Family Vagabonding

There’s no Eiffel Tower from my window; no Arc de Triomphe, cobblestone street, or art deco Metro entrance.  Rue Mouffetard Market –  with madame proprietor of La Fontaine aux Vins who now greets me by name, the boulangerie clerk who’s still not forgiven my 50 euro faux pas, the rows of vendors with fruits and vegetables, shellfish and whole fish and filets, and smelly, creamy, hard and moldy cheeses – is just beyond my slightly neglected courtyard and heavy, creaky double doors (brass knobs in the middle, of course, obliterating any chance of graceful entry).  From the map, I see that the Jardin des Plantes (botanical garden) is just around the next block and the Siene a bit beyond that.

But none of these Parisian treasures can I see from my flat’s tall, sweeping windows, the scrolled ironwork keeping me safely ensconced within as I gaze out over the neighborhood.

My window onto Paris is instead, filtered through a canopy of young trees, a border of sorts it seems, between my cozy enclave and the sprawling 1970’s high-rise just beyond the pigeons and the limbs and the sprouting leaves. It’s jarring to think of architectural abominations in Paris. Surely these formal, refined French skipped that entire era, turning the other cheek with a harrumph as they ordered another coffee.   Apparently not, unfortunately, since from my window the evidence looms, all dozen floors or so of identical balconies, metal-framed sliding glass doors, concrete pillars, and a flat industrial roof, presumably scattered with lounge chairs and potted plants to give it intimacy. No overflowing flower boxes, scrolling ironwork or imposing knobs-in-the-middle wood doors to be found.

View notwithstanding, I’m captivated by my window, and find myself transfixed there, with coffee in the morning, wine in the evening, or an occasional spread of fruit and cheeses midday. It’s the ever-changing landscape – not in views but in melody – that draws me back day after day.

It’s the extended family in the flat below, just out of sight, gathering on weekends and holidays, glasses clinking as laughter and conversation flows in beautifully fluid French, none of which I understand, who capture my imagination. They are artists and writers and teachers, I imagine, setting the cadence and the tone of the unfolding scene before me.

It’s the brilliant music, wafting from the buildings beyond, that compels me to throw open the windows and pour a bit more wine. Haunting a capella strains of the Star Spangled Banner and God Bless America echoed through the late night air on July 4^th, just another ordinary night in Paris.  The concert pianist (or at least my imagination makes it so) practices each evening, just as the sun sets in the late evening sky.  The operatic tenor hones his favorite piece late some afternoons, while the streets below buzz as families scurry home for the evening.

It’s the clashing and booming of fireworks for Bastille Day – and the days leading into it, as well as those thereafter, just for good measure – that remind me I’m a guest in someone else’s neighborhood. It’s their neighborhood bistro that revs up most evenings, the cheering and jeering and laughter wafting up through my open curtains late into the night. The beeping trash trucks, wailing ambulances, firetrucks and police cars that wander through only occasionally, shattering the still cadence with their urgency.

I visit my friends in St Sulpice, on Blvd St. Germaine, and on Ile de Cite and envy their urban energy. The street scene, the rows of cafes, dozens and dozens of chairs all spilling out onto the sidewalks, the eclectic buzz of the French and the tourists jockeying for position, the international mélange of noise and people and customs. “I’ll find a place near here next time I’m in Paris,” I think.

Then I slip down the steps under the art deco signs and into the tunnels, past the street art and streetlights and onto the train, heading home, back to the neighborhood. The cadence slows, and an elderly woman exits with me, chatting comfortably in French as we cross the street together, me trying not to let on I don’t understand. She smiles and waves slightly as we part company at the next corner. My small flashlight guides me through my darkened courtyard and up the stairs, the only sound my footsteps tiptoeing past neighbors’ doors as I settle in for the night.

The sun rises and the quiet, predictable patter again fills my window, the artists and teachers gathering below, the random left-over fireworks echoing in the distance on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning.

“Today we rest,” my neighbor tells me as we pass in the courtyard.

My neighbor, I realize.

I’ll continue to relish the visits with those friends and celebrate the noisy, chaotic buzz of life lived large along the banks of the Siene in trendy, fashionable Paris.   I’ll soak up every minute of it.

And then I’ll come home to my neighborhood.

You’d think as much as I’ve traveled, a month in Paris as a writing student would come easy. OK. Maybe not the student or writing parts; that still has me worried. But a seasoned traveler morphing into Parisian life for a month, I should be able to do that, right?

Three days into it, here’s what I’ve discovered.

(By the way, sorry. Having sworn I’d never do top ten lists when I started this blog, I’m breaking that oath.)

• Despite my initial impression, “Solde” is not a group of St Germaine boutiques  offering beautiful and diverse Parisian goods. The deals and bargains, however, are amazing.

• The Metro stop Jussieu is only convenient if, after 45 minutes of purposeful wandering from the exit, you find yourself somewhere other than the opposing exit.

