Lessons from a Christmas Holiday...

Dear Clara, So many people think that once December 25^th passes, that the Christmas holiday has come and gone.  But remember that Christmas is not just a holiday, but a season.  It’s both a time for us to celebrate spiritually but it’s also a time to celebrate on a very human scale, when our families and friends take first place, and our work and worldly obligations move to second.

• Prepare yourself for the holiday season:  There is a reason why in many calendars there is an Advent season, in the sense of a time of preparation.  From the outside world, you’ll be tempted to leap right into things, but trust me, it becomes overwhelming.  Pace yourself, make lists, consider what you can get done, and carve of pockets of time for yourself so that you don’t lose the spirit of the season while barreling forward towards the holidays and the end of the year.  It’s an investment worth making.
• Write on your holiday cards: There are a panoply of technology options that make sending cards easier.  And they’re wonderful, and many have their place.  Take advantage of the things that make sense---addressing envelopes, for example.  But keep in mind that while technology can replace process, it can’t replace you.  It’s better for your cards to come a little later, and have your own personal writing on them that shows people that you took the time for them.  It’s only once a year.
• Make every effort to be at home: Remember, this is the time of year when those closest to us come first.  It won’t always be possible---sometimes practical things like money and geography get in our way.  But if you can make it happen, be in your home any way that you can for the holidays.  Eventually you’ll have your own home, and your own family, and you’ll have to figure out what works best for all of you.  But deep down, you’ll always know where exactly you should be.
• Set an extra place at the table: It’s our Polish tradition to say that there will always be room for one more, especially on the holidays, and many visitors feel that you could knock on nearly any door on Christmas Eve in Poland and have a meal waiting for you.  It’s pretty much true.  If you have an extra place (or two) at your table, an extra guest is a welcome addition and not anything else.  You never know when you just might need to reach out to someone else and welcome them to your table.
• Be on the lookout those sad and the struggling: We should always be on the lookout, I know, but pay extra attention during the holidays.  Different people struggle with different things around this time of year and they’re not always willing to talk about it openly.  Maybe they lost a loved one, maybe they had a falling out in their own family, maybe they are too far away from home, maybe they’re struggling to keep up with all the financial demands of the holidays . . . Watch for people, even those close to you, that might need a bit of additional love and care during this time of year.
• Make room for your soul: I guess this relates a bit to the very first part, but again, it’s easy to get caught up in all of the activities and trappings that come along with the holidays, even if we do them because of our good intentions.  But regardless of what you believe in, just remember that the winter holidays carry a sense of spirit with them; don’t let that spirit pass you by.  Prepare a little room in your heart.

Wishing you all my love this Christmas and holiday season,

Mom

A Wedding Wish

This week my brother-in-law got married in Bangladesh.  His new wife is a lovely girl and I couldn’t be happier for the both of them.  Before the wedding, I tried to think of something wise or profound to say, having experience with happy marriage myself.  Of course I couldn’t come up with anything more unique then ‘Congratulations’.  Further pondering has led me to this list of wishes: I wish for you a lifetime of laughter.  I hope you laugh every day, I hope you take particular joy in making your spouse laugh. I hope you prize each other’s individuality. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses, some you already know clearly, some you may anticipate, and some will catch you completely off guard.  May you celebrate and embrace each other’s strengths and protect each other’s weaknesses.  You both have unique life experiences, histories, and backgrounds, you have different opinions, beliefs, and personalities- and that’s wonderful.  Don’t ever try to agree all the time or be clones of one another.  Being married doesn’t mean you have to share a single brain.

I wish for you a lifetime of patience and understanding. There will be disagreements, heated discussions, and yes, even arguments, and that’s ok- each of you is as important as the other both of your voices should be heard.  Life isn’t supposed to be a boring walk through the park or a sale on a placid lake. It’s the jungle that you navigate and the storms that you ride out that prove your strength, both individually and as a couple.  Arguing isn’t the end of the world, or the end of a relationship, I wish for you to know that. I wish for you to always fight fair and never try to hurt the other’s feelings. And while we’re on the subject, don’t ever be too proud to say you’re sorry. In fact, be proud of recognizing a wrong and apologizing for it.

I wish for you a lifetime of hugs. Take care of each other and never take the other for granted.  Say I love you Every Day. It’s the most important phrase in your vocabulary.  Never take it for granted.  I wish thousands of date nights and coffee dates. I wish you breakfast in bed and dinner at midnight. I wish for you romance. I wish for you hours of sitting next to each other, enjoying the silent companionship. Even champagne and roses lose its appeal day-after-day.  Celebrate the everyday, enjoy the little moments you spend together. I wish you movie nights curled up on the couch and trips to the grocery store. Your entire life is now a celebration of your love, I wish for you to remember that.

I wish for you a lifetime of dreams, whatever they may be, wherever they may take you.  I wish you adventure. I wish you stories that you’ll tell again and again, interrupting each other as you retell a shared memory.  I wish you quiet smiles and loud laughs. I wish you joy that takes your breath away and love that brings a happy ache to your heart.  I wish you a beautifully blessed marriage full of tenderness, excitement, and the proverbial spark. I wish for you, everything my marriage has given to me.  As my husband said, go ahead and ‘Write Your Own Story’

With heartfelt congratulations,

Renee

Since You Brought It Up: Good, Grief

By Rhea St. Julien In the first five minutes of the 1965 classic A Charlie Brown Christmas, the main character pronounces himself "depressed", "let down" by Christmas, and lonely.  He dislikes the tradition of card giving, because it reminds him that no one likes him when he doesn't receive any.  He rails at the over-commercialization of Christmas, and despairs that no one seems to take it, and him, seriously.

Watching it with my toddler on Hulu, I realized that if it were made today, A Charlie Brown Christmas would be deemed too glum for mass consumption.  Characters on TV today have bizarrely huge smiles even in the worst of situations---Diego's grin at having to find the lost maned wolf reassures kids that "Sure, the mom lost her pup, but don't worry!  Everything is okay!  Al rescate!"  The expressions of the Peanuts gang look more like they have chili-induced indigestion, over things as small as decorations, unhelpful advice, and ill-thought-out letters to Santa.

I love that the Charlie Brown special depicts the big emotions of kids at this time of the year, because children are totally overwhelmed by all the bustle, no matter how tinseled it may be.  They act up, get scared more easily, need to be held during nap times and have melt downs in the middle of Target.  They are hopped up on sugar (when did Advent calendars start having chocolates for each day?!) stay up late for parties, and the stress of their parents is passed down to them.  It's a never-ending cycle, as parents get more stressed by their kids' behavior, and disappointed when special holiday-themed outings turn disastrous.  "I'm just trying to give you a good Christmas!" I saw a mom say thru gritted teeth, outside a store where other families were bopping around to carols, enjoying the discounts at the annual holiday party, happy it wasn't their kid that had filled their fists with cookies and ran out onto the street.

