Zora Travels

Busy Bees

Nora is busy.  I suppose that's because I'm busy.  And I like it this way.  Oh sure, I complain at times.  I loudly exhale at the end of a busy day...grumble about a packed schedule, lots of transitions, energy spread around.  But I really do fair better with a lot to do.  I had stepped away from my social calendar for a few weeks...leaving wide gaps between visits and adventures.  I had started to miss people.  Noodle and I were a bit stir crazy.

My Monkey Mouse may not resemble me that much...but we are cut from the same cloth.  With our circling feet to music, our gigantic foreheads, our alien little toes, our yearning to be around people and make loads of friends. 

I was reminded of a moment in Boston that represented the trip so well.  After a scant 20 minutes in the art museum, here we are on the bus heading back to our apartment.  Nora was thrilled.  She was roaring past people and cars and buildings...listening to fellow passengers talk and laugh and cough.  It was her world.  We could probably ride the bus and blue line here in Long Beach and easily satisfy her traveling desires.  It would be cheaper, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Craving busy has do with September approaching.  The beginning of the school year.  Every year for 10 years, I was starting with a new group of students this time of year.  175+ youth that craved fine literature and grammatical prowess (that's a joke, you know).  They carried with them the marks of too much sun, too much sex, too much television, and too much energy.  I carried with me a gigantic smile, a stern voice, a plethora of activities to hook, snag, and coerce them into reading and writing.  Each day, each period, each minute offered thousands of opportunities to direct, guide, motivate, lament, order, instruct, answer, and observe these young people.  My mind was always buzzing with ideas.  My heart raced most of the day.  My palms sweat before each lesson.  My feet ached from weaving in between my scholars.

And this year...for the second time...I approach September with Lulu as my primary focus, the main recipient of all of my creativity, smiles, and lessons.  She may not respond like 175+ teenagers but her observant nature and curious spirit manage to inspire me to fill our plates with activities, moments, diverse people and adventures.

Yesterday, we waited in the infamous lines for the gourmet food trucks.  I ordered an ahi tuna poke nachos and then sat on a sea of bright blankets with 18 other moms and babies.  Nora shoveled in dehydrated corn kernels, plump blueberries brought directly from Michigan, cheddar puffs, and choke-worthy carrots.  I chatted in German with a fellow mom's husband...oblivious to Nora's near death experience with the aforementioned carrot.  Thanks goodness there's a "takes a village" mentality to our mom's group.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This morning we headed to the park for a workout.  Nora frolicked with the men playing soccer, the big kids near the swings, and the mini-German who paid her no mind (typical of a German man - too busy playing with himself to pay attention to the smart olive-skinned woman next to him).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And suddenly, there it was...I looked down at my yoga mat for just a second and when I looked up, Lulu-Bell was there, standing up, watching kids play.  A big girl.  My baby-baby no more.  But still my baby.

Ugghhhh...can she just slow down?

 

wine, jazz, and neon accessories

The sun set yesterday with glistening plantains and empanada remnants upon my lips, a glass of Spanish wine in my hand, a gentle breeze at my back, and my mom and two aunties dancing to Cuban jazz.  The Hollywood Bowl came alive to the groovy notes of Ninety Miles and Arturo Sandoval.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a night to remember.  One in which Andy Garcia played bongo drums as my Aunt Pat's toes wiggled atop our box seats.  My mom passed dulce de leche cookies as my Auntie Barbara squeezed our hands and whooped and hollered. In the box to our left, a grandma blinked with neon accessories (necklace, ring, keychain, and even her ice-cubes and wine glass...all alit and flashing madly).

 

 

 

 

Soon, night embraced our musical realm.  The red wine drips on my shirt faded into blackness, the neon jewelry blinked brighter, my mom's hands kneaded the knots in my shoulders (the small cost of 8 days of walking in Boston with Nora in a back pack)...I ate more cookies, drank more wine.

