouted a thick accented greeting. You could hear the Turkish flavor coating every word. He took but just a moment to respond after he heard us speak, “You're American! Hi Americans!” I smiled at his overly excited observation. I wasn't sure I was so happy I stood out as an American that obviously. I was hoping to blend in a bit better. I wanted to ask what gave us away, but I didn't. His smile remained plastered to his face. Goofy. He watched us as we wandered around his shop. The floorboards creaking and bending under our American feet. We couldn't decide what we wanted. We bought a couple waters and decided to find food closer to our first destination; The Louvre. The waters, I suppose, would serve as hydration, but I believe we bought them out of a sense of obligation to our new Turkish friend. Chris had asked me that morning of the things we knew about Paris, which would I want to visit first. I don't think he had gotten the full question out before I was boldly exclaiming the museum's name “The Louvre!” and my great desire to be introduced to it. I think it made Chris happy that I knew the museum's value and understood it's magnitude. He had visited it many years ago and had talked of how important those hours were to him. How they impacted him. Combining his history with the place and the entire history within it was reason enough to hold it in extreme regard, I thought. We walked toward the metro. It was light out, so we could see more than what we saw the night before. Well, light wasn't the only change in factors that allowed us to soak up the surroundings freely. But light is all I will make mention to. We took the steps deep into the ground with confidence that last night's mistakes had educated us enough to master the metro system. We bought our tickets and went the right direction without hesitation. There was a man playing the saxophone on the train platform. Now HE could get a tip from me, if I carried cash or change. I enjoyed his talent and smiled inside, I want to say he was playing something lovely like “The Way You Look Tonight”- but in recollecting now, I am not certain that was the title. It was some classic love song, though. The metro was the fastest moving public transport I had ever been on. It got us from one stop to the next so quickly it skewed my understanding of how far spread out the city really was. The Louvre was only a couple stops away. I had no real time to study the people crowded around me. It doesn’t look commonplace to study other people in France, anyway. (Maybe that’s the dead giveaway that I’m American. I’m too interested in what everyone else is doing.) I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned before how “un-snoopy” the French seem. No one stares at another. They don’t even look at passersby in the eyes. People seem pretty uninvolved in anything other than their own agenda. I say this in a positive light, mind you. This observation was something that popped out in millisecond moments- the bus, the traffic jam, the previous night’s horrid scramble in the mall… Even today’s walk and metro ride- people keep themselves pretty self-occupied and let everyone else do the same. I found myself studying shoes and pants more than anything else. 1- because I was sitting amongst a crowd of standing people and 2- because it seemed so awkward to look at someone’s face. They didn’t smile at you. There was no exchanged of a body language hello. Maybe more of a body language “why are you staring at me?” Thankfully, the ride was short. I was new at this type of people watching, and I felt a bit of an intrusive failure. We emerged from underground to be greeted by beautiful lamp posts, cobblestone walks and pigeons. Immediately to our left was a curious double-decker carousel. Old. Not running, for the moment. Outdatedly large light bulbs surrounding every ledge. Colorful paint. Lots of gold. It sat so obviously in the middle of a large open square in front of a castle-esque building. I had no idea what the building was til later (once a college, now a government building called Hotel de Ville). We stood in the open square for quite some time. There was 360 degrees of discovery to absorb. The buildings were all old. The ground was old. The iron gates with their pointy spires were old. I want to say the pigeons were old too. They looked old. There was a huge water fountain with dancing water bouncing about. Behind that- a river- more castle buildings- more deep discoveries. We crossed the bridge over dark water. It wasn’t pretty looking water, but everything up and down The river was so beautiful, it was one of the first times I wasn’t studying the body of water in the scene. (I’m quite attracted to water.) The old giant buildings with towers standing like string pillars under spiky roof tiptops lined the dull quiet water. Curious stone warehouses some empty some restored into who knows what. I wanted to know WHAT. I wanted to know names and places and dates and information- like- right now! I wanted instant history to filter into my brain to give my eyes the lense they needed to see properly with. I wanted to be able to look at a building, and instantly be able to recall tidbits about that ancient mysterious structure to cause my imagination to run to exciting places of past lives and deeds. I wanted to know the depth of what I was seeing. But, I had no such soupçon spewing tour guide and I wasn’t about to google everything in my eye’s sight line. So I looked. Trying to appreciate what I saw in a real way that would not be easily forgotten. I would not stand for an out of sight out of mind experience due to the lack of fore-knowledge. It was overwhelming to do this and walk with the fast pace of the unsnoopy Frenchmen. They did walk with a pace quite quicker than mine, even on a determined day. Give me something to study and I was just a road obstruction to them. I waddled, clumsily at times, still studying every architectural wonder my eyes could focus on. I decided it was ok if my imagination told me fake things about what I was seeing. But I allowed this within a reasonable amount. I did not want to let fantasy take over reality here, I wanted to embrace reality so deeply it burned a permanent memory in my heart or brain- whichever organ promised to hang on the longest . I wanted this to stay real long, past my return to the states. (This may be a recurring struggle in my mind- to cling to what is passing by so quickly.) We crossed the bridge and headed left. We were greeted almost immediately with an open square spotted with small clusters of people here and there. An artist sat out of traffic but in the mix enough to capture the entire scene on canvas. I didn't spare the minute or two I normally would have taken to study what the artist was painting. Too many moments had already been wasted on small, mundane details. I wanted to attack this entire square with my intentional mind's study. But, then again she [the artist] was a beautiful part of the square. Just as the cobblestone ground and the homeless man curled up on a heat vent with his dirty blanket were contributing to the fascinating thing that was the square, the artist would have been worth absorbing. I wonder if she was a full time artist with a loft and gallery shows and fancy friends. Or maybe an artist by hobby, working some unrelated job and spending her time off trying to unlock herself on paper. In the middle of this square of happenings. There were a group of blind nuns asking for money. They had a memorized script and a flyer to hand out to you as you pass. And by hand out I mean wave viciously in the direction to which they heard your hustled movements. I'm sure ignoring their pleas guarantees one’s place in the underworld, but we didn't give them anything. I was starving. It was closer to lunch time than it was to breakfast and I had had neither. One trait about me, Chris seems to frequently get flustered with, is my need for every meal. I stand by my many arguments that it is not good for you to skip meals and eat once a day (which he would happily do if he didn't have to worry about the grumpy-blood-sugar-wreck-of-a-monster he frequently travels with). As much as I wanted to immerse myself in the architectural masterpieces around me, I was looking for FOOD. Completely across the open square I could see at least one restaurant sign and a few others tucked deeper down the block. My determined pace heading in the food source’s direction obliged Chris to follow. Usually, it is he who leads the troop, except in an instance such as this. He didn’t want to eat at the first place we saw, though. He wanted to explore the area thoroughly for the best cuisine and prices. I wasn’t much of a sport for research at that particular moment, I just really wanted to eat. We circled a large area over a half hour and realized that the best place was back at the original street corner, the first place we had spotted. (Of course it was!)Cafe Palais Royal.