I felt her pain.  Just last week I took our toddler to a showing of The Velveteen Rabbit, a dance performance for children based on the Margery Williams book.  She had never been to anything like that, and though she overall enjoyed the experience, I did not.  She sat on my lap and asked questions throughout the entire show, at times scared, at other times just trying to make sense of what she was viewing.  All the kids in the audience were talking, laughing, and shouting, but mine seemed to be the very loudest.

The grandmother in front of us concurred with my estimation.  She turned around every five seconds, sneering, sighing, and shushing us.  I tried to explain to her that it was a children's performance and kids are allowed to make noise, but she proclaimed I had "ruined it for her" and I bowed out of the discussion before I got really angry.  What that lady thought she was getting when she bought a ticket to the 11am matinee is beyond me, but her shaming of my daughter while I was working really hard to parent her through the performance was horrible.  I left feeling defeated.  I had tried to do something special with my daughter for the holiday season, and had only managed to totally overwhelm her, myself, and the people sitting near us.

This week, at a winter-themed Story/Song/Dance time I was leading at my friend's store, I took homemade paper snowflakes out of my bag and let them drift down onto the children while I sang "Let It Snow", the closest those California kids would get to a snowstorm.  My daughter stood right in the middle and screamed, "Mama, I'm done!  Mama, no singing!"  I just sighed and asked my friend to take her for a walk so I could continue being all magical for the tots who were actually enjoying it.

Are we really so different from my easily-overwhelmed little one? I think not.  Everyone I know seems to be already over the holiday season, and we have at least two weeks more of it.  As adults, we dull our feelings with cocktails and present-buying, but they are still there.  That's why tonight, instead of heading out onto the wreath-lined streets to hit up a friend's pop up art show, I'm going to stay in with a book and a journal.  I'm going to write about how I miss my sister and my mother, who I am not seeing this year, and my father, whom I will never be able to spend another Christmas with on this earth again.  I'm going to take some deep breaths, and make some Charlie Brown faces.  I'm going to feel that good grief he keeps talking about, and create some space and patience for my daughter's feelings, as well.

***

We believe we can find more joy in the holidays by squashing the little voice that tells us bright spirits and good cheer are only possible when we’re perfect.  The magic of this time of year comes from connecting with loved ones near and far, reminding ourselves of all we have to be thankful for, and . . . covering everything in twinkling white lights. 

We’re embracing our present lives—foibles and all—so we can spend more time drinking egg nog and less time worrying we’re not good enough. Imperfect is the new black; wear it with pride.

Want to lighten your load? Read the post that kicked off the series, Ashely Schneider's Down, Not Out. Add your story to the “Since You Brought It Up” series by submitting it here. 

Motherly Instinct

Being almost thirty years old means most of my southern friends are married and working on their second or third child.  Play dates at the park, mother-daughter shopping sprees, little league baseball games, and homework is all a part of their daily lives. My motherly instinct hasn't exactly kicked in; however, my own mother says my maternal clock will start ticking soon enough.  Perhaps my clock is broken because I can't think of a time it was ever ticking or tocking.  I was never the neighborhood babysitter, newborns frighten me, and there is a definite awkwardness when trying to communicate with a child.  Based on my age, marital status, and being a resident of the south means I never manage to escape the dreaded question "when are you having children?" From family, friends,co-workers, the mailman---you name it and they have asked.  With my vague answer, the conversation usually ends up with a side eye which I suppose is understandable.  The reason for my lack of wanting a child is unknown to me.  I can only speculate that it's because I'm completely happy with our life the way it is, raising a child is a huge commitment, there is no pressure from the other half in this marriage, and parenthood would change everything.

With all that said, what has surprisingly escalated is an unconditional, motherly affection for our dog, Salvador.  Obviously he's not a child but it's a baby step for now.  We can leave him at home alone while running errands or going to dinner, a treat works like magic, and he won't be asking for a car in sixteen years.  If someone would have told me a couple of years ago that we would have an indoor puppy that sheds fierce fur I would have laughed hysterically.   Times have changed and Salvador is an equal part of our family.  I've caught myself throwing him birthday parties complete with gifts and a trip to the bakery for a special biscuit.  Most weekends we find ourselves attending dog-friendly events in Chattanooga and dining on a chilly back porch just so Salvador can tag along. As crazy as it sounds, we even enrolled him in doggie day care four days out of the week because we both work long hours and the thought of him being alone all day is heartbreaking.  Taking care of a pet has taught me to be patient, understanding, and responsible.  Some days this dog allows me to envision a different side of myself and how raising a child would be extremely rewarding and other days, he's the best form of birth control on the market.  I can't predict the future and only time will tell if Salvador will be an older brother.  For now we remain content as a uniquely southern trio.

Facetime vs Real Face to Face

When I lived in the US, I would call my mom and dad while I was walking around New York.  “Okay,” I would say, when either answered the phone.  “I have roughly four and a half minutes to catch up before going underground on the subway.”  This was our main form of communication: in those four and a half minutes, we talked (quickly) about the highlight reel of our lives to the background music of ambulances wailing, cashiers expectantly demanding money from me, and various homeless people proffering marriage proposals (needless to say, I lived in a great neighborhood).  Peppering these primary conversations were the little moments when, despite Google and Facebook iPad apps and the myriad ways we can acquire information in the modern world, I just wanted parental input.  “How long can you keep leftovers in the fridge?” I’d ask my dad, staring at spaghetti that seemed to have self-generated a green and fuzzy pesto like topping (self-generating sauces: the food of the future!).  “What day is the cheapest to buy flights again?” I’d ask my mom, squinting at my computer screen.  While Bing may have had a more accurate answer, my mom’s was the most trusted one. Since moving to London, my parental conversations have moved to the land of Skype, a world where calls are announced by a strange symphony of beeps and dials; where faces pixelate in and out of the picture; where half the time spent talking to my parents, complete Skype neophytes, is spent saying, “Click the video button.  The one with the camera.  If you can’t see yourself, I can’t see you. Hold the camera higher – higher – dear Lord, please don’t show me your chest again.”

Several things have happened in the switch to Skype; the most perhaps obvious of which is that parents, surprise surprise, love seeing their children’s faces.  All conversations open and close with, “You’re looking so healthy!” and “What shirt are you wearing?” and “How did you cheeks get so pink?” and other variations of: keep on keepin’ on, my DNA-totin’ progeny.