• Bonjour, merci, si vous plait, and au revoir, if used strategically, can be sufficient vocabulary to successfully negotiate a rudimentary retail transaction.  Until the sales clerk tells you the price. In French.

• There is no quantity of French vocabulary to successfully negotiate an early morning croissant transaction when your smallest currency is a 50 euro. Just deal with it; you will be admonished. In perfect English.

• My hips are too wide for most tiny cafe chairs. The croissants are not likely to help.

• No matter how hard I try to pronounce street names and Metro stops, I’m wrong. And there’s typically someone nearby to point that out.

• Wine really does go with everything, even eggs. (So do frites, but they are like crack. Not even once.)

• Okay. Maybe once.

• When people stop me on the street and ask for directions, in French, I can’t offer a whit of assistance. But I’m thrilled they think I can.

But most of all,

• There is no greater privilege than to study writing in Paris in July.

I’m already scheming to figure out how to get back next year. Maybe by then, I can speak a bit of French.

Friends and wisdom show up in some of the most unexpected places.  I’ve recently  discovered a terrific Facebook group, Families on the Move, and this poem appeared there over the weekend from Mojito Mother.  (I’m captivated simply by the name and her blog: Mojito Mother — Putting the MOJO Back into a Mother’s Life.)

Raising kids is hard, at least if you want to do it well.  Teaching them, mentoring them, knowing when to dial it up then dial it down. It’s a balancing act, and all of us struggle to figure out how to do it right. I remember almost 15 years ago when my god-daughter (who was around 15 at the time) observed “I think Mom needs to set more boundaries for me. I need them.” It was one of those notes-to-self moments.

Now, all these years later, you’d think I’d know something after wearing the  MOM badge for over twenty years, but three kids and a step-daughter, and I’m still learning. This piece from a child’s perspective hit at just the right time for me — funny how fate works it out that way sometimes — and I  thought it should be shared.

Don’t spoil me. I know quite well that I ought not to have asked for it.

I”m testing you. Don’t be afraid to be firm with me. I prefer it…. it makes me feel more secure.

Don’t correct me in front of people if you can help it. I’ll take much more notice if you talk to me in private.

Don’t make me feel that my mistakes are sins. It upsets my sense of values.

Don’t be too upset if I say “I hate you.” It isn’t that I hate you; I only need your attention.

Don’t protect me from consequences. I need to learn that way.

Don’t take too much notice of small ailments. Sometimes they get me the attention I want.

Don’t nag. If you do, I shall have to protect myself by appearing deaf.

Don’t make rash promises. Remember that I feel badly let down when they are broken.

Don’t forget that I cannot explain myself as well as I should like. This is why I am not always accurate.

Don’t tax my honesty too much. I am easily frightened into telling lies.

Don’t be inconsistent. That completely confuses me and makes me lose my faith in you.

Don’t put me off when I ask you questions. If you do, you will find that I stop asking and seek my information elsewhere.

Don’t tell me my fears are silly. They are terribly real and you can do much to understand.

Don’t ever think it beneath your dignity to apologize to me. An honest apology makes me feel surprisingly warm to you.

Don’t forget how quickly I am growing up. It must be very difficult for you to keep pace with me but please try.

Don’t forget that I love experimenting. I couldn’t get along without it, so please put up with it.

Don’t forget that I can’t thrive without lots of love. But I don’t need to tell you that…. do I?

– Anonymous

Funny thing about travel. It’s changing how we see the world, and how we see ourselves.  When we set off to Australia almost two years ago, we didn’t really know what to expect. Truth be known, it was rather terrifying. Could we really carve out a new lifestyle, a new educational reality, a new normal for our family?

Two years later, we’re still answering those questions. This experience is changing us in ways we probably haven’t even realized yet. But we have learned a few things.

• When it’s your passion — when you just know in your gut it’s the right thing to do — then you go do it. (Of course, our guts have also spoken to us — quite literally — from time to time throughout our adventure, but that’s another story and another post entirely.)

• There is no right or wrong way to do extended family travel. You do what works for you and your family, and the other details somehow manage to fall into place. And if they don’t, well…they probably weren’t so important to begin with.

• A roadschool classroom is absolutely magic. The lights are on, the brains kick-in, the energy is electrifying. Unless its math, or grammar, or some other godforsaken topic that would be sacrificed for a root canal on some days. From those days I’ve learned the real meaning and value of three words I never previously understood:  teacher work day.

And last but not least . . .

• Blogging is harder than it looks.

Who knew I would be so hit-or-miss with a blog to chronicle our adventures! Like most of these projects, it started out as a way to stay connected and chronicle the experience. Then I ran headlong into the world of widgets and analytics and templates and text, not to mention erratic internet connections, tech glitches, and the periodic notion to give it up completely. (Besides, if a tree falls in the forest and no one . . . well, you get the point.)

