Follow-up

I just wanted to say that if I came across anti-hospital in my last post, I didn't mean to. Hospitals are great places to have babies (my friend Melanie that I referenced had hers in a hospital in Utah County). My intended point was just that I was exposed to information that both surprised me and challenged a lot of my assumptions about birth. So that post was partly to explain myself (since what I'm doing is outside the norm) and partly to pass along some things that I found helpful -- since this info wasn't offered by either of the OBs I had seen (one great, one not-so-great) -- in case there's another "me" out there who will appreciate it.

Why I’m choosing to “go natural”

As you may or may not know, I’m planning a non-hospital, drug-free waterbirth attended by a midwife. I get varied reactions from people when they find this out – mostly polite surprise, but also the occasional “Hoo boy, you’re brave” (Mark’s grandma) and, among the brutally honest (my father), overt initial skepticism. Curiosity is one consistent aspect of nearly everyone’s reaction.

And as a disclaimer, I’m not trying to convince anyone that they should do the same thing, but I am glad that I was exposed to this birth information when I was, so if I can increase exposure to this way of having a baby, then great. If I help someone else find a better birth for herself, then hey, pay it forward.

I always assumed I would give birth in a hospital, in a bed with a hospital gown, just like everyone else I knew. My exposure to birth was limited to postpartum visits to friends and family, one visit to a friend who was actually in labor in the hospital, and television portrayals (which, it turns out, are a wild misrepresentation). In other words, my exposure was (and still is) very limited. But I assumed I would go to the hospital like everyone else. I wanted to “see if I could do it” without an epidural – partly to see if I was “tough enough,” and partly because I wanted to connect with this rite of passage for women through history. But, if I couldn’t hash it, I thought, I’ll get an epidural.

This was my plan – or rather, this was the default option. Then I read the birth story of my friend Melanie. She talked about laboring in a tub, using a birth ball, walking around, and her doctor massaging the perineum as the baby crowned (!) – I thought it was all quite strange but thought hey, to each her own. Then, in a later post, she referenced an article called “The Purpose of Pain in Labor” (which unfortunately is no longer available on the website – Mel, if you have a copy would you email it to me?). The gist of the article (as I remember it) was that pain in labor, like in any aspect of life, is your body’s way of communicating with you, and that naturally responding to that pain allows your body to be most effective in getting the baby out with the least damage to everyone involved.

I had a major “Huh.” moment reading that article. It just made so much sense. One reference led to another, and by the end of the day I was researching birth centers and midwifery and waterbirths, and I was just about sold.

Coincidentally (actually, I don’t think it was a coincidence, I think it was divine providence), that same day Mark attended a presentation on various community service opportunities he would have this year, and one of them was at the only birth center in the Valley. He took the time to talk to the nurse afterward and get some additional information, thinking it sounded like something I would be interested in. When he came home that day, we both, independent of each other, had a lot to say about birth centers. This was the first of many little confirmations that this was the right direction for me to take.

I must pause to tell you why Mark thought this would appeal to me. My biggest fear about giving birth was not the pain, not that something would go wrong with me or my baby, nothing like that. My biggest fear was that I would have people telling me what I could and could not do. It was that I would be in a hospital where people would be telling me that I couldn’t even get a drink of water if I was thirsty. I had this vision of being so thirsty and being told all I could have was ice chips, and grabbing some medical individual by their white lapels in raging agony and yelling, “Get me a damn drink of water NOW!”

So, naturally, learning about a place where you’re “allowed” to labor as you want – eating and drinking as much or as little as you want, moving around, and just generally trusting your body and your own intuition – was very, very appealing to me. And the more I learned, the more it appealed to me on just about every level.

The more I’ve read, the more I’ve learned about some of the problems with the obstetrical model of maternity care, and how most women (like me) are just not familiar with the other options. I won’t try to regurgitate everything I’ve read over the last five months, but I’ll give a few examples of what I mean. And I mention these because they were huge wake-up calls to me.

Did you know, for example, that lying on your back – the standard hospital position – is probably the worst position to deliver a baby? You don’t have gravity working for you, it’s generally more painful, and you’re more likely to tear or end up with an episiotomy. Most women who choose their own position end up squatting, sitting slightly reclined, lying on their side, or even being on all fours.