Below the rosy skin and the same shirt I’m always wearing (come on, Mom!) there’s a different, more fundamental shift in the nature of the conversations.  We talk less often, certainly, but when we do, the conversation has an unprecedented level of focus.  You choose a time and date and make a plan, rather than a slapdash time filler.  You are, quite literally, staring into each other’s eyes (save for the moments when – and you know who are – you’re looking deeply into the eyes of yourself).  You’re freed from distraction, less the person on the other end catch a glimpse of what you’re doing and squawk, their annoyance transcending thousands of miles, “Are you doing something else?”

It makes for some of the most focused conversations I’ve ever had.  Conversations that quickly blow past the day-to-day trivialities that fill a quickie check in; conversations that move into the realm of history (personal and otherwise), of the world, of what you really mean when you tell this story or that one.  The truth is, after all, written all over your face.

On the flip side, the absence of those gap filling phone calls has had another effect entirely: once afraid, in any moment, to walk by myself, to wait for a bus by myself, to simply be, I am now forced to confront my boredom and live with the worlds both around me and coursing through my own mind.  At home, without my trusty text message parental net, I figure out on my own whether my leftovers will kill me, or if it’s reasonable to spend half my life savings on a flight to New York (hint: it’s not).  I get to spend more real time with both myself and my parents.

While it should be noted that it’s not real real time, as I’m gearing up for the holiday season (I’m writing this article eight hours into a plane ride, somewhere over the Great Lakes) I feel more connected to my parents than ever, despite being further, physically, than I’ve ever been.  And, as much as I’ve enjoyed the Picasso-esque, pixelated versions of their faces, I’m excited to see their real ones.

XVII. états-unis

One Christmas, Clémence sends me a thin paperback collection of stories called Lettres de mon moulin. Letters from my windmill. I love French books, not just for reading but for the sake of the object itself---the spines are upside-down, the words going from top to bottom, which makes bookstore browsing feel simultaneously awkward and fun.

I read the stories not knowing anything about where they come from. Provence, as it turns out. The author, Alphonse Daudet, is one of the more known provençal writers. He had a windmill where he wrote these stories, a collection of tales about his life and experiences in the south of France. The mill is still tucked away in the countryside somewhere to the east of Avignon. But I don’t learn any of this until years later.

My favorite story, then and now, is “L’Arlésienne,” about a young man in love with a woman from Arles. He finds out that she’s married to someone else and he kills himself.

Il s’était dit, le pauvre enfant: “Je l’aime trop . . . Je m’en vais . . .” Ah! misérables coeurs que nous sommes!

It sounds melancholy, wistful, and it is. But the language is sparse and lovely and the ending always makes me cry. Just like this France of mine.

I'm Sexy and I'm Over It

Dear Sibyl, I am a former sex worker (exotic dancer & some fetish work) who has left that phase of my life for fairer pastures. Since dropping out of that world, my perspective on my experiences has evolved, and as of now, I have scant positive feelings about it all.

A fun and fascinating lady has entered my life recently, and we are involved in a creative project together. She is a current sex worker (erotic massage provider/dominatrix). Our project entails one-on-one time and I'm sure our relationship will take on an intimate aspect (of the non-romantic variety) in the near future. The thing is, I am nervous and in fact afraid of this, due to her profession. I understand why she does it—to support herself while in school, as I did—and I don't judge her at all. But I'm scared that in getting close to her, somehow her present—my past—will affect me. I don't want to go back to that place emotionally, but I fear it's only around the corner, although my rational mind knows that's ridiculous.

We have a considerable age difference (7 years), and I should be able to be the bigger person and not convey insecurity. Of course, I don't want to be the older, wiser one who knows better, even as part of me wants to tell her to get out of the business ASAP. How can I stop projecting my fear of my own past onto her? And how can I be a good friend to her when I have such close-to-home issues about her job?

Thanks, Sibyl!

Sincerely,

Shipwrecked Stripper Swimming to Shore

Dearest Shipwrecked,

Have you considered that this woman has been placed in your life like a gift, one that, if you choose to open it, could be a Pandora’s box of healing experiences for you?  I have a friend who complains a lot, but then follows up all those complaints with, “Well, I guess it’s just AFGE.”  “What’s affguh?”, I finally asked one day.  “Another Fucking Growth Experience!”, she cried.

I advise you to dive right into this lovely AFGE that has landed in your sexy little lap.  In order to do that, you must first shed your clothes once more, not your actual garments, but rather this suit of need to be “The Bigger Person”.  I don’t know who laid that outfit for you on your bed before school one morning, but it’s time to throw that uniform into the Goodwill pile. Don’t be the Wise Old Owl, telling her exactly how many licks it takes to get to the center of the Tootsie roll pop.  I think you should definitely just go ahead and convey your insecurity.  What could be more charming?

In order for this friendship to get off the loading dock and into the deep waters of a real relationship, you've got to come clean with her about your feelings.  First, you'll have to figure out what those feelings are.  Obviously, fear.  You mentioned you don't want your past to affect you, but I wonder if what you really meant was "infect" you, for your past to bubble up and poison your life with your feeling state from that time. So, let me speak this to you now: You are not the person you once were.  If you were to find yourself in exactly the same position that you were in when you were doing sex work, I am positive you would act differently, feel differently, and there would be different outcomes.  So, even if your worst fear materializes and this girl’s profession somehow lures you back in, you’ll treat it differently.

You obviously care about this friend, and I wonder, when you were in her place, did you have any doubts about it?  Would it have been helpful to have real conversations with people who had been there, not just having to put on a brave face with your fellow sex workers, ("This is great, right?  We are making so much money, we are redefining feminism!") or hiding your job from people who wouldn't understand because they haven't been there?  Does your friend even know that you are a former sex worker?  It could put her at ease, and it could give you a chance to work through some of your sticky emotions with that time in your life.  I have this sneaking suspicion that you are not meant to teach/save her at all.  She has been placed in your life in order to teach/save you.

Rather than expounding to her about all the ways being a sex worker has had detrimental effects on your life to come, what if you took this opportunity to write a letter to your past self? You can put in it all the advice you are tempted to share with your new friend.  Here, I’ll start it for you:

Dear Younger Version of Me, I forgive you.  Dang, sometimes I really wish you hadn’t started me on certain paths that I am still trying to rid myself of.  I realize now that you did that because of _______ and _______ and though that was really fucked up, I have compassion for you now.  I do not see you as broken or wrong, just human. I love your humanity, I cherish your imperfections, and I want to accept you fully, so that I can feel like a whole person, rather than this self with a shadow I’m trying to shake.  Currently, I’m a little afraid of you.  I’ve worked hard not to let the choices you made back then dictate the rest of my life.  However, I’m scared that by befriending you, you’ll force yourself into the driver’s seat once again, and my life will be taken over by a ghost of Christmas past. So, as I seek to befriend you so that I can be friends with a woman who reminds me of you, go easy, okay?  Tell me when it’s time to take breaks, stop thinking about this stuff for awhile, and come back to it later.  I’m trusting you, don’t let me down!  We’re in this together. Love, Current Me.