But then I remembered the first thing we learned on this adventure: when it’s your passion, you just do it. Everything else will fall into place. In my case, there are three interwoven passions: my family, our travels and the written word. This blog embodies that. I just had to let the details work themselves out.

It’s with that mantra that I’m back home in Hawaii and reviving our blog with a new look, a new feel, and (hopefully) much more regular posts, updates, and information worth reading. Just as we’ve evolved and changed over the last two years, it’s time for this site to do the same. Like us, it’s a work in progress.

Thanks for giving me a second chance.

It’s been a week exactly since the tectonic plates beneath Lyttleton Harbor brought Christchurch, New Zealand toppling down.  The city’s famed cathedral spire lay crumbled in the town center, twenty two visitors feared crushed beneath it.

The stories keep coming.  The 14 year old boy, on a local bus headed into town to plot how best to spend his birthday money; the bus is crushed; the boy, not heard from.  The young woman trapped under her desk, texting her fiancé, who led rescuers to her then helped as they dug her out; they were married, as planned, three days later.  The husband who survived the quake, then hoofed it over Bridle Path (the bridges & tunnels closed) to reach his family; “I’m OK. Walking.  Home in 10,” he texted, just before he was struck and killed by boulders tumbling down during an aftershock. My heart breaks everytime I read another story, hear the latest fatality count.

Less than 24 hours before the earth shook, we walked those streets, exploring this quaint little city so proud of its ongoing recovery from last September’s quake.  We frittered away the morning at the Boat House Café, Sacagawea and Dundee pedal boating and kayaking up and down the Avon, while Columbus and I enjoyed a scone and a cuppa. We’ve not heard the fate of that beautiful little boat house since.

Midday found us in Cathedral Square, Columbus drawn into the act by a unicycle-riding-juggling street performer with an inflated surgical glove on his head who needed a ‘big strong man” for his theatrics.   That open-air stage now lay in heaps of rubble, the epicenter of mourning for this frightened little city.

As the afternoon wore on, the kids and I hopped a city bus back to the port in Lyttleton and settled into a hole-in-the-wall pub for some fish and chips, while Columbus hunkered down at a swanky internet café to get some work done before meeting us back on the ship.  The signage from the café can be spotted in the footage of the rubble, while the entire Lyttleton block of that sweet pub has been leveled.

Christchurch is a small town in a big city’s hat. The comingling of old and new – modern buildings with an iconic cathedral and cheeky little trams, picturesque gardens and confidant entrepreneurs – seems the heart of the city we explored.  Yeah, they’d taken a hit last September, but they were quick to show us they were back and ready for business, ready for the Rugby Cup this fall, ready to get on with life.  Twenty-four hours later, it tumbled down again.

Timing. Fate. Karma. We all know it and think we understand it.  The car accident that happens just ahead, the one we might have been part of had we not taken that last call or gotten caught at that last light.

For us, however, this one seems a big bullet to dodge.  We keep thinking through it, how we would have been just beneath that spire as it toppled, or would have been separated on the Avon, or between Christchurch and Lyttleton.  Like everything in our travels, we talk it through.  We discuss emergency procedures, self-reliance, how and what to do.  And we answer the questions as they come, admitting we don’t know all the answers.  None of us ever do.

Yet, like other travelers, we keep going.  These moments, however frightening, are a vivid reminder that life doesn’t wait. It’s a big world, and bad things sometimes happen.   We are so touched by this earthquake because we were there; we feel in our own way we know this quaint little town, and we’re pulling for it to recover yet again.  When Thailand’s king celebrated his 83rd birthday before Christmas, we celebrated too, picturing the festivals in Bangkok and around the country, our friends there laughing and celebrating until all hours.  When floods and cyclones ravaged Queensland Australia, we cried too, fearing for the safety of friends up and down the coast and mourning the secret treasures we discovered during our journeys there.

It’s our world – not just our street, our town, our state, or our country – and these are our local events.  Just as we plug into our local community back home, so must we plug into our world.  That’s why we travel.  It just took Christchurch to make me realize it.

As we get ready to head off on our next adventure, Dundee reminded me why we do what we do.  This video montage was his Christmas gift to me, a thoughtful overview of our adventures through Asia.  It’s about so much more than riding elephants, seeing temples, eating new foods.  It’s a personal journey . . . discovering who we are, connecting with the world around us,  forging life-long bonds.

Our stories of adventure are typically met with curiosity blended with a fair dose of doubt.  Can kids really learn while gallivanting around the world? Time will tell, I guess.  But there are a few things I know for sure.  I’m learning at least as much as they are, and these memories will be with us for a lifetime.  I’m not sure we could give each other any better gifts.

P.S.  The musical choices — or at least the last one — may raise some eyebrows.  Remember the post about retro-techno-music blaring from our driver’s car in Chiang Mai?  This little tune was one of his favorites.