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Chris and I took our first spring break without the kids, and it was so easy. Nobody dragged their feet getting out of bed and making the chances of getting a parking spot at the trailhead slim-to-none. Nobody argued about what kind of food we should have for dinner. Nobody complained about the steep hike up the mountain (at least, not aloud). In full honesty, however, I did find myself remarking, “Oh, our kids would’ve loved this four-foot-tall Connect-4 game when they were little…” Or, “Edwin would be so excited about these plants if he were here…” and “This hike is so much like the one we took when Maxine slept the whole way in her sling.”

We landed in Phoenix Sunday morning and quickly escaped the parched sprawl as we drove north to Sedona. Once we were about a half-hour from our destination, we started noticing green valleys filled with cottonwood trees and rushing creeks. Vineyards dotted the whole stretch of the Verde Valley. This is not the Arizona I had imagined (I hadn’t even heard of the Verde Valley). I was excited about the hikes we would be taking through Red Rock Country, and this was an added bonus.

We quickly learned that getting up early was crucial in beating the throngs of other tourists for pretty much anything you wanted to do, whether in town or at the numerous trailheads. The heart of Sedona feels almost Disney-esque, but you can easily forgive this if you have your eyes open: the place is breathtaking.

Of the several hikes we did, my favorite was the 5-mile trek up and down Bear Mountain. I couldn’t stop gawking at the scenery and saying things like, “This is what I came here for!” and “Can you believe this? I mean, really! How would you ever get used to this?!”

After our strenuous morning hike, we rewarded ourself with huaraches and ceviche from a family-owned restaurant in Cottonwood followed by a wine tasting at Page Springs Vineyards in Cornwood.

I love that this country still has so much to surprise me with, so many places I have yet to see.

Maxine and I spent part of today in Tampa before we had to check in for our flight home. We first headed to the river walk. It was just okay: pretty, but devoid of culture.

It didn’t take long before we hightailed it to Ybor City, which was founded in the 1880s by cigar manufacturers and immigrants from Cuba, Spain, and Italy. We stopped here last year at the end of spring break and ate at the historic Columbia restaurant but didn’t have time to explore.

It wasn’t long before we heard Irish music floating between Cuban-influenced brick buildings with iron balconies. The James Joyce Irish Pub was hopping (it’s St. Patty’s Day, after all). They let us in once Maxine had two black xes drawn on her hands with sharpie. We shared a long table with green-clad revelers as I drank my beer and Maxine her Shirley Temple. We vowed we wouldn’t be caught without proper attire next St. Patty’s Day.

After we left the bar and stepped back out into the crisp sunny day, we soon came upon Ybor’s free-roaming chickens. Based on their lack of caution around people, I surmised not everyone adhered to the signs advising people not to feed the chickens.

We didn’t have anything to offer beyond our flattery; they are quite beautiful. I think the signs should read, “Please admire the chickens.”

and I do not stay the same age.

Maxine and I are staying at my husband’s parents’ home in Sarasota for our beach getaway while they are on a repositioning cruise.

Chris first brought me here on our first vacation together back in 2001, two years before we were married. I remember being entranced by the palm trees along the driveway, the pool beckoning as the centerpiece of the house that wraps around three sides of the lanai, and the elegant Japanese dining room furniture they had shipped here when his dad was stationed on Okinawa in the late ‘80s.

Over time, as their three children married and had kids of their own, the oriental rugs became perpetually littered with Legos, wicker breakfast table chairs were pushed aside to make room for a high chair, and the once-pristine pool deck sprouted a fence that ran around the pool.

Our visits here became less frequent as the kids got older and accumulated more obligations at home and his parents began traveling more in their retirement. The frequency with which we came here peaked in the years around 2010, so most of my associations with Sarasota involve taking the kids to tropical playgrounds, going for a run between their nap times, visiting the aquarium so they could crowd around the touch tanks, and keeping them away away from freshwater ponds and creeks.

It’s much more leisurely these days. I have to apply only my own sunblock. Maxine can feed herself her own veggies. I am not in danger of stepping on a stray Lego with bare feet. I am not worried about being judged for letting my baby sleep with me or being inflexible about their nap schedules (this could be its own post, but that’s for another time).

But…I wouldn’t turn down a day with those little ones, wiping their sticky hands and wrestling them to the ground to reapply sunblock in the blazing sun. Then I’d be more than happy to return to watching the sun go down as I sit next to my daughter who has become a young woman and a dear confidant.

Our 6:00 PM flight finally took off at 10 PM last night because of a concerning chemical smell that was believed to be coming from the air traffic controller headquarters, which affected all the airports in the DC area and Richmond. I guess we can count ourselves lucky we got out at all. That put us in Tampa after midnight, and then we had an hour drive to Sarasota.