By now, it was lightly raining and very much lunch time. The tiny restaurant could have housed 8 to 10 tables inside and about 4 outside, comfortably. There were at least double that amount squished inside the raw brick walls and low lighting. There were people at nearly every table. There were some larger booths in the back, but otherwise, each table was about the size of a tv tray with 2 chairs. They were arranged so close together that you could easily bump elbows with a stranger once or twice throughout your meal. The waiters had some serious talent weaving in between the large amount of people within the small amount of space. They had to hold their trays high, at shoulder level or higher to avoid hitting heads of those sitting. I applauded their grace in my mind, but also hoped I wouldn’t get food spilled on me by an overconfident waiter. We were seated at the one and only open table- right in the middle of the room. Right in the middle of all the chaos. The bar was about 4 feet from the left of me (I probably could have touched it had I wanted to cause a serious disruption to the constant traffic in and out of that little pathway) and the very next table was only a short 10 inches from the right of me. Thankfully, the table next to us was occupied by a single woman. She was sitting closer to Chris. My elbows would be safe. We looked at the menu, proud of ourselves for studying our French so well prior to the trip. Thankfully, we were able to “check our knowledge” with the English translations written below every menu item. We were mostly right. We ordered a house wine and a lasagna dish to share. The wine was a local wine and it was incredible. It had great, full flavor, a fantastic blend of refreshing and sweet tastes. The waiter had boasted it would be a fine choice. It certainly was. He had given us quite the history on the wine and the location from which it came. I pictured some beautiful French vineyard in the country with a country house and a country family making the wine from their country barns and buildings. It was a pretty picture; likely untrue. But that was my interpretation of what the waiter said of the wine’s origin. The lasagna wasn’t worth writing about. The waiter had come to ask us if we wanted dessert and the woman next to us tried to briefly grab his attention. He immediately brought his hand up to his mouth to shush her and said “Wait” and something else in french. It was an interesting thing to see a worker shush a customer and tell them to “WAIT”. “WAIT”--- Americans would never hear such a thing. They could be as rude and demanding and impatient as they want and they would unlikely hear “WAIT”. I liked it. It was, in my mind, how it probably should be. A minute or so later, the waiter went to her table to help her and she was on her cell phone. He abruptly said “I will return” and left. She tried to scramble and put the phone down, but he didn’t hesitate or look back as he walked away. I’m sure at some point she’d get this dining thing right, but for now, this girl was not eating any time soon. We didn’t spend more time than we had to in the overflowing diner. It was too loud and crowded to have any sort of leisure. We had to evaluate carefully how we would be able to exit the place. People were pouring in at an obnoxiously rapid and crammed pace. People looked intertwined together like awkward human spaghetti, all trying to move foward through an opening unwilling to allow everyone at once. Arms and legs and shoulders and hands all crammed together so closely I couldn’t tell what head belonged to what body. It was a humorous sight, until we had to push through them in the opposing direction. But the moment we hit the open air, the rain explained the situation well. Pouring just as strong as the crowd, it was no where near as obnoxious, though. Paris rain. It was invigorating. We headed into the large entrance wall of the Louvre. Just the wall, the entrance to what was supposed to be the area of focus, was beyond my comprehension. The thick stone pillars, the arched entry way with different angles and carvings so ornate it would take days to really SEE each little picture within- it overwhelmed my senses almost immediately. The smell of the rain, the brisk air as we walked. The iron gates hidden in dark tunnels leading off to magical places that no tourist was granted access to. My brain wanted to be in the present and the past all at once. Picturing what historical stories were told and unfolded in just this little part of a huge fortress around for centuries. Public and private. Worker and guest. What was here? Who touched these pillars, or walked the worn stairs? What was said in low voices or yelled down the long tunnels? My imagination added ghosts to the present day stone and iron. We made it to the courtyard of the Louvre, greeted with more rain, a beautiful fountain and the famous glass pyramid. The line just to get into the museum was awful long, and the rain was only getting more intense. We took very little time in making the decision to go back through the wall, find a gift shop and buy an umbrella. It wasn’t a quick detour, but a worthy cause detour. We returned to a just as long line and even more rain. We made it inside and despite our trusty new souvenir, we were not dry. Once inside, there was a large plaza with food courts and ticket booths and information areas. There were large banners hanging over the entrances to each wing/corridor showcasing what themes or items were in that area. We had to choose wisely where to start and where to end. There was not enough time left in the day to do it all. It was so hard to choose. I couldn’t even say what I wanted because I didn’t know WHAT I wanted! I had done no research (per Chris’ specific instructions so as to preserve the childlike wonder and awe at something new and exciting) and I really only had about two pieces of prior information about the Louvre- the Mona Lisa lives there and lots of other cool, old paintings and statues reside there. That’s it. And that’s a pretty bare description of what’s in the 650,000 square feet of the once fortress and palace. I rotated in circles trying to study the staggered banners to decide which would be the most intriguing wing to enter first. History roulette- which era is more intriguing than any other? I couldn’t really answer that. They all fascinate me for one reason or another million others. We chose to start from the ground up. Original tunnels and foundation areas, the moat, a crazy-creepy dungeon with iron bars and crumbling pillars lurking in unlit corners greeted us first thing. The air was still cold as if we were not really “inside” a museum. It was raw and unclean; great measures were taken to ensure it was kept the way it was found. The Louvre started as a watchtower fortress in 1190 to protect the city, was later transformed into a royal residence, was destroyed and rebuilt multiple times over the centuries, added to and subtracted from, and even had Napoleon residing in an apartment within its walls all to become a museum (Napoleon inspired) in 1798. The beautiful citadel stood through wars and destruction and revolutionary changes so drastic it was mind blowing it still had presence. The ghosts I entertained earlier in the entry gate walls were becoming less figments of my imagination and more subtle sensations of lurking prescences. A recognition of what actually existed before me instead of a spurious ghost story was unfolding and I could feel how powerful a force it was. Powerful and beautiful, really. My homeland was so young. I had touched no thing so old, nor had I experienced a story so heavy as this. Life is never without some weight (so I know “weight”), but if all you only experience is your own current baggage, it is quite the trip to feel millions of lives and their baggage and centuries of rule and reign with revolutions and renovations all crammed in one historical time capsule. It’s- dare I keep using this word- overwhelming. People loved and hated and feared and sought comfort in this place for almost 50 generations. 50. I don’t even know who was in my family 5 generations back. But I do know now, what it feels like to be physically in touch with a story so old my logical brain couldn’t retell it. My soul and bones emitted feelings and emotions and energies that couldn’t be described- just sensed. I had to take deep, purposed breaths just to continue on breathing. Maybe if I hadn’t breathed I would have been sucked completely into the story, never to return. Silly. I know I don’t exist in a crazy fairytale with portals and time travel, but that’s how gripped I felt by this 50 generation weight. I’m telling you, history lingers. It doesn’t dissipate because it is old and past tense. It stays. It builds. One happenstance upon another. Just like your own life- you’re built by what happened 10 years ago, 10 days ago, 10 minutes ago- all coming together to form your current being. I felt that lingering, and it was heavier than any real-time impact I’d ever absorbed. We moved forward through each exhibit that followed whatever path we were winding around. We got lost, retraced steps, probably skipped areas unknowingly and wandered aimlessly through the enormous building the best we could. We managed to see the Egyptian Antiquities, the Greek, Etruscan and Roman Antiquities, and Napoleon's gilded apartment. Just those took hours upon hours. It was nearing closing time and Chris realized we had yet to see the paintings! What a terrible thing to save for last with such little time left. We almost hated ourselves for not leaving enough time to indulge fully in what I assumed would be the most magical area of them all. Sure, the other exhibits and areas had their qualities that captivated me. I, had a personal affinity toward the sculptures. And I loved seeing the ancient artifacts and tools found all over the world from all different time periods. Art and crafts made from times before Jesus was born were beautiful and intriguing, yes, but the paintings were something different. The Louvre Painting Collection not only was intensely large, inherently dedicating an entire wing to the art form, but each painting had a fairly fascinating story to be learned just by studying the picture. Some paintings only warranted a glance or two, but most of them took quite some time to fully digest the detailed content so elegantly depicted. The largest painting mounted was The Wedding at Cana painted in the 16th century and it was 262in x 390in. (That’s over 21 feet tall and 32 feet wide in case those numbers didn’t strike you as INSANELY large to begin with.) My mind was blown at how difficult and time consuming it would be to paint such an intricate picture even in today’s advancements but for the era it was done in? I can’t imagine the dedication. A lot of the paintings took years to complete. And I would assume, that was years of non-stop brush strokes, not an hour here and there after supper or on a lazy Saturday amidst a busy schedule of other life activities. Oh, how I loved the paintings. Even though I felt the anxiety of trying to make it through the entire wing before closing, I still was able to give my insides the time needed to soak up the drawn narrations and the wonder of what I was seeing. I loved the towering picture-giants. The ones that took up entire walls from floor to ceiling, they were so powerful in stature and vibrance. They almost shone with their brilliant colors and told story enough to fill a feature length film. There were fantasy fairy tale ones, war ones with gruesome blood and anger, every day life ones of people talking or eating or loving. There were all kinds of tales told in those halls and walls. The final painting we saw, the end of this long tour of art, was the Mona Lisa. It wasn’t as spectacular as I thought it would be. After seeing dynamic colors and energetic, intricate scenes of all kinds, the Mona Lisa was so plain- AND LITTLE. I at least expected her to be half a wall size. No where near that, if you’re wondering. A simple 2.5ft by 1.5ft. I don’t understand why, of all the pictures that existed, this one had such a fuss made over it. I get DiVinci is something to get excited about, but I didn’t get the hype over Mona Lisa. I guess even back then, someone somewhere picked what the mass of people should “like” and then it became a trend to jump on and ride like a wave with the rest of the crowd. The Mona Lisa is just another confusing fad to me- she’s just the longest lasting fad ever. Chris wanted me to take a picture of him as close as he could get to the painting. We squeezed between all the groupies and snapped a quick shot and it was as if with that fake shutter sound click from my phone camera, someone closed the book and said “the end”. It was closing time, they were announcing it over the intercom in many different languages. I felt complete, as if I experienced an entire lifetime from start to finish within that museum.

(On a side note, the picture we took of Chris next to the Mona Lisa was one we hastily snapped. For wanting that picture so badly, he sure didn’t look that enthused in the photo. When we returned home, there was some hype about Puff Daddy and his selfie with Mona Lisa. We looked it up, and well, I guess there’s just something about that boring painting that makes everyone want to look listless next to her. Hilariously similar photos- my husband and Mr. Combs.)

Chapter 3- The worst day Europe had to give.