To me this was a revelation. I thought women everywhere, throughout the ages, had given birth on their backs. Not so – the US is one of the few countries where this is standard procedure, and only since the last century.

I had always thought that giving birth in a tub was something that crazy hippie home birth people did. (I had even been known to make jokes along the lines of “Are you going to be one of those crazy people who give birth in a tub?” followed by a superior chuckle.) In fact, I have read that water is the best non-pharmaceutical pain killer for labor. Some women even describe it as relaxing. (I’m not holding out for that, by the way, but if it happens – woohoo!) You’re also less likely to tear under water.

Another thing I had never before considered was how a birth could be affected by a woman’s environment and her emotions. Being able to let go and surrender to the birth process is key, and tension, fear, and anxiety can impede and even halt labor. One article talked about how a doe in labor finds herself a dark, secluded spot to give birth. If anything happens where she feels threatened, the adrenaline rush will actually stop her labor so she can get up and run. The same is true for humans – how you’re feeling emotionally has a huge effect on labor.

If you have the same, trusted person with you for the duration of your labor (which is what a midwife or doula would do), if the lights are low, if you’re comfortable in your environment (if it’s as home-like as possible), that fight-or-flight reflex is much less likely to be triggered. It can be very hard to really relax with various nurses, students, residents, and so forth, coming in and out of the room, checking your cervix, changing shifts, etc. At the hospital, you don’t get to choose who ends up spending most of your labor with you, and you might get stuck with an ornery nurse (I know I’ve heard several of those stories).

Anyway, those are just a few of the things that I had never before considered, but once I started learning more about them it just made so much sense. And the list goes on, from the effects of various interventions (pitocin, pain medication, fetal monitoring, etc.) to the obstetrical philosophy (seeing birth as a potential emergency and over-treating for fear of litigation) to cesarean rates (way too high) to hospital policies (often not mom- or baby-friendly, and surprisingly often not evidence-based) to VBACs (unfortunately discouraged) and so forth.

So that’s a little bit of why I’ve chosen to go the way I have. And to follow up on my disclaimer at the beginning of this post, I’d just like to say that I don’t think that every woman should necessarily say adios to her OB and have her baby at home. Unfortunately, some natural birth advocates are a little too aggressively evangelical and they end up vilifying all doctors and hospitals and it can be a real turn-off.

But I do think that every woman should try to become as informed as possible and make her own decision, one that she’s happy with. Personality is a huge factor that I think rarely gets addressed. You may be like me and want to make all your own decisions regarding your care, or you may feel much more at ease knowing that you’re in the hands of a highly trained professional who is going to make the decisions for you. Your biggest fear may be similar to mine, or you may be afraid of something going wrong with your child. Either way, my hope is that everyone can at least know the truth about all her options. And OBs, as good as they may be, are likely to give a one-sided representation of reality. I’m a skeptic by nature and I don’t like to take any one person’s word for it, especially when it comes to something as important as my body and my child.

One more thing. Reading and hearing birth stories is very interesting (and often inspiring). When it comes to hospital births, I haven’t really read or heard a woman rave about how wonderful her experience was. Mostly they seem neutral, mediocre, or sometimes even really bad. And though there are certainly the rare scary birth center and home births, as a general rule women who have chosen to go that route tend to rave about their experience. Not that it was easy, but that it was empowering, beautiful, spiritual, and even life changing. I hope to have one like that.

If I don’t have one like that, if I end up in the hospital or with a c-section, that will certainly be disappointing, but I think I’ll be okay with it – because I know I won’t be railroaded into it and ultimately it will be my decision. I’m not holding out for any ideal birth because I know that labor is a poker hand and you get what you get – long or short, hard or easy, emergency or not. But I’m happy knowing that I’ve done everything I can to plan for the kind of experience I hope to have.

For some good, middle-of-the-road resources, I recommend Your Best Birth as a nice introduction to the various birth options (it does lean natural-birth but was neutral enough for me) and The Birth Partner as a great resource for preparing for birth no matter where or how you’re going to do it. And this is a blog mostly about birthing that I follow regularly now, because its author is educated, smart, and objective. (Her two birth stories, which are linked in the "About Dr. Freeze" sidebar, are amazing by the way.) There’s too much polemic and divisive stuff out there on both sides, from blogs and books that make you see every man with a stethoscope as a misogynist to simply false doctrine on the Today Show about the “Perils of Midwifery.” So I recommend steering clear of both extremes, and don't believe anyone who uses fear as a tactic to get you to believe their side (whether that's "Your doctor will disregard your wishes and cut you a huge episiotomy for his own convenience" or "If you don't do x, y, or z, procedure, your baby might die"), because unfortunately there's too much fear mongering out there. So these three resources, I think, are good objective places to start.

