The Isle of Rhodes

This is the boat. Sorry, the ship. The Vision of the Seas holds 2,000 passengers and 765 staff.



As a first-time cruiser I had two main concerns. My biggest fear was that I would arrive at a port, fall in love with it, and want to spend days, not just hours there. Having always traveled independently before, if I wanted to stay somewhere an extra day or two, I could make that happen. Although I enjoyed each of our stops, there was nowhere I felt heart-broken to leave after one day, with the notable exception of Lisbon, which I'll get to in a few posts. So worry number one was unnecessary (as so many worries are.)

My second fear was that I would feel crowded, like a sheep being herded from place to place. For this reason I resisted the "excursions" run by Royal Caribbean, thinking I would prefer to explore most places on my own without a big crowd and a bossy tour guide. Julie and I set off for Rhodes on our own, unencumbered by an annoying tour. The first thing we saw were these Medieval walls. I was instantly charmed.



This is an eight-foot tall poinsettia bush that blew our minds.



This is a pretty building and ruin. I'm sure a tour guide would have been able to tell us its significance.



Though we had a lovely day, at the end of it, I understood the wisdom of the organized tour. When I travel independently, I do research before leaving home, and have a guidebook with me to help me navigate a new place. For this trip, I hadn't done that. So Julie and I wandered around, not really knowing what we were looking at. We spent two hours looking at shards of pottery in the archeology museum before finding the amazing sculptures on the second floor. We got lost in some sketchy very-off-the-beaten-track alleys. For the rest of the trip, we signed up for tours. Sometimes a girl has to admit when she's wrong.

The Adventure Begins

Here is the first of a few posts about my recent two-week trip to the Mediterranean.

One of my favorite parts of any journey is the time after I walk out my door before I arrive at my destination. Filled with euphoria at having completed packing (my least favorite part of travel) I love that in-between time when I can anticipate the adventure ahead, read, listen to music, sleep.

On this trip, I took the train to the airport alone, wiled away a few hours there, met up with my cousin, aunt and uncle, boarded our flight, watched part of the new Harry Potter movie, read my Rick Steves Athens guidebook, slept for five hours. When I awoke, I slid open my plastic shutter and saw the run rising over Europe:



A little while later, we flew over the Alps, which may be the best thing I've ever seen from a plane window:



(Though flying out of Mexico City at night is also damn impressive.)

When our flight lands in Athens, the first thing I see is an Ikea. Our waiting driver chariots us off to our hotel where we have an early dinner and drop into bed by eight pm.

I wake up at 11 pm, and think it’s time to get up for the day. Eventually I drift off again, and fortunately when I wake up, my lack of sleep has not dampened my enthusiasm for Athens. Neither does the pouring rain, our difficulty finding a cab, or our driver taking us to the wrong place. I am under Athens’ spell.

Julie and I find a sweet café on a cobblestone street, get croissants and Cokes and huddle at a table under a large umbrella, watching Athenians pouring off the metro, wearing their Sunday Best. When the rain stops we decide to forgo the museum and go straight to the Acropolis, which graces the top of the nearby hill. We wander awhile, taking a circuitous route through the neighborhood, hitting a dead end, and doubling back before making our way up the hill, discovering ruined theaters, and spectacular city views.

At the top of the hill, I stand in awe of the Parthenon as people have for 2500 years. Even with the scaffolding, patches of new marble and crowds, it is magical.



After a lunch of Greek salad and chicken souvlaki, we walk toward the Olympic Stadium, which has held sporting events for 2,500 years and is built entirely of white marble. The Athens Classic Marathon was that day, run along the route taken by the messenger who ran from the town of Marathon to Athens to announce the Greek victory over the Persians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 B.C. (the origin of modern marathons.) Julie and I arrive just in time to see this guy finishing the race, having run in a Spartan costume complete with helmet, sword and shield.



Our perfect Athenian day ends with wandering through the city center, over to the ancient agora, or marketplace, and dinner of mezzes--like tapas, but Greek food. The next day we boarded our ship, and I left Athens reluctantly, wishing I'd had just one or two more days to explore.

Momentum

As I’ve observed the momentum (or lack thereof) in my life over the past few weeks, I’ve decided that lack of momentum is why Monday is so hard, and why the first few days after vacation are brutal. Because by Wednesday, or a few days after your return, you’re like, “oh yeah, this is what my week is like,” and you’re just doing it—you have momentum. Working on the book is like that too. I can take one day off a week without breaking stride, but if I take two days off, the first day back is difficult, and if I take two months off, as I just did—yikes.

I needed a break from the book. I gave the manuscript to three astute readers, and wanted to hear their comments before I made any further changes. But beyond that, my mind and spirit needed to recover from the insane push to complete the manuscript, and to rest up for what I hope is the final push to actually finish the book. So I spent a month doing other things, then two weeks traveling in the Mediterranean, then a few days recovering from my trip, then enjoying Thanksgiving. They were beautiful, glorious months. But by last Saturday, Carl wanted answers. Trapped in a car with him driving home from North Jersey, he asked the dreaded question: “Why aren’t you working on the book?”

I’d been asking myself the same thing. I knew it was time to get back to work, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Partly I felt scared—of finishing the book, of what comes next—but mostly I think it was a complete lack of momentum—having been away from it for so long, I had no idea where or how to start.

Since reading the Twilight Saga, though perhaps justifiable as research, and certainly enjoyable, wasn’t going to finish the book, I had to try something else. So the next day, I used two of my best tricks: first, I left the house, with the computer—something about being in public forces me to work in a way being at home just doesn’t; second I completed the tiniest possible step I could imagine—I made a to-do list for the book. It’s not magic, I didn’t fall right back into writing, but I had taken that crucial first step, which in my experience, is often the hardest one to take.

While I had the computer out and caffeine coursing through my veins, I wrote a little about my trip, which helped to stretch out my writing muscles, prepare them for working out again. The next morning, I went back to the Corner Bakery, determined to have a work session. I sat down, looked at my to-do list, and picked one thing—addressing one of my reader’s comments. I created a new document, a “working” manuscript, and began editing with Chapter One.

Before I knew it I had edited three chapters, and felt better than I had in weeks. The rest of the week passed in a series of happy and productive work sessions, ticking off my reader’s concerns/questions one little thing at a time. With the momentum back, the working isn’t necessarily easy, but it’s happening. Perhaps now that I’ve written one blog post, I can get together the thoughts about my trip that have been rattling around my brain.

What are your tricks for starting something daunting?

A Face Only a Mother Could Love?

Somebody actually told me that Nalu has a face only a mother could love. I, of course, know this to be untrue, but take a look for yourself. Have you ever seen a cuter ladybug? The pictures start on Halloween and journey back in time to Nalu's first trip to Beak and Skiff, apple orchard extraordinaire in Central New York, her peeking over Aunt Nell's boots back in May, her first trip to the beach in April, and her first day with us, on April 12. For anyone who's considering getting a puppy, it is just as much work as everyone says, but it is also endless joy. The smiles on our faces are no coincidence--it's hard not to smile when I look at her. Try it, I dare you.









I'm off to Europe for two weeks on Friday, but will be back with lots of material after November 20. Bon voyage to me!

Step by Step

Four summers ago, on an afternoon when I was supposed to be studying for the bar exam, I sat down at my computer with an irresistible urge to write a story. I felt overwhelmed, because I knew that I wanted to write a novel, and it felt like an impossibly large task. But I heard the thought “The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” and I took a deep breath and started writing.

Four years and a million pages later, I’m glad I didn’t know what writing the novel would require of me, because if I had known, I might not have started. This experience, and others, have taught me that taking the smallest possible step is often the best way for me to proceed, especially if I’m feeling paralyzed. It’s a trick, because often if I take even a tiny step, I build a little momentum, and can then take the next one and the next.

My most recent application of this trick is to my computer angst. The thought of anything technology-related overwhelms me, and my computer issues have recently become urgent and unmanageable. Most pressing at the moment is how unbearably slow my laptop has become, and when I tried to resolve this on my own, I made it worse, then avoided it for three weeks.

But yesterday when I inadvertently parked right by the Mac store I took it as a sign, walked in and made an appointment at the Genius Bar for today, figuring that might give me the push I needed. I hate the Mac store—all sleek, modern, and white with its tantalizing products, and its child employees who want to know things like “What kind of Mac do you have?” and “Which operating system?” I arrived late for my appointment, with a headache, and a teen with Frank Sinatra eyes and a fake Phillies tattoo on his forearm ran some tests, told me my hard drive wasn’t failing, scolded me for not having backed up sooner, and gave me a long list of things to do to resolve the problems. I left muttering to myself something about “kids today.”

After some coffee and some deep breathing, I’ve gained some perspective, and am proud of having taken the first step, which is often the hardest. In this case, I feared what might be asked of me, what it would cost, the stress and difficulty that could ensue, and also, admitting I’m not good at something (the horror!) But as with most things, the reality is better than the horrific possibilities my imagination creates. After thinking about what Old Blue Eyes said, my first step is to buy an external hard drive. That seems manageable. Then I’ll need to backup whatever I want to save from this one laptop. I can handle that. And after accomplishing those things, I’ll need to archive and reinstall the operating system, which sounds scary, but has written instructions, which I can generally follow. Three pretty small steps. I can do that. After I do, I can reevaluate what else, if anything, technological I need to do. Maybe nothing. And if I need to, I can always swallow my pride, go back to the Mac store, and try to resist my impulse to buy yet another overpriced Mac product that I won’t know how to use.

The Flyin' Narberthian

Trapped inside my house for three days, snow piling up to the windows, I’ve been dreaming of spring, bringing to mind baseball and my dad, two things inextricably linked in my mind.

Growing up, my dad played baseball from sunup to sundown every day of the summer at the Narberth playground just down the road from where I now live. He went on to play at Bonner in high school, then St. Joe’s in college, where he held the record for stolen bases until just a few years ago, even appearing in Sports Illustrated for this feat. Baseball was his life.

He got married at twenty-two and had four kids in short order, and though he stopped playing baseball the love affair continued through coaching Little League, following his Phils, naming one son after Richie Allen, and taking my brothers and I to games whenever possible, where we sat in the bleachers at the very top of The Vet. When in eighth grade my St. Bernadette’s varsity softball team lost our coach, my dad volunteered for the job. He said he knew coaching girls would be different when we insisted on voting whether or not to get hats for the team, and decided not to because they messed up our hair.

Despite playing hatless, under my dad’s leadership and the magic arm of our pitcher Katie Weinrich, we had a storybook season, winning our division, making it all the way to the Philadelphia Archdiocesan Championship game. The chicken pox had kept me at home for the playoffs, but I returned for the final game, still pock-covered, but no longer contagious, knowing that my team needed me.

In the last inning, we trailed by one run, with two outs and the bases loaded when I came up to bat. The pitch flew at me, and I smacked it right on the sweet spot of the bat, that solid contact that you know is a good hit as it happens. But my dream of winning the game for my team shattered as I looked up to see the shortstop snag it out of the air, ending the game. I burst into tears, as a 13-year-old girl will, and threw my helmet, as anyone in my family will, but my dad hugged me and said, “That was a great hit. You did everything you could. I’m proud of you.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but that season would be the pinnacle of my sporting career. And though it didn’t have the heroic Hollywood ending I wanted, it had something better--the opportunity to learn that my dad was proud of me and loved me whether I won or not.

Two Julies and Julias

I saw the movie Julie and Julia last night, with my mom. It was a good movie, I enjoyed it, so why, when I got home, did I burst into tears? Well, it’s been a tough week for a few reasons, but mostly it was the green-eyed monster. Why were things so easy for that bitch Julie Powell? In the movie, which is based on a true story, she starts a blog, with an admittedly great idea—-in one year, she would make all the recipes in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking and write about it. I haven’t read her blog, so I don’t know, but let’s say that it’s smart and funny and well-written. Fine. But then, with apparently no effort at marketing or self-promotion, within MONTHS she becomes the number three blog on salon.com? And then reporters start calling her, she gets a front page article written about her in the New York Times Food Section, and then hundreds of agents and publishers call her asking her to write a book? While her fairy tale story unfolded all I could think was “Fuck you Julie Powell.”

Interestingly, I did not resent Julia Child’s success. The movie showed her early years, when she learned how to cook French food, then stumbled into a cookbook project which consumed eight years of her life, which was then rejected by publishers before finding a home at Knopf, and going on to worldwide acclaim.

Going in, I knew that both Julie and Julia had happy endings of tremendous success, so why did I feel happy for Julia and resentful of Julie? I, like each of them, embarked on a quixotic, uncertain quest. Like Julie with her blog and Julia with her cookbook, I couldn’t say why I had to write the novel, I just knew that I did. Maybe I resented Julie because her success seemed to happen so quickly and easily, with so little effort on her part. Sure, she cooked a lot and wrote a daily blog, but I’ve been working my tail off on this novel for two and a half years and no one is banging on my door to publish it. Where is my happy ending?

As I sat in my kitchen, crying, I realized that I also have a Julia--Julia Cameron. So I took out one of her books and flipped at random. In the section about artistic integrity she writes that artists have an inner meter that tells us if our work is good or not, and that we need to listen to that voice within, and not the marketplace. This thought comforted me. What matters most is that I created something of worth, in my own estimation, and I have. Maybe that’s my happy ending. Or if not an ending, it is at least something that should make me happy.

I’m sorry, Julie Powell, I’m sure you’re a lovely person who worked very hard for your success. I will try to be happy for you, to believe that whatever is best for me and my work is what will happen, and to remember that I can choose to be happy, right here, right now, with or without a published book.