By morning, I was not ready to leave Amsterdam. I was wishing we had chosen to stay longer. Part of it was laziness. Our apartment was so cozy. But the other part was I still had a craving for the city. I only got a small taste and I wanted more of the funky flavor Amsterdam was. We had a very long bus ride ahead of us to Paris. 7 hours. My past experiences with the US Greyhound bus system set a very low standard of expectation for the trip. If we had planned earlier, like most people, we would have been able to ride the fast train. But saving almost 200 euros felt like justification enough so we didn't complain about unknown terrors. We were completely confused about how to get to the bus depot, but we tend to have this "it will be ok" philosophy which made us believe we would figure it out as we traveled. Step one was to return our apartment keys and the bikes and head toward Central Station. Step two would reveal itself somewhere along the way- either in the form of an "aha moment" or a big mistake. We were leaving early enough to allow for the latter of the two. We rang the bell of our "landlord" to return our keys. She had just as much energy and was just as talkative as the first time we met her (I concluded it wasn't my exhaustion from earlier; she really was this bubbly all the time). She asked about our stay and where we went and what we had the time for. She said multiple times we should have stayed longer and we full heartily agreed. She asked where we were going next and if we knew where to catch our bus. We told her we didn't quite know, but had the plans to figure it out. She laughed as if that was a preposterous plan and invited us in so she could direct us properly. She led us into her flat as if we were friends. Her son, about 6 I would say, was quietly playing with a train set on the floor of their living room. Their flat was beautiful. Modern, white decor accenting the old charms of original hardwood flooring and large picture windows with thick elaborately carved molding. It looked and felt just like something you see in a movie. Perfectly matched furniture, clean, ideal, and if I don't sound too cliche, "European". We gave her the address of the bus depot and she had to rack her brain for a minute or so trying to see if she could recall from memory where that would be. She couldn't. She whipped out a map from the wall length, ceiling height book shelf. She began scouring the map as if this were her own route. You could tell it was driving her crazy that she couldn't figure out where this bus depot was hiding. She admitting this was becoming quite the mission, and she wasn't going to give up. The doorbell rang, so she had to excuse herself for a moment. She informed us some repairmen were coming so she needed to show them what needed to be done. We sat awkwardly in her dining room while we waited. The book shelf was an easy thing to study without being intrusive. She spoke English and Dutch, maybe other languages too. She had quite a bit of philosophy type books and what looked to be self-help ones too. Books that looked like classic reads. Nothing trendy or shallow, so it seemed. A lot of them were in Dutch, so I could be wrong. But by the spines, the letter, the book covers, they all appeared to be quite the deep read. It made me appreciate her more. She seemed well educated and genuine. It took her quite some time, and we were getting nervous about the nearing departure time since we still didn't have a direction to go. She came hopping down the stairs waving a paper. "I found it! I had to cheat and use Google, because it's out in the middle of nowhere!" She showed us the directions she printed- all in Dutch. "How does that look? Do you understand where you need to go?" I didn't want to admit it was still so confusing, so I said yes. She probably sensed the need for clarification, or she was just one of those people that liked to be doubly sure- so she explained it step by step anyway. Thankfully. It was an easy trip. Hop the metro, head to Central Station, catch a city bus, and head all the way to the edge of Amsterdam. Once the city stopped looking like anything we had seen downtown, we would know we were nearing the bus depot. It was bare out by the bus depot. No exciting buildings, no canals or bikes. There were some large industry buildings, freight train loading areas, desolate plains. I think I remembered some modern wind mills, but I can't seem to clearly recall now. The bus depot had one little "check in" booth the size of a Dutch Bros coffee stand. The bus depot itself was just a giant parking lot with a ton of buses parked sporadically. There were signs that pointed in directions to different lots and different zones. We headed toward our "zone" and realized we were about an hour early. We waited a lot on the trip. Waiting for transportation, that is. We couldn't afford to risk being late, that would mess up quite a string of things. There were benches to sit on, outside. We sat and waited like the others who had arrived before us. After about a half hour, a man dressed in what we could assume was a uniform signifying he was our bus driver, walked up to our waiting area. He was very tall. Husky. Long curly hair to the middle of his back. Dark sunglasses sitting on a broad face. Smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee (or at least, what I hoped was coffee). He strongly reminded me of Penn Jillette or maybe Meatloaf. He waited right along with us until exactly 12 when he was scheduled to allow us on the bus.Not a minute before. As we waited for the clearance to board the bus, a van pulled up. 3 middle eastern men unloaded a giant box very carefully. They waddled unsteadily to a bench behind us to the far left, away from our peripheral vision. It would be too obvious if we turned around to watch what more was happening. The box was made of slats of wood. You could slightly see between the slats, revealing an overflowing amount of pink bubble wrap. The kind with the largest of bubbles. The kind you want to lay all about the floor to dance upon creating a unique beat of clicks and pops. Whatever was in that box was mighty fragile and mighty heavy. 1 of the men left the other two waited to board the bus. We exchanged some whispers both agreeing it would be unnerving if they were on our bus. Sure, you can accuse me of a bit of racial profiling, I don't even feel bad about it. The two men didn't smile, at least the glances I did catch of them, I never saw a soft facial expression. We lost interest in our dramatic assumptions and began chatting quieting to each other, Chris and I. As we talked, one of the men began to wander slowly in our direction, stopping directly behind us. He lit a cigarette and hovered closely for what seemed forever. Chris motioned for me to stop talking- I assumed it was because I was speaking in English. I muttered a few sentences in french and he seemed slightly relieved. We sat quietly (because I know very little French and Chris even less- so no conversation could be had). The man remained behind us. Not moving. His buddy yelled something to him in a harsh tone and he wandered back to their big box. No luggage, just the big box. Meatloaf Penn signaled we could begin loading up. We snatched up our bags as quickly as possible. It's not a graceful process for me to pick up my pack and go. It's an awkward ordeal of heaving and hoeing and throwing weight to one side to balance while I try to find the arm hole of my bag while keeping my coat from bunching up under the pack. I wasn't quick. It had to have been humorous. And I hated it. Each and every of the 500 times I had to do it, it was quite the commotion. Sometimes the finger of my glove would get caught somewhere and it would take tugging and uncanny bends of my arms to re-situate enough to get it unstuck with my hand still in it. Backpacking was a romantic notion. It sounded unconventional and appealing in the forefront, but in reality, it was quite the nuisance. I would have still called what we did "backpacking" even if we had used more mobile luggage such as rolling suitcases. The concept of backpacking was more about hopping from place to place with spontaneity rather than the actual act of carrying a stupid back pack. But something about my backpack made me feel less of a tourist and more tough, I suppose. Even under all that weight, after all the jumping and twisting I had to do to put it on, I felt rugged. Adventurous. We put our packs under the bus and boarded. The bus was very nice and pretty spacious. The seats were comfy and we even had a little tray in front of us as well as foot rests. No greyhound bus was even close to this cush. Maybe this bus ride wouldn't be so bad after all. We sat in the seats next to the bathroom, which meant we had more room for our legs to stretch out. The bathroom was actually "downstairs". This bus was a bit of a double decker. We sat above, the driver sat below with a few rows of seats and then the bathroom was midway through the bus. It took about 5 stairs to reach the little cubbyhole water closet. It was small, but adequate. Similar to an airplane bathroom. We got settled in and began staring back at our original concern. That box and its owners. There was only one guy with the box now. His buddy seemed to have disappeared. Chris said he would be more nervous if only 1 of the original 3 boarded. I spoke the only bit of logic I could think of "A bus to Paris with mostly French and Dutch people can NOT be the target of anything more than some road rage at worst. I'm sure whatever they are doing, it's fine. Worst case scenario, they are transporting something less than legal to be used in a better fashion rather than a bus en-route to Paris." We both knew we were still interested in how this suspicious thing would play out. The single guy carried that giant box from where he had been standing toward the bus. I can only assume what happened next. There was quite a bit of chatter- in a language I didn't understand. Back and forth- questions and answers- you could tell by the fluctuations in tone. More chatter with stronger tones. And... I don't think they ended up getting on the bus. I never saw them the rest of the trip. Maybe I did and just didn't recognize them without their cryptic box. But I'm fairly, at least partially, certain they didn't end up riding. We find it slightly funny now. Our concern. Our attention to try and fill in the blanks to a possibly suspicious but probably not suspicious situation. On our trip, we had an Irish priest tell us that he felt like Americans were so paranoid. And, this moment, proved it. We are. With or without reason, we just are. Our airports prove it too. We traveled by train, bus, boat and plane- and never encountered the pat down force search in which we experienced in the American airports. We were traveling from country to country, but they didn't seem to care. They didn't even stamp my passport in every country. (Which honestly was a bit disappointing because I was really hoping to rough that crisp new document up a bit while trekking all over Europe. Unfortunately, I think I got a total of 3 stamps out of the 6 countries we traversed.) The bus began to move and we felt the excitement of heading to a new place rise up in our bellies. Although that could have also just been hunger left lingering in the bottom of our stomachs from a skimpy hasty breakfast. We listened intently to understand where the next stop would be. We had been so focused on getting to the obscure location of the bus park that we didn't pack water or lunch for the trip. We had had a light breakfast of the remains from what we purchased at the grocery store, but it was just some meats and cheese and crackers. We couldn't make out much of the jumbled information broadcast over the crackly intercom. Hopefully, somewhere in his mumbling between French and English he was saying we would have a break along the route. The ride itself wasn't bad. We read. We played on our phones. We talked. We looked out the window at the scenery. We slept. Then we looked at the time- only 2 hours had passed. Oy. I decided to use the restroom. Even though I hadn't had anything to drink. It was a way of passing time I suppose, a way to stretch my legs, a way to change scenery. I don't know. Using the bathroom in a moving bus takes a bit of balance, which I don't have. The bus jerked and swayed and bumped and turned sharply. It was...entertaining. The toilet paper was near empty. Thankfully, because I was just killing time and using this as an excuse to get up out of my seat, I barely needed any (too much information?). But I knew, on a trip lasting 5 more hours, the remaining 7 squares were NOT going to last. I made my way up the stairs from the little "break room" and back to my seat. A guy went in after me. When he was finished, he had some trouble closing the door. He finally just slammed it shut and moved along. A girl came shortly after. I wanted to warn her of the possibility there was no toilet paper, but I didn't. Instead, she couldn't open the door. She tried and tried. I decided to use this moment as excuse #2 to get up out of my seat. I tried to open the door too and couldn't. I'm guessing the door trouble the gentlemen before us had was--- he locked it! She seemed defeated like any girl would if she really had to go and couldn't. I felt bad for her. But she just returned to her seat. I wanted to suggest she go ask the driver for a key, but I worried she didn't speak English. Eh, it probably saved her from the problem she would have encountered with the toilet paper anyway. I figured, when we stopped I would mention something to the driver. (about the locked door and the toilet paper- hoping I wouldn't be blamed for either). Hour 3.5 came right about Brussels, Belgium. We were stopping there to pick up more travelers. I sighed a big breath of relief for the upcoming break. We wove in and out of interesting buildings, cars, streets and people sewing deeper and deeper into the city. Looking at a new place, trying to soak in as much of the cityscape as possible as the bus sped along took my mind off my ever growing desire for food and water and the opportunity to stretch my legs. We arrived at the "bus station" which looked more like a mall entrance. There were great looking food places all around. The first announcement to come over the faulty intercom system was, DO NOT GET OFF THE BUS- WE ARE PICKING UP PASSENGERS AT THIS TIME ONLY. A few other things were muttered about a future stop and where our break would take place. I slightly panicked, but I reasoned that we would still get our break. No one is that heartless to force riders to stay put for more than 4 hours, right? Passengers loaded onto the bus, completely filling every seat. The atmosphere instantly changed from a quiet, comfortable ride, to a packed, stuffy one. I could smell the rain from their wet coats, hair and scarves. It made the once clean, circulating air seem so--- dense and stifling. Before, the bus had over half the seats empty. Now every single one was occupied. More than ever, I was wanting this break. I was done gazing with the hour introduction to Brussels. I wanted off the bus. I wanted to eat. I wanted water. But- to my dismay as quickly as the bus loaded, the bus began to depart. I was hoping there was maybe a planned stop just down the road, you know, someplace less crowded, less busy. I figured that was smart of the driver to take us to a less congested area to take a break. I decided I would be a bit more patient to let the driver do his deal. He knew what we was doing, regardless of what his mess of hair said about him. I tried to let the thought go, to just wait without waiting. I tried to think about things OTHER than food and water. Half hour passed. Then an hour. We had now been on the bus for 5 hours with no water and no food and a locked bathroom door with a dangerously low toilet paper supply. I figured maybe the driver was going to stop at a "midway" point between the last stop and our final stop, that seemed reasonable, I suppose. We kept busing along. We cruised quickly, zipping in and out of traffic as if we were a just another car. If I hadn’t been so annoyed with this heartless Meatloaf guy I would have given him props for his dexterity in driving. I had actually noticed in all the buses we rode thus far, the drivers were, in my mind, extremely talented. They whipped around tight little corners, bolted down one lane width streets, and parked as if they were no bigger than a fiat. MULTIPLE times I was certain we would hit a pole or at least jump the curb as the driver cut in between items I myself would have been nervous to navigate with just my car. They drove dangerously close to other vehicles without a flinch. They were fast and precise. None of the words I am using currently would describe any of my bus experiences in the States. Precise. Bolt. Whip. Dexterity. Nope. These words describe the geometric and physics masterminds that have ever so perfectly calculated each angle and curve along with their speed. They seemed to know the dimensions of their big old bus better than I know the dimensions of my big old hips. After 28 years of knowing my body, I still have trouble clearing corners without a massive hit and run collision. We pulled off the main interstate and started driving down a winding side road. It headed toward a rest area. I felt some glee rising up. I felt a bit of joy starting to tickle my pallet. Water! Maybe even food! A bathroom with enough toilet paper for all! Or at least most! We drove by the rest area. My overly optimistic mind said “don’t worry, he’s taking you to a better place. That rest area looked gross, and vending-machine-less. Just you wait. Just you wait to see how smart this bus driver is.” I didn’t get to see the smarts of the bus driver. Ever again. IN FACT, that bus driver was taking a detour to some hotel, where he in turn got off and traded with a different driver. That was it. Just a captain's trade off. Penn was off to his comfy hotel and a new guy, looking exactly opposite of him was taking over. The two greeted each other as if they were brothers. They laughed. Hugged. Talked. Said hellos and goodbyes like this was a joy ride. The new, short, skinny driver got on the bus to assume business as usual. And that was that. We headed back to the interstate as if stopping hadn’t even crossed the mind of either driver. Maybe I was supposed to push some sort of button. Maybe someone was supposed to ask to have the privilege to a break from the cramped ride. Maybe the driver assumed no one wanted one. Maybe, just maybe, it was somewhere on the booking website that I was supposed to plan sufficiently for a long bus ride and that is why everyone else seemed to have ample fluids and snacks to keep them happy. Well, I finally gave up on the idea of stopping. I resigned to journaling and interspersing a few games of Plague between thoughts. I’m a viral and bacterial champion, so unfortunately, killing off the population wasn’t as exciting as when I first started the game. (If you have no idea to what I’m referring, look up Plague Inc on Google and you will realize I’m not a terrorist… mostly.)

