After two decades of learning and growing as an educator, I feel quite confident in front of a classroom. Presently immersed in something totally new and unfamiliar, I am beginning to realize how much I took that expertise for granted. Developing a solid skillset takes time, patience, and humility. Why did I think I could jump right in to the horse world like a pro?
The amount of learning my poor old brain absorbs each day, both in my classes and at the farm, makes my eyes twitch. Book learning and lectures frequently raise more questions than they answer. I latch on to some random concept and lose myself in a digital scavenger hunt on that topic, such as when we studied the circulatory system and I got fixated on the size of a horse’s heart. Human hearts weigh about 10 ounces. The heart of an average 1,000-pound horse? 10 pounds. And remember racing legend Secretariat? His heart was reportedly a whopping 21 pounds! So there’s a good hour I can’t get back.
Reviewing with a model before dissecting the horse heart.
The minis also teach me a lesson every day. These two guys, Timmy and TJ, are among my most dedicated teachers.
They seem determined to trick me into a variety of rookie mistakes. TJ (on the right) is a rapscallion of a gelding with a strong sense of entitlement and crazy eyes. Timmy is TJ’s dad, the only stallion in the little herd. He is generally sweet and gentle, but TJ brings out his naughty side.
Every morning, when I clean the barn, they follow me and intentionally block my path. I keep telling them, “The sooner you let me sweep out this sand, the sooner I can feed you!” Yet they persist. Here’s one example of their determination.
After all this time, I had the brainstorm yesterday of shutting myself in the stalls. Shoulder-high doors lead from the barn aisle to the stalls, and metal gates lead from the stalls out to the sandy paddock. The horses roam freely in and out of the paddock but have no access to the barn’s interior.
TJ and Timmy glared at me through the gate while I efficiently swept out the sand and loose hay. When I opened the gate, they rushed in, and I quickly shut myself in the neighboring stall. Smug with this new power, I forgot to latch the door from the first stall into the barn, and those two made a break for it. Before I could stop them, they gleefully knocked over a bucket of pellets and scarfed down a few bites. Touché, little men. Lesson learned.
Later in the day, it was bath time. Timmy loves to hang out in the water mister until he is soaking wet, and then he rolls in the sand. He was filthy, and his tail was matted with poo and sticks from the field. I tied him up and hosed him down before getting to work with shampoo, sponge, a rubber curry mitt, and a comb. Afterwards, I used a mystical concoction called Cowboy Magic to detangle his mane and tail. He was so handsome!
And then he did this. I think I heard TJ egging him on.
When I texted their owner, she wrote, “That’s why we leave them in the stall until they dry off.” Well, rats. Another lesson learned.
Although my eyes ache from the pressure of my rapidly growing brain, I love this stuff. I may not reach expert status as quickly as I had hoped, but for now, I am focusing on the journey instead of the destination.
It’s been awhile. (Insert sound effect of long, dramatic sigh.) I just haven’t had much to write about. No, that’s not true. I just haven’t had the urge to write.
I remember traveling to incredible places and feeling eager to share stories about my adventures. On some of my favorite journeys, I spent the morning exploring with Tony, and then I hunkered down in the afternoon to write. Stupid covid! Not only did the pandemic limit our travel, it also sucked the joy out of my daily life to the point that I didn’t even care about documenting it. In fact, I found myself struggling to care about anything.
We felt lucky to live in Chile during the first two years of the pandemic. The government rolled out a plan with free, easily accessible vaccines and a set of rules for social distancing that fluctuated depending on the number of reported cases. Some weeks we were in full lockdown; other times, we could go outside during designated hours but only to exercise. When the number of new cases dropped, the restrictions eased. Everyone watched the “paso a paso” website religiously. Would we have to wear masks outside this week? Could a group of us sit together on a restaurant terrace? Would our classes be live or online? We definitely felt safe, and I’m grateful for that. However, the constant uncertainty took its toll.
This wasn’t the way middle school was supposed to be, and some of my kids felt robbed. I don’t know which came first: my apathy or theirs. Regardless, we seemed to feed on each other’s gloominess. I tried to put on a happy face and stay upbeat, but I know I failed. I still don’t know how some people took it all in stride while I couldn’t. I can’t say why other teachers showed grit and resilience, and I didn’t. Looking back, I can admit it really wasn’t that bad. We were healthy. We had jobs. Nobody close to us was hit hard by covid. Nevertheless, by the second semester of the 2020-21 school year, I found myself googling alternate career paths.
It was kind of funny really. At one point, I was ready to apply at Colonial Williamsburg to be an interpreter. I love history, and I love acting. It sounded like my dream job! Until I read further down the job description, where it clarified the historical person I would be depicting was a black, male, Baptist preacher. So much for that plan. Then I got excited about being a tour guide at the Biltmore in North Carolina. They were looking for someone to dress in costume, ride in a horse-drawn carriage, and share stories with tourists. History, acting, and horses! Yes, please! Until I realized the job paid minimum wage. I have been out of the United States for a long time, so at first I actually thought that was feasible. It wasn’t.
Eventually, I narrowed my search to jobs with horses, using wine-inspired search parameters such as: “jobs with horses that pay well without a lot of additional education.” After many visits down that rabbit hole, I had a few epiphanies. (1) I wanted to go back to school. (2) We own a house in Florida where I could live. (3) It turns out there’s a college not too far from our house, and that college has an Equine Studies program!
And suddenly I had a plan. I use the term “plan” loosely. I took online classes for two semesters, and my former riding instructor in Santiago let me use one of her horses for the hands-on assignments. As our final year in Chile came to a close, I felt both excited and terrified to put my “plan” into action.
The “plan” has deviated a bit. Tony wisely pointed out that if I lived in our house, then we could no longer use it as a vacation rental. As that is presently my only source of income, I thought it wise to seek out other options for housing. Luckily, I had connected with the owner of a small farm in Ocala, where I would be going to school, and she was looking for a long-term pet sitter. And that’s how I found myself living in a tiny apartment connected to a barn, caring for my cat, Ella, as well as another cat, two Anatolian shepherds who guard the barn, two Great Danes, and nine miniature horses. Although it seems I spend most of my day either feeding someone or cleaning up someone’s poop, I greatly appreciate the opportunity to practice what I’m learning on real, live (albeit tiny) horses.
What about Tony? For a minute, he contemplated pursuing his own dream of studying luthiery, the art of building and repairing stringed instruments. However, when a friend reached out with a job for him in Bangkok, he took it. Yes, Tony is living in Bangkok. Without me. I alternate between bouts of debilitating jealousy and overwhelming relief that I don’t have to write lesson plans or attend meetings. We talk every day with no idea where this is all going.
I’ve lived at the farm for 10 weeks, and I’m not going to lie. I kind of miss the international lifestyle. I miss the cadre of automatic friends in your “newbie” group when you start at a new school. I miss hitting the road on the weekend to visit a beach, historical site, cultural attraction, or even another country. I miss teaching a class full of kids from all over the world. I’m not 100% sure I’m ready to give that up forever. For now, though, I want to focus on finding my joy again.
Every day, I learn something absolutely fascinating. Did you know horses can’t breathe through their mouths? So they can’t cough or vomit, which can be a big deal. Did you know the horse’s front legs are not attached to any other bones? They are suspended from muscles, ligaments, and tendons that connect to the body. How crazy is that? Don’t get me started on how complex their hoof is … I have a whole class just on the hoof and lower leg. Well, I could go on all day …
I hope I can document something each week about my experiences at the farm and at school. I wish I had started doing that from the beginning of this journey, but I needed to pull myself out of the apathy abyss first. I know the time will fly, and I also know my short-term memory is trashed. If I don’t write it down, it didn’t happen. Maybe I’ll even dig deep and try to document a bit about my missing year.
