Andiamo

The Babbel app on my phone sends me notifications every day. Sliding onto the top of my lock screen with a quiet nudge to “Improve your Italian,” it’s “Now or never.” I’ve been swiping them clear of my screen until recently – because it’s time to actually go to Italy. After trying other apps (sorry, DuoLinguo, I do love your owl) – I find that Babbel has been the right format, style, and speed for my language learning.

Months ago I decided to download the app and try my hand at a new Romance language. My second language is Spanish, and I studied it for a very long time before going to Spain – twice – deepening my language abilities and my life-long appreciation for the culture and its people.

Spring 2004: Semester abroad in Granada, Spain

When I came home after my semester abroad in college, I chose to audit an Intro to French class in my senior year. What a leap. After thinking, speaking, writing, dreaming in Spanish for six months, French was hard. My professor kindly noted the French answers when I wrote Spanish ones in weekly vocabulary quizzes. Hat? Sombrero. Meant to say chapeau. In Italian? Cappello.

Years later, my dip into Italian was much faster, smoother, and more enjoyable. Babbel prompted me to practice all aspects of language acquisition – reading, writing, speaking, listening.

• Speaking Italian is wonderful – it trips off the tongue with life, and marks syllables with intention. Sometimes I hear myself speaking Italian words in Spanish, and need to adjust my accent and try again.

• Reading Italian gives me time and space to think critically about the words and syntax. I can spot conjugations, words in their plural form, and words that look like their Spanish counterparts. I can dissect a paragraph and figure it out for myself.

• Listening to Italian takes concentration, but I get the gist. I follow the conversation in cafes, I mentally note linking words that I don’t know yet (anche (also), ma (but)) and draw conclusions to prove to myself later.

• Writing Italian is what slows me down. Even with context clues, if I don’t know the word I can’t pull it out of thin air. This is frustrating, and I’m eager to build a vocabulary so I can converse.

Arriving in Milan via London, I’m already hearing the melody of Italian. I’ve been using short phrases in my emails to the group we’re leading to help them recognize common phrases. I’ve been playing the Babbel podcast “Voice of Bell’Italia” and focusing on the cities we are visiting: Milan, Florence, Rome.

I am so ready for the click of heels on cobblestone streets, setting my sights on the soaring spires of the Duomo, breathing in the smell of roasting chestnuts, and filling my ears with Italian. Oh, and gelato. Buongiorno, gelato.

Travel days can be a lot, and I know already my cognitive abilities are on low after this long day. My taxi driver is ready to chat. I am not.

I happen to love chatting up taxi drivers, Uber drivers, bus drivers, you name it. You live here and you’re driving me around? Tell me everything. Ask me anything.

Just, not at this moment.

It’s bucketing rain, my inbound flight was delayed and I would like to go lie down. I can actually feel my brain short circuiting, as my responses slide around in my brain and I can’t vocalize them out loud. Milan whizzes by and the rain slides down the windows, and I manage a grazie, ciao as I draw up to my hotel.

But dinner .. that’s hard. Am I chickening out or just being realistic? Tired and hungry – too high a hurdle in this moment. I map a nearby restaurant with delivery service and my first meal in Italy requires no speech, limited interaction, and I eat quietly in my room. Tomorrow is another day!

Hiking: Solitude and Togetherness

My husband and I logged almost forty miles of walking and hiking in ten days during our recent visit to central Oregon. In August that can mean hot temperatures and smoky wildfires, so on several days we made our way to higher elevations. While shopping in Bend I found a sticker that said, “Higher altitude, happy attitude.” I couldn’t agree more.

Hiking is one of those activities that conjures an immediate visual for me. Here’s what I picture:

• Individuals in brightly colored gear (this hike sponsored by Patagonia, as Jim Gaffigan would say.)
• Rugged clothing with zippers, pockets, lots of layers – I always picture a hike in fall weather, my preferred season.
• Maybe some hiking poles – in the hands of these adventurers, never clipped to a pack or on the ground, always in use.
• Definitely a backpack, preferably in a bright color: blue, orange, green.
• High socks, intense shoes or boots, and definitely a hat.

Local or a tourist? All decked out for a hike in the heat

One afternoon we hiked the Tam a Lau trail in Cove Palisades park, an hour north of Bend (find it on AllTrails.) Two rivers – Crooked and Deschutes – collide here around a peninsula of rock. The hike is a lollipop loop that gains 600 feet in elevation and offers an expansive view at the top. It’s hot. This is not hiking in elevation like at Crater Lake where it was 60 degrees. The sun is baking the pavement as we drive serpentine roads down to the rivers. It’s midday, but because it’s a weekday it’s quiet except for a few boats, JetSki’s, and swimmers.

