Never enough...

Has the icy winter wind got your shoulders hunched?  The short, dark days got you in the doldrums?  The holiday stress got your knickers in a twist?  Join the kvetchfest: 
 
Of course there’s never enough money.

The house is never nice enough

Neighborhood never exclusive enough

Lakeview never expansive enough

Diamonds never brilliant enough

License plate number never low enough

Waistline never small enough

Thighs never slim enough

Breasts never perky enough

Six-packs never defined enough

Children never disciplined enough

Husbands never attentive enough

Wives never understanding enough

Teachers never dedicated enough

Students never respectful enough

Employees never flexible enough

Bosses never generous enough

Putzfrau never thorough enough

Labels never designer enough

Driver in front never quick enough to go when light turns green

Cashier never scans products fast enough

Pedestrians don't cross the street fast enough 

In Zurich, it’s just never enough…

A new campaign by the city authorities -- how pathetic is it that they have to remind us to be friendly?!

The sad and happy chore of bringing a child to college

The scene at the airport was a heart-twister: Luca’s twin sister’s face contorted with the supreme forlornness of separation from the person with whom she’d shared the womb and so much since.  As she clung to him in a symbiotic clutch, I was tempted to irrationally call the whole college thing off.  

His big brother was there, too, proud and misty-eyed.  Their relationship was long fraught with a disdainful leniency but eventually blossomed into a mutually respectful fraternal bond.  His two best friends had also come to see him off, awkwardly bumping fists and knocking shoulders, eventually even slinging arms around each other: “Mach’s guet.” 

 

The fact that my second son has headed off to study in a land far, far away – even though it is the country of my birth and the actual city in which I myself forged unforgettable college memories – makes me sadder than I could have imagined.  The Atlantic Ocean has never felt so wide or the six-hour time difference such an impediment.   The 6,017 kilometers (3,739 miles) between here and Boston today seem insurmountable though I’ve made that flight countless times over the past 30 years with nonchalance.  

In reality I was nowhere near ready for this next, natural step in the growing-up process.  And as I watched him sleeping in the hotel room we shared ahead of move-in day, he appeared so young and vulnerable that it was all I could do not to scoop him up and flee protectively back to 2005. 

But I could neither go back in time nor stop it and soon we were unpacking, setting up his dorm room, making one final shopping run to get forgotten items.  Embarking on an exhaustive orientation program that was often rather disorienting in its intensity.  The parents of the first-years all attempting to convince and console one another with talk of the wonderful opportunities, the nurturing environment, all the support services offered at the school.  How our children will doubtless manage the challenges maturely -- and how we’ll be spared dealing with most of the less wise decisions they may make.  I know that mine will be learning all manner of fascinating things: classroom knowledge, life lessons, and street smarts – all equally valuable – and that this is a priceless exercise in independence.  But still.

Luca made me promise not to be emotional about it and orchestrated our farewell to take place on a busy sidewalk in the midst of rush-hour pedestrian traffic. I could hardly speak for the lump in my throat but what was there to say in this moment?  Which words would’ve been appropriate, anything but trite?  I hugged his skinny frame hard and cupped the prickly back of his newly shorn head.  I don’t know how I possibly let go of him but of course I had to, and as soon as I had turned away the tears started flowing.  

There may well be another 2 million mothers currently going through the same distress but this is scant solace.  What I want to know: How does our society survive the strain on all those maternal souls each September? 

A former English professor of mine, in sharing his own experience of relinquishing his daughter to the transformative forces of the American higher education system, wrote in U.S. News & World Report:

 “…the parent’s tears and the child’s are not quite the same.  For the child, those welling eyes signify anxiety, fear, incipient homesickness.  The parent suffers sympathetic versions of all of these, but something else as well.  For the parent, they are the tears of loss and momentousness, the tears that attend all the great rites of passage and honor the relentless one-wayness of time.”

Indeed. 

Back in the Land of Milk and Money

 Many of you asked me to continue with this blog rather than starting a new one; I’m happy to oblige and spare you the hassle of bookmarking a new URL… So my travails will continue here, hope you’ll continue to find them intriguing. 

Hardly had I begun to adjust to being back in Zurich than a nettlesome restlessness overcame me.  After just three weeks of office time, sitting on my duff and staring at my computer screen, I clearly needed to get out of Dodge for a while.  Plus, a record hot summer in a city with scant air conditioning is really no fun.  Circumstances conspired to enable a whole week’s escape from the steaming asphalt and chilling stresses of the urban work world, and after briefly considering a beach vacay in the Mediterranean, I opted instead for a good ol’ Swiss summer sojourn: to the mountains.