Time to feed the horses! And the dogs … and the cats … and myself. Stay tuned. And please send good vibes as I navigate so much newness.
Our cat, Ella, who lives with me.
My sister and her kids feed apples to the boys.
Barn dogs and a photobomber.
Noelle, the owner’s cat, lives in the big house with the Danes.
The 2021-22 school year appeared out of nowhere. Before I could fasten a clean mask to my face, students were streaming onto campus. Although I always resent the end of a vacation, I must admit the energy felt fantastic. The difference between starting school on Zoom (as we did last year) and starting in person was palpable, and even though we couldn’t see their smiles through their masks, we could hear the laughter.
School kicked off on Wednesday, July 28, and I spent much of the first day herding sixth-graders, those little lost lambs new to middle school, and helping them find their classrooms. Many of them were students I knew from my days in elementary school, so it’s been fun to reconnect. This is our sixth year at Nido de Aguilas, the longest we’ve ever stayed at any school. What a treat to watch these kids grow up!
Needless to say, Tony and I were both exhausted that night. We lounged on the sofa, eating dinner and watching old episodes of “Star Trek Voyager.” Around 8:30 p.m., I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so I plodded to the kitchen with my dirty dishes and plans to hit the hay.
“Why is there water all over the floor?” I called out to Tony. Then I realized it was gushing from the laundry room. At first, we thought our washing machine was leaking, and we spent some time sleuthing around the hoses and filters. We mopped up the water, using most of our clean towels, and then I crawled into bed.
Two hours later, Tony shook me awake in a panic. “It’s flooding again!”
In a haze, I wandered to the kitchen, where dirty water was pouring from the drainage pipe in our laundry room. Not sewage, but still quite disgusting. We began sopping up the water, but we couldn’t keep pace with the geyser. Finally, I called the upstairs neighbor and, in very broken Spanish, explained what was going on. Her English-speaking daughter finally intervened and promised to turn off the water. That solved the problem temporarily.
The next morning at school, I asked a Chilena colleague to write a message to our building administrator, Jaime. She also tried to call him. He didn’t respond. That evening, he wrote to say a plumber would come the next morning. Whew!
However, when I got home from school the next day, I talked to Jorge, the building’s conserje, who is a doorman, handyman, and gardener, all rolled into a kind, cat-loving, gentle man with incomprehensible Chilean Spanish. No plumber had visited during the day, he said and asked if he could take a look at the problem. He came up to our apartment and ran some water in the kitchen sink, but I explained that the flooding happened when we weren’t even using any water. He went upstairs and ran the neighbor’s washing machine, and sure enough, along came a deluge. The neighbor, Anita, agreed not to wash clothes or dishes till we could fix the problem.
Jorge came back down to our apartment and told us he needed to remove a metal plate from the wall to access a pipe that ran down the length of the building. He suspected there was a clog under our apartment. He hammered and drilled and pounded and fussed with the bolts on that thing for hours. No luck despite some big chunks missing from the wall.
Jorge told me I needed to call a plumber. When I pointed out that the problem didn’t seem to be in our apartment, he shrugged and said, “Es su responsibilidad.” I couldn’t process HOW this could be my responsibility, but I talked with our fabulous landlord (a Canadian and former Nido teacher), who tried to help from afar. I even tried to rally the neighbors on the building’s Whatsapp chat.
Over the next couple days, Jaime continued to avoid doing his job. The neighbors pressured him to take care of it. After all, only a few months ago, a first floor apartment flooded so badly, the renters just left for good. At one point, Jaime posted a ridiculous message about how he had TRIED to schedule a plumber but then he found out we weren’t home so he cancelled it, implying it was OBVIOUSLY our fault. I was so angry, I wrote some caveman Spanish about how we didn’t even KNOW a plumber was coming, so how could we be home?!
In the meantime, the laundry piled up, and Tony resorted to doing dishes in the bathroom sink.
Jaime finally scheduled a plumber for Tuesday. I took the day off work to be home. The guy was very nice and respectful. He listened to my story and then spent the day popping in and out of the apartment. At one point, when I was alone, nasty water started gushing from the laundry pipe at full force. All my towels were in the bathtub, so I grabbed the kitchen trash can to catch the water. I ran out into the stairwell and enlisted a neighbor to help me find the plumber, who wandered in and stared at the quickly filling trashcan, obviously perplexed. I kicked a bucket under the water while I ran the trashcan to the bathroom to dump the water in the toilet, but the laundry room was fully flooded before I could return. Long story short, at the end of the day, Jorge came up to my apartment with the update. I called a friend to translate. “He says the plumber gave up,” she told me.
At that point, I burst into tears. We had gone six days without using our kitchen water or doing laundry, and I just felt like nobody was trying very hard to solve the problem. A couple hours later, Jorge returned and assured me a different plumber was coming the next day.
I couldn’t take another day off work, so we arranged for one of Tony’s former students to hang out at our place for the day. Around 1 p.m., she texted to say the work was finished and everything seemed to be working. I just couldn’t believe it!
Sure enough, life is getting back to normal for Tony and me. Suddenly we don’t resent doing laundry. And who knew how fabulous it would feel to spend the weekend cleaning toxic waste from our kitchen floors and sinks?
Let’s just hope this stinky start to the school year portends better times to come.
Since my new friend, Laura, turned me on to the Libby app, I have been reading like a maniac! I mean, I read a lot anyway, but this app lets me borrow books for free from my public library in Florida. Am I the last person on earth to learn about this? I’m afraid amazon’s stock might crash now that I don’t pay for books.
What does this list say about me? It comprises predominately literary fiction with a smattering of fluffy beach reads and trashy detective novels. Historical fiction is one of my favorite genres, but I also relish a book that makes me pause to savor a cleverly crafted twist of phrase or fresh perspective.
We head back to school in person with real live students on Wednesday. That is as it should be, I know, and yet, I sure will miss all my time lounging on the balcony with a beer and a book.
Look how many books I’ve read so far this year! Do you have any recommendations for what I should read next?
The Witch Elm by Tana French
The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates
Everything Inside by Edwidge Danticat
The Island of the Sea Women by Lisa See
Deacon King Kong by James McBride
The Lantern Men by Elly Griffiths
Tricky Twenty-Two by Janet Evanovich
A Murderous Procession by Ariana Franklin
Grave Goods by Ariana Franklin
The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson
The Alice Network by Kate Quinn
Murder in Galway by Carlene O’Connor
Migrations by Charlotte McConaghy
The Stranger by Harlan Coben
Basket Case by Carl Hiaasen
Perestroika in Paris by Jane Smiley
The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin
Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver
People Like Her by Ellery Lloyd
The Consequences of Fear: A Maisie Dobbs Novel by Jacqueline Winspear
Invisible Girl by Lisa Jewell
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins
The Soul of a Woman by Isabel Allende
The Brightest Star in the Sky by Marian Keyes
Perfect Little Children by Sophie Hannon
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
The Invisible Life of Addie Larue by V.E. Schwab
A Man Lay Dead: Inspector Roderick Alleyn #1 by Ngaio Marsh
Day 4 of hotel quarantine here in Santiago, Chile. They brought our breakfast coffee at 11 a.m., by which time I was ready to launch myself out the window. We get sprung tomorrow, but then we have to do five more days of quarantine at our apartment. Apparently, the government makes unscheduled visits to make sure you’re home.