Then the lights rose again upon the stage.  Blues and reds bathed the members of Buena Vista Social Club.  A woman with liquid hips and generous cleavage swayed behind her microphone.  A man with an electric smile, a shiny suit, and a "gracia, mucha gracia" began to sing through his smile.  The drums, the bongos, the piano, the bass, the trumpets...all whipping us into a joyful frenzy.  You can't NOT dance to Cuban music...it would mean you're somehow broken inside.  It is quite simply auditory utopia.

 

 

And finally, after several songs, SHE arrived. Omara Portuondo.

One of the few "original" members that you would surely remember if you have seen the documentary.

Her flowing white dress swished to the floor, barely concealing her silver Birkenstocks.  Her hair pinned back and wrapped in an enormous gold bow.  Her fingers and knuckles curled and bent in aged angles.  Her back gently curved.  And her voice...her voice finds you.  Enters your body.  Reverberates there and nestles into your bones.  Exits through your smile.  She claps and expects you to clap for her.  She points at you.  She speaks her few English words with a heavy-laced caramel tongue.  She wants you to stand and dance and smile.  You don't deny her.  You can't deny her.

At the end of the show, she blows air kisses to us all, she says "Bye, bye, bye, bye" and waves her gnarled knuckles to us.  I do not know if I'll ever see her and experience her voice again.  We hopped aboard our party shuttle bus, passing the crushed box of cookies once more, drinking the final splashes of white wine, accepting dark chocolate mints from tipsy strangers...all of us dipped in the honey of Havana's pulse...closing our eyes and squeezing hands and savoring our own memories of music, dance, and family.

I slipped the key in our front door close to 1am.  Daniel and Nora slept soundly.  Wine had settled into my mind making cobwebs and waves. A guaranteed brutal morning.  But my toes wiggled as I fell asleep.  My mind danced and memories pooled.

"Cheers" to my Aunt Barbara for a musical birthday celebration befitting her dancing spirit. I will never know sisterhood - but I always bask gratefully in the light of this trio.

 

Fotos am Sonntag: Week 48 - Standing Alone

Nora stood yesterday - THREE times.  We were down on the peninsula here in Long Beach.  Daniel and I standing in the sun.  Nora under the umbrella in the shade. 

Suddenly she was standing...

She's holding onto the umbrella pole, I thought.

I checked.

She wasn't.

It's a fluke.

She stood again...and again.

 

We were thrilled!  What fun to know that she's tall in the world on her own.  Next comes walking...but we're in no rush.  I know that we'll miss the pitter-patter slapping of her hands and knees on the floors once she's toddling around.

Here are some of the best pics from our first day home from Boston.  From cobblestone streets to sandy beaches...life is good!

**We rented a paddleboard for the weekend...it was so much fun! There are pictures of me in my swimsuit with Nora; however, they caused me great trauma...and could not be posted.  It's time to return to bootcamp this week...and savor only memories of Boston's cannolis, muffins, and chocolates.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A zither, a lute, and some lions

I am dancing along my own private freedom trail at this very moment.  Daniel has left to rent a paddleboard for the weekend and pick up some Lebanese food.  Nora slumbers sweetly (although preceded by ample tears) in her crib.  The whir of the monitor and the tapping of these keys are the only sounds I hear.

I am alone.  Blissfully alone.

My baby is not in the bed with me, attached to me in any way, in a backpack on my chest, nursing every hour all night long, nursing for hours for each nap or attempted nap, being held over my shoulder in the middle of the night as she wakes when I need to use the restroom (and I was terrified that she'd roll out of the super-high bed)...no, she is in her crib.  Unable to fall, escape, or come a'milking.

It is my version of euphoria.

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

So, this will be my final Boston post.  The dirty clothes are already in the hamper (Nora is quick to attack the suitcase upon opening).  The last pictures have been transferred onto a hard drive. We've switched back to cloth diapers (my goodness disposables are easier on a trip!). 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It all came to an end this morning at dawn as our merry trio sleepily hopped into a cab and headed to the Logan Airport.