So yay, a mini road trip! 

After driving west for less than 2 hours, I cross the Röstigraben, the linguistic – cultural – culinary – temperamental divide between the Germanic and the Romandie regions. Within 100 meters grüezi becomes bonjour, and this in the same country!  This is truly one of the things I love most about Europe – now if we could just get rid of that pesky currency and revert to a myriad of pesos, lire, schilling, marks, guilder, dinar and the like. 

I cruise through the picturesque landscape that tourists, marketing mavens, and locals alike love: rolling hills of green grass dotted with dark-timbered farmhouses, thick bales of golden hay, and black-and-white dairy cows. Red carnations in window boxes as far as the eye can see.  Snow-tipped mountains (biggest over 4K) as backdrop. Pass the cheese-producing areas of Gruyère and Emmental, the vineyards of Yvorne and Aigle, and arrive in the idyllic, beautifully preserved village of Vers-l’Église in the Vaudoise Alps.

A dear friend has generously lent me her über-charming chalet and I revel in my alone-time to spend 7 days

reading writing hiking

hiking reading writing

writing hiking reading

Back in my travel togs, with only myself to answer to, I am once again free of the responsibilities of reality and the respite is particularly sweet in the cool relief of 1200 meters.  I even unintentionally have a day of silence (try it some time, does wonders) and soon feel the tension melting away like the ice from the local glacier. 

End of the odyssey not yet in sight...

Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about un-becoming everything that isn’t really you so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.  

--author unknown

It was exactly a year ago today that I left Zurich a frazzled mess, frantic with fear and an almost paralyzing sense of failure.  I’ve now returned from my global circumnavigation…somewhat slightly less frazzled.  I wish I could report a full recovery but if I learned anything on my journey, it’s that healing is not a linear process and does not adhere to deadlines.  However, the assessment is primarily positive for sure, as the report below attests.  Currently, I am negotiating my re-entry with not a little trepidation, worried that this tsk-tsking, Zwinglian, overambitious, status-conscious town may ultimately suck the optimistic life force out of me – but I’ll save the tale of this travail for another, new blog and take a moment to record my takeaway. 

First the physical tally: I am back hale and whole.  Figured I owed my kids at least that much.  During the 12 months, I suffered no illness, no injury, nary a headache, not even a slightly upset stomach.  The huge bag of medications that I schlepped all around the world remained untouched.   The best tan of my life has long faded and with it, thankfully, my freckles, old and new alike, but undoubtedly some sun damage has been done.  There are scars from a few of the more vicious mosquito bites but I’m grateful I didn’t come down with dengue fever or malaria. Been detoxed, retoxed, redetoxed and retoxed again.  Yoga was a central pillar throughout, and I am elated to have deepened my practice to such an extent that I know it will support me through any and all trials and tribulations. 

Emotionally, the story is much more dramatic.  On the verge of hysteria upon taking leave of my children last summer, I retreated to the Montana mountains and, surrounded by 30 new soul sisters, listened to a wise, young spiritual activist assure us that shit happens to everybody.  She shared her own story of how she has repeatedly been breezing successfully through life’s landscapes, gaining confidence, hitting her stride when – BAM! – down she plunges into a deep, dirty ditch.   Of course there’s nothing to do but crawl out, pluck the twigs and leaves from her hair, bandage her wounds, and limp along her way, picking up momentum as she goes until the next gorge gets in the way. 

It was weirdly comforting to realize that my disastrous divorce will not be the last time I fall in a ditch, and from that first week on I spent the rest of my sabbatical shoring up my resilience in preparation for inevitable future falls.

The phenomenal folks along the way provided priceless support to my endeavor, and to think that I wouldn’t have met them had I not been on my own. Heartfelt gratitude to my peeps, you know who you are! Being alone has its challenges and yes, I was ofttimes lonely, but solo travel is really the only way to go.  For a year, I went to places I’d never been where I knew no one; all I encountered thought me either crazy or courageous and sometimes both, but I wouldn’t have done it any other way.  As part of a couple, a family, a group, my experiences would have been so much poorer because of the normal insularity of such configurations.  Wouldn’t have had the necessary time for reflection, introspection, contemplation, all those other –tions, either.

And what about the acceptance and serenity I set out to find?  I admit that I struggled a good deal with feelings of resentment and guilt and inadequacy but also experienced many moments of profound peace and supreme confidence.  I worked hard at opening my heart, letting go, renewing faith in myself.