I would be lying if the rest of the trip just floated on by after I gave in to the fact that we would not be stopping until our final destination. We reached the very outskirts of Paris long after night had blackened the sky. We were greeted with the glow of a million taillights in the worst traffic jam I’d seen since an incident on I5 in 2008. (That incident was memorable for it’s multitude of uncomfy factors as well.) Of course traffic would make this already unpleasant trip longer. We weren’t anxious to get anywhere. (Yes, we were) We had the patience to spare. (No, we didn’t!) As I’ve mentioned many times, Europe is just different than America. Driving, eating, patience, customer service, daily interactions. All different. Well, in this moment, I didn’t feel like it was different. I felt like I was back at home, in some unnecessary, unexplainable waste of time with no feelings of magic or peace. Just the inability to continue on. Prevented from moving forward. Anxious to get to where we were headed, even though we were on no schedule other than our own- put in place by circumstantial discomforts. I didn’t like that mixture of internal responses rising up in me- impatient expectation sprinkled all over discontent. Had I not been learning anything? Was I already throwing what I loved about this foreign land out the window? Regardless of all that was happening, there was reason to rest. There was reason to be patient. There was reason for positive thoughts and a boost of stamina to hang in there til the end. I had the opportunity to be the “different” I say the people of this place are- and I sure was NOT taking it. That little mental pep talk helped calm me down. Sure, I had justification for my annoyance. But who cares about whether the emotion is justified or not! I don’t want to BE what I dislike. And I dislike impatient, demanding people. I dislike people who can’t make the best of a poor situation. I dislike complaining. So, I made a point, in my brain, to consciously move away from the tendencies of old and try a new reaction on for size. I would get there when I got there. I would look out the window and study the city lights, because they were so beautiful. I would look at my husband and get all sentimental- because- WE. ARE. IN. PARIS (at least I was pretty sure we were on the edge of the magical city). I would look into the windows of the stopped cars beside us, study the people within. (I don’t care if that’s considered creepy. I do it.) Maybe I would rest my eyes. Maybe I would journal more. Maybe...I would just enjoy. I’m in Europe for Pete’s sake! You can’t get much luckier. The stop and go traffic carried on. And on. And on. We sat on the same road for as long as I can remember. Rain pouring. Stomach growling. Mouth watering. Time ticking. I kept checking the time (which gave away I still had a skosh of nagging impatience resting upon my shoulders). I remember thinking when the clock struck 7, “We could have been deboarding right now.” I wondered how far we actually were from the bus station. It would have been helpful had the driver given an update or some sort of blip of information about our estimated time of arrival. Even our distance TO arrival would have been helpful. For all I knew, I could have just ASSUMED this was Paris and been way off. Then again that update, that smidgen of information, was craved by the very emotion I was trying to remove from myself. I wanted to really understand the meaning of the word “embrace”. There was nothing I could do to alter this circumstance, so the only altering needed to be done was on my perspective. No one else seemed to be squirming with this impatience thing. Then again, no other Americans were aboard. At some point you may get sick of the comparisons. American versus European. I can understand that might get old. But this trip was to explore another culture. Comparison is part of observation. Comparison is part of understanding. And comparison, ultimately, is part of growing. Good from bad. Old from new. American culture is, in my opinion, consumed with some seriously mixed up priorities. I carry that culture within me because that is where I am from. But as I grow, I try to shed that. I try to remove what I dislike about where I am from to become a being that is from everywhere. Influenced, but not completely shaped by, where I live. Influenced, but not completely shaped by, what I’ve experienced. Influenced, but not completely shaped by ANYTHING other than my own artistic rendition of it all. The number one difference I notice everywhere is there is no hurry or at least the irritated hurry. There is no hustle bustle in Europe like there is in America. They take life as it is- embrace. This bus trip made me wrestle with that concept. Ideally, I’d say, I’m not a part of that cultural ideology. Rush, rush, rush. Time is money. But, this bus trip is revealing I AM part of that group of movers, rushers, bustlers and hustlers. No better place to battle a life concept than in a magical land, right? So I don’t drag this part of the story on and make it as equally long and dreadful as the actual bus trip, I will skip to the arriving part. We got there. Safe. Still alive. Undamaged in any way. (This is what saving 200 euros looks like- priceless life lessons.) We got off the bus, trying to move with the crowd, but struggling with limbs that felt more like rubber than skin and bone. Wobbling along gathering our packs and our sense of “what next”, we searched for our next mode of transportation. Chris looked at his gps and commented the hotel was only about a mile and a half away. We could walk that- easy. We didn’t have the motivation to walk that, though. Along the street, dozens of yellow and black cabbies were parked waiting for customers. They likely were going to charge us more than the car ride was worth, but never had we been more eager to spend an unnecessary amount of money than that moment. The first cab driver tried to ignore Chris’ English. He sat in his car, staring straight ahead. Chris cleared his throat and spoke loud enough that the man couldn’t ignore him, he looked at Chris unimpressed. He uttered a short “NO”. He didn’t even look at our gps for the address. He looked away, and that was our cue to move on. The next cab driver responded immediately with “No English”. He didn’t take the time to examine the address on the gps either. I can’t remember the 3rd cabbie’s response, but it was a negative one. All three made it very clear they were uninterested in helping someone who spoke English. Interesting when the table is turned, when YOU’RE the odd one out and being discriminated against. I have no entitlement to their help or liking. I don’t even mind if they care for us or not. But I suppose I was taken back by the disregard for us because of the language we spoke. Because we were “foreigners”. I’ve never really had that happen before. I’m white. But now, I understand. My husband has tried to explain it before. He’s not white. I always thought he just had a different perspective on things. But it never really sank in like that moment forced it to sink in. Hopefully, I remember that feeling for future references, though. I never want to treat another that way. If I have in the past, I regretted it in that moment. I toggled between frustration toward the snobby French and worry that walking was going to be our only option. I had something more predominant than my mind guiding me though. Despite the lack of water, I desperately needed a bathroom. Across the street from the massive bus parking lot and the French nationalist taxi cars there was a shopping mall. People were hustling more so out the doors, than in. I didn't care, I would find a bathroom open or closed. We walked with such determination, but it didn't distract me from the stares and glances I would catch.I felt frumpy, the looks made it worse. The mall was upscale. I saw the shoppers in their suits and black fashion and shiny shoes. They saw me in my wrinkled dress, my dusty stockings and boots and my drifter pack. Flat hair, smeared makeup. This contrast made me a tad more grumpy. We marched through the mall as if we knew where the bathrooms were, but we didn't. We just followed an outside wall hoping it would lead us to one. We were walking so far, it probably would have been more efficient to just head toward our hotel. But the decision had already been made. Going back now would just make everything feel more unsatisfying. We started following little signs posted at the ceiling of the walls with little men and little women on them. Safe to say those symbols are international ones. After many turns and corners and hallways, dodging hoards of traffic the opposite direction, we found the final cove to where the bathroom was built. A huge line of women clogged the entire entry way. Of course! I couldn't decide if I was going to wait out of rebellion or leave out of rebellion. I was so done with this day. Chris could tell I was defeated. He couldn't tell which way my defeat would run either. I'm certain he wanted to say, "Rosie, lets just give up and head to the hotel like we should have in the first place." He didn't say it. Even if there was truth in it, he kept quiet. That did us both a slight favor. My grumpiness would have responded poorly to the truth. The women were so crowded around the doorway I didn't notice the door had been closed the entire time until they all started to siphon out of the little cubby area. The door, in fact, was locked. Turns out, I would not be getting the bathroom with my original determination "open or closed". It was time for me to admit I was wasting our time. So I did admit it. Probably not in the nicest way one could admit a mistake, but I admitted it. Chris finally gave in to all the things wearing him down as well and showed off his grumpiness, too. I should have been more aware that he was also with out food, water, bathroom and other comforts all day too. It should have been obvious I wasn't the only one desperately trying to escape this rough day. The men's bathroom across the cove was also locked. Had it not been, I would have been in it. We began tracing the millions of steps we took in the wrong direction to get back on track to finding our hotel room. We bickered. About stupid things. How to walk. Where to turn. Who was more desperate for what. It was comical, really. The mini meltdown. I wasn't ready to say "I hate you, Paris." Not yet. But I felt the feeling begin to sneak in. Just a little bit of contempt for the dirty, snobby romance capitol. No love. My eyes were tearing up with the budding hate. I didn't want to cry. I wasn't going to. But Paris was being so mean. So heartless. I could have cried, and had good reason. But I didn't. The mall was at least 4 stories. 2 stories that led to bus stops and the underground metro. People were rushing in all directions leaving and finding the rest of their shopping crew and then leaving more. It was intense. People shoving and nearly crawling over escalators just to push their way through. The metro was a step in the right direction. Chris said there would be no faster way to be delivered to our hotel than the underground subway system. Figuring it out, that was the trick. We bought tickets. They were 3 euros a piece, I think. It took forever to get the machine to accept our credit card. At least 3 separate tries. Restarting everything from beginning to end. I wanted to bang on the damn machine but who knows what kind of consequences that held. We looked at the map and the routes ourselves. We wanted to decipher it on our own. But we couldn't. We asked the front desk lady for help. She seemed annoyed. She went and got another employee to answer our questions. While Chris talked I looked around. I had never been in an underground subway before. Everything was concrete grey. Dirt and litter everywhere. Peeling ads and safety posters were the only color. Some kiosks for ticket purchase. The front desk hidden behind layers of bullet proof glass (just a guess). 6 lanes of very narrow entry gates. They were all locked unless someone walked up, put their ticket in and then it let them pass. I noticed you could go right or left after the entry gate let you through. I didn't think to wonder why. Chris got the information he needed. We went through the skinny entry lane with some awkwardness from our bulky uncooperating packs. We went right. We went through many cement and brick hallways, stairways and corridors. Every so often you would see signs for other subway lines heading in opposing directions. The number 1 line exit to the left or the number 6 line exit to the right. We were looking for the number 2 line. The very last one, come to discover. The very orange lighting made the underground halls look dungeon-like. Interesting ad posters entertained us as we walked, waiting to reach our platform. We finally saw signs giving us hope we were near. We took the appropriate exit of stairs digging us deeper into the ground to meet our train. The platform was packed with people, lined where they assumed (or knew from experience) that the doors would be. In my head, I guessed this was like a bus stop. You get there and end up waiting a good 15 minutes (if not more) and the time of arrival was very dependent upon whether the transport was on time or not. I was quite wrong. The train came within a minute of standing. As I boarded, I noticed a lighted sign stating the next train would be arriving in 4 minutes. Convenient. We shuffled; small steps in keeping to the crowd of people all flowing into the small doorways. It was a quick ebb and flow. People spewed out, people rushed back on. For as many as there were going both directions, I would have thought it to be more…..clumsy. But it was smooth. Like an ocean wave. Forceful. Direct. Unified and graceful like a congealed liquid. In one second, out the other. Continuously spreading in all directions as time passed. I don’t know how we were lucky enough to find a seat. I sat, while Chris stood holding to a nearby pole. We were so tired our gaze latched to one area and we both found ourselves zoning out. The next stop came in less than a minute. The stop name was announced and a little light showed up on a map near the roof of the train to notate where you were in reference to where you had been and where you were headed. Our luck would have it- we were headed in the wrong direction. (Left is the direction we should have chosen at the entrance.)Our lazy daze was instantly broken, and we were back into hustled determination mode. Adrenaline pumped us out of the doors quickly and we began trying to figure out how to get to the other side of the tracks. We climbed the stairs leading us back into the cement tunnels (same scenery as before, just a different dot on the map). I couldn’t believe this day. I mean, it’s chalked up as an adventure in my memory now, but at the time- I was this close to fleeing Paris for good. But I couldn’t because I was too exhausted to get that rebellious. I was whipped into submission to just keep going- one step at a time. I can’t proudly boast that I had a good attitude the whole time. I can’t even really call myself a trooper. Because Chris will boldly pop that ideal bubble of nonsense. I was whiny. I was limping. I was grumpy. I was bossy. I really don’t like admitting all that. But then again, I don’t understand why not. I know better than to think people view me as this complacent, vanilla flavored sweetheart of a girl. I drug my whiny, limping, bossy derriere through the tunnels trying not to cry. One more thing gone wrong and I was definitely going to abandon my age and revert to a 5 year old. Tantrum. Tears. Tumultuous event. We figured out the configuration of the tunnel system after, of course, a few wrong turns and repaying to re-enter and ride (which later we found out we DIDN’T have to do, if we had known what we were doing). This time, the platform was quite empty. We waited the 3 minutes remaining, and boarded the next train as if the last 30 minutes hadn’t happened. We found our seats and tried to re-enter a state of daze. My blood pressure was lowering. I was in acceptance of everything for the moment. We were headed in the right direction, we were nearing our hotel- all would be well soon enough.