And how had we spent that final day?  Sight-seeing, of course.

A zither, a lute, and some lions, oh my.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Museum of Fine Art was very fine indeed.  Nora managed to make our $22 entrance ticket last about 22 minutes.  I joked with her that the experience was $1 per minute...even the time spent in the bathroom was expensive.  In every grand exhibit room, Noodle demonstrated her loudest screech.  And let me assure you, it is LOUD.  She was as enamored with her screaming echo as I was with the art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I gave her a crawl break in the modern-art section.  Thinking the colors and shapes would stimulate her mind...but they seemed to simply amplify her volume.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was almost too perfect that as I laid eyes upon my first Mary Cassat mother/infant paintings, Nora was hurling her most tingling-blood-curdling screams into the chilled room.  It was also my mother's birthday.  So, there I stood with Noodle's painful oral daggers in my ears breathing in the soft gentle reverent mothers painted with soft strokes...holding sweet (and presumably quiet) babies in their arms.

 

 

 

 

After Daniel came home, we took off for Boston Pubic Library and the Italian gardens tucked into a courtyard.  It was spectacular. Now this is a library!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And after all is put away (Nora loves hopping into the suitcase when she's pulled everything out), monitors plugged back in, pictures loaded, and the final blog post nearly written, it still feels warm and joyous to have taken this trip.  The bumps and bruises of the sleeping realm are not enough to deter us from travel.

 

 

 

 

Besides, only in this renaissance of our co-sleeping would I have been able to see Nora in the wee hours of morning, moving her hands to the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" song she's hearing in her dreams...or watch her pick her heavy head up from the bed, look up at me, pat my face to confirm I'm still next to her, and collapse again.

Ah, Lulu Bell - we'll hit the road again soon...Mama might just have to drink more wine.

Black Heritage & Powdered Sugar

Tuesday, my sidekick and I walked upon the same cobblestones as abolitionists and escaped slaves on the Black Heritage Trail. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We stared at a basement that once harbored escaped slaves as part of the Underground Railroad.  As a light sprinkle fell upon the narrow streets of Beacon Hill, it sent shivers down my spine to walk in the footsteps of such brave men and women. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At each site, I read the corresponding paragraph in my guidebook to Nora, fingered doors and bricks and leaves, and stood in silence as I pondered an institution of such brutality.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Los Angeles has never given me this experience.  A moment where I hold my daughter, whose father is considered Black by most strangers (he's actually half Filipino and half African-American), and stand upon the thresholds of known abolitionist activity.  Run my hand across church pews where members of the 54th regiment once sat for worship, enter schoolhouses that were the first in the country to integrate (1855), visit community meeting halls where passionate and dangerous speeches were hurled against those that would keep humans in bondage.

 

 

 

 

It was along this trail and around a brick corner that there was suddenly a voice.  It came from a dilapidated synagogue behind a wrought iron fence...a man with wild silver hair waved at us.  He beckoned to us to come inside for a tour and to make a small donation at the end.  I gladly obliged.  As you long-time readers know, I have a fascination with Judaism and this would be my first visit to a synagogue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday was more of the powdered whigs and powdered sugar trail.  We traipsed through the quaint streets of the North End, Boston's own version of Little-Italy.  They had recently celebrated a Saint's Festival; thus, there were still silver crowns spanning the streets.  Old men outside of cafes and cigar shops speaking loudly in Italian.  Beautiful olive-skinned girls at gelaterias and bakeries with thick Old Country accents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was in the Modern Bakery that I finally collapsed with my front pack of Noodle and my backpack of Noodle gear.  I ordered a chocolate-dipped canoli filled with vanilla custard.  Nora had her gourmet banana puffs.  And more than the ivy-covered headstones, Paul Revere houses, old churches, and Boston Harbor vistas, this was my memory for the day.  Slurping out the velvet cream and crunching into the chocolate shell of my pastry...realizing after a few minutes that Nora's head had been dusted with powdered sugar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ah, Boston.  Some shots just beg to be taken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cheesy or not.