As already averred, getting past an upheaval such as I went through does not always proceed smoothly from one step to the next, is full of ups and downs, milestones followed by setbacks.  It’s really a three-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of movement.  But I’m getting there. 

Dear loved ones, please accept it when I tell you how essential it is to establish what makes your life worthwhile.  What deserves to be agonized about, sweated out, dedicated to.  Don’t fritter away precious energy and time fretting over things that just don’t matter.  

A few months ago, I came across this blog entry that I feel is totally on target (a lengthy but brilliant read) -- props to Mark Manson:

The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck 

For my part, I have determined what does me good, what feeds my soul and nourishes my spirit, what enables me to be my true self. I am committed to leading a life of yes / now / why not.  I am living in the moment and not letting fear get a foothold.  I do not have to have the next 25 years figured out.  Whatever comes my way, I can handle it. 

My mantra: so ham (I am)

mwah! arohanui all around!

***************************

If you’ve read this far, then you deserve the answers to the FAQs I got at every single stop and continue to hear:

1) I missed my kids the most; truthfully, they were all I missed.

2) No, I did not get a tattoo.

3) I refuse to choose a favorite place; each was superlative in its own way:

Montana: Most Breathtaking Big Sky

Grand Canyon: Best Geological Awesomeness

Costa Rica: Most Exotic Rainforest Wildlife

Belize: Most Aggressive Mozzies

Anguilla: Gorgeousest Beaches

Tortola: Best Xmas Gift

LA: Coolest Neighborhood Discovery (Studio City)

Auckland, New Zealand: Best Alternative to Zurich

South Island, New Zealand: Most Luxurious Wellness Retreat

Sydney:  Grooviest Music Scene

Vietnam: Best Time with Daughter

Myanmar: Most Spiritual & Friendliest Folk

Singapore: Biggest Culture Shock

Sri Lanka:  Best Ayurvedic Experience

Istanbul:  Most Heaving Metropolis

Paris:  Tastiest Oysters

And there you have it. 

J'adore cette ville!

Walking home from my yoga class on the Right Bank on a perfect summer evening, I exulted yet again in the magnificence of this city.  My route took me through the Jardin de Tuileries and past the Louvre where young adults gamboled among the Maillol statuary and picnicked on the grass in a modern version of Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe.   I paused on the Axe historique, almost breathless: the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, and Pei’s pyramid in one direction; and in the other, the golden-tipped Luxor Obelisque, setting sun glinting on the cars lined up the Champs Élysée, the imposing Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile.  Continuing on my way, the Tour Eiffel was visible above the treetops, and crossing the Seine on the Pont Royal I had a view of Notre-Dame and L’Institut de France to the east, Musée d’Orsay and Grand Palais to the west.  

 

 

 

The proportional perfection of the Parisian edifices, bridges, squares, avenues and quais is indisputable.  Even the egotistical excesses of presidents past that cause(d) controversy (Centre Pompidou, Tour Montparnasse, L’Arche de la Défense) have their advantages and supporters. 

Of course I am by far not the first to have a love affair with Paris but as in all matters of the heart, one’s own experience is singular.  Though the bloom may be somewhat off after my tedious excursion to Versailles, I am still reveling in the romance of popping down to the boulangerie for brioche and baguette in the morning; lingering over coffee at the sidewalk café – which one today?; reading, people-watching, musing in the gardens; and biking down the boulevards. 

And I am delighted to report that, to a large extent, the reputation of the French as haughty and rude appears to be outdated.  I have encountered almost only friendliness and helpfulness, and most of them even humor me by switching less and less often to English.  Et le francais -- quelle belle langue!  Used with such finesse and politesse that it has engendered a new respect for those linguistic sticklers fighting against the encroachment of Franglais; I even get why the French insist on “ordinateur” when the rest of the world says a variation of “computer”….

Lest the reader consider me trop naïve, let me assure you that I recognize plenty of contrasts and dark shadows in the City of Light:  a romantic stroll along the Seine tainted by the stench of piss; the view of a world-famous landmark marred by the sight of beggars and homeless;  

for every perfectly prepared stalk of asperges blanches, there’s a plate of overcooked haricots verts; for each delectable oyster tasting of sea and salt, there’s an equally flavorless omelette; for each drop of precious, unique grand cru, there is a generic, sulfite-laden, le vin en carafe. 

Mais c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?   

Le rêve parisien

Living the dream – my dream, anyway – these six weeks in Paris: 

mon pied-à-terre à Saint-Germain-des-Prés

ich lieb Vélib'!

What a view 😍

 Off to market every other day:  

Indulging in food, drink, food, art, food, architecture, and food: 

La vie est belle!