By the way, feel free to disagree with anything here. You may even extol the virtues of the epidural! You won't hurt my feelings. In fact I’ll respect you for voicing a contrary opinion. And soon I’ll have my own birth story to share (I was 38 weeks on Sunday), ready or not…

Eew

Gross: Finding a dead spider in your bedside Vaseline. Deciding to deal with it tomorrow.

Grosser: Applying Vaseline to your lips in the dark the next night and wondering what that crusty thing was. Realizing what that crusty thing was.

Just cruel

I almost cried when I got this email today.

Because much to my dismay it is definitely NOT sweater season here.
Think 91 sounds balmy? It's not. Add 60% humidity and it "Feels like 103 degrees." And as you can see, it's not going to get any better later today.

If you are fortunate enough to be living near my homeland, you may be lamenting that it's hovering around freezing (I know this because I also have a Utah weather widget on my dashboard, which I covet daily). I will trade you. Think of all the benefits you have that I don't (and that I won't have until I move from here):

• Sweaters
• Socks
• Pants (although this is a small blessing since if I had to wear pants right now I'd be up a creek)
• Hats, scarves, & gloves
  
• Hot chocolate
• Warm baths
• Candles
• Leaves changing colors
  
• Using your oven without turning the A/C down to 70 degrees and then sweating anyway
• Actually sleeping under your comforter

You may say, ah, but Dani, YOU can go outside. No no, my friends. I can only go outside if I submit myself to be devoured by mosquitoes. I kid you not, I cannot walk from my front door to the mailbox without at least one bite.

I will concede one plus: no goosebumps when I get out of the shower in the morning. But I would gladly trade it for the benefits mentioned above. Besides, we are getting to the point where shaving my legs requires acrobatic contortions not safe in a slippery shower.

I don't know how people live here, especially those who moved from northern climes. When I say this to long-time residents, they just laugh and say, "Well, we just stay inside!" Then they mention how great it is to be able to go the beach at Christmas, as if this were consolation for 9 months of roasting. At which point I just whimper, because Christmas is about fuzzy slippers and cozy PJs and fabulous toasty aromas in the kitchen and playing in the snow (if we're lucky). Beach-going, for me at least, is a strictly summer activity.

Maybe you have to have Latin blood to survive here, because my quarter-Mexican husband doesn't complain, and HE has to wear a shirt and tie every day. I, however, being bred of 100% northern European stock, do not have the constitution for this.

Being a walking human incubator may have something to do with it too.... though I am a born and bred four-seasons girl, pregnant or not.

So there you go. Think of me next time you're complaining about how cold it is, and be grateful that you can always put more and warmer layers on, while there are only so many layers you can take off.

Reminiscing

One year ago today, I was on an airplane to Italy.

::sigh::

Fresh & Clean

If you're thinking this looks a lot like the remnants of a stash of 10 tithing envelopes forgotten in the pocket of a shirt that found its way into the wash today, you're right -- that's exactly what this is.

The San Antonio Church Tour of '09

The San Antonio Church Tour of '09 is in full swing! In an effort to broaden my religious understanding, I'm visiting various churches in San Antonio and blogging about it. So if you have any interest in reading (admittedly long) posts about my experiences, you can check out the blog at

sachurchtour09.blogspot.com

If you have suggestions of churches or worship areas I should consider, or if you want to come along, let me know!

I'm not as cool as I pretend to be

I butchered a French man's name today. And I mean wholesale slaughtered it.

It wasn't even a strange, unfamiliar name with bizarre French spelling that would have left me totally clueless. It wasn't Jacquot or Apollinaire or Émilien or Amaury or Théophile. THOSE I would have looked up online before even attempting. No, it was Jean-François. Which seems easy enough.

Now, I don't speak French. But I'm not totally ignorant. And I like saying things right, and usually I manage decently enough.