Long Walks & Sweets

Daniel started attending his conference this week.  Our family mornings are now spent together in a fog, alternating getting ready and keeping Nora from bodily harm, stumbling along the uneven brick sidewalks towards a promised pool of caffeine by 7:00am (which still feels faintly like 4am). 

Noodle and I send him off to his Berkeley bus stop with waves and kisses and then begin our stroll past pumpkin tendrils curling around wrought iron fences and interesting door handles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It poured yesterday.  A near constant stream of rain and wind swirled the entire day.  Nora and I; however, would not be housebound.  Albeit a comfortable amount of space, our apartment quickly runs out of options for baby amusement.  One small bag of toys, wooden spoons, and two books only hold her attention for so long...hair brushes, eyelash curlers, empty plastic containers, and banana puffs can extend the experience for a few more minutes...but eventually, the girl has to hit the bricks.  Stormy or not.

 

The long-awaited Dwight Street apartment tour (rented through the fabulous folks at VRBO)

living room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

kitchen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the bedroom (yes, that's a full-size bed...hence the reason that Daniel is on the couch...Little Miss No-Sleep and I take the bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How it looks when one adult and one precariously-placed-lurching-infant bed-hog are sleeping.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so a walkin' we went.  With Nora strapped to my chest and her baby paraphernelia on my back, I popped open the umbrella and set out to explore the city on our own.  After a few stops on the bus and subway, I decided to walk.  To breathe in the fresh air and to hear the sounds of dropletts fall upon the umbrella.  We set out across the Longfellow Bridge.  The red line subway trains heading to Alewife or Braintree roaring past us.  Fog swallowing up the Boston skyline behind us.  Small white sailboats flitting in the Charles River below us.

 

 

 

Oh, the comedy of taking these pictures.  I struggled to uncap my camera, whilst keeping rain from Noodle and from the lens.  We were a sight to be seen.  Juggling a baby in bright rainbow leggings and monkey shoes, a large camera up to my eye, an umbrella with two broken spokes above us, and soaked tennis shoes that squished as I turned. 

Then...the lens clap fell to the ground. 

        To the ground. 

                I am not an octopus. 

I pressed Nora to my chest, slung the backpack on my back, tucked the camera under my neck, stuck the umbrella handle deep down into my bra, and fished for the cap.  I had to giggle.

In the end, perhaps we should have taken the subway across to Cambridge.  But the memory...my laughter, Nora's amazement at the pitter-patter of rain, her eyes squeezing shut when gusts struck her face, her mimicking the squeal of the subway brakes...all of it led to a memorable walk.

 

 

Our final destination in Cambridge, J.P. Licks.  Yup, I walked in the rain for over four miles in a rainstorm to an ice-cream parlor...only to buy oatmeal frozen yogurt.   I have a sweet tooth...but I also attend bootcamp.

And on the homestretch, we took the 1 bus along Massachusetts Avenue.  Winding through Cambridge, past MIT, across the Harvard Bridge, and past the Berklee School of Music.  Soon we came into the familiar South End.  After a spectacular meltdown, Nora had nursed, bitten me, and fallen fast asleep upon my chest.  I carried her through the Chinese market buying Vietnamese sweet sesame crackers and Vermont blueberries.  Who knew that there are over ten varieties of bok choy? She awoke just as the cashier was placing our items into a bright pink plastic sack.

It wasn't an "eventful" day in any tourist sense of the word but one I won't soon forget it.

 

 

It's just me and my napless wonder sidekick.  Nursing like crazy and not sleeping. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But after an hour of attempting a nap, who can resist this face?  And like my Grandma Lola said, "Nora just does NOT want to miss a thing."

Rest assured, she's not.