Looking back at the summit

John says I look like I live in Bend. On this hike I’m wearing calf-high socks, Merrell hiking shoes, shorts, a long sleeve chambray button down, and my Shaggy Sheep truckers hat. But I don’t quite pass the local test – my hat brim is still rounded, straight brims are all the rage here.

We’re testing out new hydration packs from Osprey. I think this means we’ve unlocked a new level of hiker. Spoiler alert. We both ran out of water. We have sandwiches packed into John’s bag along with the ultimate hiking incentive: Haribo gummies imported from my recent trip abroad. Can you get them in the States? Yes. Are they better from Europe? Also yes.

The treat that motivates me to catch up to my husband on the trail

The soil here is sandy and our shoes are an outrageous shade of high desert brown, and little puffs of dirt create clouds around our feet as we walk. My husband is a born climber and has surged ahead with my breathless blessing. It’s here on this hike that I’m thinking about how hiking may be an independent activity as much as it is a time for togetherness. He’s somewhere up ahead (so are the gummy bears) and I’m going at my own pace, finding shade, and taking breaks. Occasionally I’ll spot him up ahead, and it makes me smile.

Snow capped peaks feel like a mirage when temperatures are high

The trail is sandy, rocky, and beautiful. There are craggy juniper trees all over, breaking up the brown landscape. I think I can smell them, but it may be a trick of the heat. The river is fading away below us, and the dark stone walls around the rivers are impressive, steep, and varied shades of brown. A snow capped mountain peak is visible across the river looking west, and another one is visible further out.

Taking a hike is one of my preferred ways to get outdoors. Hiking can be like swimming for me. I get in the zone, one foot after the other, and everything else disappears. I know myself, and I know I am calmer and less stressed when I’m a) exercising and b) far away from my emails. The learner in me also appreciates that there is science to back up this gut feeling that I am somehow better outside. Dr. Richard Taylor of the University of Oregon studies fractals, or repeating patterns, in nature. You can read more about his work here in a 2022 Sierra Club article, and then consider what that means when we live in an urban environment. As this UO article says, “The human brain would rather look at nature than city streets.”

Fractals in a pine tree branch

This is only partially true for me. I love architecture as much as forests, and I find exploring cities to be deeply satisfying. But I also can see how some cities can be stressful in their noise, pollution, and layout. When I’m outside, especially in thinner mountain air, I can feel my spirits lift in a way that lasts just a bit longer than the serotonin hit from turning the corner on a winding cobblestone street in Europe or a packed city street corner in Philadelphia.

Always up ahead, John is my advance scout

I asked my husband later if he thinks that our hikes are more about solitude or togetherness. He said, “yes.” I agree. When I’m further back on the trail and I’m doing my own thing, I’m really enjoying being alone – in my own head, thinking about nothing, or thinking about everything. Then I see him up ahead on the trail and I’m excited to catch up. Not just for a gummy bear but to talk about what we’ve each seen and noticed on the hike, and to compare notes. It’s a memory that we both can keep, each in our own way – and I love that.

Heading West

We travel all day Saturday. Through Las Vegas airport with its clanging slots and tired passengers. It is over 100 degrees outside but thankfully we don’t have to face it on our short layover. We fly into the small and shuttered airport of Eugene, Oregon after 6pm where baggage claim and car rental share the same space. We drive into the city of Eugene, the stretch of highway between airport and city always an interesting area to witness. This one is full of industry, and weary souls, some clearly without a home. 

There is a fish restaurant plugged into our GPS on the outskirts of town – John has been studying the menu – and when we pull up it gives promising shack vibes in its tiny form and bright, quirky artwork.

The inside is a wonderland of briny smells, vibrant poster boards with stark white signs typed in block letters shouting SALMON and HALIBUT and LOBSTER MAC AND CHEESE. Order numbers are called out from the counter, huge Dungeness crabs float in a nearby tank, and the young woman behind the counter confides that if fish and chips is what we want, halibut is the best.

Halibut cheeks to be precise, which are new to us, and come with criss crossed waffle fries that are perfect for the multiple sauces at the island behind us. The space isn’t full but every inch is packed. Tables line the outer walls and spill into an equally cramped outdoor patio. The long case of fish for sale is so inviting – bright reds and pinks and startling white fillets waiting to be purchased. 

The table has a hand painted mural on it. An old fisherman that belongs on the Gordon’s fish stick box and a fisherwoman beside him. John brings tiny paper cups of sauce, and more sauce, for us to try. “NUMBER 12,” is for us: two baskets of fried halibut cheeks that are sturdy and perfect and piping hot. We share a root beer and reach for napkins to clean our oily fingers. We eat our fill – not a spare crumb left in either basket – and get back on the road.