The whole last year has been a blur, but I looked over photos, messages, and Facebook to try to resurrect my life. Here goes:
The second semester of our 2019-20 school year was nuts. Covid arrived on March 3, 2020, and our last day of school in person was March 16.
Here’s an example of what teaching on Zoom looked like. This was my advisory, a group of 8th graders. Notice only four showed their faces enough to be recognized. (I blocked them here for privacy.) We finished out the semester like this.
Our short summer break passed, and I was still in Florida.I stayed longer than planned after my flight was canceled and I realized school would start on Zoom because of Chile’s lockdown. I rarely left my house, filling my time with sudoku puzzles, yoga, learning ukulele, and studying Spanish. My mom popped over for happy hour on my back porch most evenings. I also visited my sister, Megan, in Destin, when my other sister, Kate, drove with her kids from Michigan for the July 4th weekend.
I launched an English teaching project as part of Heart for Venezuela, a foundation started by teachers at my school to help Venezuelan immigrants settle in Chile. My program evolved into a high school club, where I train Nido High School students how to teach English and then match them with children from our Venezuelan families. I thought we might get 5-10 volunteers, but it quickly exploded. Soon I was working with around 50 students! This was, without a doubt, the most rewarding experience of the last year.
I returned to Chile August 30 and reunited with Tony and our cat, Ella. I got out of quarantine on Sept. 14, but Chile’s on-and-off lockdowns continued. In July, the country had adopted an approach called “Paso a Paso.” It assigned each communa a phase that determined how open it could be. For example, Phase 1 was full quarantine. Phase 2 offered more freedoms, but we still couldn’t travel to other regions of Chile, and we had evening and weekend curfews. And so on.
At this point in the pandemic, it felt like an experiment that would run its course, and then life would get back to normal. We chuckled at memes like this:
We fashioned homemade masks, and mostly stayed home. We stood in line to get in to the supermarket and laughed about how we had plenty of toilet paper here in Chile but very little meat. (Chileans love their asados!) The front desk of our apartment was roped off. I joined the throngs learning how to bake bread (a couple fails, but eventually it worked).
In November, assuming we would return to school in person before the end of the semester (we didn’t), Nido issued masks and face shields. We joked around with them. It all felt so unreal.
For entertainment, we met friends for socially distanced outdoor and/or Zoom happy hours and book clubs, went on walks in town and hikes in the countryside, and watched a lot of Netflix.
On the first anniversary of my father’s death, I took the day off work and headed to a nature sanctuary in the Andes foothills. I hiked for a few hours and later rolled out my yoga mat next to a stream, where I also ate lunch, read, and took a little nap. I guess I thought my dad would manifest as a hawk or even a lizard. I was hoping for a sign that he was nearby. I even shouted for him from the top of a deserted hill. Nada. Anyway, it was rejuvenating to get outside and stash my mask for the day in honor of my dad.
I got out of town for two weekends in November: first, a ladies wine escape, and then Thanksgiving at the beach.
The weekend of Nov. 14, seven of us headed to an incredible Airbnb in one of Chile’s wine regions, Santa Cruz. The sprawling home sat adjacent to a small reservoir surrounded by idyllic farmland. We took turns making meals, and everyone brought their A-game to the kitchen. (Disclaimer: I only contributed a cheese platter.) We also practiced yoga, had a raucous dance party, sipped wine on the terrace, and visited three wineries: Vino Bello, Montes, and Laura Hartwig. It was wonderful to escape from the city, but I felt a degree of social anxiety brought on by so much uncertainty related to the pandemic.
For the long Thanksgiving weekend, Tony and I traveled to Matanzas, which combined many of my favorite things: the beach, horses, yoga, wine, and friends. We got an Airbnb with our frequent travel partners, Stella and Ian, and their girls. Always a lovely time with that clan.
In December, we moved to a different Santiago apartment, owned by former Nido teachers Pi and Laura, who had started teaching at a school in Panama. Our new place is smaller, but bright and cozy with a much shorter commute to school. In addition, it’s right at the base of Cerro San Cristobal, a part of the Andes foothills with a huge city park featuring lots of hiking and biking trails. In the other direction, we have easy access to fun parts of the city (during normal times) with restaurants, bars, shops, museums, markets, and more. The only drawback is our tiny parking space, wedged between a wall and a neighbor’s SUV. Tony and I have each broken a taillight learning to navigate this parking garage.
*#!^&* parking garage!
Lovely terrace overlooking the mountains
Blankets and space heaters
For the semester break, Tony and I traveled to Florida for two weeks, leaving Ella in the care of one of Tony’s former students, Tami. Christmas was lame. No family, no tree, no presents, no fancy meal. I don’t even remember how we spent the day. My mom was invited to a friend’s house for dinner, and my sister Megan was entertaining her in-laws. A few days later, however, we drove to Destin to hang out with Meg’s family, which made up for the boring start of our vacation.
My mom’s backyard becomes a sanctuary for migrating birds during the rainy season.
Hibiscus in my front yard.
Playing Sequence!
At the beach
Turkey Creek, FL
Quiplash!
Hot tubbing
My sobrinos
Back in Chile, we took off for another beach outing with Stella and Ian, not realizing at the time that it would be our last trip together, thanks to Covid. The road in and out of Puertocillo essentially involved driving down a cliff face on rutted dirt roads and hairpin curves. Our little Toyota barely survived the journey and ultimately couldn’t handle the final approach to our Airbnb, which was perched at the top of a steep hill. We had to park at the bottom and march like sherpas with our stuff up to the house.
House on a hill
Sequence!
Sunset dance party
Yoga and cloud-dough
Lucy’s 4th birthday
We named him Gary.
Happy hour
During the school year, we taught on Zoom, in a hybrid model (Room & Zoom at the same time), and in person with all kids present. However, I’ve lost track of how long we used each model. All I know is that it was exhausting. Here’s a shot of an outdoor assembly during our in-person stint:
The day after my birthday, I got my first Covid vaccine, which was a huge relief. A month later, I was fully vaccinated.
At international schools, the end of the school year is bittersweet. We celebrate the year’s accomplishments and look forward to the upcoming vacation, but we also have to say good-bye to friends moving on to other adventures. Usually, the calendar fills up with farewell parties, weekend get-aways, and other special events. Thanks to Covid, this year was different. I didn’t even get to say good-bye to some departing friends.
I attended one fiesta clandestina for Genevieve, a friend who is moving to Kuwait.
And we managed to plan one last ladies weekend for Stella before she and her family moved to Morocco. Nestled in the mountains next to a river, our Airbnb was like a salve for my soul. The caretaker, Francisco, lived in a small house on the property with a horse, a dog, and a coop full of chickens. My heart soared each time he let the chickens loose to run around the property scratching for bugs. One day, Francisco led us on a path crunchy with autumn leaves to reach a paved trail up the hill. He also built a big fire for us outside at night. Otherwise, we hung out, ate, drank, read, danced, and napped.
We may have gone off the trail…
The property was full of surprises like this.
The Support Services team (EAL and Learning Support) also had a gathering for Stella. It’s always hard when a great colleague decides to leave, but it’s even harder when that colleague is also a great friend.
Well, that was supposed to be a year in a nutshell, but it was a much bigger nut than I had anticipated.
Who would have thought? I haven’t blogged in more than a year because there wasn’t much to blog about. Sure, I had an occasional fun moment or illicit getaway weekend, but my heart wasn’t in it. Still isn’t, to be honest. But I find I don’t remember my own life unless I write about it, so here goes.