So before I called the guy, I prepped myself. "Jean" like on Les Mis, Jean ValJean. Zhoh(n). Got it. "François," like Froh(n)swa. Piece of cake. It sounded great. Not native, sure, but legit. Educated. Cultured. I felt ready.

Then when the guy picked up, I totally croaked. Totally. Croaked.

"Hello, could I speak with, uh, Zheen, uh, Zhoh... ::mumble, mumble:: Frons..frans...fronswah?"

The reply came kindly in perfect English tinted so attractively with French accent: "This is he." He didn't make a point to say, "Yes, this is Jean-François (you pathetic American)," he just moved on like it was no big deal that I just shredded his name. I would not have been so generous.

He's probably totally used to it, but I not only decimated his name but then I tripped over the pieces! I hang my head in shame.

Where there's a will there's a way

This is what happens if you wrap your dough in only ONE layer of saran wrap and put it in the fridge overnight. It will break through the saran wrap (not just find its way out a loose edge, but actually burst a hole clean through the plastic) and form a crusty goiter-y thing.

But do not despair—that persistent yeast hasn't gotten the best of you yet. You can still make an excellent pizza crust.

Today is a red-letter day...

(you may have to run an ActiveX control to get the above song to play)

















It's been a looong time since I've had this much style.

Large Obnoxious Bureaucratic Entities, Part 2

The fact that the travel experience from San Antonio to Salt Lake City last Wednesday was the most seamless and enjoyable ever—owing to a pre-downloaded episode of Pushing Daisies to pass the airport time, being upgraded to First Class at the last minute as a reward for my charitable nature, and getting paid to work while I flew from the Lone Star to the Beehive state—all this should have tipped me off that the return trip would offer some grief.

I have yet to have a frightening miss- or almost-miss-your-flight event, which, I admit, leads me to be a little cavalier about how much time I allow myself between airport-drop-off and departure time, especially when it comes to morning flights. So when I got to the SLC airport this morning to find the Delta check-in area teeming with passengers overburdened with their Christmas windfall, like something off the “6 o’clock News’ Travel Holiday Horrors Special,” the alarm sounded in my head and I unconsciously switched to Marge in Charge mode. Fortunately, along with my trusty sidekick/chauffeur/bag-boy Mark, I successfully navigated check-in and bag drop-off, avoiding the extra baggage charge with some fast talking, and I made my way up to security with a little under an hour before takeoff.

Like the seasoned traveler I am, I swiftly prepared my carry-ons for the seamless x-ray that airport experts like myself are accustomed to. I removed my slip-on shoes and two of the three jackets I had donned this morning—worn not for warmth, but worn because luggage, unlike bellies, does not miraculously expand over the Christmas break, and as I had failed to leave enough space to accommodate the newly-acquired material evidence of familial love and post-Christmas sales in addition all the items I had originally packed, there was no room in my bags for the sweater, hoodie, and faux-fur–lined coat which now insulated me from the harsh temperatures of a crowded airport security line.

With 45 minutes until takeoff, I passed noiselessly through the metal detector and watched for my shoes and bags to come leisurely down the conveyor belt. First came my shoes, then the hoodie, coat, laptop, and quart-sized Ziploc. Then the personal item, slowly. Then the conveyor belt came to its telltale abrupt stop. Reverse. Forward. Stop. Forward. I watched all this with the knowledge that the bag being scrutinized was mine, but I had no fear because there was nothing questionable in there. But then the flashing light came on and the operator looked around for backup. A finger pointed at the screen as another head nodded. Oh dear.

The nice TSA lady asked me if I happen to have a snow globe in my carry on. Why, yes, in fact, I do! It was a lovely gift from my husband’s dear grandmother, and it plays “Silent Night” when you wind it up—and it’s a pleasant, even endearing rendition of the song, which is an uncommon trait in wind-up decorative items these days.

Unfortunately for me and the little Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus in my snow globe, this potentially volatile item contained The Unknown Liquid and must either be checked, deserted, or otherwise disposed of before my carry on was going to leave the hands of the Nice TSA Lady.

Flight departure is T minus 40 minutes. I ran through my options with my friendly neighborhood TSA agent. All of the options that involved keeping possession of my snow globe required going downstairs and coming back through security.