 

Make Way for Ducklings

Entrance to the Public Garden (1832)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loving Bean Town

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Famous Swan Boats

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking at the actual swans in the pond below

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nora enamored with the ducks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gleeful at the "Make Way for Ducklings" bronze

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not so gleeful as Daniel sets her upon a duckling

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angel Wings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How the cool kids ride...in the Ergo on Daddy with the Lonely Planet guidebook in use.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hands on the Firefighters Memorial

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Church of Christian Science

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**What's that**

How's her sleep?

Ummm...just enjoy the pictures.  Imagine hours of sleep for all of us.

I'll imagine it, too.

Fotos am Samstag: Week 47 - Ivy League

My morning walk with Noodle has become a welcome foray into the beauty of the South End.  Tucked behind the Brahmin grandeur and shiny financial district, lies this mixed community of townhomes, and topsy-turvy brick sidewalks (for which the people of Boston held sit-down protests in the 1940's to keep). 

*In this photo a discarded box of Chinese cigarettes upon ancient brick.

 

 

 

Nora munched on banana puffs while I sipped on a giant mug of steaming hot "almond joy" this morning at Francesca's.  Silken waves of soy milk folded into two shots of espresso and chocolate and coconut syrup.  Can you say, mmmm?  Next to us sat two men discussing the Bachman victory at the straw poll.  One seemed well-versed on her vitriol towards gays and quoted her most outlandish statements.  I recalled that her Ames tent had a petting zoo.  We all agreed that miniature horses and sheep earned her a pass from idiocy.

 

  This neighborhood is the most genuinely mixed environment I've ever experienced.  Both Daniel and I frequently comment upon this fact as we amble through the major South End thoroughfares of Tremont, Shawmut, and Washington.  Within the span of a half mile you can see: a hunched over Chinese woman pulling along her grocery cart that overflows with bright pink bags from the Asian grocer; a young couple in Patagnoia rain wear pushing their baby in a Quinny (an $800 stroller), sipping their coffees and browsing the advertisements in the real estate office window; two fashionable men leaning against a stone wall kissing passionately; a homeless man lamenting in a heavy Dominican accent the aforementioned couple's public display of affection; a West-Indian grandma lavishing Nora with nearly indecipherable compliments; a Muslim family with the wife and daughters covered in elegant head scarves and long-sleeved shirts (despite the 85 degree weather); a Brahmin couple walking their dainty dogs and refusing all eye contact; an aged African-American couple sitting upon their stoop with an air-conditioner buzzing and dripping in the nearby window...and all in the shadows of what once was the largest cathedral in New England (built in 1775).

 

 

We left our diverse enclave yesterday and headed towards the exploding brain matter across the Longfellow Bridge in Cambridge.  Tucked into a curve of the Charles River are the impressive campuses of MIT and Harvard.  Both our minds and lips tripped upon the hopes of Nora one day attending such caliber of schools.  Not too much pressure...but a little.  

 

She rubbed John Harvard's bronzen toes (which, apparently, happens so often, that his toes glisten in polished golden hues). 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  She fingered the ivy draping the library walls (the predictable "family hand shot"...that you knew was coming).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  She sat underneath the gate that beckons with "Enter to Grow in Wisdom." (We actually pushed her back and forth, back and forth...capitalizing on the phrase.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She doesn't HAVE to attend Harvard.  We will be happy with Berkeley or Stanford or Brown.  We'll let her tickle their ivy eventually, too, and one day...a long time from now...we'll visit her college town and take her out for a cup of hot cocoa.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Speaking of cocoa.  Word on the street is that L.A. Burdick's chocolate is the best in New England.  And being one that must test out such outlandish claims, we ventured into the Cambridge chocolaterie and ordered small cups of hot cocoa.  As Nora amused herself in the mirror, I savored every viscous drop of my single-source, Madagascar, dark hot chocolate. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Claim was justified. The best hot chocolate I've ever had (and gratuitous "edible toes" shot).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were quiet moments along abandoned streets with vibrant literary wall art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We also had a moment to remember that once there were only two travelers.