Add your own touches to that primer, Shipwrecked, and stop swimming away.  Find your own shore, within.

Love, Sibyl

Do you have a quandary that you'd like Sibyl to help you with? Submit it here!

Mom, Interrupted

Dear Sibyl,

I have a friend that can sometimes be lovely and sometimes very self-centered.  We know each other through a playgroup.  What turns some people off is that after one person shares something (story, anecdote, etc), she immediately whips it back to her and her life.  A few of us have brought up how we often don't feel included in the conversation, but we don't have the courage, or words to bring this up to her.  Any advice?

Sincerely, Interrupted

Dear Interrupted,

It is ironic that your narcissistic friend is part of your playgroup, as she somehow managed to get through toddlerhood without learning how to share, or play the game of catch.  I hate that this bully has taken over your playgroup.  You've got to do what mamas do with bullies on the playground: confront them, directly, kindly, firmly, and if they can't mind the rules of the game, don't play with them anymore.

Teaching adults how to communicate is really irritating.  However, it sounds like you have some love for this woman, and it is that love that you need to tap into to give her the business.  Listen, right now, no one is enjoying playgroup, with her being the equivalent of a Hungry Hungry Hippo, gobbling up all the conversation balls as fast as she can.  If you turn her off by telling her how much her behavior is bothering everyone, you may upset one person but save the experience of all the others. So, I would suggest speaking to her, even though narcissists detest being confronted.  Don't beat around the bush, just tell her straight out, "Honey, sometimes you make everything about you.  And it's a major turn-off.  You've got to learn about reflective listening.  Let's try it now.  What are you hearing me say?"  Then have her say back to you the gist of what you're telling her.

It is not our job to save our friends from themselves.  I know it is daunting to confront her, but isn't it worse that everyone secretly hates her?  In protecting her from that truth, you are denying her the chance to have real relationships with all of you.

When I was a child, there was so much that was out of my control.  I grew up in a home of a recovering alcoholic with a recovering co-dependent by his side.  I understood almost nothing about their communication, but I knew it was filled with both acrimony and love, which was terrifying and confusing for me to behold.  I learned to accept my circumstances and the reality that I had no say in how things went down.

Unfortunately, I did this unconsciously, so it led me to go completely off the rails in the areas that I did have control over, like the drugs I put into my body and the people I allowed to touch it.

Then I grew up, and it wasn’t until I was about 28 and living with a housemate who the rest of the house despised that I realized, “Holy shit.  I have control over my own life.  I can just ask this bitch to leave!”  So, we did.  We sat her down, and told her it wasn’t working out.  We didn’t make it “a teaching moment”, we didn’t tell her we hated when she would eat her bagel really loudly and pretend that none of us existed, her passive aggressive notes or her creepy boyfriend with oracular issues.  It was a huge sigh of relief to realize I could shape my own experiences, and take care of myself in this way.

All of this is to say, if your friend can’t learn to play well with others, aka take time actually listening rather than just waiting for her turn to talk, let her know you want to be her friend on a one-on-one basis, rather than in a group.  Schedule her for short chunks of time, when you have the energy to listen to a monologue.  It’s your life.  Don’t look back.

Love, Sibyl

Do you have a quandary that you'd like Sibyl to help you with? Submit it here!

Asking for It, with Sibyl: An Introduction

Who is Sibyl?  Sibyl is the witchy woman you meet at a party and figure you'll avoid because she looks bizarre, but somehow end up sitting near all night, telling her about your roommate troubles and your theories about your family secrets.  Sibyl is the older sister you always thought you'd have, who'd sit you down and help you do your hair in just the way that suits you, and sticks up for you on the playground when everyone else is calling you "Brace Face."  Sibyl is the friend who shows up just to be with you, not talk, when you're facing the deepest grief of your life---when your partner has run off with a lover, when your baby is dead in your hands, when you're scandalized and have been pushed out of a job you love.  Sibyl is your queertacular friend who takes you by the hand and pulls you to the dance floor, spinning until you both dissolve into fits of laughter, forgetting your fears.  Sibyl is a ruined woman. Sibyl is married with children. Sibyl was on the Honor Roll, then cut class to go out to the soccer field to take a tab of acid and stare at the sky.  Sibyl may spend most of her time with her head in books about the nature of the soul, but she totally cares that Duchess Catherine is pregnant.

Who should write in to Sibyl?   Sibyl is for the ladies.  Sibyl is for the ladies who used to be dudes.  Sibyl is for the ladies who want to be dudes, who are dudes within.  Sibyl is for the ladies who love ladies, Sibyl is for the hopelessly straight.  Sibyl is for the wallflowers, who think no one is ever going to listen or care.  Sibyl is for the Mamas and the Papas.  Sibyl is for those of you putting a brave face on being alone.

What should you ask Sibyl? Whatever is twisting in your gut, those issues that make it hard to breathe, that you know are mysteriously killing you, even though they should not be a big deal.  They are are a big deal.  You are a big deal.  Ask away.

And to All a Good Night

What happens when you put your Jewish friend in charge of stringing the lights on the tree, is that you get to the bottom and have no way to plug them in.  “What I have here in my hand is two female parts, but it seems like I need two male parts,” I called out to my oldest friend.  She looked perplexed, herself, having never been the one to do the lights on the tree.  The tree endeavor (both selection and installation) had always been the province of her husband, who made a big production out of it with her kids.  He had been gone just three months and the whole operation carried a pall of sadness.  I was determined to establish a fresh tradition, help her feel confident in her new role and win the day with enthusiasm.  The kids had been good sports at the tree lot that morning, although it must have been terribly disorienting to be there without their father.  I felt the least we could do was to get the tree going before nightfall.  Ultimately, we had to call up our reserves---two effective and creative friends (with four children between them), both Mommies who were responsible for all things tree-related in their homes.  Within the space of twenty minutes, those two had stripped the tree, restrung the lights and carefully dotted the whole situation with ornaments.  That day, my status as “other” when it comes to celebrating Christmas and participating in the “Holiday Season” took a back seat to being present for a loved one. I returned home feeling decidedly less sorry for myself.  Even considering my pattern (like so many American Jews) of feeling a bit left out at this time of year, I had to consider the heartache of my friend and so many others who have lost a spouse or someone close to them, knowing the pain of a loss like that is much more acute during Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and the assorted benchmarks of life.