I could go check the bag, which would not only certainly cost valuable time but would also surely incur a cost higher than the value of the snow globe. Or I could find out if the nice, idle people downstairs—who aren’t overworked at all right now—could retrieve one of my checked bags for me so I could rearrange my items, recheck my bag, and come back up through security. Or I could call my personal chauffeur to come back to retrieve this dangerous item. This last option was looking less likely as said chauffeur was not answering his phone.

Nice TSA Lady gestured for Stern West Point TSA Man to come offer his advice. After West Point explained to me that I might be able to leave the snow globe in Lost and Found and have someone (Mark) come pick it up later, and after West Point took the time to detail the TSA Lost and Found Schedule, I indicated that I’d like to take care of it this way. West Point then proceeded to tell me that this was actually not an option, since Unknown Liquids Are Not Even Allowed In This Area. And were I to just casually leave my item lying around the area, no one would take it to Lost and Found—instead, they would throw it away. West Point, who had obviously rendered great service in offering a viable compromise and then negating it mere seconds later, left us rather worse than he found us, and went off to do Liquid Patrol elsewhere.

I invite you for a brief overview of my cranium at this moment, to understand the various emotions at play. This tour involves the following exhibits: (a) my strong feelings about a particular airplane leaving without me on board; (b) my deep-seated aversion to discarding anything remotely in working order, let alone new; (c) my aggravating sentimental attachment to things given to me, especially things given by people over age 75; (d) my frustration at being unable to reach my chauffeur spouse on his cell phone; and (e), the dominating sentiment, which is that I am a problem-solver, and this is a problem I am going to solve.

Enter two superheroes, the first of which was Mark, who finally answered his phone and agreed to turn around and come back to the airport, even though I was not yet sure how I was going to transfer the snow globe in question to his possession and still make my flight. I told Nice TSA Lady that I was going to take it downstairs and figure it out there. I went to retrieve my bag from her, at which point her eyes and body language informed me in no uncertain terms that I was NOT going to touch the Bag Containing The Unknown Liquid until we were safely out of the Unknown Liquid Restriction Zone. She then escorted me and the Bag to the other side of the very secure 10-foot, chain link, barbed-wire fence wide-open security hall and left me there like a rowdy drunkard who just picked a fight inside her bar.

Downstairs I looked around and thought, Where can I stash this so Mark will find it when he shows up in 20 minutes? Whether actually over the PA system or in my head I don’t know, but I heard that sultry recording reminding me again, “Do not transport any item for someone you do not know. Do not leave any baggage unattended. According to the Department of Homeland Security, the current threat level is orange.” And as everyone knows, snow globes are shaped like oranges.

I approached the man at the information desk. Surely he had a lost-and-found box under his desk, and I could leave my item there. No no. Not only was he not allowed to hold items, but dropping something off at Lost and Found involved going to the other terminal, up the stairs and around the corner, getting a background check, taking a 100-question multiple choice test, two-years of security raining, and finally reaching the administrative offices. All in T minus 30 minutes. Right.

Since leaving the snow globe encased in Styrofoam underneath the Coke machine just might work but must just as likely arouse time-consuming suspicion, I went with plan C, which was this: Approach benign-looking older man settled in the alcove by the elevator with his laptop. Ask him how long he’s planning to be there. Desperately explain my situation (making sure to emphasize the elderly nature of the giver of the snow globe). Ask if he will allow me to place the Styrofoam cube on the chair next to him until my husband, 6 feet tall and wearing a blue jacket, comes to pick it up. Hope for a positive response. As the man glanced up at me above his glasses with a look that made me wonder if “crotchety” wouldn’t have been a better adjective than “benign,” his face softened and he said, “Sure.” Thank you, Super Hero #2, for having a healthy disrespect for airport PA system warnings.

With the likelihood now greatly increased that Grandma’s Silent Night Snow Globe would be passed on from generation to generation as a treasured heirloom, I made a mad dash back upstairs to go through security again. At this point my extra warm wardrobe combined with an adrenaline-charged situation and my rapid movement around two levels of the airport had given me pause to wonder about my deodorant choices. At T minus 20 minutes I was kindly ushered through the “clear line,” which usually involves the air-puffer machine, but I was spared that. Unburdened of The Unknown Liquid, I was deemed Safe For Air Travel, stamped for approval, and sped right along to Gate C11, with just enough time to spare to wait in line to use the ladies’ room, a true delight of womanhood. A phone call from Mark confirmed that the eagle had landed, the snow globe was in his hands, and this item would stay in the family for years to come.