We pick up a grocery order in Eugene and I’m grateful for my past self and ordering ahead. We have an hour and forty five minute drive to the middle of the Umpqua National Forest and our resting place for the next two nights, the Steamboat Inn.

The landscape changes from residential sprawl to rural highway. The rolling hills are dotted with pine trees and the grass is bleached of color, matching the hay bales we pass on the way. There are deer, sheep, and even a herd of longhorns. We pass the end of a ranch driveway where a pickup truck is parked, surrounded by a group of teenagers chatting and laughing. Their short shorts and black jeans and shiny hair make me wonder who we would be if we had grown up here instead.

The road is serpentine as we begin to follow the North Umpqua River, matching bend for bend. Dusk falls and we drive slower, watching for deer, even though by now we are desperate to reach the inn. Looking out the window to the west, we cross a short bridge and the sun slides into the water like a painting, rocks in its wake painted silver and gold in the dying light. I count the miles and the minutes until we are finally pulling into the driveway, the inn peeking from the side of the road like a fairy house.

It is 83 degrees in our room. I push open the door and am immediately and uncomfortably awake, the hot air pressing back at me with a force. A squat wood stove sits in the corner – is it your fault? – and I look around for thermostats on the wall. The options are Off or Heat and both of those sound terrible. I register that my husband has kindly requested flowers for the room and a bouquet sits cheerily on the dresser beneath this bad news thermostat. John fills the doorway, suitcase in hand, and is quiet for a moment before he summarizes our situation with a “Wow.”

We unceremoniously dump our bags, find a box fan in the closet, and fling the back door open to the rushing river and cool air outside. Thankfully there is a screen, with a small sign that asks guests to kindly close the door to keep critters outside. Helpfully, it includes a picture of a long nose, whiskers, and the face of a possum. I look down and see the bottom of the screen is reinforced with a second screen and metal frame. Determined possums, then.

I hand crank the window open above the bed and glance at the clock: 9pm. John plays his Nintendo Switch and I lay on my side in a sports bra and shorts with a book. And then someone walks by on the porch, stopping briefly to squint into our room. What? This is how we learn that the porch runs the length of the cabins and ours is on a corner, and en route to an exit. We reluctantly close the door to keep people and possums out.

We toss and turn and try to sleep. When it’s still too dark to be morning, but just light enough to see, I’m shuffling to the porch door to crack it open and get some relief. No lights are on outside, but I hear wings. Moths? Bugs? The porch light isn’t on so I’m not sure what drew them. I squint through my glasses at the small, fast, dark shapes. Ah. Bats. I close the door. 

At first light the bats are gone, the door is open, and we are perched outside on matching Adirondack chairs listening to the river below. The lodge restaurant behind us has started to cook and breakfast smells are wafting our way. The inn is styled as accommodation, restaurant, gift shop, and a small group of friendly staff are doing all the things. Checking folks in and out, waiting tables, running food, and greeting guests.

We choose smoked steelhead hash and eggs to share over coffee, and it’s divine – ferried back to the porch in the cool air in a cardboard takeout container. The hash is just the right blend of oil, smoke, and seasoning. John tells me he asked at the desk if there’s anything else we can do to cool off and laughingly relays the unexpected answer to me: The woman pointed East out the window and said, “if you drive two football fields in that direction you’ll come to a creek and you can jump right in.” He’s laughing as he tries to convey the sincerity with which it was delivered, making me smile.

The coffee starts to kick in and our eyes are opening. Our body temperatures are finally regulated, stomachs full, and the room temperature down to 70 degrees. The sound of the rushing river is washing away the jet lag and the stress of the restless night. And then a sharp beep fills the air.

We tilt our heads toward the noise like animals, looking at one another. Then five more short, high-pitched beeps. 

Because, of course, the room’s carbon monoxide battery has died and is now signaling the end of its life. Precisely every sixty seconds.

We laugh. What else can you do?

..

Fisherman’s Market, Eugene

Steamboat Inn, Idleyld Park

Umpqua National Forest

Music & Stories

Our house is often quiet. I grew up an only child and treasure time by myself, alone, with the only sound being turning pages in a book. I crave it. We both work jobs that require high levels of interaction, our faces on screens, and the daily noise comes from working with people and ongoing projects. I think by the time we get home, we are ready for that bubble of silence.