At the next stop (dejavu), a woman with a karaoke machine strapped to some sort of cart via duct tape boarded. Her contraption was accessorized with two red solo cups on each side of the cart (also duct taped). They read in sloppy sharpy- TIPS. She smiled a lot. She bent down to push a button and grabbed a microphone. The tinny twang of a terrible instrumental version of “La Bomba” started playing. I normally don’t get too involved in how strangers conduct themselves in public. Do whatever you want. The lady started singing. Loudly. She stood only about 10 feet from me. I wish I had had the ability to find this interesting form of begging comical. But in that moment, after all that had been stacking up in my day, my brain found no humor in this extremely annoying and unsolicited “entertainment”. I was tempted to provide her a tip to STOP. I wanted silence to lose myself in; not a hated, unforgettable tune. I feared the catchy song would take over my weakened and wearied mind and haunt me for hours. I never knew how much I hated the song La Bomba until that day. She finished her song and began walking around asking for tips as if she had done everyone a favor. Honestly, I am not usually this bitter about something so harmless. In the moment, I was close to questioning the universe as to whether this was some intentional and cruel trick being played on me. The irony of each little thing stacking up on top of the other to build this ferociously awful day couldn’t all be a coincidence, could it? I felt bad for ever complaining about a “bad day” prior. This easily topped the charts. No one gave the C rate singer or her solo red cups any reason to stay, so at the next stop, she deboarded. Tough crowd. I’m sure she planned to attempt her talents to a new audience in the next 4 minutes. Our stop came shortly thereafter. I could feel my frustration subsiding, because I had this theory that the worst was behind us. The rest was smooth sailing for this ship. We entered the city air from underground and I felt some accomplishment. We had about 10 blocks to hike. That was nothing. We were on the final stretch to what would be the most gratitude I’ve ever shown for a hotel in my life. The air was quite chilly now, it was pitch black. A few clouds lingered in the sky. Grey, seemingly glowing, wisps of odd shapes. One resembled a perfect heart. Not resembled in the way you sometimes see a shape that reminds you of a turtle or a dragon or whatever else you see in the sky. But resembled in the obvious way. It was a clear-cut heart. I pointed it out to Chris. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me close. That moment was the most perfect of the day. Thankfully I had enough love in my own heart to embrace it. I felt the mounds of frustration, anxiety, and stress melting. My hunger and thirst were tolerable. My itchy nylons and aching feet were not dominating my thoughts. I could enjoy this final walk. We reached the hotel. I was near childlike giddy. The lobby to the hotel was beautiful. Shiny black counters and shiny white floors. Black and white and silver and purple everywhere. Purple chairs and a plush purple rug. The black walls with white crown molding looked so sleek. The hotel desk manager greeted us cheerfully. The first smile and light vocal tone we had heard in almost 12 hours(I absolutely do not count the karaoke beggar). I was ecstatic. Chris gave them our information and they paused awkwardly. "I'm sorry Mr. Bueford, we don't see a reservation for you." This would have been a completely legitimate situation to continue our terrible day. It would have made sense if that was what had happened. But I’m just kidding. That didn’t happen. They got us our keys and we were in the elevator headed to floor 2- OUR. ROOM.

The room was splendid. Big, fluffy white bed. Down comforter so poofy you sank several inches deep. Down pillows. Dark walls. Modern fixtures. BATHROOM. WATER. RELIEF. We cleaned up. Freshened up. Bathroomed. Watered. Showered. Did whatever we could to cleanse ourselves from the day and muster up enough energy to hunt down food. Room service wasn’t really an option due to overpriced, unappealing choices. We opted to walk a few blocks outside our hotel to find something more interesting.We had to walk back the way we had just came. I wasn’t even frustrated about that. I was absolutely willing to do it. I wanted food. By this time though, if I was being real honest, I was so used to going without food I wasn’t all that hungry. It was more the principle of the thing. I was going to get nutrition if it killed me. Ironically serious. We turned onto a side street that hosted a slew of unique and intriguing restaurants and bakeries. It looked fabulous. Unfortunately, as late as it was, most were closed. (It was close to midnight by now.) Their windows were the story tellers of what was inside. The draperies, decorations hiding in the dark, types of tables and chairs featured- all of them told a beautiful tale of the atmosphere during business hours. Menus posted on every door uncovered secrets the dark windows left hanging in the air. We made a mental wish list of places we wanted to visit when they were open. There was a Dominoes Pizza on the corner. Chris and I instantly headed that direction without even feeling guilty about it. No hesitation from either. It was if we both understood how perfectly that cheap pizza place would satisfy our needs. Under normal circumstances, I would have been completely against such an atrocious choice while in a culinary legend of a place as Paris. But, I will admit, I wasn’t up for any more “adventure”. I was desperately craving comfort. Home type comfort. Dominoes offered such a perfect combination of ease and familiarity that we couldn’t turn down. So. Our first night in Paris was spent scarfing pizza in a room we had an inflated appreciation for while watching The League (TV Show on Netflix) on my phone. It was the most indulgent evening yet. After the most awful day yet.