This experience underscores my belief that airport security is a farce. If you are under the impression that, well, it’s better safe than sorry and it’s probably better this way, please disabuse yourself of that notion by reading this Atlantic article—which I guarantee will not only entertain but will also raise one if not both of your eyebrows right up to your hairline. So while that gutsy (ha ha) author was smuggling 2+ liters of Unknown Liquid in a fake “Beerbelly” strapped to his torso, highly trained airport security officers were protecting air passengers everywhere from snow globe toting travelers like me. That's security!

The Doghouse

I don't like jewelry, but I'd love a dual-bag or an abcerciser (we've even discussed the hair waxer...and Mark was only half joking). So while this didn't exactly resonate, it suuure entertained.

http://bewareofthedoghouse.com/VideoPage.aspx
(Give it a minute to load; it's about 5 minutes long)

Vigilante parking enforcement

Three days, four voicemails and over 20 unanswered phone calls later, at 7:30 this morning I finally got through to the man who held my parking fate in his hands.

He generously gave me the benefit of the doubt and waived the fee without any ado, for which I am very grateful. He reduced the citation to a "warning" for Mark. (?!)

How did this happen in the first place, you may ask? Apparently someone reported to the parking office that Mark had wantonly deposited the car in visitor parking. And this anonymous tip was given more consideration than my paragraph-long appeal, submitted immediately after receiving the citation (evidence enough that I was the one there, no?)

How to prevent this in the future? Mmm...can't really guarantee that it won't happen again.

Seriously? Seriously. Apparently there are ambitious parking vigilantes watching the visitor lot like hawks just waiting for some imprudent student or employee to park there. And apparently they know each student and employee by sight. And they know which car belongs to which individual. And even if the student/employee isn't actually to be seen anywhere near the car, they just know. And they care so much that they call it in, for justice must be served.

Right.

I don't buy this load of you-know-what, but whatever.

And though the generous captain with whom I spoke this morning was most gracious--for which I am very grateful--and he gave me exactly what I wanted without even arguing, I still think the parking office is ridiculous. Love the individual, despise the entity.

UTHSCSA parkers beware!

This ain't over

It's one thing for a campus parking office to make up rules--asinine as they may be--and then punish you when you don't follow them. After all, that's their job. You can whine about that until the cows come home, but you can't say you weren't warned.

It is totally different to ticket a visitor parked legitimately in visitor parking and give no more reason than "4006 - PARKED WHERE PROHIBITED" and then a month later reject the citation appeal with no more explanation than "DENIED. Pay by Dec 1."

Maybe the parking office should consider a new slogan for 2009:

Soul Music

People, I like a good deal. And boy oh boy did I score one this week. Get this: Mat Kearney's Nothing Left to Lose album was only $8.00 on iTunes for 15 songs. Fifteen AWESOME songs. Every. Single. Song. Rocks. When was the last time you loved an ENTIRE album? Without even skipping one song? And there were 15 songs?! That's like, almost 50 cents a song. And if you were to do the math on

$8.00 ÷ innumerable number of hours of exhilarating music enjoyment = pennies per hour

And that price is shrinking by the day, as I've listened to almost nothing else since Monday and don't foresee my audio entertainment selection changing any time soon.

This guy...this guy is like Coldplay meets Counting Crows meets John Mayer meets Jason Mraz meets nice rap...or something. He's got depth. He's got rhythm. He's got lyrics. He's got guitar. He's got piano. He's got soul-stirring swells. He's got crank-up-the-volume-roll-down-the-windows-I-feel-like-I'm-17-again. And he's got FIFTEEN of these! For cheap! It doesn't get any better than this.

Travelblogue: The Best Part

I invariably get asked what my favorite part was about visiting Italy. (At least I used to get asked that, like 4 months ago, when this topic was still timely.)

And this is invariably my answer:

I liked hanging out with this guy, too:

(Mostly to look at his beard, and see his sweet frisbee moves.)

But Alaina takes the Dani's-favorite-part-of-Italy-ever prize. Some days I just couldn't wait for her to come home from school so we could play. I love this girl so much my heart might explode.