*Airport bonus: a large group of middle schoolers were on our same flight, so I could enjoy their antics during the long delay without being in charge of them. A mini-vacation?

After not really sleeping much at all, Maxine and I didn’t hesitate to rouse ourselves by 8:30 this morning to hurry up and relax. Let the unwinding begin.

Well, it’s the middle of March, and I’m an extremely tardy, unofficial nonparticipant in Slice of Life.

I’ve barely taken a breath since our week of snow back at the end of January. I feel I’ve been checking some of the boxes on a behavior survey we sometimes get as teachers.

1. Have I appeared to be “driven by a motor” lately? Yes.
2. How often do I fidget or squirm with my hands or feet when I have to sit down for a long time? Very often. Right now, for instance, the only reason I’m not fidgeting or squirming is because I’m writing this. Maxine and I were booked on a 6:00 PM flight to Sarasota for a little mother-daughter beach vacation for the first part of her spring break. Out flight has been delayed to an 8:30 departure.
3. When you’re in a conversation, how often do you find yourself finishing the sentences of the people you are talking to, before they can finish them themselves? I’m trying desperately not to. I just have so much to do, and I know what they’re trying to say.
4. How often do you have difficulty waiting your turn in situations when turn taking is required? Does excessive foot-tapping count?

Thankfully, I can honestly answer “rarely” or “never” to the other questions, so maybe I don’t have ADHD, but boy, do I need to chill. I’m counting on sand, sun, salt water, and my daughter to help me reset.

We had an unforgettable week, making a new friend and developing a meaningful connection with Ukraine, as we helped host a group visiting from Kyiv. I am humbled being around people with so much courage and conviction. They face monumental challenges and yet seem undeterred in their determination to reform the child welfare program in their county. That’s actually not completely accurate: they’re not simply reforming a system; they are working to build infrastructure that doesn’t exist, all the while amid drones dropping bombs and working with only two hours of electricity a day.

Let me back up. My friend, Jenny, works for Kidsave, an international organization that works to place children in permanent homes. They do a lot of work in Ukraine, and nine Ukrainians came here for 10 days to learn about our child welfare system and to meet with members of Congress to garner support for Ukraine. We, along with a handful of others, hosted a delegate for a week. 

Our guest was Alona, a determined, kind-hearted, spirited, 34-year-old from Kyiv. She was the youngest and most fluent in English among the group and seemed to be the unofficial boss. She only began learning English about eight years ago, and she now even understands many of the idioms we use. Each time I used one, I checked with her to see if she understood, and she almost always did. She peppered me with questions about teaching and being a mandated reporter of suspected child abuse, how our schools are structured, the difference between private and public. She became fast friends with our prickly yet endearing cat, Ricky. She looked forward to coming home every day after meetings, touring the city, and shopping to pet Ricky and unwind with us. 

The week didn’t go as planned, due to the snow and ice. Many of their meetings were moved to Zoom, their lunches and dinners downtown cancelled or shifted, and they were left meeting with lower level staffers in place of members of Congress on more than one occasion. All our snow days, however, allowed me to be the host I wanted to be. Instead of putting her coffee in a thermos and texting her reminders or pointers on how to navigate the kitchen as I left for work, I was able to make her coffee when she emerged every morning from the basement and chat with her before she began her day. I was able to greet her in the evenings and sit in the hot tub with her without rushing off to bed by 9:30, as I do on work nights. 

We gathered throughout the week for potlucks big and small, shifted plans, picked them up from metro stations, and filled in for Jenny when her husband had to have emergency gall bladder surgery. We played board games together, listened to their stories, and answered their unending stream of questions. I found myself tearing up often as their departure date loomed. They were all heading back to a country under ruthless attack with no end in sight. Alona texted me early this morning to say she made it home safely and was using her two hours of electricity to do laundry and get settled before catching up on sleep. 

This past year has been horrifying in many ways here, as I witness the damage being done to our democracy and our relationships worldwide, and most of all, the terror being inflicted upon many of our citizens. I have often found myself “depression adjacent,” as I darkly joked with a friend. Yet, we are not under attack. We have heated and lit homes. I am confident that if I suspect a child is being mistreated, I can take steps to help that child. Their drive has inspired me to keep my eyes forward and chin up. 

Chris and I spent last weekend in New Orleans with friends, one of whom is from there. We hadn’t been since before Katrina, and I was curious as to how the city had changed since we were there in our early 30’s.

It turns out that the biggest change was myself, not the city. Instead of hanging around the French Quarter and drinking into the night, we were up fairly early and spent the days wandering through neighborhoods, exploring museums, and eating good food. What struck me most was the warmth of the people wherever we went.

When the Uber dropped us at the rented house in the Marigny neighborhood Friday evening, the heady, citrusy scent of the Osmanthus tree greeted us as we unlatched the vine-covered iron gate and entered the bungalow. After Scott and Natasha helped us get settled, we all walked the few blocks to St. Roch Market, where we ordered oysters on the half shell and conch tacos.