 

 

Freedom Trails, Sleepless, & Serenades

 

We are über-touristy on this trip.  Yesterday, you would have found my shiny sunblocked face peering through a large camera, Nora giggling from her stroller, and Daniel flipping through a Lonely Plant guidebook as we followed a red line around various American History sites.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**If you're ever coming to Boston, do read up on your American History.  It will enhance your appreciation of "The Freedom Trail."

 

We, clearly, did not prepare.

 

Me:  Oh, look it's a memorial to Benjamin Franklin.

Daniel:  No, that's Samuel Franklin.

Me:  Who the heck is he?

 

 

 

 

 

Me (to myself): Who are the Torries?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daniel:  What was the Boston Masacre about?

Me:  I'm not sure but there's a famous black guy who died.

Daniel:  Yeah, Crispus Attacs.

Me:  I think it's Crispus Attacus.

Daniel:  Yeah, maybe.

Me:  I'm hungry.

 

And it was after this erudite conversation that the amazing "Freedom Trail" was abandoned after only the 5th old building (the bookstore where Longfellow and Wordsworth were published) for some turkey burgers and sweet potato fries at b.good.

To be honest, I can tell you approximate years for the American Revolution and I know we sign our "John Hancock" because of the guy's involvement in the Declaration of Independence...but I can't tell you much about the Boston Tea Party (except that "tea party" is now a tainted phrase), the Boston Massacre (other than aforementioned Black guy), or Paul Revere (besides something about Palin messing it up).

Now, aren't your proud of my historical knowledge?  At least I'm not running for president.

And yes, since you asked, I AM still considering homeschooling Nora.

And yes, since you sit there in horror, I WILL brush up a bit on my history if/when the time comes.

Heck, I already skimmed the links that I posted above...NO, not just the menu for our burger joint...the OTHER links, about history and the dead guys.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, crumbs of gingered-oats are once again beside a cold mug of coffee from our local Flour Bakery.  This good ol' bakery welcomed me into another foggy day at 8:00am with Nora snuggled against my chest.  Her sleeping has been...well...let's just call it "poor and sporadic," although I am tempted to be more forthright and call it absolute sheer and utter hell. 

Now, now, surely it can't be that bad. 

Remember you're on vacation.  It's all bricks and ivy and muffins.

This sleeping part in NO way detracts from the fun of taking buses into the heart of Chinatown, seeing a gorgeous patch of sun stream through rustling leaves and fall upon 350 year old headstones, laughing with Daniel as we discuss John Hancock and he makes a face about the word "cock" and then, well, here's his memorial marker.  You must admit, it is fitting...right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the sleeping issue will work itself out.  I know it can't get any worse. Yesterday, she was up at 5:45am (felt like 2:45am), took one 30 minute nap, and in the evening, after a day of sight-seeing (with only a few minor cracks...like this one next to Samuel Franklin's headstone) the Battle Royale began.  Starting at the jolly hour of 7:45pm, she nursed, cried, screamed, manically writhed, nursed, drank a bottle, screamed, nursed, rolled, kicked, slapped, and moaned her way to sleep at...drum roll...11:30pm.  She was beyond the beyond of tired.  We were all three at wit's end.

Yesterdat - totally our fault!

Today - we will stay closer to home...ensuring that she can try for a second nap. Crimping our traveling style?  Yes, a bit.  But we are all learning.  How to travel with a finicky sleeper.  How to nurse a baby who bites in public.  How to enjoy evenings on a trip when they end at 7:00pm.

*Didn't I read somewhere that when they are overtired they actually sleep LESS?  Ah, yes.  Yes, I did read that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had the thrill of sharing my bed with the sweet thrasher all night.  Daniel is kindly spared the wrestling match of our full-size mattress and sleeps on the couch.  (Where he is still sleeping, by the way.)  I have been up since 6:30am, taken Nora to the park and bakery, nursed her for 45 minutes for her nap...and now sit.