As much as I have my own issues with the Christmas behemoth, its value as a touchstone for many families in this country is undeniable.  It is a marker around which people create important memories with one another.  Children experience Christmas as an expression of familial love and have the opportunity to be showered with special attention by parents and extended family.  Adults take time away from work to be with their families and reflect.  Sometimes people even use the Holiday as a way to process wounds that haunt them from childhood.  The corrective experience of making your own Christmas for your own family as an adult must be incredibly powerful on a number of levels.

There still resides inside me, the smart-ass fourth grader who wrote an essay about how the White House Christmas tree lighting ceremony was a violation of church and state.  This represented my desperate attempt to communicate the plight of the American, Jewish 8-year-old during the Holidays.  Back in the 80s, they didn’t really show much of Reagan lighting an obligatory Menorah somewhere or sitting down with his staff for a game of Dreidl.  And I likely would have argued that, to be fair, he shouldn’t be publicly participating in any religious celebration.  They also didn’t give Chanukah much air-time in the media in general back then, which made it even more critical that I drag my Mom into my elementary classrooms so that she could fry up Latkes on an electric griddle.  There is almost nothing more tragic than a bunch of disinterested school children carting floppy paper plates of greasy potato pancakes and dollops of applesauce to their desks to “enjoy.”  “Also, we get chocolate coins!” I asserted to anyone who would listen.

While I feel certain that I will be confronted with many uncomfortable conversations with my own children about why we don’t adorn our home or really do anything amazing at this time of year, I also trust that they will find ways to turn their outsider status into something interesting.  They might end up with a fantastic sense of humor about it.  It might increase their empathy for people that experience actual “other” status (people of color, immigrants, gay families) and who live permanently outside the mainstream.

I will always feel a little twinge at Christmas time.  I will try and remind myself that I can appreciate someone else’s traditions and how profound they are without needing to participate myself.  We have our own traditions on December 25th– Dim Sum!  Blockbuster movies!---and I remain grateful that I won’t need to cling to them like a life-raft, girding against loss.

Lessons from Copenhagen...

Dear Clara, Believe it or not, our time in Washington is coming to a close.  When we arrived last summer, two years seemed like decades away, but in less than half a year, we’ll be on the move again.  We know where now, and that always lifts burden off my shoulders.  I never really mind where the home is, but I do like knowing what I should plan for.  Your father and I did a little scouting mission to our new home-to-be this past month, and here’s what we noticed so far about Copenhagen, Denmark:

• Candles are cozy and lighting matters: In a place that gets dark by the time most of us are finishing up lunch, light and atmosphere matter a lot.  We had heard a lot about Danish “hygge”, which can only be loosely translated as a feeling of coziness or warmth, but we didn’t really understand to what extent those principles of creating a welcoming environment really matter.  Even the Laundromat had candelabras and everyone took their job of creating an environment you want to be in very seriously.
• There is no such thing as bad weather: . . . only bad clothes for the weather---many a Dane seems to say that with pride.  And it’s true---weather conditions, again in a place with a long and cold winter, don’t seem to stop people from doing much.  Whether it was dark or cold or rainy, people had on the appropriate footwear or layers or hats or gloves, and everyone was out, on their bikes no less.   It was a reminder for us that if you’re prepared, you can still be up for anything.
• Fresh air is good for you: In a similar vein to the above, people seemed to be ready and willing to be outside and partake in fresh air.  We saw baby carriages on the outside of coffee shops---with babies still in them---and children out at recess.  Fresh, clean air is a luxury that refreshes the body instantly.  If we’re lucky enough to be surrounded by fresh, clean air, we should take advantage of it.
• Early to bed, early to rise: We arrived just past ten o’clock in the evening our first night, and already all the restaurants were closing up, including in the hotel.  Everything seems to be happening earlier here: people get out of work earlier, they eat earlier and they go to bed earlier.  Yet somehow, I bet their day is still longer.
• Maybe things are supposed to be more expensive sometimes: You notice instantly that life in Copenhagen doesn’t come cheap.  Even the small things, such as a simple coffees in a café, are easily three times the price we’re use to paying.  I know we will be quick to complain about the cost of living---it’s an adjustment after all, and paying more for one thing, means having less for another.  Yet, life in Copenhagen seems to be pretty good; people seem to be taken care of.  I’m sure we’ll get a better sense of how everything works once we’re living there day in and day out, but the thought occurred to me, maybe it’s not a bad thing to pay more for the smaller things in life if it guarantees that some of the bigger things will be provided for.

I can’t wait to explore our new home with you –

All my love,

Mom

Welcome, Mattia!

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.” ― Eric Roth, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - screenplay

Dear Mattia,

You came into this world in a warm afternoon at the end of September.

I first saw you when you were a few days old and I couldn’t help but thinking how perfect you were–resting and smiling peacefully in your mom’s arms, ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. You won’t remember the day you were born, and you won’t remember the few years that will follow, but trust me, you changed a lot of lives with your arrival.

You may look like a lot of other babies to the rest of the world, but to your parents you are an angel who came here to bring great hope and happiness, to be loved and to give love in return. You made me an aunt, and my husband an uncle. From this day forth, you will be our wish for better days.

You have a chance to make the world a better place, but please don’t feel under pressure. You don’t have to save the world---just follow your path knowing that we are all close to you and ready to hold your hands through the most difficult times. For now, just keep in mind you are a lucky baby---you have been born into a wonderful family.

My dearest Mattia, this world is not an easy one. You will learn a lot, and it won’t ever get simpler. But keep in mind that this world is an amazing place, a place you will discover day by day, through other people’s eyes, through your travels. Try not to focus on shadows and darkness, and find joy in the hardest times because, believe it or not, small or big issues happen, but there’s a chance you will be laughing about them later. I can’t promise you won’t ever experience adversity, but the most important part is to be comfortable in your own skin, and never apologize for who you are.

Growing up can be painful at times, and we all tend to close little doors around our hearts to protect ourselves from sorrow and disappointment. Find the strength inside yourself, do not expect people around you to be perfect, because they are just human beings like you. Some people will be good to share a deep friendship with, some others will be good for laughter and a beer, others will disappoint you, and some will make you sad. Not everyone knows how to give love in return, for some hearts are simply frozen or unsophisticated or plain, but you will learn to take from people only what they can give you. Do not expect too much from everyone. Only, remember that you are a boy, a boy who will soon become a man, and when your heart is broken don’t feel ashamed if you want to cry. Just try to always love what you see in the mirror, and allow that person to smile back at you at least once a day.

Feel confident you will know when to open your heart to others. There are thousands of people you will meet, and all of them can teach you something---good or bad. But you will learn small lessons from everyone, so keep your eyes and mind open to them. Always carry an imaginary pen with you, and before the end of the day list who taught you something precious, or something you simply don’t want to forget. In a while, you will find an entire book of stories in your hands, and realize that the most incredible lessons come from unexpected people, whom you’ll meet in the most unexpected places.