I’ll work backwards chronologically, starting here , in quarantine at the Sheraton Santiago Hotel and Convention Center. Our view from jail (too bad we can’t leave our room):
Tony and I arrived Friday (July 16) after spending a month in the States. Chile’s borders remain closed, so as our school year was wrapping up in June, we had to get special permission to travel. I wrote a plea intended to tug at the heartstrings of some bored government official, begging for permission to attend a family reunion for my father’s memorial. Although my dad died in 2019, Covid-19 has prevented the family from getting together.
I submitted my father’s death certificate, his obituary, our house rental reservation in New Jersey, and our airline tickets, along with my passionate request (in Spanish, no less). We were approved in minutes, much to my relief! We know people who had to submit several applications before receiving approval to leave the country.
Next we had to find a cat sitter. We usually use a website called Trusted Housesitters that matches us with travelers who want to visit Chile. Unfortunately, nobody’s visiting Chile these days. Our cat, Ella, is so spoiled that we wanted someone who would stay at our apartment instead of just popping in to feed her. Finally, we found a young Korean teacher, who can’t get back to Asia right now (Covid!). Stuck in Chile, she agreed to hang out with Ella for the break. (Thank you, Hyejee!)
Then our flights got cancelled 4 days before the scheduled departure. Arrrggghhh!!! Fortunately, I was able to rebook. Our school provided PCR tests for those of us traveling (the U.S. requires a negative test within 72 hours of leaving Chile), so we did that, but I was stressed that one of us would come back with a false positive. Also, rumors were flying about whether flights would actually leave, so I couldn’t relax until our plane landed at the Miami International Airport. Which it did, on June 19. Whew! (Travel buddies Ian and Berlin sat behind us.)
We picked up our rental car and drove about 5 hours to The Villages in central Florida, where we have a house. (Quick side note: It’s available as a seasonal rental. Check out the listing here.)
Florida’s freedom took some getting used to. After almost two years of donning masks, teaching on Zoom, living in on-and-off lockdown, and generally wallowing in Covid-induced paranoia, we were shocked to find this at the Spanish Springs town square. Crowds mobbed the streets for an antique car show, danced to the live music, and sipped beer with friends. It was like a parallel universe.
Fully vaccinated and starting to relax a bit, we ditched the masks after a couple days and began to enjoy poolside sunshine and cocktails. We even went to the movies for the first time in ages. The musical theatre freak in me couldn’t wait to see In the Heights, and I didn’t stop singing those tunes for days afterward. We ate at restaurants (although we still chose to dine al fresco) and otherwise soaked up the energy of other people, which had been so long absent from our lives.
After a week, I left Tony in Florida and flew north to meet the rest of my family in New Jersey. Although my father was from Seattle, he soon adopted my mother’s love of the Jersey Shore. A Philly girl, my mom grew up vacationing in Ocean City, NJ, and that tradition continues. My father had requested that we scatter his ashes in two places: Washington state and Ocean City.
Washington will have to wait for another time. This summer, we descended on the beach, or rather a few blocks from the beach. One big house for 14 people, including seven kids.
10th & Central, Ocean City
We realized we all felt nostalgia for different aspects of this place. For my brother, it was crabbing at the wharf. For my sister Kate, it was riding bikes on the boardwalk. For my sister Meg, it was the boardwalk, bikes, and breakfast at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House. For my mom, it was coffee with dad on the boardwalk and crabbing.
For me, it was two things: walking on the boardwalk and playing in the water. On our last trip to the shore, my dad and I got up before everyone else for an early morning walk to the Ocean City Coffee Company on the boardwalk and then a stroll on the beach with our coffee. We would grab a bench and chat about life while also providing a snarky running commentary on the other people out at that hour. Of course, the ocean is my passion, and I have many memories of body surfing with my dad in the frigid water of the Atlantic.
During this visit, I got up early most mornings and walked by myself, grabbing a coffee on the way back to the house. I would whip up some eggs for whoever wanted them and eat breakfast on the porch before we all paraded to the beach.
The little cousins splashed in the chilly water, buried each other in the sand, played wiffle ball and beach tennis, and built sandcastles for hours while the adults mostly lounged in the shade of rented umbrellas. Occasionally, someone would wander up to the boardwalk and return with lemonade and corndogs, pizza, or french fries to share. Every now and then, I mustered the courage to brave the sharp shells at the edge of the surf and that first icy blast of sea water. I jumped through the waves with Kate or my nephews, shrieking each time we received a salty smack in the face or a surprisingly strong undercurrent. I tried to absorb that bliss into my bones for later. (Click on the pics to see them full-size.)
Sum and Kate
wiffle ball in the alley
Will on the swings
cousins on the ferris wheel
The sliding Jimenezes
all-American toes
Sisters and mom
Nico with a monkey on his back
Meggy
Gee and grandkids
Me with my lovebugs
Kate and mom
sweet Katie
Mom and me
a girl after my own heart
Katie and Max
goofy cousins
more goofy cousins
giant pizza
thrift shop with cats!
burying Annesley
Annesley lost two teeth!
bikes on the boardwalk
Too crowded for me!
boardwalk at night
Nico was wiped out after a week of scuba diving in the Florida Keys with Boy Scouts.
My sassy, gorgeous nieces.
So much energy!
Mom and Kate
Cousin love
How much do I love these boys?!
Driving the sand cars that Summer made.
The kids entertained themselves back at the house, as well. Kate broke out a tackle box of tiny rubber bands sorted by color, a gift from a neighbor whose child had tired of the craft. The cousins made bracelets and rings for each of us, and then someone told them, “You should go outside and try to sell these to people.”
We all laughed, reminiscing about when mom made us paint clam shells and try to sell them on the boardwalk when we were kids. The rubber band jewelry turned out to be a bigger hit than expected.
The little entrepreneurs went to work making signs to advertise their prices, maniacally building up their inventory, and approaching strangers on the sidewalk to promote their wares.
We adults were touched at how kind everyone was to the wee jewelers. One lady told them she didn’t have any cash but that she’d come back, and she did! Another couple actually stood in line to buy a bracelet. The kids accosted a teen in a McDonald’s uniform, who told them he didn’t have any money, so they offered him a ring for free. He chose a pink one and thanked them with a big smile. Their efforts brought in $54. They were thrilled. We were shocked.
making it rain
When they weren’t making rubber jewelry, they were obsessing about Pokémon. I took a few of them out for a Pokémon GO walk one afternoon.
The munchkins also had fun tie-dying T-shirts. Summer brought all the supplies, and this was the result:
During our stay at the beach, we were excited to get visits from a few extended family members: Aunt Iris (my mom’s sister); Uncle Bill (my mom’s brother) and his significant other, Judy; cousin Amy, her husband, Billy, and their kids, Jake, Dylan, and Alex; and cousin Karen, her boyfriend, Mike, and her son, Robbie. It was great to catch up with everyone!
Mom and Aunt IrisThe gang with Uncle Bill, Judy, Karen, and RobbieAmy’s family at the beach with us
As tradition dictates, we went to breakfast at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House one morning. We had planned to take my father’s ashes to scatter some outside, but we forgot to grab the box. My sister-in-law, Summer, offered to run back to the house to get it. We assumed she’d leave it in the van, but she brought it into the restaurant, which was weirdly perfect in this memorial week. We had the waitress take a shot of all of us, including “Pop.”
After breakfast, I took out a little packet of dad’s ashes, and poured them into a flower pot outside the restaurant. Kate and I burst into tears. When I got in the van, my niece Katie asked why I was crying. “I miss Pop,” I said. I miss him so much.
Later, I walked to the coffee shop and sprinkled some ashes in one of their flower pots. I hope dad can smell that coffee wafting on the ocean breeze.