 

 

 

 

Coffee is cold but delicious.  Nary a crumb of my muffin remains.

The apartment is quiet.

Beacon Hill, the Charles River, and more parks await our travelin' feet.

 

But to assure you that Nora is having a fantastic time...despite sleep or the lack thereof...here she is at the park yesterday with some local children.  Her first hip-hop serenade.  She was over-the-moon.

 

 

 

 

 

A Hand in the Ivy

Streaks of morning sun pour through the enormous glass windows in our apartment.  Across the street are polished black doors with shiny nobs, vibrant overflowing flower pots upon the stoop, a Victorian street lamp.  The only noise is that of fans whirring...lulling a sleeping Noodle and Daniel. 

And sleep, let's pray, they both do.

Time zone travel has always come with a mixture of highs and lows. 

A high -- it gives you an opportunity to explore a new environment at times of day that you might usually be asleep.  A low -- insert your own variations.

This morning the clock read 5:45am.  Not an unusual wake-up time for Nora...except...we are in Boston.  It is three hours earlier in Long Beach.  Which is why, as I brought Nora into my bed to nurse, my head and stomach felt that it was 2:45am.  And at 3:15am, when she sat up in bed, squeaking and showing off her four teeth (soon to be 6...which may be why sleep alludes her), I was shocked, dismayed...and yet, intrigued.

It was a golden moment...not to be squandered by a sour face or a grimacing heart.  A morning that called for me and my Huckleberry Friend to slide into our clothes, slip on the Ergo, grab some cash and chapstick and head out into Boston's South End to wander. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A purity of summer light, a verdant splash of leaves, my sandals slapping bricks, creaking swings in motion, squares from 1855, community gardens nestled behind thick black iron gates, and the waking urban chatter of Boston on a Friday morning.  I heard it, smelled it, tasted it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Ginger-peach-oatmeal muffins at Flour Bakery.  Dark roast coffee with REAL cream and sugar.  Icy cold water splashed across the table.  Soggy oats and muffin pieces.  Beady-eyed old lady with pursed lips as I set my coffee on her table in order to soak up the spilt water.  Google-eyed pug dogs tethered to the cafe gate, awaiting their caffeinated-master.  Nora's bewilderment and glassy-eyed stare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  And ivy.  Ivy upon brick.  Ivy spraying across garden trellises.  Dead ivy lacing across facades like ancient cracks.  Regal even in death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ivy in the hand of my beloved travel nymp.

I cried taking this photo.  For so many years, I've photographed my own hand on trips.  Starting in 1999 when I loaded my backpack, bought a one-way ticket to Germany, and began a year-long adventure through Europe. 

I would weave my fingers into a tiled-nook of a Grenada cafe, the stone of a Lisbon statue, the marble toes of a voluptuous Rodin maiden in Paris or the splintered bench in a Prague square.  Always awkwardly pressing the lens to my eye, positioning my hand, and knowing that the moment would be captured...a texture, a feeling, a memory.

My hand aged alone for seven years amidst the landscapes, cobblestones, and markets of Europe, Mexico, Guatemala, Morocco, and Guinea.  In 2006, ten fingers were visible as Daniel's hand joined mine in the fountains of San Francisco, upon the weather veins of New York City, along the grape vines of Tuscany, and the bark of a Cascade evergreen.

Today, strong coffee pulsed the sleepy sludge from my veins, gingered-oats caught between my teeth, and tiny dog nails scraped bricks as they passed.  I came upon a Boston memory. 

Ivy dangling from brick.  My daughter gently touching the leaves.

A monumental click.

Tears fell.  Tears of absolute satisfaction (sure, perhaps sleep-deprivation-induced-delirium played a role) slid down my cheeks.  I allowed their saltiness to mix with a sip of coffee and kept walking.  Nora's head was soon heavy upon my chest.

"Schlaff schön, meine Reise Maus, schlaff jetzt."

("Sleep beautifully, my Travel Mouse, sleep now.")