Chapter 2- We're in it, Europe deep

The next morning we woke very early. Way before the sun. At home, this never happens. Unless we have to get up to use the bathroom or the dog needs to do the same. And then it's straight back to bed after that. We aren't morning people, really. Jet lag had us not on Germany time and not really on home’s time either. No man’s time. We readied for the day with showers and packing back up our bags we so hastily tore apart the night before. We were downstairs for breakfast by 8 (my mother could attest to the shock of something like this). Our lovely hosts had the table set with fancy white china and wine glasses. One large white karaf had Orange juice. A silver platter served meats and cheeses. Another silver platter had two white china tea pots with hot coffee. The man, named Mr Grolig, stood and chatted with us best he could in English while we ate. He told us he taught himself English from watching tv and the internet. He said he has visitors from all over the world coming to see the castle. He recounted some of his fondest memories of past guests with a big smile. He spoke of a very large family that came and stayed from Mexico. They sang songs and played guitar during their breakfast. He found that quite entertaining. He chuckled as he told that story as if he was reliving the excitement in his head. You could tell he loved his “work”. He has had folks from Japan and Peru and Canada and America. I'm sure he said many other countires but I don't remember them now. His wife was short and round and very delightful, but knew very little English. She kept herself busy, out of sight in the kitchen. When she would appear she was cheerful, but quiet. I would have loved to talk more with both of them. They had so much to say, so much I wanted to listen to. We finished breakfast and prepared for the long walk. The castle was about a three mile hike one way. Short compared to yesterday's wanderings, but long enough to where we had to keep on schedule. We had to make our train to head to Amsterdam at 11:45. We began our walk out of town, the way we had headed the day before, toward the hotel too booked to put us up. Past the hotel, there was a trail of mud we had to traverse. I had hoped maybe the mud would end, but it never did. My short legs allowed my pants to drag in the mud. I knew I would be a mess when all this was over. We walked along the river for quite some time. It was fast and overflowing. It looked near flood stage. Trees were half engulfed by the water hiding their entire trunks so just the branches peeked out. The trail was narrow with mountain to one side and cliff to the other. A bit unnerving to the clumsy. I'm no graceful swan, especially when you add slippery elements like rain and mud. But, that didn't scare me nor slow me. I let Chris do the worrying about my stability.

In 3 miles worth of hiking, we had talks about who may have traveled the woods before us. German culture. Food. Love. Other things to keep the time passing. After 3 years of marriage, we still have lots to talk about. We rounded a large mountain side that finally revealed what all the walking was for- Burg Eltz. It was beautiful. I was mad my phone was dead. The only pictures I have are what Google provides and what I saw. The old brick and towers stood out from the mountain watching over the large valley. We climbed a great deal of stairs built into the cliff side to reach the top of a rock wall built to lead directly to the castle. The castle gate was closed, tourist season for this place was over. We were able to walk around one side of the castle to see all of the different spires, doors, and windows. The castle housed many families. When a son or daughter would marry, the entire family would come to live in the castle and an addition would be built on for their living space. We stared for a long time, talking about what it must have been like "back then", but also trying to break long enough to recharge before retracing our steps back down the mountain. Sometimes, we were quiet. Just looking to look. At the meadow, at the castle overlooking all the greenery. There were patches of fog floating around, bringing in a beautiful and quiet essence to the entire scene.

Thankfully, we made it back down without any mishaps, other than my jeans being so dirty and muddy. Not in exaggeration, mud was up to my knees! It was enough to get some laughs from some old men back at the hotel as we passed. They asked Chris in German why he didn't carry me. I don't understand German very well, but their laughter and hand gestures translated the message well. Once in town, some old farmers drove by in Mercedes tractors (it seems every moving vehicle in Germany is Mercedes- the buses, the garbage trucks, farm equipment, dump trucks) and they even had some laughs over my muddy pants. Picture it however you will, but it was quite a funny sight. We returned to our bed and breakfast to grab our packs. I, of course, stood outside because of the terrible mess I was. We donned the extra weight and set back toward the empty structure of a train stop. Another 3 mile walk. Once at the train station, I had to change my pants. I wasn't about to travel to Amsterdam looking more like a gypsy than I already did (our packs and bundled up attire always seemed to get stares as if we may be some sort of stinky drifter). We caught our train for Amsterdam and thus began the next part of our journey. We arrived in Amsterdam after 7pm. The central train station was packed full of people who knew where they were headed. We did not. Quite the confusion. Chris is not a fan of stopping amidst a crowd so the rule is, "walk until you find a place to plan where to go next". We followed a herd out into the main square where even more people were. Catching buses and trams and riding bikes. Hectic! Somehow we found a place Chris deemed worthy to check the instructions on how to get to our apartment. We hopped a bus and hoped we were headed in the right direction. Traveling by bus with our packs on our backs was always a pain. Our packs were too heavy to easily take off and on in hurried situations and they were too large to really fit both pack and butt on the seat. You end up with about an inch of seat holding your bum. Thankfully, the bus ride was just a few minutes. We had about 8 blocks to walk, and we covered the ground quickly. I wanted to look at everything as we walked, but it was not easy to keep up, watch where I was going and soak in the sites all at once. The central train station had been a real sight, glorious in it's castle-esque structure and detail, but I had no such luck of doing much gazing there either. Enroute is not the time, my heavy pack easily reminded me of that. The owner of the apartment we rented was Amanda. She greeted us at the door with well wishes and apologies for the rain and cold. She was very chatty and welcoming. She walked us up the steepest stairs I had ever been on. As I climbed I could touch the stairs in front of me, much like a ladder. Quite tricky for someone with any sort of balance issues. Add a very heavy, bulky pack weighing you down in the opposite direction you are going and it much becomes like a challenge rather than a regular task.

Once past the cliff of stairs, we entered the apartment.

It was modern. White everywhere.

A balcony overlooked a courtyard.

A walk in shower, normal bathroom. Nothing overtly outstanding, but it would be ours for the next few days and that was exciting. Amanda stayed and chatted about everything the city had to offer. She talked so quickly and so animatedly even I had a hard time keeping up. I'm not sure if traveling had taken me down a few notches in my socialization game or if she really was that much more exuberant than I. After she left, I only remember falling asleep. I don't remember how I was able to unpack and ready myself for bed, but I remember falling asleep. It was still only 7ish in the evening, so really it shouldn't have been bedtime. By it was for me. And I slept for a very long time. Chris said be contemplated multiple times if he should wake me, but he let me rest. I'm always thankful for his thoughtful gestures. Unfortunately, my gift of rest meant I was wide awake at 5am the next morning. Still in limbo on the time zone situation. Getting up and at em early in the morning had its advantages, though. I'm sure over the years my mom tried to instill that in me, but it never sank in. Being up early has never been a priority of mine, still isn't. But on this trip, being up early has been a bit rewarding. In Amsterdam, we were ready just as dawn was lifting night’s blanket off the city. Light just barely beginning to glow the sky. The air still crisp from the night, the street lanterns all still lit. Everywhere quiet. It felt like I owned the city. Like I could do anything I wanted with no refusal. I could go anywhere I wanted. No one standing in my way, bumping into me, blocking my view or having some pointless loud conversation on their cell phone as they zipped by. Just me and Chris. The streets were ours.