On our last evening at the beach, Kate and I found a secluded spot and built a primitive little castle. All the beach toys had already been packed, so we did the best we could with our hands. We poured some ashes into the moat, and sat on a towel to share memories of our dad. Megan and Mike joined us after a bit. We watched the next generation run, splash, and laugh, knowing dad would have loved it. Mom walked down the beach for her own private memorial.
After awhile, the kids found a tide pool full of tiny gelatinous organisms. Kate did some quick research on her phone and discovered they were “naked sea butterflies,” translucent shell-less mollusks with orange heads and tails, which usually live deep in the Arctic and Antarctic oceans. Kate reminded me how dad would often say, “Isn’t that neat?” at times like this. We could both hear him say it as we gazed down at the mesmerizing creatures in the surf.
We all waited for the tide to reach our little castle and carry Pop out to sea. It felt like a beautiful tribute to a man who loved us and loved this place so deeply.
The next day, we checked out, and I drove with Kate back to her house in Michigan. We paused at Chick-fil-A for a parking lot lunch with Meg, who was heading to Virginia to visit her brother-in-law’s family. She joined us in Michigan after a couple days.
Getting attacked in the Chick-fil-A parking lot.
At Kate’s house, we soaked up the sunshine, watched monarch butterflies lay eggs on her milkweed, played in the pool, watched movies, and tried to get out in nature (but the mosquitos were brutal).
Snuggling with PaulQuiet timePlaying chicken in the poolMy send-off
And before I knew it, I was heading back to Florida.
Tony and I realized it was our first time at our house without any family members in town. We hardly knew what to do with our time. We spent much of it reading at the pool, and we tried to go for walks in the morning before it got too hot. We also discovered Eaton’s Beach on Lake Weir, just 15 minutes away. It was the best food I had all summer!
Flying back to Chile was uneventful. Arriving in Chile during a pandemic was another story. Before our flight, we had to get a PCR test to prove we didn’t have Covid, complete an affidavit, and book a hotel where we would spend the first five days in quarantine. It took 5 1/2 hours to complete the arrival process, which included standing at a table where someone re-entered all our information on a form by hand, getting another PCR test, and waiting for a bus that transported everyone to their respective hotels.
And that brings me back to the Sheraton in Santiago, where Tony and I are on day 3 of our 5-day hotel quarantine. Stay tuned for more stories from my lost year.
Now that I have quarantined at my house in central Florida for almost two weeks, I’m ready to get out of here. I want to drive to my sister’s home near Destin, where I can hunker down with her family. I look forward to giggles with my sassy little niece, Annesley, and informative chats about lizards with my precocious nephew, Will. Their new pool is also calling my name. However, I want to be sure I’m virus-free before invading their space.
Everyone has been telling me how easy it is to get a Covid-19 test in the States, and sure enough, when I googled it yesterday, I found an online interface where I could register for drive-up testing at several locations. I filled out the form, chose a location, clicked on one of the available appointments, and was sent to another form. It took all of two minutes to complete the process, but when I clicked “submit,” a message popped up saying, “Sorry, that time is no longer available. Please choose a new time.” When I followed those directions, it wiped all my information off the forms, and I had to start over. Which I did. ELEVEN times!
I now knew my mom’s mobile number, my health insurance membership number, and my rental car license plate by heart, but I still didn’t have an appointment.
I googled again and found the number for the Florida Department of Health. I learned that I could get free covid testing with no appointment at one of three locations between 9 a.m. and 2 p.m. “The Clermont site has already used up all their tests for the day, though,” I was told. I asked about the other two sites. One was more than an hour’s drive, but the other – about 30 minutes away – still had tests available.
It was 9:30 a.m. I grabbed my keys and my mask and hit the road. When I arrived at the health department around 10 a.m., a big sign informed me, “COVID testing closed.” Another note explained the 100 tests allocated for the day had already been used. When I got home, I called the health department office to find out how early I would need to arrive to get one of the coveted tests. “Oh just be here by 9, and you’ll be fine,” the receptionist said.
This morning, I was on the road by 8:10 a.m. I packed a book, planning to hang out in my car till the clinic opened. Instead, I arrived to find a full parking lot and a line of masked test seekers. The “COVID testing closed” sign was still posted, so I almost turned around to drive home. Instead, I parked and started preparing a firm but civil reaction if someone informed me that I was too late. Lucky for me, that didn’t happen.
It should say 9 a.m. to 9:30 a.m. ’cause if you’re any later, you are not getting tested!Waiting in line.
A nurse handed me a baggie with a blank label on it. She told me to write my name, phone number, and birthdate and then proceed to another nurse, Rosanna, who gave the instructions. Open the baggie, take out a swab, and stick it up both nostrils. “How high do we have to stick it?” I asked. I had heard you practically have to touch your brain. “As high as you’re comfortable,” she answered. “Just clean out your boogers.”
Boogerless, I took a little liquid-filled vial out of the baggie and popped my swab inside. I handed my baggie back to Rosanna, and I was finished. It looked like another 20 people behind me in line would get the last of the tests; a health department worker was sending everyone else away at 9:40 a.m.
Shoutout to Rosanna! Thank you!!
Once I got over my crankiness at the state of Florida for making this process so frustrating, I rather enjoyed my drive home. I guess I hadn’t realized how close I was to a beautiful stretch of countryside.
My parents have lived in this retirement community for several years. Although I have visited many times, we usually hung out at their house or the pool. We didn’t venture far beyond the subdivision gates. When Tony and I bought a house just up the street from my mother, we advertised it as a seasonal rental, so we haven’t gotten emotionally invested enough to learn about the area. For example, I had no idea a huge national forest is practically in our backyard!
According to the U.S. Forest Service, the Ocala National Forest “is the southernmost forest in the continental United States and protects the world’s largest contiguous sand pine scrub forest. The forest has more than 600 lakes, rivers, and springs, including three first-magnitude springs where visitors can swim, snorkel, and dive in crystalline waters year round.” (I just looked it up. A first-magnitude spring is the largest kind of spring, discharging at least 64.6 million gallons of water per day.) Wait, what?! How do I not know about this place?
In addition to boasting some gorgeous trees and springs, which frankly were enough to get me super excited, the Ocala National Forest also features several recreation areas, an historic mill house on the National Register of Historic Places, an archaeological site with evidence of pre-Columbian settlements, and an interpretive trail through the area that inspired Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings to write her Pulitzer Prize-winning book, The Yearling. (Check out this story from NPR.)
Hold on … Fun? Nature? Cultural heritage? Literature? Those are my favorite things! Another favorite thing? Horses. And guess where you can find the Ocala 100-Mile Horse Trail? As soon as I win the lottery, I am buying a horse and getting on that trail. Can’t wait.
On my two trips to the health department, I passed through part of the national forest and witnessed other spirit-nourishing scenes, as well. An eagle’s nest, perched at the top of a towering tree. Acres of bee boxes. A flock of shorn sheep (I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing at first!). Sandhill cranes, including a baby (!) strolling through the fields. Horses grazing, cows snoozing in the shade. And lakes! So many lakes. In typical fashion, I was quite giddy and may have shrieked a bit with delight.
So, lesson learned. Every cloud has a silver lining … blah, blah, blah. Instead of moaning about having to drive 30 minutes for a covid test, I am rejoicing to discover so much beauty right around the corner. For now, I will wait for my test results and fantasize about the day when the parks reopen and we can all get back out there to soak it up.
Last night, I dreamt I was getting ready for a family party. As I ran my hairbrush over the top of my head, my hair peeled off like a wig, leaving a bald, scabby patch. I shrieked and showed my sister, who said, “Yeah, that’s pretty bad. But you can probably comb your hair over to cover it up.” This morning, I asked the internet to interpret my dream. Here’s the general consensus:
“Another interpretation of the meaning of losing your hair in a dream is fear of losing control or feelings of helplessness. If you dream about losing your hair it could indicate that you are afraid of a situation in your life or that you feel powerless in a particular situation in your life.” (zeroinonnutrition.com)
Hmmm … You think?!
Do you think I might “have a fear of losing control’ because I have been on lockdown in a three-bedroom apartment with my husband and cat for 14 weeks? We started “distance learning” in mid March. At first, I thought it sounded fun and easy, but I soon realized I would work harder and longer hours than I ever have in my career. I got emails from eighth graders at 10 p.m. wanting feedback on essays that were due at 8 a.m. the next day. At first, I refused. However, it didn’t take long to figure out those teens slept late and worked in the evenings. If that’s what their pubescent brains and bodies needed, I had to play along. I felt gloomy and lonely and hopeless. Finally I stopped wallowing and started getting up earlier to practice yoga. Nothing crazy, just a gentle morning wake-up practice. I felt the transformation right away. I faced each day with a little more optimism, a little less self-pity. Yet, there was no denying I was trapped with an introvert (my husband) and a narcissist (my cat). Both needed a lot of attention, but neither had the skill set to fill my emotional void.
Do you think I am “afraid of a situation in my life” because I am the poster child for Seasonal Affective Disorder, and South American winter is right around the corner? Tony and I had agreed to spend our “winter break” in Chile. We were relatively comfortable and safe. We could and did get whatever we needed delivered to our door: organic produce, beer and wine, groceries, a computer dongle, even two jigsaw puzzles. For a while, we could leave the building with our masks on, but the explosion of coronavirus cases in Santiago led to an extended quarantine. We had to go online for governmental approval to leave the house, which we did three times. It was no joke. I even got pulled over on my bike during one of my outings so the officer could confirm I had legitimate permission. As our beautiful sunny autumn turned gray and chilly, I visualized spending the next couple months in that apartment. I wouldn’t just be lonely and anxious. I would be lonely, anxious, and cold. Despite my reservations about traveling and hunkering down with Floridian covid-deniers, I impulsively got online and booked tickets to Orlando.
Do you think I might feel “powerless” because I put my fate in the hands of a bankrupt airline? To be fair, the flight from Santiago to Miami on Latam Airlines impressed me. The flight attendants all wore masks and ensured passengers were able to maintain some personal space. Passengers were required to wear masks, and some went full hazmat. There was no drink service or complicated meal tray. We got a bottle of water and a tray of ravioli. I took off my mask to wolf down the food and then quickly put it back on. In Miami, we disembarked by row rather than crowding together in the usual crush to get off the plane. The airport felt relatively safe. Nearly everyone wore masks and seemed to avoid crowding together. After collecting our luggage, we were all funneled into a security area where officers completely unpacked our bags, presumably looking for drugs. I had forgotten about the Brita filters I brought home to recycle. They do look suspicious. The officer stabbed one with his knife, releasing a pile of carbon sand, and then politely encouraged me to repack and move on to my connecting flight. That was weird and stressful, but nonthreatening from a virus perspective.
Do you think I might have “feelings of helplessness” because I was getting on a plane with a whole lot of people who don’t seem to care about social distancing and wear their face masks more like chin guards? Once American Airlines started boarding for Orlando, I realized my sense of security was about to evaporate. About half the passengers wore masks; fewer wore masks correctly, actually covering their mouths and noses. I was wearing an N-95 medical mask with another cloth mask on top. Yes, two masks. While waiting for my group to board, I overheard a couple girls snickering behind my back. I turned around to see they were staring at me while wearing their own masks down around their lower lips. I wanted to yell, “I just traveled from a country with 167,000 cases and more than 3,000 deaths. I am terrified that I’m transporting this virus to Florida. I am double masking for you! You’re welcome!” I felt so deflated knowing that whatever I do to protect myself and others, I am at the mercy of these people who don’t take it seriously.
Anyway, I am quarantining at my house in Florida, and it really is a lovely little place. I got up this morning for my usual yoga practice. I drank coffee outside, listening to the birds. I drove to Walmart for a non-contact grocery pickup, which was convenient and safe, much to my relief. I did a sudoku puzzle, worked on report card comments, scrubbed and refilled the bird bath, lounged outside with a book, Facetimed with a good friend, and called my sister to tell her about my dream. I’m about to pop some sweet potatoes in the oven. Life could be worse.
Still, uncertainty is my nemesis. The website’s interpretation was spot on. And so, until life returns to some version of normal, I suppose I will wake from disturbing haircuts with a better understanding of why they haunt my dreams.
Family time was great and all, but I have been craving some tropical beach time.
Chile’s beaches are gorgeous to look at. However, the water is COLD, unpredictable protests make the drive to the shore a little daunting, and every dang resident of Santiago escapes to the coast at this time of year.
I needed a beach with very few other humans, more nature than civilization, sand free of cigarette butts, and water warm enough to soothe my soul (but cool enough to provide respite from the summer heat). Tony and I found the perfect spot: Paraiso Azul Retiro on Brazil’s Ilha Grande (Big Island), just off the coast of Rio de Janeiro.
Waiting for our boat in Angra dos Reis, a port town west of Rio.Leaving the mainland! Tony and I had the little boat all to ourselves.
Ilha Grande housed a leper colony and later a high-security prison, which closed in 1994. Few motorized vehicles are permitted on the island, and about 87 percent is contained in environment protection areas. Last year, the island was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Our cottage sat at the water’s edge with a hammock perfect for napping to the sound of lapping waves. The guest house’s private beach was small, but then, so was the guest house. For most of our visit, we shared the beach with only a couple other guests.
Our home away from home: Paraiso Azul RetiroEvening view of the beach and yoga sala.Our balcony
Tony and I got up each morning and practiced yoga in the beautiful high-ceilinged sala overlooking the water. We spent much of the day reading, napping, and swimming in our calm bay, on the opposite side of the island from the choppy Atlantic Ocean.
the yoga sala
Our first full day here, we kayaked to two nearby beaches. Unfortunately, they were located very close to the Lagoa Azul (Blue Lagoon), which is a big tourist attraction. Boats motored in and dropped off drunk tourists, who paraded down the beach with their plastic cups of beer, posed for selfies, and thrashed around in the surf, losing flip flops to the tide. Swimming in those waters, I collected plastic bags, labels from water bottles, heaps of plastic bottle caps, and other detritus. I dumped it all in a makeshift trash bin, but I don’t know if anyone ever comes to haul it away. We made a beeline for our clean little tourist-free patch of tranquility.
The most conservative swimsuit in Brazil, fyi.Gorgeous, despite the plastic trash. Sigh… This was early, before the tourists arrived.Dang, I love “portrait mode” on my phone. So forgiving…We explored the trail near the beach.It was nice while it lasted, but soon boatloads of tourists arrived. Why can’t we have the whole island to ourselves?!I hope someone collects this trash occasionally. The plastic in the water was truly disheartening. I beseech you, reader, to consider giving up single-use plastic bags and bottles! Pleeeeeease?!
After a day of absolutely spectacular weather, we had an evening with absolutely spectacular storms.
The storms knocked out power for a while, so we played cards and ate dinner by candlelight.
Our second day, we decided to go for a hike. On the map, you can see our guest house (labeled in purple). The red line marks trails around the island, but what you can’t see is how rugged those trails are. From the coast, the rainforest justs up to an elevation of 3,383 feet (1,031 maters), so to hike here means to go up, up, up, and then down, down, down repeatedly. Tree roots created makeshift steps and fallen leaves offered a little traction, while slippery mossy rocks did their best to keep our minds focused on the muddy path.
Our private guide, named Lua, bounded up the steps behind the guest house to the trail. About 10 years old, Lua looked like a mix between black lab and some kind of terrier. She patiently led us toward Bananal Beach, occasionally pausing to wait as we panted up the steep path.
Leaving our guest house.Look at the size of this jackfruit! FYI, when jackfruit falls and rots on the forest floor, the smell is disgustingly sickly sweet.The elusive forest stud.
Pouring with sweat, we emerged from the forest to find a gorgeous deserted beach. The only other person was a gardener tending to some bushes near a small house. Lua hunkered down in the shade while Tony and I waded into the calm, clear water. We swam, played in the multi-colored sand, walked the length of the beach, threw a stick for Lua, and ate our sack lunch.
Bananal BeachParadise.Lua takes a break.We walked to those boulders, where we picked up the next trail.
Eventually, we followed our dog guide to a different trail that led to the next beach, Matariz. We were pretty wrecked by then and not overly impressed with the beach, so we stopped for a soda at a small guesthouse (while Lua frolicked in and drank from a stream) and then headed home.
The “trail.”How spoiled are we that we were unimpressed with this beach? Seriously, sometimes I worry about that.
From then on, Lua became my BFF. She followed me from the guesthouse lounge to our cottage to the beach several times a day. She curled up next to our table at meals. She napped on our cottage porch when we were inside. She burrowed under my beach chair. I kinda fell in love with her.
I should point out that this is the “before” picture. Before sea and sand ripped off my toenail polish, before mosquitos ravaged my calves leaving wicked puss-y wounds, before sunburn peeled off in sheets like a clove of garlic, and before I fell and skinned my knee. Don’t believe everything you see on Facebook.
On day three, we followed Lua through the rainforest on a different trail. This time we walked to Freguesia de Santana Beach and beyond. We paused at the deserted beach for a swim in the still clear water, undeterred by the light rain.
Check out that enormous stand of bamboo! Seriously, WTW? Who brought that to Brazil???Gorgeous roots … reminds me of the book Overstory, the best of the NINE books I read on this break. Please read it! Soooo fascinating.Freguesia de Santana, built in 1843.Sooo tranquilo. We went for a swim and then continued our hike. On the way back, this place was mobbed by tourists disembarking from their party boats. What a nightmare! Ugh.
Afterwards, Lua led the way to another trail that should have taken us to a beach called Japariz, where we had planned to have lunch at a restaurant. We walked for nearly an hour, sometimes climbing over boulders or wading through shallow streams. Eventually, we gave up and turned back. Later, we realized we had stopped just minutes from our destination!
Another day, we left Lua at the guesthouse and took a speedboat to several locations on the island.
We were eager to check out one of the island’s most famous beaches, Lopez Mendez, but we hadn’t realized we had to hike to it. We got dropped off at the small beach, Pouso, and trekked through the rainforest for about 30 minutes. Fortunately, we got an early start, so we had the whole beach practically to ourselves.
Lopez Mendez Beach. Insanely fabulous.Hottie in his Van Halen shorts. Runnin’ with the devil.
In today’s money-driven tourism world, it’s rare to find an undeveloped beach with no condos, no restaurants, no souvenir shops. So refreshing! (Of course, that also meant there were no lounge chairs or umbrellas for rent … but we found a nice log under a shady tree.)
I took a long walk along the beach while Tony watched our stuff, and we took turns jumping in the powerful waves of the Atlantic Ocean. By the time we left a couple hours later, people were beginning to pour down from the trail.
So many of these guys on the beach, but only he would pose for me. Thank you, wee crab.
We hiked back to meet our boat driver for the ride to Abraão, the island’s only town. I appreciated that Ilha Grande’s touristy stuff was concentrated in one area. Hostels, shops, restaurants, bars, and tour agencies all competed for the tourists who were dumped at the pier. There wasn’t much to see, so we ate lunch and hung out at a waterside bar for some people-watching until our scheduled departure.
Our butt-breaking speedboat.The bustling metropolis of Abraão.
Next stop: Another hike, this time to a waterfall. We got dropped at a small beach and took off up the trail. And up. And up. And up. Finally, we reached the Cachoeira da Feiticeira. It was pretty, but mostly, I was excited to plunge my stinky, sweaty, muddy body into that cool pool. It did not disappoint. There was only one other woman there, and she was busy Instagramming herself on top of a boulder, so I had the pool all to myself. Tony sat on the edge and dipped his feet in the water. I could’ve stayed longer, but we had a long hike back to our boat, and we were on a schedule.
It wasn’t that dramatic, but whatever. A waterfall is always impressive.Like a shampoo commercial, no?You probably can’t fully comprehend how freakin’ high up we had hiked. But there’s the sea, WAY the hell down there.
The last stop of the day was Lagoa Azul, or Blue Lagoon, which was very near our guesthouse. We jumped off the back of the boat and swam a bit, but we couldn’t get near the reef because of all the frolicking tourists, who stood in waist-deep water, drinking beer and scaring away all the fish. Back “home,” we rested up from a long day of exploring.
I’m all alone … I’m all alone … I’m all alone…Seriously?
We had worried that nine days at a secluded beach would be too long, but I had an epiphany on this vacation. I CAN actually take a trip that involves a lot of nothing. Usually, I insist on visiting every museum, touring every historical site, hitting every one of the guidebook’s “top 10 don’t-miss attractions.” However, this holiday taught me that travel doesn’t have to mean frenzy.
The “after” photo. I realize you can’t fully understand the torture this leg has endured. Just trust me.
In nine days of doing very little, I never got bored. We slowed down and enjoyed each moment. We even embraced the storms, which filled the afternoon sky with spectacular lightning displays, even though they also knocked out power to our guesthouse a few times.
That said, when it was time to leave, we were ready to get back to civilization. We gave Lua a little cuddle, thanked the incredible staff, and boarded a boat back to the mainland.
Goodbye!
Our driver, Piu Piu, met us at the pier and drove us to the Rio de Janeiro airport, where I kissed Tony good-bye and sent him back to Chile. I was spending the weekend in Rio!
I joined Stella, Ian, and Becky at the Copacabana Beach shortly after checking in to our hotel. They had already rented chairs and umbrellas. Once nestled into my chair, there was no reason to leave.
Thirsty? Someone would bring a beer, caipirinha, soda, fresh water, or a coconut with a hole hacked in the top for access to the cold refreshing juice. Hungry? Just needed to wave at the guy with the portable grill for a cheese kebab, or signal the vendor selling peel-and-eat shrimp, or cool off with a traditional açai bowl full of slushy fruit, or consider a burger, fried calamari, sandwiches, steamed corn, popsicles – seriously, there was no end to the food selection. Forgot a swimsuit? Fortunately, vendors stroll the beach with huge racks of bikinis. Sellers walked by with jewelry, sarongs, sunscreen, T-shirts, sunglasses, souvenirs, dresses, hats, and more.
This guy even hosed off our feet at one point!
The ocean water was chilly with powerful crashing waves, but I knew I couldn’t leave without going in at least once. I fought the breakers until I got far enough out to bob in the waves. It was dreamy. Really cold, but dreamy.
That evening, we went to a samba bar called Leviano in the popular nightlife district of Lapa. The bar was packed before 9 p.m., and the energy was electric.
Later, we returned to the beach, where small bars lined the promenade. Most had live music, so we picked one and hung out for a while, kicking off our shoes to dance in the sand.
We spent the next morning at the beach again, and then Becky and I took off to visit the famous Christ the Redeemer statue.