You don’t know this yet, so let me tell you, just in case you need me in the future---your Auntie lives pretty much in an imaginary world, made of dreams, stories written by others, and small gems, each one symbolizing a good friend, or a faraway place, or flashes of images belonging to other times and places. Whenever you feel curious to jump into the rabbit hole with me, please raise your hand and I’ll hold it through the small path. I guarantee we will make it back.

Thank you for being with us, and thank you for making me an aunt.

With love,

Your Auntie,

Alice

Looking Forward: Girls.

“This might have been a mistake,” I said. My friend Lily, head cocked in sympathy, nodded. “Definitely a mistake.”

It was a cold night, and we’d just met friends at a favorite bar in our neighborhood. Short on cash, I’d ordered the $4 well whiskey, neat. Its smell alone made my eyes water. And I’d been given a generous pour.

“Brave girl,” someone remarked as I held the tumbler to my lips.

“Would you like me to tell you a story, to distract you while you drink that?” said Lily.

“Yes,” I replied. “Please.”

“Okay,” she said. “This is a story about unicorns.”

And she began.

---

People say that when you find true love, you know. Though I’ve experienced this with the opposite sex before, the same phenomenon has occurred---delightfully, consistently, and much more often---in many of my friendships with girls, as well.

For instance, Kimiko, one of my closest childhood friends, shared a bus seat with me on a field trip in the third grade. We debated afterschool snacks, discussed the size and cuteness of our respective pet rabbits, played MASH---and subsequently spent the next seven years together, so close that we considered ourselves one unit (our combined name was Shimiko). When I moved to LA at fifteen, we traded photo albums, and put together a dictionary of terms we’d created over the course of our friendship---code names for crushes, words only the two of us understood.

And that was just it---there was much about the two of us that only we understood. In so many ways, we spoke the same language.

I knew the same was true of Maya, a high school friend and future Brooklyn roommate, when we spent an afternoon in the parking lot at our school, seated on the roof of her car. We were navigating what I remember to be a very complicated situation involving prom dates. My angst about the situation was almost certainly disproportionate to the circumstances at hand; still, she understood.

And when Linda, my roommate all four years of college, spent countless nights in with me while all of our friends went out, I knew I’d made a special kind of friend---one you know you never have to work to impress, one who understands your history as well as they do their own. Already a sister to six, she’s filled that role for me, as well. She’s family, a touchstone. She feels like home.

I met Lily only months ago, late in the summer, in East River Park. She and another college roommate of mine, Megan, were spending an afternoon sitting in the grass, talking, getting sunburns. We’d all recently been through break-ups; we were heavy-hearted. But that gave us something to talk about. And in the weeks and months that followed, I found so much of the happiness I needed in meeting Megan to do work at coffee shops, in going on late-night adventures with Lily. (When she told me the story about unicorns at the bar, I knew she was someone whose quirkiness I understood.)

Though I’m loathe to make a Sex and the City reference here (much internal deliberation happened before I wrote this paragraph), I can’t help but think of a scene that occurs toward series’ end---it’s one that always makes me feel like weeping. In it, Carrie, set to embark on her ill-fated journey to Paris, says to her friends, “What if I never met you?”

---

Megan and I had dinner together just last weekend and reflected on the past few months over steaming bowls of soup. “My year took a turn the day I came to see you in the park,” I said. “You were lonely in the same way I was. You understood.”

You understood.

What a staggering gift, to have friends who say, “I know what you mean.” Who make you laugh. Who appreciate, and relate to, and love  your eccentricities.

This is what it means to know someone.

It’s what it means to understand.

Doing it Yourself

This past weekend I infused honey in my tiny Brooklyn apartment. Before you get the wrong idea: infusing honey is no great feat of urban homesteading. The process itself is not much more difficult than than steeping a bag of tea. Avoiding a sticky mess is the real challenge but barring any honey disasters, it’s a simple task: add spices to honey, heat honey, strain honey, pour honey into sterilized jars and seal them up. Before the holidays I’ll wrap my amber jars of cinnamon and cardamom-infused honey in a piece of burlap and tie them up with ribbon. They’ll serve as tiny gifts to family members who we’ve traveled far to see: a little treat from my kitchen to theirs.

I like this kind of gift-giving. It’s simple and the act of making the gifts serves as a quiet moment in what can be a hectic season. To be totally honest, it’s more about the joy that it brings me than anything else. Instead of the anxiety of spending hours looking for an affordable gift in crowded stores, making the honey was peaceful, even soothing. For the hour or two that I spent gathering my supplies and preparing my gifts, I had nothing to do but remember to stir the honey and make sure that I didn’t spill anything. There was no whiny Christmas music, no pushy shoppers, just me and my glass jars in a comically small kitchen.

As I strained honey into cup-sized jars I thought about the different ways that our hosts might use their gift. One will stir hers into into cups of tea, another will drizzle it over buttered toast, still one more will pass it along to an unsuspecting neighbor, never to be seen again. There’s no perfect solution when it comes to giving holiday gifts, but in my view, making a little something in your own kitchen comes pretty close. Even if the finished product languishes in someone's cupboard, you've gained yourself a few quiet moments of holiday cheer. For me, that's reason enough to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Since You Brought It Up: Downshifting

By Lauren Kodiak It’s been six months since I finished school. From kindergarten to graduate studies, I never stopped—never took a moment to breathe, reflect or reassess. You see, after four years of college, you’re supposed to have it all figured out. During my senior year, I began to dread the impending doom that post-grads feel when searching for jobs. I needed a goal, something to keep working towards, so I applied to graduate schools to study Higher Education (because, hey, that sounds promising). A few short months after graduation, I boarded a plane to Portland, Oregon, leaving my family and friends behind in Connecticut, where I’d lived my first 22 years.

Throughout my two-year grad program, I noticed an internal shift. I took things a little less seriously, slowed down and appreciated quiet moments alone where I could be with my thoughts. I even started a personal blog, something I never thought I’d do, and each post felt more therapeutic than the last. This, of course, made room for pesky feelings to bubble up, feelings that confirmed I wasn’t as passionate about this field as I had originally hoped. Still, I made an effort to savor my last years as a student, and trudged on to graduation.

And here I am, six months out, and though I’ve felt pangs of that post-grad doom, I’m surprisingly calm. I work two part-time jobs—one (that uses my degree) to pay the bills, another (a writing gig for a local publication) that doesn’t feel like a job at all. I've become quite taken with stringing words together, fitting each one in its exact place to complete a puzzle of sorts. I don’t have it all figured out, by any means, but I am energized and hopeful about following this creative outlet to see where it leads.