And I'll just top it all off with my two favorite pictures of the trip, in descending order:

Travelblogue: The Italian Experience

I took about 20 pictures of this guy (who was talking animatedly to someone just to the left of the picture) by pretending to shoot St. Peter's Basilica in the background. Hoping to get a picturesque shot, I was going crazy on my cheap little camera as if someone were calling on the side, "Work it, nonno, I love it!" When he finally got up to leave I looked over and there were about 10 tourists waiting to pass by, politely not wanting to impose on my picture. Sheepishly I told them to go right ahead.



This guy redefined "street performer." I guess you had to be there, but if they gave Grammys/Emmys/Tonys/Oscars/Whatevers to Street Performers, he'd sweep in all categories: best costume, best posture, best jawline, best robot (statue?)-like movements, best staying in character, best keeping still between payments, best kiss on the cheek, and best overall entertainment value for a few cents.


Seemingly effortless beauty is EVERYWHERE (naturally I'm referring to me here, not this bench's breathtaking flowering canopy in the middle of nowhereville at a horse boarding stable/riding school)



My fondest Italian wish was to ride a cruiser bike around an Italian town; nothing could be more authentic. This was no secret to the family traveling party, and only time constraints, tired siblings, and financial considerations prevented us from renting bikes in Verona. I knew that our beach trip to touristy Rimini was probably my last chance at finding a rental shop, so I had mapped out a few places where I hoped to be able to rent a picturesque two-wheeled conveyance. Imagine my elation when upon check-in our hostel host indicated there were bikes out back to be borrowed first-come-first-ser­ve by hip, youthful Europhiles like ourselves FOR FREE. It was early to bed and early to rise that night, and despite unrestful sleep (we left the balcony door open on account of lodging on the third floor with no AC, so the train down the block might as well have been rumbling right past our feet all night, and 1:00 a.m. screeching from our backpacking hostelmates had a sleep-piercing effect)—so despite unrestful sleep we were the first (and only) in line to select our vehicles for the next day. The only functioning cruiser bike provided me a more genuine Italian ride than any rental shop could have offered: a wire basket, no gears, both tires slightly flat, one working brake, and every inch of it rusted completely through. So Mark and I went for an early morning cruise around Rimini, dodging cars and bipeds alike, stopping only for the open market, a downtown corner flautist, and the beach. With my family’s (air conditioned) hotel a good 20-minute walk from our hostel, and my dad gone with the car for most of the day, the cycling gods could not have selected a better day to bestow upon us such delightful and affordable transportation.



Speaking of sweet rides, the hour Mark, Alaina, and I spent on this beauty is a top contender for THE Italy Highlight Experience. Mark was in his element as our Rimini quadracycle chauffeur, racing down the streets and sidewalks of the town, careening past innocent beach goers with reckless abandon, and developing an exact science for how to ring the “here we come” bicycle bell (long ring from far away to announce our presence, two short rings from a moderate distance to say “excuse us,” and incessant ringing for “stay put at your own risk!”). A gaggle of Italian nonnas (grannies) walking four abreast along the boardwalk were the recipients of this latter bell call, and one had some choice words for us when they finally noticed us and stepped aside to let us pass. What those choice words were, I don’t know; whether they were a sanction or censure was beyond my limited Italian, so we just smiled and said “Grazie” as we sped away.

Understand your world!

Unless you've been totally isolated from the news for the past months, you have undoubtedly heard of the sub-prime mortgage meltdown, the credit crisis, and more recently, the Wall Street bailout. And even though I average 4 to 5 hours of NPR a day, 5 to 6 days a week (I think I need rehab), I have yet to feel like I really understood what was going on. But today I listened to two This American Life shows that finally made it all click. So if you, like I was, are wondering what the heck this is all about and are aggravated by the fact that you just can't quite seem to wrap your brain around it, I highly recommend these two 1-hour shows. They describe the problem in terms anyone can understand and they're entertaining to boot.

Check out the first one (about the mortgage & credit crisis) here, and the second one (about the bailout) here.

Travelblogue: For Heidi

!!!!!!!!!

Travelblogue: First Impressions & If Only I Had a Sweet Camera

Am I still allowed to post this grossly outdated stuff?

Saw Andrea Bocelli perform live here (for free)--the Piazza del Duomo in Milan:

Where Dr. Seuss got his ideas: