Africa is For List Lovers

Africa is For List Lovers. O.K. It’s not the catchiest slogan, but it’s my blog, so my rules. I’m excited to be back to writing about my travels and to traveling. And I’m especially excited to be able to finally say I’ve been to Africa. Africa is a great place to explore if - like me - you are a list lover. I love a good checklist to help keep me on schedule every day. And I read every single Best Of list. Best T.V. Shows of 2025? Or Best of All Time? Or even Best Shows My Friend Deb Likes? I devour all of them.

So on a trip in which lists are part of the itinerary, I’m a natural. I had heard of the term The Big Five before, from friends who had been on safari and came back with photos and bragging rights. But I never knew exactly who was on that list, and why. So join me as we explore Africa together. I promise that even if you don’t love a list, you will enjoy the ride.

Just in case you are as ignorant about the geography of Africa as I was, here is a map to help you follow our journey from Cape Town, to Zimbabwe, to Tanzania and finally to Rwanda.

I must admit I actually wasn’t so sure when Peter first proposed the idea of going to Africa that I would enjoy the ride. But eventually, I swept aside (most of) my fears. I thought of my 94-year-old mom, an intrepid traveler who made it to China, Russia, and India among other far-flung places, but never to Africa. I could travel for her. And I listened to Molly Tuttle, who told me to, “Take the journey/No matter where it starts or where it ends/Take the journey/Someday you'll make it back home again.” I didn’t learn until we returned home that the word “safari” means “journey” in Swahili. So the song is perfect in every way.

And despite some tiny scary moments when I wondered it that “someday” would become “never”, I did make it home. So here I am living to tell the tale of our adventures.

Even before we left for Africa, there were lists and lists to check off. Seven vaccines in my arm? Check. Three visas to wave around when we entered Zimbabwe, Tanzania, and Rwanda? Check. Twenty-three days worth of anti-malaria pills? Check. A never-ending list of items causing pre-travel anxiety? Check.

The first stop on our Africa adventure was Cape Town, South Africa. As promised by many of our friends and family, Cape Town was stunning and a lovely spot to get over our jet lag.

The drive down the coast reminded me of California. The mountain, the blues, the greens. Oh my!

I’m not sure if a trip to several wineries just outside Cape Town, in Stellenbosch and Franschhoek, was a good cure for jet lag, but it was wonderful nonetheless. We started our day bright and early at 10:30 a.m. with a champagne tasting. Our guide brought us to several other wineries. With my champagne and wine-induced bravado, I was able to use my knowledge of Dutch to understand Afrikaans, the language spoken in South Africa. Or maybe it just seemed that way to me.

From South Africa, we flew to Zimbabwe, to Victoria Falls. The mist from the powerful falls is so intense that it feels like a downpour. Please enjoy our stylish rainwear. I’m thinking the young Italian couple who took the photo wished they could look equally chic. There is nothing like standing next to these monstrous waterfalls to make you feel really small, but in a good way.

And since this post is about lists, let me tell you I couldn’t understand - even after our guide explained - if Victoria Falls is or is not on the list of the Seven Wonders of the World. I think it’s actually one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, but let’s not quibble with the labels. Those falls are wondrous.

“You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing solo in the sun.”

Thank you to the Beatles for always having my back when it comes to finding just the right lyrics to fit my photos.

From Zimbabwe, we flew to Tanzania for the safari portion of the trip. This was where the list-making reached its glorious heights.

I learned from our safari guide that The Big Five is a list of the five most difficult animals for hunters to hunt on foot: the lion, leopard, elephant, rhinoceros, and cape buffalo. Needless to say, a term that is about hunting and killing animals is problematic nowadays. And also, why the need to elevate the Top Five over other animals? What about zebras and giraffes? Cheetahs? Don’t you want to meet up with them when you are out on safari? I sure did. And, by the way, although the zebras look really cute all nestled together, the pose is not just for the tourists, It’s a protective way to stand for long periods and look in every direction for predators.

Despite my extensive pre-travel lists, I wasn’t prepared for how awe-inspiring it was to be in the presence of so many beautiful creatures just strolling around and (mostly) ignoring us. I loved how the guides all communicated via walkie-talkie to share their animal sightings. Then our guide Jamal, a wealth of information about all things animal and Africa, would speed off to try to get us close to wherever the water buffalo, rhino, or other precious gem was hiding. Inside my head, I heard zippy music like this when he gunned the engine and we flew off.

When our guide pulled out his own camera with a telephoto lens, I knew our rhino sighting was a big deal. They are notoriously shy. And thank goodness, because their reputation for being introverts means I get to bring in the PoInter Sisters now.

It turns out that there are other lists to help you organize your trip. The Ugly Five (the hyena, vulture, warthog, wildebeest, and maribou stork). The Small Five (the elephant shrew, ant lion, rhinoceros beetle, buffalo weaver and leopard tortoise). This need to categorize and rate everything might just be some basic human need. Or maybe a clever marketing ploy to attract the kind of type A traveler who insists on bragging about which lists he completed in record time. I prefer to think of it as a handy tool to keep your animals organized in your busy mind. I also liked to pretend that the animals were in on the joke, sliding out from behind trees just when we thought we wouldn’t see more animals that day. They wanted to give us something to talk about when we got back to the lodge, or back to our families in the U.S.

For the most part, you stay inside your truck on safari. But Peter and I did say “yes” to this early morning walking safari. One of our guides was toting a gun, so I felt almost safe.

We were grateful to be able to see the zebras and wildebeests begin their migrations to…I was never quite sure. Further west? South? I do know they leave when the grass is gone, and they go in search of food. And of course, it’s not just a migration with a lower case “m”, but The Great Migration. Because who would care if it wasn’t the best? The wildebeests made quite a racket as they moved out of the area, causing a long traffic jam out there on the Serengeti.

A lot of folks asked us - both before and after the trip - why Africa? I give most (O.K. all) of the credit to Peter for suggesting and planning this journey. He has always loved going to zoos to stare at and photograph animals. And likes to tell the tale (true or tall: you be the judge) about the time his five-year-old self nearly snuck under the bars of the lion cage at the Bronx Zoo, saved only by the quick reflexes of his father, who grabbed his ankle and dragged him back to safety. It wasn’t until after we got home and I started to write this blog that I realized some tiny hidden part of me had also always secretly dreamed about this trip.

I thought back to my early experiences with animals. Sure I tolerated those trips to the Trenton Zoo where the monkey house smelled…well, like you might imagine a monkey house in Trenton, N.J. might smell. There were the visits to that same zoo where some scraggly deer - left to manage by themselves outside - nosed up to the sagging fence and begged for food. I put whatever we were feeding them in my outstretched hand, hoping that this time I’d have the confidence to let them eat out of my hand (literally). But at the last minute, I always got scared and flung the food through the fence.

And I used that same flinging technique when we visited an elephant refuge in Zimbabwe.

But no, it was not these in-person encounters that fostered my love of animals. Instead, it was the movies and books. A special shout out to Clarence the Cross-Eyed Lion, which if you are too young, or didn’t catch it on the big screen, was a classic 60’s film premise in which an animal is smarter then his human friends. Clarence (a lion who is cross-eyed) dons a professor’s thick black glasses and voila, he is a beloved icon. Don’t even get me started on Mr. Ed. Good Lord, how I loved that show. I do realize that for those of you interested in the Africa section of the blog, I have lost you. But I’m quite sure some of you are just as interested in the movie and T.V. trivia of the 60’s as I am, and so this section is a welcome detour from your safari.

Or Doctor Doolittle, a movie staring Rex Harrison who sang-talked the title song and made it so much easier for my seven-year-old self to sing along to lyrical masterpieces like this one: “If people asked me, ‘Can you speak rhinoceros?’ I'd say, ‘Of courserous, can't you?’ “ I guess this is where the real desire to visit Africa originated. I dreamed of finding a whole new animal audience willing to let me learn their languages. Here is Sammy Davis singing the song of my dreams. It’s about as preposterous a cover as you could ever conjure up.

Just one of the many animal books I knew and loved as a kid. I was ready to move to Yorkshire (wherever that was) and set up shop as a vet.

Time for our last stop in Africa: Rwanda. The trip from Tanzania involved a smaller plane than I like to find myself on. But it was full - a term I use loosely, since it only fit 12 people - of other people from the towns surrounding Somerville. A small world indeed. We were way more than 900 miles from home, but I love this song. Talk about a singer who looks nothing like her singing voice tells me she should look.

We really enjoyed our day in Kigali, the capital of Rwanda, but that was just the appetizer. The feast came when we arrived at Volcanoes National Park for our gorilla trek. Not only were we not in a safari jeep, but we were hiking for two hours to reach the point where we would see “our” gorilla family. Through mud. And up and down rocky terrain. With gardening gloves on so we wouldn’t get thorns in our hands when we had to move the thick jungle brush aside. Were it not for Vestine, the porter/angel who walked with me, I would still be on that mountain.

Still, the trek was worth every slippery step. We spent an hour with our gorilla friends, who occasionally glanced up from their daily routine of grooming and eating to look at us with a combination of boredom and mild curiosity. Very mild. We - Peter and me and the six sturdy German travelers who were assigned to our trekking group - were mesmerized by our gorilla friends. Our guide had instructed us on how to say, “We are kind people who are just here to watch you. Please let us admire you and please don’t hurt us,” in gorilla language, which was a series of guttural grunts. Once again, my Dutch came in very handy. The gorillas must have understood us, because they didn’t seem troubled by our presence, even if we were only ten feet away. The Germans, on the other hand, seemed a little troubled when we introduced ourselves as Americans. When we reassured them that we definitely didn’t vote for “him” and definitely didn’t support his policies, they smiled and relaxed. I think the gorillas did too.

“Count the days I'm gone
Forget reachin' me by phone
Because I promise I'll be gone for a while”

(The world misses you Sly.)

I learned some fun facts from the Dian Fossey Gorilla Center, which we visited after we were back on flat, dry, solid ground. One is that gorillas have black teeth and tongues from all the tannins in their plants-only diet. The other fun fact is that gorillas laugh when they are having a good time. Just two more details that made me love our gorilla relatives.

There is so much more to tell - the kindness and gentle patience of the people we met every where we went, the delicious food, the coffee we roasted ourselves, and then drank - but I feel like I should stop while I’m ahead. My iPhone photos don’t really do justice to the beauty of the animals and the landscape. I can send you a link so you can see Peter’s stunning photos, if you’d like. And if you ever want to go to Africa, just ask us for our lists. We are happy to share. I think you’ll love the journey as much as we did.

From Ville to Ville: Somerville Swinging

We did it! We sold a house, bought a house, moved our stuff, and moved ourselves from The South to The North. From Nashville to Somerville, Massachusetts. From one ville to another. A whole new world to explore and a whole new world to write about. My apologies if you are tired and bored already.

I’m doing lots of walking as I get to know the territory. Come with me as we explore. I think you’re going to be happy you are here. I know we are.

Ah, the joys of knowing virtually no one in my new town. I can walk around singing this song, substituting the words “Somerville Swinging”, to my heart’s content. To quote Kool and the Gang, “Here I am…Well I guess, I guess I'll stay.” This one is for all my friends who grew up watching Soul Train and dancing around in their jammies to these masterpieces.

I’m not one bit sure what goes on in this house, but I want an invite to a Dance Party. Also, I’d love to play with some of those toy horses, like I did in 3rd grade.

I love living in a place with lots of history and historical markers to tell you about all of it. Paul Revere? The Boston Tea Party? No, I’m talking about important events like the invention of Fluff. Apparently, Somerville hosts the What the Fluff? Festival in September. I promise to report back on what that entails.

Speaking of important historic figures in the area, did you know that Donna Summer was born and raised in Boston? Unfortunately, I was away for the dance party in June celebrating her legacy. I will not make that mistake twice. “Ooh. You and me.”?

There are lots and lots of bicycles here. O.K., not as many as in Amsterdam, but hey, this is the U.S. There is a long path a few blocks from our house which bisects Somerville. It is is just for cyclists and pedestrians. No pick-up trucks or SUV’s in sight. Bliss. I hope the skeleton on the bicycle I saw along the path isn’t some subtle statement about bike safety here.

Lots and lots of religious -and other sculpture friends - greet me from the front yards around our neighborhood. Seems like many people here are looking for blessings from Saint Anthony (or Mickey Mouse or a gargoyle).

I really did breathe a sigh of relief when we crossed into the Northeast on our drive out of Tennessee. Yes, I was sad to say goodbye to our dear neighbors and a few friends. But I was not one bit sad to leave behind the rusty Red politics or the tornadoes. We hadn’t done much driving during our Nashville era, so the roadtrip felt loong. Best road trip song ever. I hummed it inside my head.

“I got five more miles to go, now
Over the hill, just around the bend
Although my feet are tired, I can't lose my stride
I got to get to my baby again”

(And yes I do realize that my baby is turning 29 soon, but I still see this in my head sometimes when I’m talking to her.)

Imagine my “joy” when I saw this little piece of Tennessee just down the street from our new Somerville home. I had to surreptitiously snap this photo before the fine individual who lives here came outside. I can report back that his hair is a faux-blond-orange, eerily similar to his fearless leader’s shade. Thank goodness: he seems to be an island in a sea of Blue here.

Sadly, I also seem to have brought some weather-related vestiges of Nashville life to Somerville. We had a tornado warning about two weeks after we arrived. And then came the hot, miserably sticky weather. Somerville, I am truly sorry. I had no idea weather could follow you from one house to another.

Let’s get back to the positive side of the ledger, shall we? When we were looking at houses, we knew we wanted to be within walking distance of restaurants, coffee shops, and grocery stores. In other words, to have a little of our Amsterdam lifestyle here in Somerville. And yes, there is lots and lots of great eating and drinking and shopping that’s just a walk or bike ride away. Are we thrilled? Well, sort of. The reality of the situation is a little more complicated. There is a fabulous ice cream shop (The Tipping Cow) at the end of our block. A few weeks after we moved in, the community art project that paints the metal utility boxes around town expressed concern - or at least apologies - for the effect the proximity to delish ice cream has had on our attempts to get in Somerville shape. We have visited this shop a shocking number of times since moving here in early June.

Seriously, an ice cream shop on our block? We did land in the Emerald City after all.

“Tell the world that we finally got it all right
I choose you”. Yes, Sara Bareilles. You got that right.

---

Speaking of the Emerald City: the flowers were glorious when we arrived in early June. I am poring over lots and lots of hydrangea porn in Somerville. I guess I’m not alone in my hydrangea obsession. It’s an Internet thing nowadays. I’m told the mild winter and rainy spring produced this gorgeous explosion of colorֶ throughout the Northeast. I like to think of the hydrangeas as a personal welcome mat to us, and I’m very appreciative.

It’s not just the flowers that are lighting up my world with color. It’s also the houses. A lot has been written recently about how even in places like San Francisco, the colorful houses are disappearing, replaced by greys. As someone who is going grey herself, I should be O.K. with houses doing it too. Nashville was chock full of grey (and also white and black houses). But I do love a colorful house, and there are lots of them here in Somerville.

So how did the move go, you ask? Or maybe you didn’t. That’s because no one really wants to hear your moving stories. Recently, I came across a mention of a video game called Unpacking. I am mystified. “Unpacking is a game about the familiar experience of pulling possessions out of boxes and fitting them into a new home.” We are doing that in real life. Who would find any enjoyment in playing a game about unpacking ? I feel old just thinking about all the unpacking we still need to do. Lord knows I have no desire to play games about it.

As of this moment, I feel like I can never move again. Maybe as the years go on, I’ll change my mind. I suppose I will. But for now, Somerville, I’m yours. And this gives me the chance to shout: Cass Elliot’s voice! Good Lord.

“I'm gonna stay right here by your side
Do my best to keep you satisfied
Nothin' in the world can drive me away
Every day, you'll hear me say

Baby, I'm yours (baby, I'm yours)”

Yes, I can hear you whispering: But what will she think about Somerville once the winter weather blows in? She’ll be singing a different tune then, you say? I’m choosing to focus on the positive. I still have a lot of sweaters. And then there’s climate change. And also, Jon Batiste - who we were lucky enough to hear at Tanglewood - an outdoor music venue in the Berkshires - this summer. Thanks to our dear friends for having a house on a lake out there. Jon Batiste has a good strategy all lined up for me:

“Grab your coat and get your hat
Leave your worries on the doorstep
Just direct your feet to the sunny side of the street”

Are things perfect here? Of course not. But they are certainly pretty, pretty good, as Larry David likes to say. Rachel lives in the same town, our friends Marc and Deb are here, and we don’t have to pack up and move for a long, long time. What more can a gal ask for?

Walden Pond with Rachel. An absolutely lovely day in every way,.

Do I love living across the street from a misspelled word? The answer is of course not. But I do love looking out the window at all the comings and goings. And of course, the convenience of having all that stuff there in a pinch: priceless.

“I think I'll go to Boston, I think I'll start a new life
I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name”

O.K. I do know a few people here. I just happen to like this next song. Recently, I came across an article that was directed squarely at me. It told me that what I really need to do now is find my Third Places. Those are the local spots - like coffee places, farmers’ markets, and restaurants - where people recognize me and make me feel at home. I’m working on it. I’m just starting to get to know my new ‘ville. So far, so good.

-In loving memory of Lenore, the most devoted mother-in-law and reader of my blog. We wish you could see us in Somerville. You would love it here.

It’s Not Me, Nashville. It’s You. But Now What?

Deciding to leave a place where you live is a little like a break-up. First you notice you’re just not that happy. But you keep it inside your head. Then you start to name the things wrong with your partner. You start with the small stuff. That’s easier. Like the fact there is no public transportation. And it’s not very walkable or bike-able. And then there’s the looong summers. And don’t get me started on the tornadoes. But then you realize it’s not just in the small ways, but in many big ways, you’re just not in a good relationship. You’re living in a state that is banning books and drag shows, but loosening up rules about who can tote a gun around. Tennessee, how about you stay in your lane and fix the giant potholes on the interstates instead of telling women, and parents of teenagers, which medical procedures they can access? And once you start to name the ways this relationship just isn’t working anymore, there’s no going back. It’s time to move on. So what’s a 60-something year old couple to do? Do you really want to pack up all your stuff again? Do you start to question the meaning of life? I promise you this song will help you put your problems into perspective.

O.K after questioning the meaning of life, you move onto brass tacks. Developing an exit strategy. Step #1 is to start to tell people you are moving on. Hence this blog. So far, Step #1 is about all we’ve done, but hey it’s a start. This might be the blankest slate we have ever started with when it comes to options. At most of those major stop signs in life, your choice of where to go is dictated by someone else. You start your life where your parents decided to plunk themselves down. Then if college or grad school calls, you just go there. Then you move for your first job. If you’re lucky enough to work for a Dutch company, you might live in Amsterdam for 5 years. How do you figure out where to go when there is no one telling you where to go? What you need is a relocation matchmaker, someone who figures out the perfect match for you.

Time for me to tell my N.J./N.Y.C. friends about a production of Fiddler now playing at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn. You can watch Rachel’s dear friend Austen and my guitar teacher Ellie’s girlfriend Maya star as Hodel and Chava. L’chaim!

With no direction in mind, and no Matchmaker in sight, you just listen to your daughter and say yes to Boston. Problem solved. After so many years of living out of suitcases when we see each other, it will be so so nice to be nearby.

We have our most moved and re-moved friend Vera to thank for finally making the decision to move to Boston. Vera has lived in (and moved from) Amsterdam, Paris, Munich, Hong Kong, Johannesburg, Dubai, etc. etc. So she knows a thing or two about moving. And she said all you need in your new place is a family member and a few friends and you figure out the rest once you get there. She assured us that we will build the our community when we are settled. We’re trusting you on this, Vera.

Next item on the agenda is to start to reminisce about the things you’ll miss, while simultaneously compiling lists of rants about the place you are leaving. It’s a tough juggling act. But I do my best.

Here’s the view from our dining room table. And um, I beg to differ with the trash collection team. I spend quite a bit of time these days in the trashing-Tennessee business.

It’s not like I won’t miss anything about this place. We love our house, although neither of us expected to even date a modern house with zero charm. And we’ll miss our wonderful neighbors who have been truly the best thing about Nashville. Before we moved in, back in 2019, they took care of everything from letting painters into our house, to being there when mattresses were delivered- without ever having met me - when Peter was in the hospital. I will always be grateful to them.

And those rolling hills. I’ll miss those. We finally made it to the Smoky Mountains in October for Ben’s 30th birthday gift from us. We were there just at the start of the changing colors, so it was especially pretty. And the crowds were manageable. Ben was treated like a celebrity by fans pointing at him in awe at the top of some major climbs. He was the only cyclist around.

The photo just above was not taken in the Smokies. It’s from a trip to a state park just a 20 minute drive from our house. A place we like to visit and to take visitors to see. There is a certain excitement people feel about coming to visit Nashville. Even my sister and her husband, whose 8 p.m. bedtime interferes with their ability to paint the town pink alongside the bachelorettes, were thrilled to finally get here and we were thrilled to have them. Will any of you feel the same excitement about coming to Boston?

Time for a song. In Four Years of Chances, Margo Price tells us she is finally giving up on her husband or boyfriend after giving him four years of chances. Appropriate, since that’s exactly the number of years we have given to this relationship with Nashville.

“And now I'm going to say it slowly
Before I go away
You had me one thousand, four hundred sixty-one days.”

If I trust Margo Price’s math, my four years in Nashville amounts to one thousand, four hundred sixty-one days. Plenty of time to decide things just aren’t working out, my dear.

Am I the only one who hears this iconic movie theme from Shaft in the opening bars of Margo Price’s Four More Years? No matter if you do or don’t, this gives me the chance to re-listen to this gem. I can’t explain to you why my 11-year-old self loved this song so much.

I’ll miss the murals here, especially the ones of musicians in the Berry Hill neighborhood. I was so happy to find Joni Mitchell standing right next to Otis Redding. Two of my heroes.

I’ll miss the tiny mini-murals in tucked-away parts of town.

While this prayer display may be charming looking at first glance, it seems strange to me. I won’t miss people parading their religion around. Or maybe they do that in Boston? Good lord, I hope not.

I’ll miss the coffee shops with lots of sun streaming in. Something tells me I’ll find plenty of coffee shops in Boston. Maybe not with so much room to spread out and so much sun pouring in? I’ll deal with it.

I understand why Tracy Chapman says, “Give me one reason to stay here and I’ll turn right back around.” But that’s not going to happen in my case, no matter what Nashville says to me. Also, I notice in the song that no one ever does give her that one reason.

Not going to miss these all-too-frequent tornado warnings on my phone.

Unlike Lucinda Williams in this next song, I don’t think I’m going to have such a hard time letting go. We’ll see when the time comes to actually pack up the car and pull out of the driveway. I love how her voice gets progressively gravelly at the end.

“I'm like a fish out of water, a cat in a tree
You don't even want to talk to me
Well, it's over, I know it but I can't let go.”

I’m going to slip in the link to one of my favorite articles of the year, which happens to be about Lucinda Williams, but also about Louisiana, and the writer’s mother, and about music. And it contains this gem: “The songs we hear as children end up being a lot like our fathers; we go on hearing them in our heads even when they’re not around.”

“Hey, I wish you'd want me to stay

I'll be alright
Just not tonight

But someday. 

Say goodbye to me

I won't say I'm sorry
I'll be alright

Once I find the other side of someday.”

Nashville, I’m looking forward to finding the other side of someday.

Not relevant to our move (nor really to anything), but seeing Sara Bareilles serenade us in the grocery store in the video reminded me of an important thought I’d love to share with you. A few months ago, while visiting our mom in N.J., my sister and I stopped off at the local Shoprite. And when some music came on, we both immediately began to dance. As one does in a grocery store, of course. It turns out both of us have spent our fair share of time bursting into dance while walking up and down the grocery aisles. And embarrassing our children and anyone else watching in the process. But, hear me out, what if grocery stores played particular music at particular times to attract customers so that my sister and I weren’t dancing alone? Motown from 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. for the retirees, a kids’-hour after naptime, some boygenius for the 20-somethings at 7 p.m.? We’re still fine- tuning the idea and figuring out how to turn it into a multi-million dollar enterprise for the two of us. Stay tuned on that. Consider yourselves lucky to be let in on the ground floor of this booty-shaking idea.

I’ll miss all the Little Free Libraries close to our neighborhood. This was one of my faves, hand-painted with a scene from one of my favorite books of all time. Is that old house in Paris available for purchase?

I will miss the way music pops up in so many crevasses here, like in this little coffee place just outside of Nashville.

I guess I have to thank you, Nashville, for getting me back into playing music. I mean, how can you live in a place nicknamed Music City and not feel like you have to play your part? And then came the pandemic, so I started in with guitar and violin lessons with Ellie and Rili. They are two supremely talented musical superheroes who have taught me to silence the voice in my head telling me I’m too old for this and listen to the voice telling me to keep trying. After two years of lessons on my iPad screen, we finally met up in person in November in Brooklyn. It was like seeing my kindergarten teacher in a grocery store - that staggering frozen sense you got, as if you were face to face with a celebrity - except if my kindergarten teacher were way younger and waaaay cooler.

Also on the What I’ll Miss/Things to Thank Nashville For List: the Farmer’s Market, where we met some of our closest “friends”. The spice lady, the bread gals, the micro greens guy. These are the people who know which pie I’ll wait in line for. In other words, the really meaningful things about me.

I’ll miss some of the funky decorations I see when I’m out walking. How did this homeowner know that Pokey was one of my best friends when I was a kid? It was great to see him out and about, protecting Gumby from the cacti.

Is it too much to ask that I want to live in a place with lots of people who share my world view, good public transportation, decent weather, delicious food, lots of coffee, bike lanes, excellent healthcare, and places to hear and play music? Have I set my sights too high?

Start to picture yourself in your new city, they say. So I did some searching and found a place in Cambridge that serves fried chicken and bluegrass music jams for advanced-beginners like me. Oddly enough, there is no place like this in Nashville. Also, one description of a band that headlined there read, “Eugene Tyler Band are just three mama’s boys with anxiety problems trying to find catharsis in high-energy, irreverent songs.” These are my kind of people.

Apropos of nothing, here’s the photographic evidence that I met James Taylor last summer at the Newport Folk Festival. Since I haven’t written a blog in so long, I realized I never got the chance to show this prize winner off. Add this to the list of reasons to move: to make it easier for JT and me to get together to play the guitar and catch up on our lives.

I’m guessing Elizabeth Warren is also excited about our move and the chance to spend a lot more time with me.

O.K. Enough about Nashville. At least I have plenty of break-up songs to listen to as we pack up and head out. I can imagine some of you are now saying to yourselves, “What’s the big deal? Just pack up and go.” Easy for you to say. I think moving is a lot like childbirth. Painful when you are going through it yourself, but as soon as it’s over, you bury all that pain. And when it’s the next person’s turn, you think, “It’s not so bad.” Can we all agree figuring out where to plunk yourself down, then putting all your worldly possessions in boxes and carting them to this new place is no fun? Thank you. Yet if it were that bad, we’d all miss out on a lot. Fear of moving would have meant no Amsterdam. And not leaving Nashville. It’s never too late in life to find yourself a better place to rest your head.

It’s hard to explain why my 16-year-old self loved this next song so much. So I won’t even try. But I’ll just say it’s a great break-up song, and a fitting ending to my ramblings. Guess I’ll also have to change the name of this blog. Procrastination is one of my super powers, so let me dwell on that instead of what’s really important (like finding a house). But now that I’ve told you about the break-up, we have to go, don’t we? As Boz Scaggs said, “It’s too late to turn back now.”

Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina: a big country in a small world

Why Argentina? That’s what so many of you asked us before we left for our Argentina adventure. I confess I may have wondered the same thing as we got ready for the trip. Not just “Why Argentina?” but “Why anywhere?” I found myself thinking. I could hear my dad’s voice in my head. “I can read a good book and feel like I’m anywhere in the world.” Mind you, my mom was having none of that faux-travel-by-reading nonsense, so my dad put down his books, packed his bags - O.K. she had to pack his, too - and went all over the world with her.

These are the two parts of my travel personality. Inside of me lurks my mom: up for anything, and planning her next trip as soon as she arrived back home. I’m also my dad: nervous as hell up on that donkey, and hanging on for dear life. But somehow still enjoying the thrill. And looking forward to being back in his own bed always. There. I’ve explained the mysteries of genetics to you.

So back to the Why Argentina question. I’m still getting myself re-used to the brave new world of travel. Some thoughts swirled in my head. What about a good book instead? Argentina is so far. And involves so many logistics. I’d be lying to you if I said the pre-trip anticipation was all rosy. But thank goodness I didn’t talk myself out of this one. I’m not writing just to convince you to go. Or maybe I am. If you want a summary and dread reading this whole post, here is the list. Reasons to get yourself to Argentina: the people, the food, the wine, the music, the scenery (and the variety of beauty), the wildlife, the dogs. Now all you need are what one traveler called the three most important travel ingredients: good health, money, and time.

Horseback riding is a big deal in Argentina. We didn’t ride horses, but these guys were hanging around outside the inn we stayed in on the coast. And they followed us, as if they knew we weren’t horse people and wanted to mess with us.

First, a little bit of backstory. Peter planned the Argentina trip for my 60th birthday. And then Peter’s “little health issue” - as we like to call it - or heartbreak as I sometimes think of it - postponed the trip. And then Covid butted in. I hemmed and hawed about whether it was a good idea even now (3+ years after we originally planned it) to go so far away. Did I used to be this much of a scaredy-cat about traveling? I was afraid I had changed for good. And then I gave myself a good talking to about how life has to go on. So I called the company planning the trip - fabulous folks and I’ll pass on their info to you if you want - and they resurrected our itinerary. There was no turning back now.

When you do go to Argentina, prepare yourself for the long flight there. And for the possibility that the woman across the aisle on the plane may be flossing her teeth. I kid you not. And the fact that it’s a long, long country. To get from top to bottom, you have to fly. We flew five times inside Argentina just to get to where we needed to go. I worried about that. Believe me, I wished I was Sister Bertrille and could have avoided all that flying around on planes.

But was it all worth it?, you ask. Dua Lipa explains how I was feeling about the trip after it ended:

“Did a full 180, crazy
Thinking 'bout the way I was
Did the heartbreak change me? Maybe
But look at where I ended up.”

She was talking about a different kind of heartbreak than the one Peter experienced, but still her words ring true. And P.S. I have a new life goal. As a kid, I used to dream about being a back-up dancer for Diana Ross. Now I want to play the violin in the background for someone like this star. Anyone have any connections?

First stop: Buenos Aires (BA). It was a city crammed full of European architecture (it’s often nicknamed the Paris of South America), street art, traffic, and delicious food. And wherever we turned, there were homages to Messi. And stories about the celebration and relief when Argentina won the World Cup. And also so much dulce de leche, which holds god/Messi-like status in my book.

Our visit to BA started with a tour of the Jewish section of the city. Our guide told us 90% of the Jewish population In Argentina lives in BA. We saw murals in memory of the 85 people killed during the 1994 bombing of a Jewish community center, and the bombing of the Israeli Embassy two years earlier. Thankfully, the Jewish community there is thriving, despite the troubles there and - sadly -everywhere in the world.

The colorful Boca district will take your mind off any troubles taking up space inside your head.

“I had the blues so bad one time it put my face in a permanent frown
You know I'm feelin' so much better I could cakewalk into town.”

Taj Mahal said it best. Imagine me at age 15 or so singing this song with my friends at top volume. What did we know about the blues back then?

Time to hit the road again. Next stop: Puerto Madryn. First a flight, then a two hour drive, most of it on a gravel road. We really felt like we were on the Road to Nowhere. And that we might soon be not-so-gently separated from all the U.S. dollars we were toting around. And left on the side of the road. With no cell service. Or clothing. One slight downside to a trip to Argentina is the need to travel - as our travel company advised - with wads of cash due to the raging inflation rates. Your USD are greeted with huge smiles and many, many, many graciases. To be fair, the smiles came freely in Argentina even when we weren’t paying for anything. They seemed genuinely delighted to welcome travelers from los Estados Unidos. And patient with the very minimal Spanish we spoke. And generous with their praise for our efforts. Let’s just say we weren’t in the Netherlands anymore, Dorothy, when it came to trying out a foreign language and encountering enthusiasm.

Here is that road to nowhere. I knew you would need to see it for yourselves.

I learned early on in this trip that although Argentina is a big country, we live in a small world. How else do you explain that also staying at this inn in the middle of nowhere, there was a Dutch couple, planted there just so I could speak some Dutch? Or a couple in our hotel in Buenos Aires who were from West Orange, just down the road from where we lived for 20 years and raised our kids? And in addition to those small world encounters, what about the omens that were plunked down in front of me throughout the trip to reassure me everything would be OK? More on those later.

We were so grateful for the chance to stay for a few days in this remote area on the east coast of Argentina. We spent it getting to know the penguins and elephant seals, hiking to some glorious spots where we were the only ones in sight, and seeing stars at night.

Like father, like son? Don’t they sort of have the same posture?

After a few days with our penguin friends, it was time to hit that road to nowhere again and get back on a plane. Next stop, further south in Patagonia and a chance to befriend some glaciers. The town, El Calafate, where we stayed was full of others making that same pilgrimage. Plus lots of restaurants, and outdoor clothing stores.

I loved hearing music in a few of the restaurants. One classical guitar player with a lovely voice made a delicious dinner even more perfect with classic songs like Bésame Mucho. And for the record, we didn’t have a single non-delicious meal during our 2 weeks stay. The climate is similar to California’s. That explains the perfect peaches, the walnuts and almonds, and of course, the wine. But back to the music. We chatted with the musician while he took a break, and when he found out I played the guitar, he insisted I treat the audience to my “expertise”. I politely declined. Quick question for my music friends: Why did we hear so little original music (even of familiar American pop tunes) on the radio during our many car rides to and fro? Instead we heard so many covers of American songs. What’s the story there?

And yes, we did see a little tango dancing. We also enjoyed this gentleman, who danced with a bottle of Jack Daniels. With all of the bottles of alcohol he could have chosen as a partner, he chose one produced in Tennessee. Now, there’s a small world for you. Whenever we told people we were from Nashville, they all smiled in recognition. Johnny Cash! Dolly Parton! Taylor Swift! They knew them all and looked at us like we were celebrities, too.

I beg your pardon. I promised you some food. Yes, there was a lot of beef, but we also had wonderful fish. And they are very proud of the lamb in Patagonia, which was also really good. I was delighted to find out that the Argentines have a sweet tooth. The desserts were perfection.

By this point in the trip, I was pinching myself. And thinking, I’m actually forgetting all about my Argentina/travel doubts. I’m actually good. Time to cue up this quirky but oddly addictive song I heard on the TV show Better Things with the lyric: “I am actually good. Can't help it if we're tilted.” Quick aside: watch the show. It’s about an actor mom raising her three teenage or almost-teenage girls and the assorted funny and sad stuff that flows from that. Or you can just watch the episode where the mom, the two younger daughters, and the grandmother perform this song for the eldest daughter’s birthday. Genius.

Where are we on our list? I’ve talked about the people, the music, the food, the wildlife. Let’s check out some more scenery, shall we? Here’s the part of the trip I was both excited and scared about in equal doses. The chance to see glaciers. And walk on them. With something called crampons on the bottom of our boots. Not to worry. I was reassured by the travel company that as long as I was under 65, I was good to go. Plus, there was a picnic lunch dangled in front of me as incentive to finish.

I thought of this song during our glacier walk, especially this line: “Show me how big your brave is.” I love Sara Bareilles voice, and the show-tune vibe this song gives off. I think someone could build a whole Broadway show around this song, about the challenges faced by introverts. Want to reserve a seat?

“Look at where I ended up.”

Photo credit to Peter, showing you just how big my brave was that day. And by the way, the grey on the ice is not from pollution. That’s dust that blows down from the mountains. It’s very windy up there.

I think we can call this glacier porn. Enjoy it. It was stunningly beautiful in this national park. I felt like I was walking on a blue moon. Afterwards, my legs were exhausted from trying to follow the guide’s instructions to the letter: when you walk downhill, squat as if you are using a public toilet. Good advice that did the trick: kept me from sliding into a crevasse and never writing again.

During the hike, at one point I looked up to see Peter striding up that glacier and it felt like he - and we - had achieved the ultimate triumph. I thought back to the note I saved that he scrawled on a paper towel in 2019 soon after emerging from a coma, but still critically ill. “I planned a trip to Argentina for Suzanne’s 60th. Probably have to cancel.” We were gifted a story with a miraculous happy ending. What better place to celebrate than on a glacier?

I mentioned omens popping up on this trip. The first came while we waited in Houston to board the flight to Buenos Aires. A lady from New Zealand standing next to us told us she had planned to go on the trip with her husband who had recently passed away. “I’m taking the trip for both of us,” she told us. That could so easily have been me, I thought. I remembered this while on that glacier with Peter. Being out in the middle of a blue moon gives you permission to think the thoughts you don’t usually dare to.

There’s no way to smoothly transition here. I won’t even try.

Dogs - if you are fans, of course - is maybe another reason to get yourself to Argentina. They were everywhere, wandering up and down the streets as if they own them. Our wonderful guide in El Calafate, Tim, reassured us they are not homeless, but just free spirits. It was hard to walk anywhere without a dog catching up to us to tag along.

Roaming dogs are one thing, but horses just hanging in front yards? This was surprising.

Yes, I know the book is about cats, not dogs, but I kept thinking about it on our walks. A childhood fave.

From hats and gloves and glaciers, we moved on to sun and swimming and wine. Next stop Mendoza. Our hotel, Entre Cielos, was the most White Lotus-like place I have ever stayed in. And if you don’t understand that reference, please treat yourself to this show. This season’s episodes are set in Taormina, Sicily, and the scenery is the star. But you’ll also enjoy the way the show shines a very unflattering light on the wealthy Americans who descend on a luxury hotel there. In preparation for your binge, listen to the opening credits theme song. So many TikToks about it. So much time to be wasted laughing at each one of them.

Our room was like a little shipping container, right in the middle of the vineyards. The views of the Andes were breathtaking. And the pool! And I often had it all to myself. I am one lucky gal.

I promised you wine, and I haven’t forgotten. The Argentinian wines were delicious and affordable. We spent our last full day in Mendoza exploring a few wineries. The six-course lunch with wine pairings represented a challenge along the lines of that glacier hike. You can do this, I told myself with a little pep talk when we entered the first winery at 10:30 a.m.

Yes, Sheryl Crow! “Hit it!….All I want to do is have some fun. I have a feeling I’m not the only one.” Plus how can you resist a song with the lyric, “Apropos of nothing…”?

More omens and symbols of good luck greeted us on these last legs of the trip. At the first winery we visited, we were informed that the owner is a cardiologist. I think someone was smiling at us, reassuring us we were in good hands even in Argentinian wine country. And then I found a four-leaf clover at our hotel. A rainbow spread out in front of us on the drive to the glaciers. And then we saw this Casey look-alike at the airport. You can call them coincidences, or you can call them lucky charms. I say the world is a small place full of messages just for you, just when you need them.

L’chaim! To life! To Argentina!

On the Road Again: Reunions, Road-trips, and The Rockies

Sunshine and blue skies every single day for a week in Amsterdam? “What on G-d’s green earth?”, as my 6th grade math teacher Mrs. Conroy would shout…just before she hurled a piece of chalk at one of us who dared to come up with a wrong answer.

I’ve been gone a long time. From writing this blog that is. I’ve spent a lot of time at home - until the summer rolled in - which means I didn’t have much to share with you before then. But the summer months found me back out on the road. I was rusty. And nervous. I hate Covid for many reasons, mostly because of the constant worry about illness and mortality. But also for robbing us of the joy of travel. For those of us privileged enough to be able to afford it, travel gave us the chance to leave our old selves behind and imagine new ones. Without travel, we are stuck in our houses, without new scenery to distract us from our problems. So, although the summer is now a few months away, I decided to write about it. After all, if I don’t write about it in my blog, did it even really happen?

In the olden days, I looked forward to the anticipation of travel almost as much as the travel itself. Now that I was back on the road, I worried before, during and after. Not just about Covid, but also about airline snafus and other airport nonsense. And that was even before I got to where I was going. I also had thoughts about the people at my destinations. Do I still know how to converse with them? Will they have changed? Have I? To deal with all this, I decided to strut through airports and my various adventures - which I’m about to spool out in detail - with a false sense of bravado. I figured if I didn’t feel carefree, I could at least fake it. No better song to help me get to that place called Carefree then this one.

“Ain't got no trouble in my life
No foolish dreams to make me cry
I'm never frightened or worried
I know I'll always get by”

I used to think this song was about someone who didn’t have a worry in the world. Now I realize she’s just pushing down those fears by telling herself over and over and over again that she’s not frightened or worried. I’m onto you now, Kiki. It turns out Kiki Dee is her stage name. She was born Pauline Matthews. She performed this song live in 1975 in a jacket that looks suspiciously like a cardigan. I rest my case about whether she is truly “never frightened or worried” or just good at creating a puffed-up-with-swagger persona. Also, for those of you who actually listen to the music I post, note that at Minute 3:53, the song seems like it has ended. The crashing drumbeat and cymbals tell you the song is officially over. But wait… lo and behold, there’s more music in her. '“Don’t let it get you down,” she assures us. It’s a little reminder that just when we think things are over and we can’t go any further, there’s still a little gas in the tank. Thanks, Kiki.

So back to an airport I strutted in early June, headed back in time to my 40th college reunion. Turns out if you cover up someone’s face with a mask, you really don’t recognize them, especially with the 40 year gap between visits. Thank goodness for those dorky name tags hanging from our necks like a ball and chain. They announced to the world we were 40 years removed from our early 20’s, but they also shouted out our names. In large print. Also thank goodness for the dear friends who showed up so I had someone to talk to. Sure we spent time spinning out stories from our past. But we also talked about presents and futures. And entertained - otherwise known as bored to a stupor - the few brave significant others who came along like faithful emotional support animals. I won’t go into detail here, but this is one great group of people doing amazing things in this world. Plus they make me laugh and they laugh with and at me. These are qualities that are essential in a friend, don’t you think?

I’m wondering about this peculiar American fixation with college reunions. I don’t think they do this in Europe. Europeans probably realize there’s something quite unsettling about seeing people again you haven’t seen in 40 years. Your reunion-mates are doing exactly what you are: searching inside faces for the 18-year-old buried in the 62-year-old face in front of you. This reminded me of that perception test, where you can see either the young “girl” or the old woman, depending on your perspective. Let me tell you, it was hard to see the young girl or boy in some of those classmates. I noticed that it was much easier to do with the people I know and love, which makes me realize that love really does cloud your judgment. Or at least it puts a rosy glow on your friends, and a really harsh light on the people you didn’t know or like.

Young Girl or Old Woman?

I have to admit it felt strange to be back at a place I knew so well as a 20 year-old. At a different time. No one like Dr. John to explain the feeling:

“I been in the wrong place
But it must have been the right time
I been in the right place
But it must have been the wrong song
I been in the right vein
But it seems like a wrong arm
I been in the right world
But it seems like wrong-wrong-wrong wrong-wrong.”

On the heels of time-traveling to my reunion, I ventured back to Amsterdam in June for the first time since we moved back to the U.S. in July 2019. As I’ve probably noted many times in this blog, being an expat was a lot like being in college: we were surrounded by others living away from home, all roughly the same age, all on their very best (or sometimes worst) behavior to try to snag as many friends along the way as possible. And all with many rounds of drinks to help sooth the sometimes awkward process of making new friends. So the transition from college reunion to Amsterdam reunion went down pretty smoothly.

Heading back to the airport I went, this time with a song in my head that didn’t try to tamp down my true self. How can you not love David Byrne for naming the feelings most of us are afraid to name?

“I can't seem to face up to the facts
I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax
I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire
Don't touch me, I'm a real live wire.”

Also, please note that David Byrne is not afraid to belt out part of this song in French. He’s seemingly not one bit worried about whether his accent is good, or whether anyone who’s actually French will criticize his pronunciation. Before boarding the plane for Amsterdam, I was determined to take a page out of his book when it came to speaking Dutch.

Being in Amsterdam was like meeting up with an old friend. Would she look any different? Would she recognize me? Would I be able to speak any Dutch? And what about the actual people I was going to see? After seeing people on screens, you start to think of everyone as Flat Stanley. I looked forward to seeing Amsterdam friends in 3-D.

I’ve widened my definition of what makes someone a good friend. Is it someone who buys you the same gift you brought her (earrings) and shows up without any pre-planning in the same color dress as you? Or someone who organizes a boat ride just because you’re in town and the sun is (miraculously) shining all day? Or someone from your book group you’ve mostly gotten to know via Zoom and texting? Yes to all three, by the way.

In addition to seeing some friends in the flesh, I visited some of my Dutch “teachers”, the people in my old neighborhood willing to bear witness to my garbled Dutch and help me practice. The owner of the dry cleaners had tears in her eyes when I walked in. Now that was a reunion! I got big smiles from the lady at The Nuthouse in the farmer’s market in our old neighborhood, and from my cheese man. I think I told them in Dutch that it was great to be back. I’m just not sure. They smiled, so I think the Dutch conversation went well. Who knows?

It turns out my Dutch was probably better than when I lived in Amsterdam. This isn’t completely surprising, since I have been trying to practice almost every day. Still, it’s been three years. And three years further away from the time in childhood when your brain is a sponge for language, which is now 55+ years in my rear-view mirror. My Dutch language ability on our visit just proves that anxiety interferes with language learning. When the stakes are low, the words come out a lot easier. Or maybe it was because I talked like a toddler, with short sentences that cut right to the point. Here is the translated script: “We moved three years ago. We got off the airplane in N.J. We saw family. Then Peter’s heart stopped working. Then he got better. Now we live in Nashville, Tennessee. The U.S. is broken. We miss Amsterdam.” I should probably talk in simple sentences like that forever, no matter which language I’m speaking. So much easier to communicate.

It also did my soul good to know that the things I remembered about the Netherlands and the Dutch were still there for me to notice and smile about: ex. their tendency to bring dogs everywhere, the way you can ride your bike for 15 minutes and be a in beautiful spot complete with cows, and the peculiar Dutch communal hand-towels in public bathrooms. I would have thought that little habit would have ended with the pandemic. Old habits die hard, I guess. Good thing I didn’t see this one until after I finished my delicious sandwich.

I barely had a chance to miss traveling after our return to Nashville from Amsterdam. Off we went at the end of August to the Canadian Rockies. I could go on and on about how wonderful those two weeks were: the chance to spend time with ex-Amsterdam friends, the color of that water, the gratefulness for being able to walk long distances and to see Peter hiking up mountains. I was, to quote Annie Lenox, “…thrown and overblown with bliss.” Annie Lennox’s voice is the musical equivalent of that blue water in the Canadian Rockies.

In addition to being in the mountains and seeing spectacularly beautiful sights, it was fun just to be silly. We learned from our hiking guides about a British woman climber who would scale the most challenging peaks in the Rockies before her male colleagues, then quickly don a skirt at the top. So that’s me (above) with Marc’s fleece fashioned into a skirt, along with Margaret, paper cups of maple-flavored Canadian whiskey in hand to celebrate our most challenging hike of the trip. Our guides, Noah and Tessa, really did think of everything. Silliness and laughter are key components to getting through a tough hike. P.S. I’m going to send that photo of Peter to his docs at UPenn. All their hard work on his heart and lungs really paid off. He’s one of the lucky ones.

After the Rockies, we headed west to Vancouver. We were startled to find a little Dutchiness even out in the wilds of British Columbia. I guess if you a Dutch person are looking to relocate to someplace completely out of your Netherlands comfort zone, you might end up near the Canadian Rockies.

Nothing like a road-trip for introducing you to places you would never have known about.

We were also startled to meet up on one of our hikes with a dog who looked just like Casey. I asked the owner if I could take a photo with her dog, and when she happily agreed, I said, “Come on, Casey” as I kneeled down to pose. The owner looked really surprised. That’s because her dog’s name is Casey. You call that a coincidence? You want to tell me that wasn’t a message from our Casey to us? Don’t worry, pal, we will never forget you.

Vancouver was a treat. We got to spend more time with ex-Amsterdam friends Deb and Marc (the photo of us, above, looks like a Bar Mitzvah table shot), we met up with Ben, and we ate sushi overlooking the harbor. Plus walked a ton and had glorious weather. It doesn’t get any better than that.

Let me slip in a few reading and watching recommendations here.

TV: Bad Sisters- If I tell you to try a show about sisters who plot to murder their grotesquely bad brother-in-law you might say - like I did at first- no thanks. But it’s funny. And clever. And spot on about the relationship between sisters. And full of great actors. And set in gorgeous Ireland. So watch it.

Severance- Nope, I don’t do sci-fi. Or future-fi. Especially if technology takes center stage. But good lord, I enjoyed this series. What if some little brain chip allowed you to prance into work without any memories of home, and return home without any nagging thoughts about work? And what if something sinister (of course) is behind the technology? John Turturro and Christopher Walken play work friends. You can just tell they are having so much fun acting opposite each other. Unless they were just acting. Thanks, Ben, for the recommendation.

Reading:

1. The book Far From the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity, by Andrew Solomon is a hefty 900-something page boulder of a book. Solomon looks at how parents cope with children who are different from them. Which, if you think about it, is really all children in some sense. We all know the trope, “The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Solomon looks at what happens when children do fall far from who their parents are. I took forever to finish this book. You can take each chapter (one on deafness, another on prodigies, one on transgender kids, etc) slowly. The book is comprised of his interviews with parents and children, and his own wise words. Thanks to my friend Daryl for steering me in the direction of this one.

2. Thanks to my mom for suggesting this NYT article on children in Spain who were stolen from hospitals and orphanages and sold to wealthy families. It reads like a mystery novel, with twists and turns.

Also, I know I’m not alone in saying so, but thank you Lizzo. “Sheesh.” You have to love a song with that as the first word. I listen to this when I need a little pick me up. This song brings me joy. I know she is asking if she is ready for love, but I’m using it to get myself ready to travel again next week for my niece’s wedding. “Girl, I’m ‘bout to have a panic attack!”. Am I ready?

Now back to Nashville. What was doing back “home” while we were gone? A whole lot of the same. A steady influx of bachelorettes, the apocalyptic weather, and new houses in our neighborhood sprouting up in just days where once there was rubble or another (much smaller) house. In Nashville, the sound of traffic rushing past on an interstate outside your window substitutes for that blue water in the Canadian Rockies. A peek of the downtown skyline from your terrace stands in for the glaciers. I guess I have to take what I can get when I can get it.

Along with traveling again come the visitors. We’re so out of shape when it comes to welcoming them. Thank you, Brooke and Eric for swinging by on your way to New Orleans. They wanted to head downtown to check out the music scene on Broadway. This is the Nashville equivalent of Amsterdam’s Red Light District. A hot mess of tourists, fried food smells, and all manner of excessive behavior, but with music pouring out of windows, instead of….Same groups of drunk fools pedaling those drink-mobiles around, oblivious to how ridiculous they look and sound. Fun to experience this happy chaos every now and again, but if you come to visit, y’all may be on your own. We will need time to recover from our recent visit.

I do highly recommend the National Museum of African American Music, which opened last year in this same downtown area. I loved the touch screens that allow you to tap onto a musician’s name (say, Aretha Franklin) and hear her sing, or listen to her musical influences, or the people who she influenced. Brilliant! I got so many ideas for songs to listen to, so stay tuned.

Didn’t see any 60-something-year-old musicians playing folk guitar or fiddle on Broadway. I think there’s an open niche for me in one of those windows.

If you come to visit, you can get your photo taken with Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass music.

I know what you’re thinking. Stop worrying and just get back to traveling. Easy for you to say. Lucky you, if you can accomplish that level of carefree nowadays. Or maybe you’re just better at faking it than I am. So for you lucky ones and/or fakers, here’s another song about people who have a breezy way of walking through life. This one is about a man who is carefree and lucky. The woman-singer seems both to envy and question his lucky status, like maybe he’s not really as carefree as he would have us believe.

“Not a care in the world
Not a worry in sight
Everything's gonna be alright
Cause you're the lucky one”

A little edit to the words of the song. In my version it’s not, “Give you a song and a one night stand, and you’ll be looking at a happy man.”

My lyrics are: “Give me a scone and a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be looking at a happy woman.” No, I don’t care that it doesn’t rhyme.

It will come as no surprise to you that laughter is my go-to coping method. When I tried to find some info on the subject of laughter, I came up short. Turns out it’s hard to study it because - also no surprise - no one feels like laughing when they are sitting in a research lab. But there are some tricks those researchers have up their lab coat sleeves to help. This article explains why this statue in Vancouver is so successful at making people laugh. It’s the contagiousness effect.

The sculpture comes with this advice: “May this sculpture inspire laughter, playfulness and joy in all who experience it.”

May you all find laughter somewhere, somehow, every day in this mess of a world we live in.

“Maybe your baby done made some other plans.” I just might have, Stevie. And Happy Anniversary! 50 years since this album was released. Hard to believe. Sounds so current to me.

This might be a better way for me to travel from now on. Listen carefully. You just might be able to hear me laughing as I float past.