They would be until almost 9am as stated by most shops in the area. This city has seemed to have also adopted my late-morning-start belief system. In this case it was both a blessing and a curse. We enjoyed exploring on foot the empty streets the water canals the millions of bikes locked up in piles along the streets. What we hoped to find was breakfast. Coffee shops weren't even open yet. Chris explained most coffee shops in Amsterdam were not really focused on coffee so much as selling joints (with quite the variety at that!). Coffee was just an added feature to the more sought after commodity. We walked dedicatedly toward the breakfast place Chris had saved in his GPS years ago when he lived in Amsterdam. He had always wanted to eat there (never did because who wants to eat at a fancy breakfast shop alone?), and now he was taking me to share the experience. It was called The Pancake House. In Dutch culture, pancakes aren't necessarily a breakfast food, so when we came upon the place, it was also closed. We had a little over an hour to kill. When you are hungry, aimlessly walking about is slightly less enjoyable. My stomach seemed to drown out my thoughts as I tried to take in the overwhelming cityscape. We walked past the Anne Frank house. Pausing for a moment to examine the outside. I wish I remembered more of the history I learned in high school so I could truly feel the depth of what I was seeing. I tried to remind myself multiple times of the centuries of history made in all the places I visited. I put into perspective how young our country is while reading plaques dating the buildings and statues we passed. 1100, 1300, 15th century. Earlier even. Long before America was discovered by any European. The age of the places we visited, not any in particular, showed. There seemed to be a wisdom of sorts floating in the air. People were hugely different here. Europe, here. People eat slow, drink a lot. Enjoy life. America seems so hyped up, so fast paced compared to European places. Each city, each country had its differences, yes. But in large, Europe had a significantly different way of looking about day to day life. I liked it. There was no sense of entitlement because it is not allowed. Or tolerated would be a better word. Or, maybe due to the ancient wisdom passed down, it’s just not even a thought in someone’s mind that they would be “entitled” to anything. Long, long heritages maybe taught more about blessings than takings. People weren't necessarily more polite, just significantly less intrusive with their need to be heard and accommodated. You might be thinking- she experienced the romances of a “vacation”, not to mention visited places where the language wasn’t always English therefore didn’t really know or see REAL life. But--- we don’t do resort touristy vacations. We try to do life the way the locals do life. We aren’t attracted to the fake recreations of travelers. We rather to experience a city in all its realness and discover its hidden treasures only the locals can recommend. Traveling to us is NOT jumping on the tour train (in fact, avoiding it at all costs)- full of replicas and forced expressions of the city’s culture. I’d rather pick up the subtle hints of their beliefs and priorities that bleed out via the places no magazine reports. The places that reveal history without a plaque. The places that tell you stories without a cover charge. We choose to experience real life wherever we go, not escape it. This trip wasn’t about an escape. It was about an experience. Amsterdam in itself, because of its unique identity, is a largely traveled city. We weren’t unique in our desire to go there. But we rented a flat in a residential area to experience life in Amsterdam, not just view it from the international points of interest. We shopped at the local grocer market. We rode our bikes. We ate at places we stumbled upon in our neighborhood. Granted 2 nights is different than a year or 30 living there, but from the vibe, I’d take up residence there in a heartbeat. Honestly, after tasting different flavors of life around Europe I began wishing the unrealistic wish to live at least a few more lives. All different. Each focused on different directions to produce a hugely different outcome. I’d love the chance to live a life where I focused on education and writing to lead me living in Amsterdam- writing, working, living something so foreign to what I have already lived. I entertained the daydream as if I could pick and choose how that other life would go- and many others, playing out the differences and the highlights- more like a movie than reality. But still, from what I’ve seen, living in another country with a completely different lifestyle looks pretty enticing- even if it would inevitably still include mundane duties and routines (which it would). There’s an atmosphere, an energy from the particular history and culture that cannot be replicated in the States. You can’t read about it, you can’t pick it apart in some social science major- it’s just there and it’s either in sync with what you believe or it’s not. You will only know when you visit the foreign places yourself. You will only reckon with it once you’re in it- and then, you will understand what all other travelers try to explain but can’t. It’s not magical because it’s a vacation, it’s magical because there’s something so deep, so rich resonating from the ground, the buildings and the people that you can’t make it through the city without being touched by it. Regardless of my romantic descriptions, it’s very real. I jive with it. I dig it. I hoped I would come back different. Changed by the observations I had made. Wandering streets that have housed centuries of lives, living and dying, changes and revolutions, cultures instilled deeper than any I have experienced. I hoped many times that stays with me. I hoped I could bring it back and keep it. It's not seen in any picture I have taken, but I hoped I would be able to see it when I looked in the mirror. When I pour into my marriage and my daughter, I hoped it would be reflected. Now that I’m back, it’s a lot harder than it sounds to keep it. I already feel it slipping away. I feel so far from what I had in Europe. Almost as if it was in another life that I was there. I guess that is part of why I wrote- to hold on to “it” the best I could. We stumbled upon a beautiful palace encircling a large plaza.To the side of the palace, was an ornate structure, most likely a church. Tucked in a tiny corner was a chain coffee shop, selling actual coffee. We huddled into its tiny 3 walls [it truly was built into a corner] and ordered our hot drinks. We sat in chairs set up in the plaza, drinking our coffee smoking a morning cigarette. (Sorry, Mom, I lied, they were for us. But it’s a Europe thing, so it’s ok.) The sun was starting rise and people were coming and going, increasing every 15 minutes or so. I can't say I remember much of our conversations while we sat or wandered that morning. But they were rich in the moment. We enjoyed our down time just as much as the fervent exploring or the determined searching. I'm sure we talked about the old cobblestone worn down by how many billions, trillions or some astronomical number, of feet had shuffled along over hundreds of years. We examined the architecture of the church and the palace. Statues and spires and carvings and doors, all fascinating as a whole and individually. Overwhelming as a whole, actually. Individually, each stone carving, each doorway with it’s storytale of figurines and images were so impactful. It took so much focus just to gaze over one section of a structure. To figure out why the faces and the people and the statues were there. What they were trying to depict? What they were documenting with such ornate art? We finished our overpriced coffees and figured by the time we meandered back to the pancake house it would just be opening. People were out and about now, riding their bikes with such confidence along cars and crowds of pedestrians. I had a bit of panic rise up in me as I knew we would be renting our bikes next. I have been afraid to even attempt riding a bike in Salem because of traffic, and this entire combination of goofy angled streets with cars and buses and trams and other bikers looked entirely way too complicated. But, Que sera sera. I figured, it will work out and if not, I will have one helluva story to tell about my failed bike attempt in Amsterdam. As we assumed, the pancake house was just opening up.

A delivery truck was parked right outside. Delivering beer and wine it appeared. The truck was as wide as the whole street. The better way to phrase that would actually be to say, the street was only as wide as the small delivery truck. 7 maybe 8 cars patiently waited behind it as it did its business with the shop workers. No honking horns, or rolling eyes. The cars' drivers appeared calm and nonchalant about the hold up. Reading newspapers, playing on their phones, doing make up. Maybe they welcomed the stop. There's definitely no way you could drive in Amsterdam while multitasking. You would be sure to kill a pedestrian or overly confident biker. This stop may have given them the time they needed to ready or decompress before arriving to work. Bikes were not held up, they zipped in and out of the cars and around the truck without pause. We allowed the truck to finish unloading before going in. We ducked down into the small doorway. One step in and already greeted with 5 or 6 steep steps down into the sunken dining area. It was quaintly decorated with old pictures hung on exposed original brick. Dim lighting from a few hanging chandeliers and red tea lights on the tables set a fantastic morning mood.

The wait staff greeted us and handed out menus. At first glance, I could tell this would be no IHOP pancake house (not that I would want an IHOP experience in Amsterdam anyway). The menu listed funky combinations of pancakes. Things like bacon, ham, cheese and mushrooms stuffed into your pancake. They also had “themed” pancakes that I was quite curious about. What is a COP pancake? Or a PRINCESS one? Or a UNICORN crepe? A FIREMAN one too? I wished Zoe was available to order one for me.

Just to see. Heck, I just wished Zoe was seeing and experiencing what we were seeing and experiencing. I think it all would have been good for her. Good for her growing and developing brain to be introduced to such differentness. The arrangement of adding veggies and meats and cheeses sounded more like an omelet than a pancake. There was a "key" to understanding the menu at the bottom right. Colored dots signified finding sweet pancakes or savory or vegetarian or popular choices. You could locate a pancake and to the left see the dots coding their genre. Although, you could tell just by reading the ingredients what to expect, the coded dots added some sort of comfort in being guided through this new taste bud adventure. We chose 1 savory pancake and 1 sweet. For our savory- ham, cheese and onions (I would have preferred mushrooms). For the sweet-a traditional Dutch pancake with powdered sugar. On our table a large tub of dark brown grainy syrup sat with a wooden spoon in it. The waiter told us it was made from beet sugar and was very popular. We also had a Caramel syrup and regular maple in bottles next to the tub. The ingredients in the bottled syrups were simple. No high fructose corn syrup and no long list of crazy preservatives. Just sugar, maple and maybe a flavoring. No added coloring to make it look a certain ideal way. I found consistently, even though I already knew it to be true, that all European food keeps to the beneficial system of fewer ingredients, less salt, no preservatives and no artificial coloring. No added funky chemicals. Funny thing, it's also incredibly cheaper too. INCREDIBLY. A package of cookies were 85 cents, a half gallon of bottled water was 30 cents, bread was less than a Euro. Meats and cheeses were about 3 Euros. We ate grocery store items like these quite often to save money. We planned one large meal to eat out, the rest were snack items. The pancakes came out rather quickly. They were larger than our plates. Nearly the size of a large pizza. We chose to try the savory pancake first. I was quite skeptical about liking this odd combination. I'm not one for mixing genres when it comes to my food. I don't like sweet sauces on my meat that should taste salty. I don't like fruit on my pizza or in my salad. Even if they do taste good combined, I don't like to do it. I guess it's a mental quirk I have. But I promised to be open minded regarding food on this trip, so this was the first real test of such promise. I didn't hesitate or skimp on the size of bite for my first. I figured I better just dive right in. To my surprise, it was delicious. The pancake didn't really taste like a pancake. It was more of a flat, crispy crepe used to hold all the ingredients together ever so neatly. I enjoyed the pancake so thoroughly I told Chris I would like to learn how to make them. He chuckled as he does when I make a declaration that very well will never come to pass. My ideal mind likes to wish upon endeavors, but my realistic life usually gets in the way of ever actually doing them. The sweet pancake of course was delightful. I didnt like the beet sugar syrup and elected to eat my half with just the powdered sugar. The Orange juice we ordered was real fresh squeezed oranges. We watched them make it. It wasn't sweet like the sugar loaded stuff you buy from the store. It was a bit tart and had a ton of pulp in it. I sipped it slowly because of those two qualities. But it was very refreshing, just like an Orange. Back out on the street, tummies full and minds fueled, we headed toward the bike rental shop. I loved looking at all the people. Amsterdam was funky. The people, their style. They made tattoos, piercings and mismatched clothing look so......fitting. There was a hodgepodge of “anything goes” strutting about. I absolutely wanted to join that trend. I think a part of me has never really followed fashion trends because I like to keep things a bit different, but at the same time these people made me feel like I was a sell out. Like I wasn't true to what I really wanted to be. I have made fitting in a priority back home and I definitely think I lost bits and pieces of my identity in it over the years. These unique and careless whimsicals made me want to be free from that. This would be another lesson I'd like to hang on to, being true to my own preferences and rocking what I got instead of always trying to conform to what's expressed by others around me. The bike shop was just around the corner from our apartment, which would be nice when it came time to return them and hustle to find our next travel port. Although, I absolutely didn't want to think of leaving! This place was fascinating and I had only seen a good few hours worth! I was hoping we wouldn't get the "tourist bikes". I had seen many around. They were bright green or bright yellow signifying they were rented and you were dumb to the ways of Amsterdam. I didn't pretend to be suave about this place, but I sure didn't want others to see it so clearly as a neon target. Thankfully the guy gave us two normal, beat up bikes. Mine was white with rust and dings. Chris' was black adorned with the same wear and tear. We had to leave my passport for the entire time we had the bikes. I worried this would conflict with going to a bar, but I tell you now, I was never asked for ID in Europe. They don't do that to anyone. And yet, I never saw sloppy drunks like I have in Vegas or Denver or even Portland. You would think with the liberal outlook Amsterdam has that I would have seen some atrocious behaviours, but by far, Vegas is way dirtier and outwardly more scandalous than Amsterdam. And yes, we went to the Red Light District. Multiple times. But I will get to that later. For now, I was going to have to learn how to ride this creaky bike alongside fast moving cars, oncoming bikers and ignorant pedestrians. In Europe, no one has the "right of way", if you don't go, someone else will. If someone else is going, they don't intend to stop for you, so you wait or you risk injury. Thankfully the streets we had to first ride on were quiet and easy to navigate. They introduced us to the task gently and gave us time to reduce our wobbles and get a grip on the flow of traffic. I felt instantly confident about my ability to maneuver. Maybe it was ignorance maybe excitement, but either way we were headed toward the busy streets of downtown without reservation. The wind felt great blowing on my face as we coasted along side streets leading into the busier areas. It was crisp and cool, making my cheeks rosy pink, I'm sure. We entered our first busy street, zooming alongside cars going the same speed as us. To my right there were parked cars, to my left moving cars. In front and behind there were more riders. I was more worried about the parked cars than the moving ones, to be honest. I was waiting for a door to open just as I sped by only to be brutally halted by its anchored position. We had a prearranged system- I was to ring my bell if I encountered any issue to let Chris know he should look back. Even when I wasn't ringing my bell, I caught him periodically looking back to make sure he hadn't lost his wife somewhere in the hustled mess. I worried at some point his looking back would cause him to wreck, but as time proved, he was much better coordinated than I. I had to follow his lead without question, the speed we were going didn't allow time for argument or course changes. We entered busier and busier areas, with junctions that were more and more confusing. It seemed rare in the busy square to encounter a 4 way intersection. There were odd off ramps and merge lanes creating 7 way crossings. 6 ways. Turning lanes that turned against my hometown tuition and headed into complete opposite directions. Oy. We approached a suedo intersection. With off ramps and on ramps but no actual turns. Chris took a" left" which was more like a straight, while I was somehow headed on the off ramp. My first instinct was just to swerve from the off ramp to join his decision, but my body was wise enough to pause. The pause meant a car, then two sped past me in the directions they knew they wanted to go. Chris seemed so far away. I stopped and dramatically rang my bell over and over. For some reason, I didn't feel I could correct my mistake and catch up with him. Instead, I hoped he would retrace his path and come save me. I'm not usually a helpless broad, and it’s humorous to me now that all I thought to do was ring my stupid little bell. All panicky like a little girl. But, my sweet man heard, saw my wide eyes from all the way down the street and came to my rescue. Laughing the whole way. He still recounts that as a favorite moment of his on the trip. So ridiculous. We made it, with no other incident, to the most “touristic” part of town. Along a canal. Beautiful architectures all around. Little shops with crazy weird gifts, "coffee shops" and musician beggars of all kinds. Talented and interesting. There was a certain attraction we were headed there to see. The Sex Museum. That is supposed to elicit a chuckle. Its not as scandalous (yes, it is) as it sounds. I read reviews that it was for those with a light heart and a good sense of humor. I consider Chris and I to fall in those categories, so we went. It was quite a riot. Interesting too. If you think our 21st century heathens have invented new sexual perversions far from the original intended form, I would like to share, no we haven't. I saw art from 500 bc that would suggest we haven't come up with anything new. There were comical practical jokes throughout the building. There were serious displays of art from all different eras and countries. I took tons of pictures (because it was allowed by both staff and my husband- usually those 2 items prevent me from taking too many photos) and because it was just too interesting not to. Obviously, those photos can't be shared here, but I'm happy to share if you're brave enough! (Nothing too crazy, I promise...Sorta) We moved along with the hoards of people shuffling in and out of shops browsing at all the things vendors would put a price on. This was the most people we had seen packed in one area yet on our trip. Germany seemed empty compared to this. It wasn’t anything frustrating, just an observation.