But as I’m getting ready to head home for the holidays, self-doubt has started to creep in. Will others judge me for “wasting my degree” if I abandon Higher Education for a little while, or altogether? Am I a fool to go for the less lucrative or stable career? I realize that most of this pressure is self-imposed. I'm working on being at peace with my decision, reframing it in a positive way. When people ask why I don’t have a full-time job at a university, I’ll pass on saying “Because the job market is so dismal,” in favor of saying “Because I decided to pursue another path.” I want to finally give myself the time to explore what I’m truly passionate about—but first, I need to own it, embrace it and carry it with confidence.

***

We believe we can find more joy in the holidays by squashing the little voice that tells us bright spirits and good cheer are only possible when we’re perfect.  The magic of this time of year comes from connecting with loved ones near and far, reminding ourselves of all we have to be thankful for, and . . . covering everything in twinkling white lights. 

We’re embracing our present lives—foibles and all—so we can spend more time drinking egg nog and less time worrying we’re not good enough. Imperfect is the new black; wear it with pride.

Want to lighten your load? Read the post that kicked off the series, Ashely Schneider's Down, Not Out. Add your story to the “Since You Brought It Up” series by submitting it here. 

XVI. Normandie

Frédéric is one of Clémence’s best friends. He studies French literature, wears scarves, and rolls his own cigarettes, which delights me when I am 17 years old and have never met a boy who seems so different, so un-American.

We kiss for the first time at a party at Manon’s house. Emboldened by sweet rum and Cokes, I take his lighter and hold it hostage, flirtatiously demanding payment. Fréd kisses me once, twice. Clémence sees us and squeals for everyone to hear, and instead of blushing with embarrassment, I feel daring. This is how I can be in France, I realize.

We’ve lost track of the hours and the rest of the neighborhood is fast asleep. We are still silly drunk and Manon takes out a board game called Allez, les Escargots! We each line up a colorful wooden snail on the board and roll the dice, moving snails slowly forward, cheering and yelling and trying to get ours to the finish line first.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Megan Flynn is a self-proclaimed foodie and writer with dreams of a literary life.  She has a master's in Children's Literature and an affinity for cultural studies, good food, caffeine, cute animals, dirty martinis, bookstores, and those first few weeks of autumn. Her hobbies include running, cooking, taking photos, crying over her favorite music, trying to keep her room clean, and blogging away at freckleditalian.com. She currently resides on Smith Mountain Lake in Virginia, where she drinks wine and works in the social media & mobile apps division of a software company in downtown Roanoke. When fall and winter come around with their chilly mornings and fog, I cling to old books. My Norton Anthologies from undergrad move from my bookshelf to my bedside table, and I flip through the bent and sometimes coffee-stained pages of my favorite novels from that time. Sometimes I don’t even read the whole thing; I just page through until I find a section with a lot of underlining or notes in the margins. It reminds me of the days when the majority of my time was spent reading, sharing clothes with my girlfriends, doing work in a library.

But eventually it’s time for a winter with new books. So I’ve compromised this season, toting around three new ones with only one repeater. And I asked an old college friend to tell me what she’s reading right now, too.

--

Atonement by Ian McEwan This is my nostalgic winter read of the year.

“Cecilia knew she could not go on wasting her days in the stews of her untidied room, lying on her bed in a haze of smoke, chin propped on her hand, pins and needles spreading up through her arm as she read her way through Richardson’s Clarissa.”

Atonement very deeply conveys the power of writing. I love McEwan’s ability to tell me a story without being overly emotional and still make me feel more than some Nicholas Sparks novel would. I love that when I first read Atonement, Cecilia and I were both reading our way through Richardson’s Clarissa. It’s a book that will stay with you, and remind you of where you were in life when you first read it.

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo I have literally been working on this book since June. The story is gorgeous, but I sometimes get lost in Hugo’s narration. I take breaks and read other things, which I think is fine, and people keep asking me why I don’t just put it down and forget about it. It’s so long, they say. I know that. But I started it because I thought that any novel that could inspire the songs from Les Misérables, the musical, was worth a try. And I haven’t felt like putting it down for good yet. I’m trying to finish it by Christmas, when the new film version comes out. Hey, I dreamed a dream!

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami From the back cover: “Japan’s most highly regarded novelist now vaults into the first ranks of international fiction writers with this heroically imaginative novel, which is at once a detective story, an ccount of a disintegrating marriage, and an excavation of the buried secrets of World War II.”

One of my smartest friends gave me this book as a gift, and I’m only twenty-five pages in, but when I close the thing I’m left with the feeling that I have no idea what I’m about to get myself into. I mean that in the best possible way—this novel is already beautifully mysterious and odd.

I Am a Strange Loop by Douglas Hofstadter The same professor (my absolute favorite ever) who had me read Atonement and Clarissa in one semester also recommended this book to my class. An English professor with a Ph.D. in British Literature, he said that every year he tries to read something from outside his field in order to see things with an open mind and stay sharp. Although not rocket science, I thought that was amazing. Right now, you’re listening to a woman who had so much trouble with math in school that she shies away from basic addition and subtraction, and certainly doesn’t make time to try to tackle algebra head-on.

Hofstadter addresses the idea of what we mean when we say “I”—is it even real? Is it just a state of consciousness? His writing is more accessible than I anticipated and he tells great stories. Never mind the fact that I bought my copy three years ago and am only on chapter four. I’ll get to it with a bit more energy soon, perhaps once I’m done with Les Misérables.

And as a bonus, here is a suggestion from my dear friend Emily, a 9th grade English teacher. When Emily suggests a book, I always pick it up.

The Paris Wife by Paula McLain This book deliciously tells the story of Ernest Hemingway and Hadley, his first wife. Although this is a fictional account of their marriage, the novel is meticulously accurate on all major plot moments and was clearly written after much research. Readers will be re-introduced to familiar names such as F. Scott, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound as Hadley and Hemingway drink their way around a glittering Paris in the 1920s.

This novel is creatively, gracefully told from the perspective of Hadley, and I couldn't help but find her vulnerability infectious. I thought I knew Hemingway before this novel, but I was amazed to discover how re-shaped my perspective is now on such an electric, but selfish, man. I devoured this novel, knowing all the while that their love didn't last, hoping all the same for Hadley's happiness in the end. Once you've read this novel, you will never read The Sun Also Rises the same way again. (And, if you're like me, that's exactly what you'll pick up once you've finished the final page of The Paris Wife.)

--

So, what are you reading?

Lessons from Dallas...