We spent the next morning walking through the French Quarter, eating beignets and drinking chicory coffee at Cafe du Monde, and exploring the Cabildo Museum in Jackson Square, where I learned a lot about Louisiana’s history. My favorite part, however, was the Michalopoulos exhibit. He has spent decades capturing the beauty and personality of the city’s historic neighborhoods in his paintings. His work is considered expressionist, as he distorts architectural lines in his quest to capture the soul of each unique neighborhood (we did, however, come across a bar in the Bywater neighborhood depicted in one of his paintings that was sagging way more in real life).

After dining on po boys, we hopped on the cable car and headed through the Garden District and into Uptown, stopping to wander in Audubon Park, where thousands of black-bellied whistling ducks perched in live oaks and floated on the pond. We made our way through Scott’s childhood neighborhood and cut through a stretch of trees to get to the shore of the Mississippi. As we headed back down St. Charles Avenue on the cable car, I hung my head out the window in the balmy air and took pictures of the stately homes decked out in Christmas decorations.

After a short respite at the house, we headed back down to the French Quarter for dinner at R’evolution. Though the Quarter is reminiscent of Times Square, along with pounding speakers, neon lights, and thick waves of weed, the restaurant was a twinkling, quiet, delicious oasis.

We devoted the next day, Sunday, entirely to exploring the Bywater neighborhood. We must have walked 10 miles that day, criss-crossing practically every street, stopping to take in one beautiful cottage after another. Some were freshly painted and renovated, while others sagged with weariness. As we neared the edge of the Bywater at the Mississippi, we heard an eery whistling and followed the sound to the most surprising discovery of our trip: the Music Box Village. It looks like a tree house playground and is filled with music makers. Since they were closing in 15 minutes, they only charged us for one admission. After they offered us makeshift drumsticks, off we went to pound on pipes, pull ropes that triggered fan-powered whistling, and pull levers that set off horns. After we finally peeled ourselves away, we wandered back through the Bywater and came across a delightfully dilapidated-looking bar with a row of friendly people and dogs out front. They heartily recommended we stay for a drink. How could we refuse these nice people and their adorable dogs? After we got our drinks and joined them out front, it dawned on us that this bar is the same one we admired in Michalopoulos’s exhibit: Vaughan’s Lounge.

We spent our last day at the World War II Museum, arguably the finest in this country. Higgins Industries in New Orleans built over 20,000 landing crafts called “Higgins boats,” which were used in amphibious assaults, crucial to winning the war.

As we took off into the night sky and arced over Lake Pontchartrain and the twisting Mississippi, I vowed to not let so much time pass between visits to this friendly city with a personality like no other.

Chris and I have been in Aspen since Monday night. His parents went in on a handful of timeshare weeks with friends at a condo that looks out directly at the base of Aspen Mountain about 25 years ago. They’re thinking about selling their weeks and encouraged us to take advantage of it before it’s gone.

It’s no wonder why the rich and famous come here to play. Towering spruce trees line the edges of green spaces where kids and dogs run free, a babbling creek meanders by exquisite 8-figure homes just blocks from the center of town. A brick pedestrian way runs through the heart of town, dotted with tiny footbridges and lined with cafes and shops with billowing flower boxes.

This is the second time I’ve been here, and I’ve never been in winter, when you’re more likely to spot famous people warming themselves by fires après ski and sipping on hot toddies, visiting Kemo Sabe for custom-made cowboy boots, and ducking into Dior and Louis Vuitton. I, myself, headed for the thrift shop, just around the corner from Dior and a yacht sales office and scored a $10 pair of designer jeans that retail for well over $100. I am not above picking through billionaires’ castoffs.

We’ve hiked miles since we’ve been here, and I was very tempted to jump into the water at Devil’s Punchbowl. I’m not afraid of cold water and jumping from decent heights, but the mountain water leaves your feet numb. I passed.

I’m not sure we’ll be staying in Aspen without free lodging, but we’ll definitely be back to the area for more outdoor fun the future. Oh, and my very favorite thing about this place: Aspen trees!

I had periodically been knocking on wood during our trip because everything had gone smoothly, from the upgrade on the flight to Heathrow, to the incident-free driving on the other side of the road, to the places we stayed. Oh, and nobody ostracized us because of, you know.

Fate finally caught up with us on the journey home but in a mild manner, a refresher on how to deal with inconvenience. After a short flight from Glasgow to Heathrow, we tried to get on an earlier flight home, but it was full. No matter: our flight would get us in around 5:00 PM, in time to get home to feed the cats dinner and pick up a preordered meal from a friend in the neighborhood who is trying out his own mini-catering business.