Then again, we tend to stay away from tourist pits as best we can, so being in this area full of travelers thirsty for the city tour, meant we would be subject to their masses of confusion, photographs, and maps. We broke away from the herd of people moving along the main walk to explore the surrounding area. There was a beautiful church to circle, an intriguing pub I had to drink at and according to our GPS, the Red Light District was hiding somewhere near. We hunted for a place to chain our bikes up. I’ve never been in a place where bicycling was so popular that parking was more in demand for bikes than cars. Sorry Portland, but you don’t even hold a candle to Amsterdam in this area (or any other for that matter, regardless how weird you try to be!). Every possible pole, ledge, cage, immovable object a bike could be anchored to, you would find at least 3 or 4 piled on top of each other. Along the bridge every inch was crowded with bikes mangled and shoved into a space that would allow them to be attached via chain and locked to the bridge railing. I’m curious how strangers detangle their massive metal workings from all the others when it is time to unlock and depart. We had to walk our bikes a good 4 blocks before we found an acceptable place to lock up. Our bikes looked like everyone else’s (desirable under every instance but one- I worried we may have trouble re-locating them after exploring.) It would have been different had the bikes been ours. If the dings, scratches and life lived on them were in our memories. It would’ve created an intimacy making it impossible to lose our own bike. You could tell people loved their bikes. One- none of them looked even close to new. Two- they got creative with adding things like decorative seats (also never looking new) and baskets, handlebars and bells. All had color and expressions of their owners' love for them. No two bikes were similar. If I was a cheesy tourist interested in wasting time, I would have taken tons of pictures of some of the interesting bikes I saw. But I wasn't trying to look like one of those tourists, and I definitely didn't have the time. My man moves quickly, and there's a keep up or get lost rule built into our travelings. We walked, wandered actually, around on the cobble stone roads and walks. We neared the church I wanted to see. It was smack dab in the middle of the Red Light District. I was curious which came first- the sinful streets or the place of worship. Was the church an attempt to save lost souls in the middle of a dark place or were the streets of Red created out of rebellion beyond the church walls? Either seemed a symbol of freedom from the other. As we walked past the front of the church which faced the main road, we rounded to the side of the brick structure. To our left, the beautiful towers and stained glass of the catholic church- directly to our right were little glass rooms with velvet drapes and red lights. Some were empty with but a tall bar stool. Some were not. The first inhabited glass box of a room housed a chubby black woman dressed in ill-fitted lingerie. She was playing on her cell phone. The room next to her was another chubby woman. White and looking to be in her 50's. Maybe a job like that doesn't allow you to age so gracefully? 50 seems a bit old to still be turning tricks, I would assume. Then again, I know very little about the business and the demands of such a product. (At least in this form, anyway.) I was surprised at both- neither were the Victoria's Secret models with smooth dance moves I assumed did this kind of vocation.

It was only 3 or 4 in the afternoon, so most of the rooms following were empty. These glass humanquariums were stacked one right next to another down the street, wrapping all around the church. I find it interesting for those to be in the church looking out or in the glass rooms looking straight on to the place where people say God lives. Does the scenery for either looking out affect their perception of what they live for? Does the contrast invoke any insight or thought? To me, the two usually seem so far apart from each other (geographically) that it creates an out of sight out of mind way of going about business. Maybe this layout is how it should be. No ability to deny the other's existence. Recognition does some powerful things. Ignorance does too.

The church was not the only "out of place" establishment in the area. Every 4 or 5 glass window would abruptly end to a buzzing pub or fancy restaurant. Bakeries were common to see as well. So- buy your bagel and coffee prior to mass, then join your mother for a fancy lunch. Follow it up by an encounter with a glass room and a beer at the pub. Sounds so....clashing. I tell you, some of the restaurants were so fancy you wondered how they got stuck (or opted for) such a location. Some of the bakeries looked so cute and innocent with their sweet treats so specialized, you had to question if they were naive to their whereabouts.

These streets went on and on for blocks and blocks and alley upon alley. It was quite the intriguing area. Something new and shocking around every corner. Walking along the cobblestone was really starting to affect my bad ankle. There are times I feel my body is revolting against my mental youth by invoking elderly physical pain. Throughout the trip, I've had mini battles with my back and ankle, but I've ignored them- pushing on. Unfortunately, cobblestone is a crazy terrain and it sure was doing its damage. I hate admitting defeat, especially to my body, but I had to be smart or I would reach a crippling state. We had easily walked 5 or 6 miles for the day, including the morning's roamings, so it wouldn't be total concession to take a break, right? Chris threatened multiple times on the trip that when we get back I am having the surgery my doctor advised me to have 2 years ago. I can only imagine the damage I have done in the last couple years, not to mention this trip. Stupid old body. I'm scared of such an extensive reconstructive surgery with screws and rods and nearly a year of rehab. I partially rebel against the procedure for the simple fact that I feel like I'm not old enough to be falling apart, I'm not ready to admit I already need joints fixed. But the pain does get pretty bad. I do look quite silly hobbling along trying not to let it stop me. Pushing forward with a changed walk just to prove I can still "walk". We began making our way back to where we thought our bikes were. It's never good to push yourself to your breaking point THEN have to push even farther searching for relief (it would have been different had we known exactly where relief was, instead, we were only guessing). It's the searching without certainty that magnifies the problem. Every wrong turn, every doubted direction. I led us so far in the wrong direction, when we finally discovered a landmark revealing where we were, we had about a mile to retrace. Realizing you went the wrong way is frustrating enough- add excruciating pain on top of it and it's infuriating. By now my ego was totally humbled and I looked like a well-dressed beggar just hobbling alongside a sympathetic kind man. Ridiculous scene. Chris' directing found us the bikes and I was ever so grateful. I was done with cobblestone for a bit. We took our bikes and whirred around the city streets in the cool autumn air. We visited a few grocery markets. Exploring their particular selection of cheeses, meats, breads, cookies and whatever else we wouldn't normally find in the States. I'm not a huge fan of their meat. Fatty, sometimes raw, just overall questionable looking. We stuck to what we knew we would like. Cookies, crackers and cheese. There wasn't a chocolate in the place I didn't want to try. All of their candy looked exciting. The wrapping- retro. The combinations- unique. Drinks were another fun item in Europe. Everything was so cheap. Everything looked so thirst quenching. The extensive selection of beer- all new to our taste-buds. The mysterious wines all local all exciting, even if they did taste similar to the ones we loved back home. Juices all natural, organic and untouched by gallons of sugar. We purchased our findings, strapped them to the back of my bike, and headed back to the apartment for a bit of rest. We knew the evening would be a late one! Last night in Amsterdam and we definitely hadn't soaked in enough.