Back in the day when I used to commute a significant distance (100 mile round trip), it was audiobooks that I chose to keep me company. An excellent narrator with a sonorous voice could get me from place to place. It wouldn’t always distract me from traffic, but it would take my mind off the job I had just left and give me a sense of switching off work and transitioning to play. In a work week when I would commute four days a week I could finish one book, and start another. I highly recommend the Libby app, tied to your library system. Borrow, place holds, and find books the same way you would at your local branch.

Despite my love of silence, one of the ways I can truly focus on something is with music. It can’t be music with words… somehow I know the lyrics to every song and I will end up, distracted and singing along, or looking up a Wikipedia article about the artist. I need my “imagination music“ as I called it when I was little. Classical music, instrumental. It could be piano, it could be strings. It could be acoustic guitar. Later in life, I would learn to appreciate the power of a full orchestra. We are spoiled by two powerhouse orchestras locally: Baltimore and Philadelphia.

Last fall we stayed at an Airbnb with a record player. It is so on trend to stay in an A-frame cabin decorated with mid century modern furnishings and tucked into the wilderness. We brought a record along with us (the first we have ever purchased: Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2) and there was a pile of vinyl to sift through. One album surprised the heck out of my husband, and reminded him of listening to these songs in his childhood. He retains numbers and facts, not musical lyrics, and I was so surprised to hear him humming along and googling the words. After a day out, exploring, we would come home and cook and choose record after record to listen to in the evening.

and so began the time travel, and our vinyl collection.

Our parents were amused when we told them about our find in the woods of Virginia. Soon to each of them, we’re offering to handover a crate or two or three of records of their own. My parents came to visit, and we spent several days over the weekend in a rotation, each person, and choosing a record to play next. My folks have a deep love of music and are no doubt to thank for my expensive musical lyric library in my mind. Motown, rock, folk, you name it. Kenny Rogers, Percy Sledge, Moody Blues, James Taylor, Otis Redding, Barbara Streisand.

Nearly every record led to a story. My dad pulled two identical jackets out of the crate and told a story about buying a record he was looking forward to hearing, only to find the record didn’t match the jacket. He went back to the store and was given the second – correct – record, and kept both. Many of the records that my dad contributed to this collection were purchased, while he was abroad in Japan, with the US Air Force. I had a new mental image I had not had before: my skinny, young, father in a record store, looking for his next album. The album incorrectly tucked into the second sleeve is “In a Mellow Mood,” also by the Temptations.

Visiting my in-laws there were three boxes waiting for us, from both sides of the family. Without a record player in the room, we went through jackets and exclaimed on different gems, genres, and some empty sleeves. Here was Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, bossa nova and show tunes, classical and country. We were gifted the original copy of the album that had stunned my husband in a stranger’s home and jogged his memory. Roger Whitaker, The Last Farewell.

This weekend I put on a record gifted to me this summer after a stressful week. The band was new to me and a favorite of hers. I put the record on and hummed along to something I hadn’t heard before. This feels a lot like travel to a new city, or watching a new show. Nice to meet you, Stevie Ray Vaughan.

There is something mindful about choosing a record, setting the needle, and listening to the album as the artist intended. We have already found some local record shops to flip through albums, and an online store where sellers around the US empty out their basements. Treasures like $7 Elton John’s Greatest Hits, a $11 Creedence Clearwater Revival Gold (expensive compared to that $3 price tag on my dad’s Temptations album from the 1960s!) I’ve lost myself in Wikipedia pages about the lives of long gone artists, discographies, and lyrics.

Choosing to be grateful for the reminder to pause and listen to the music, hear the stories, and appreciate the gifts.

Six years, you say?

It has been almost six years to the day that I’ve posted to this blog. What’s the deal? TLDR: Moved to Maryland, met a guy, launched a career, got married, and while I spend a whole lot of time on screens, it hasn’t been here.

 Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend.

Theophrastus

I’ve recently returned to two places that brought me back to this space: Seattle, Washington in 2017 (Sweetness in Seattle) and Salzburg, Austria in 2011 (Salzburg: The Sound of Schnitzel. To say a lot has changed since I made those entries is an understatement, and I’m looking forward to writing again.

At 39 years old, I’ve got some things figured out and other things still percolating. I have a partner and a career I love. I have traveled extensively and am still not tired of exploring new places. I am reconciling what it means to be in fast paced role, responsible for a team, coming out of a pandemic.. and what it means to make time for myself. Should I read more? Hit the gym or the spa? Throw my cell phone off a bridge and swear off social media? Spend time alone? Go away with friends? Hike a mountain? Bake a cake?

I think the answer is, “Yes, and.”

You’re welcome to come along and walk with me while I figure it out.