I hate being trapped in a seat longer than a couple hours. My legs get restless, my back needs stretching, and I lose the ability to focus on what I’m reading. I’m terrible at napping, so I just have to endure it. After flitting between the murder mystery I’m reading on my Kindle and NYT puzzles I had downloaded on my phone, I watched two movies in a row. That would put me within an hour of our arrival.

My desire to be home grew with every centimeter the image of our plane on the screen crept down the eastern seaboard: Nova Scotia, Long Island, Atlantic City. Kitties, Mama is coming! Potato pancakes with gravlax and dill, sesame seared Ahi tuna, sautéed green beans, and chocolate mousse, be ready to get destroyed!

Wait. Um, captain, I think you overshot our target. You’re going to need to make a u-turn. He came on the speaker and explained that we were going to have to approach Dulles from the northwest because of storms. Arrival time would now be 5:50. Okay, not so bad. We’d be a little late for our dinner pickup and the cats would have to eat later than they were used to.

Captain! You swung too far to the east. I’d say we’re very close to BWI at this point. Well, that’s where we had to land. Dulles was not allowing any planes to land in the storm. Our gem of a captain made his way through the cabin during the two hours we were stuck on the tarmac, keeping us updated and warmly and patiently answering our questions. BWI is not staffed to handle diverted plane-loads of passengers would have to pass through customs, so we had to wait until Dulles opened up again.

We finally landed at our original destination around 9:30, breezed through customs, and took a taxi home. Our friend across the street had fed the cats, and our chef-friend’s daughter had delivered our dinner. Most of the plants were happy, and the cats had been well looked after by one of my favorite neighborhood teens.

I’d say it’s been an overall success.

We took a morning train from Edinburgh to Glasgow on Tuesday for our final stop before flying home yesterday. We sort of wish we had made more time for this city. Though not offering the surreal, mystical vistas Edinburgh does, it was charming in its own right and offered way more breathing room. I’m sticking with my infatuated praise of Edinburgh, but I have to admit the crowds were a bit much. Selfie sticks, people paying to have an owl perch on their forearms, throngs of young tourists mugging for the perfect Insta pic, Harry Potter tours…it got to be a bit much.

The train station spit us out in the middle of a wide esplanade lined with shops and cafes reminiscent of Newberry Street in Boston (or rather, the other way around). After checking into the hotel, our room ready early (much to Maxine’s delight), Chris, Edwin and I set off to walk about the city while Maxine got her alone time.

We first headed to Glasgow Cathedral, which was originally Catholic and changed to Protestant during the Scottish Reformation in the 16th century. It has remained a Church of Scotland parish ever since. It is the oldest cathedral in mainland Scotland; construction began in 1136 and took 350 years to finish.

From the cathedral, we trekked across town to the Botanic Gardens, item #1 on Edwin’s list. He has become a full-blown plant and enthusiastically pointed out his favorites, most finicky, and hardest to find. My energy was flagging at this point, not having had quality sleep in a few days, but a scoop of gelato on a cone refueled me enough to continue our adventure.

Edwin was excited to check out the subway system and felt he had pretty much gotten what he had come for, so we parted ways. Chris and I continued our trek to Glasgow University, where fresh-faced very recent grads – as of that afternoon – clustered in pairs, solo, and with parents for photos in their graduation gowns, the young women holding bouquets of flowers. According to a quick Google search, the university was founded in 1451 and is the English-speaking world’s fourth oldest university and one of Scotland’s four ancient universities. It’s mostly comprised of grand Victorian buildings, but the odd 1950’s-looking building is wedged between them. I actually found this to be part of Glasgow’s charm: the old and new mingling throughout the city. Instead of coming off as out of place, it struck me as a comforting bridge between the past and present.

We had our final dinner at a wood-fired pizza restaurant (Scotland and Wales seem to be very big on these, and they do a good job). Chris got his fish and chips for lunch, so he was content with this choice. As we discussed the highs and lows of the trip, the kids clearly were ready to go home. I guess I was too, but I was going to miss so much about Wales and Scotland. Besides the obvious (beautiful architecture and landscapes and those accents I couldn’t stop trying on to the great annoyance of my family), one thing I was grateful for time and again was their modest use of space and goods and a stronger commitment to reducing waste than we seem to have here. Instead of a 12-cup coffee pot, they use a French press. Instead of hulking trash cans, they have small ones, with larger containers dedicated to compost and recycling. They buy groceries in smaller quantities, their vehicles are smaller, gasoline is more expensive (as it should be). More people are riding bikes and taking public transportation. I guess much of this has to do with the fact that the modern world in the U.K. and Europe has been forced to exist on top of a much older foundation, so they have to make due with narrow streets built for pedestrians and carriages.

With all we’ve been going through at home, I found comfort in learning about the dark times the Scots and Welsh have endured and have managed to come through. Time to take a deep breath and dive back into the swirling chaos at home. We will persevere.