Dear Clara,

It’s funny how some trips can come and go in the blink of an eye.  Modern air transport can take us somewhere new and back in the space of less than 24 hours, which is was my experience on last week’s trip to Dallas, Texas.  These trips can make you feel as though you really haven’t been anywhere: airports start looking the same, hotels start feeling the same, the interminable taxi rides start being the same . . . But you have to fight the temptation of thinking everything is the same. It’s not.  And even on these quick trips, that are more for work than for fun, it’s possible---with some effort---to start to notice differences.  Make a mental note of them before you forget; seeing differences is, after all, a big reason for why we travel.

Here is what I caught on my most recent trip to Dallas:

• Look out for your eyes: I couldn’t get over how bright the Texas sun was, even in a December afternoon sky.  Even in a car, there’s nearly nowhere to hide from the brightness and reflections.  It was a good reminder to have quality sunglasses that protect your eyes, and the skin around them too---it’s your responsibility to take care of them for the long-run.
• Sometimes more is more: Everything seemed somehow bigger in Texas . . . the car . . . the drink I ordered . . . the Christmas tree in the mall.  I wasn’t always used to it but sometimes it’s nice to have more of something.  I was particularly taken by the holiday decorations that were already plentiful,  and it seemed like a nice feeling to have such an outward expression of bows and glitter and lights.  It can be nice to immerse yourself in something more than we would normally allow ourselves.
• But be mindful of space: Just because we can make something bigger doesn’t mean that we should.  Along with more and bigger, I couldn’t help but notice that everything also took up more space.  I was floored when looking out the window on take-off to see just how huge of an area the city covers.  And driving around, I noticed many buildings were just one story, many surrounded by huge parking lots, with lots of space in between.  Space certainly doesn’t seem lacking, so there is something to be said for using what you have.  But sometimes while more space can seem nice, it also means that you need more stuff to fill it, different ways to get around it, and sometimes it makes you feel far away from others.   Think about how much space you need, versus how much space you merely want.
• Take stock of little differences: Sometimes a drive to the airport is just a drive to the airport, but if you’re in a cab, take the opportunity to look out the window and see what there is.  The landscape, the traffic pattern, who’s sitting in other cars . . . . I was surprised to see that there was a $4.00 toll just to come on to airport grounds, the first time I’ve ever seen such a thing, which got me thinking about how public/private infrastructure might work in Dallas, and  it’s not something I would have ever noticed before, but something I’ll ask about when I come back.
• Enjoy the moon just as much as you would the sun: I didn’t get much daylight in Dallas, and what I did was mostly spent in a conference room.  But with such a wide open sky and not much light to distract it, I had a full view of the full bright moon from my hotel room, which I don’t get to enjoy as much in Washington.  Look for little moments that you don’t often get to see.

All my love,

Mom

Traveling With Parents

When I was eighteen and spending several years backpacking through South America and Europe, having a parent come to visit meant two things: hot showers and all the food I could eat.  Having left to travel abroad straight from my parent’s house, I had little to no concept of what real world costs were:  should a loaf of bread cost one dollar or five?  Was twenty bucks a reasonable price for a bunk in a hostel with bed bugs (all the better to combat the loneliness with, my dear!) and moldy showers?  Was it worth it to buy the $100 train ticket, or was it a far better value to hitch rides for free? I combatted these questions by spending next to no money at all, so that, when my dad came to visit me in Italy, I’d lost five pounds and, although I’d been through the bulk of Eastern Europe, I’d been to zero museums, palaces, or any other cultural (read = costly) attractions.  My dad fed me.  He paid for hotels that had fluffy beds and towels (towels!).  When he left, he made sure I had a train ticket to my next destination, and a clean, safe hostel booked for when I arrived.  My mother, when she came to visit me in Greece several months later, did the exact same thing.  They weren’t my fellow travelers, merely versions of the same roles they filled back home.  The environment had changed, but the relationship had not.

I recently went back to Italy, with my mother this time.  The trip started as an act of parental grace:  I was lonely and sick of the constant drizzle of England, and she offered to take a trip with me to bolster my spirits.  After we met at the airport though, the roles shifted.  Now twenty-five, with years of not only traveling but life under my belt, I found myself figuring out train routes.  I scoured the internet for the best hotels for our purposes; I directed us to the thinnest, richest pizza in Naples.  The change in roles, though, was most evident on the trains, in the hotels, at the restaurant over the pizza:  that is, in the conversations we had.  No longer adult to child, we spoke about online dating, about Israel and Palestine, about sex and cholesterol and Renaissance art.  In short, we spoke about life.

This relationship transition can, of course, happen anywhere.  Often referenced when talking about traveling with a significant other, though, being in a foreign country tends to magnify relationships, showing their boons and their flaws and mostly their shape, as a whole, crystalized and highlighted in a way that’s impossible for either party to ignore. This was the longest amount of time I’ve spent alone with my mother since I was thirteen years old.  It was the most time we had to talk, to work through decisions, to deal with things going awry, and simply, just to be.  I found out more about who I am, who my mother is, and who we are together.  My mother is a woman who has a wicked sense of humor.  She’s a woman who snores, and who shares my (lack of) interest in the multitude of religious art that papers every Italian surface (As we walked under a giant Jesus in the Pitti Palace:  “Alright, alright.  We get it already!”).  She’s skilled at bringing smiles to the faces of strangers and equally skilled at devouring an entire pizza.

In your twenties, it’s hard to redefine your relationship with your parents, the people who wiped poop from your bare bum and taught you how to read and write.  And while everyone’s relationship ends up in a different place---I have one friend who goes prowling for hot guys with her mom, and another who can’t even disclose that she drinks---traveling can help figure out where to start.  And that’s worth more than any hot shower.

XV. Provence

There is a French television show called Plus Belle la Vie that Agnès and I watch some evenings together, sitting on her neatly arranged couch with our feet on the floor. The show is set in Marseille, the large port town just a 30-minute bus ride away from Aix, and features lots of tanned characters with dramatic relationships and secret dealing in the underground crime scene. The usual stuff of soap operas, I expect, but it's a pretty nice half hour that I spend with Agnès. I’d take any kind of connection with her at this point. Our time together, however, does not always go uninterrupted.

Agnès’s son is named Jérôme. He is 13 years old and spends most of his time when he’s not at school in his room, playing online games or doing homework. I’ve been living in this small apartment for weeks, and I’ve still barely spent any time in the same room with him. Jérôme opts not to eat at the kitchen table for dinner most of the time, which I had never heard of in a French household until now. When he decides that he is hungry or just wants an answer to a homework problem he can’t solve, he shrieks Maman! Viens! in his shrill, pubescent voice. Mom! Come here!

And just like that, Agnès wordlessly gets up and goes. I stare after her every time, wondering why.