Christ the Redeemer, Portuguese Cristo Redentor, colossal statue of Jesus Christ at the summit of Mount Corcovado, Rio de Janeiro, southeastern Brazil. It was completed in 1931 and stands 98 feet (30 metres) tall, its horizontally outstretched arms spanning 92 feet (28 metres). The statue, made of reinforced concrete clad in a mosaic of thousands of triangular soapstone tiles, sits on a square stone pedestal base about 26 feet (8 metres) high, which itself is situated on a deck atop the mountain’s summit. The statue is the largest Art Deco-style sculpture in the world and is one of Rio de Janeiro’s most recognizable landmarks.
A historic train carried tourists up the mountain through the forest. At the top, we walked up several flights of stairs and elbowed through the crowd for a few photos. The selfie-fest was hilarious. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
Despite the crowd, it wasn’t hard to find a quiet spot to enjoy the views.
That evening, we reconnected with Stella and Ian to celebrate Becky’s birthday at a Japanese restaurant called Soy. Accustomed to Chile’s ubiquitous rolls full of rice and cream cheese, we were all thrilled with the delicious “real” sushi. Our waiter brought chocolate mousse with a candle, and we sang “Happy Birthday.”
A little more music at the beach, and we called it a night. (Can I just mention how much I LOVE that the fun gets going in Rio well before my bed time!!)
Stella and Ian flew out the next morning. Becky and I had an afternoon flight, so we tried to spend a couple hours at the beach. However, strong winds kept uprooting our umbrellas and blasting them through the air, nearly decapitating several sunbathers. The locals promised it would calm down, but we had to pack up and hit the road anyway.
School wrapped up the first semester on Dec. 20, and we immediately flew to the States to spend Christmas with my family. I had scheduled three weeks in Florida because I assumed my mother would need help. In the week after my father died, I felt so useful: organizing her paperwork, answering phone calls, contacting friends and family with the sad news, and so on. I figured I would pick up where I had left off a month ago. We crossed paths with our pet sitters at the Santiago Airport, handed over the keys and a few bits of information about caring for Ella, and then we were off.
Kaylene and Ned at the Santiago Airport
As always, I had a blast hanging out with my sisters and their families. Megan had decked out her home near Destin, FL, in full holiday regalia, including three Christmas trees. Kate and her family drove from Michigan with a van full of presents. My brother Mike and his family sat this one out, celebrating with out-of-town friends at their home in Abu Dhabi. My mom arrived on Christmas Eve. Of course, we had many melancholy moments, missing my dad. His absence was everywhere. With a bunch of little kids at Christmas, though, you have to keep a happy face. Kind of a blessing.
Megan and Britt had the most festive house in the neighborhood.
We all went to the movies. Some of us saw “Star Wars”; some saw “Frozen 2.” Posing outside the theater…
Not sure what happened here…The night before Christmas …We caught Santa setting up the Magnatiles!
I was a little bummed that Tony and I had failed to gear up in anticipation of the annual Dickinson Family Nerf War. I couldn’t find any weapons from past years, and I didn’t want to invest in more plastic junk. I begged my sister Kate to let us borrow some of her artillery. Her three boys easily own enough Nerf weaponry to outfit the actual U.S. Army. “We totally forgot to bring it,” she said. “We were in such a rush to pack the van and get down here!”
Turns out Megan also dropped the ball. She had purchased Nerf guns with incompatible bullets. Doh!
Christmas morning, we enjoyed the usual traditions: Kids wait upstairs until adults check to see whether Santa came. Play with stocking stuffers and eat cinnamon rolls. Open presents. On our “journey to zero waste,” Tony and I had requested no gifts this year. I tried to find plastic-free options for our presents to everyone else. I made lotion bars and bought homemade soaps for the adults, and I gave the kids photo puzzles made on the Shutterfly website.
At one point, the living room became eerily quiet. Suddenly, Kate’s whole family came barreling down the stairs in full attack mode, outfitted with helmets, face masks, cardboard shields, and Nerf weapons. I shouted out, “Embedded journalist! Hold your fire!” and ducked behind the kitchen island. So obviously, Kate had lied about forgetting the Nerf gear. Not only that, Nico had written an extremely detailed three-page battle plan with roles for each member of his family. It opened with:
After everyone is done opening presents, we run upstairs in the closet and get ready. This way, we already have the top floor cleared out as we make our way downstairs in the line going: Nico (shieldman), Dad (sheildman), Paul (gunman), Jack (gunman), and Mom (gunner) makes sure that we are not being ambushed from behind.
There’s even a diagram for clarification.
Classic.
Family Christmas Nerf War 2020Megan wears protection while baking cinnamon rolls.
The only way to top an epic Nerf war is with a trip to the beach. So that’s what we did. Henderson State Park’s beach is practically perfect with baby powder sand and crystal clear water (too cold for me at this time of year, but the kids jumped right in).
Beach at Henderson State Park.
We had so much fun, we went back the next day.
Tony and I had promised to take the kids overnight, and Megan and Britt were looking forward to a romantic get-away. However, my mom was eager to get home, so Tony and I drove with her back to the Villages a few days earlier than planned.
Our rental property was free for the week, and we settled in, expecting to spend much of our time helping out at mom’s house. Turns out she didn’t really want or need help. Distracting herself from my father’s absence, she launched several big projects, including remodeling the master bedroom and bath. Realizing she and the workmen had things under control, and knowing we would have to check in to a hotel at the end of the week when our renters arrived, we decided to skip town again. Tony took a shuttle to the airport, rented a car, and picked me up to head back to Megan’s house. We figured we could offer to babysit for that get-away they wanted.
During the six-hour drive, I checked my messages using free wifi at a rest stop. Megan had texted, “Sha sha! I hope u get this, we booked our get-away room for tonight so we might leave the kids at the neighbors till u get here so we can spend a little extra time at the resort.” Ha! She didn’t even wait till we got there.
While I appreciate having the whole family together, there’s something particularly special about getting my lovebugs all to myself. No cousins to distract them. No siblings to distract me. We played Pokemon Monopoly and Sequence, assembled Annesley’s puzzle, read bunches of books, colored, ran around outside, and laughed a lot.
One day when Britt was at work, Megan took us all to Seaside, a quaint beach town where the movie “The Truman Show” was filmed. We had brought the kids’ bikes, and we rented some for the adults. We cycled around a lovely lake and through the quiet lanes lined with picturesque cottages.
Cycling in Seaside.
After lunch, we strolled over to the beach, just planning to take a peek. As if. Will and Annesley immediately started playing in the sand and splashing in the water. Seriously, how could they resist?
One highlight of this visit was watching the kids at karate class. The sensei was brilliant. I wish I had his classroom management skills. And I felt super proud of my munchkins.
Before heading back to Santiago, we popped by for one last visit with my mom. She let me take one of my dad’s ukuleles, which was a nice distraction when we got stranded in Atlanta overnight.
Back in Chile, I spent much of my time dealing with time-consuming, Spanish-mandatory frustrations: A large sum of our money was “missing” after an issue with a mobile deposit. We had to get our vacuum repaired. Someone stole the side mirrors off my car while I was at an appointment. Two of our balcony doors were broken and wouldn’t close. In addition, our house in Michigan needs more foundation work before we put in on the market again, so I was on skype with contractors and emailing with my realtor.
Still, we made time for a little fun. We saw the movie, “Yesterday,” at a free screening in the park by our house. I met up with a couple friends. We ate out (way too much!). The rest of the time, I could be found reading or napping on the balcony.
I really couldn’t complain … especially when I could look forward to our upcoming trip to Ilha Grande in Brazil!
