Archive for Travel & Leisure
Of Snails and Puppy Dog Tails*
Posted by: | CommentsIt’s true that you will continue to learn about your spouse long after you’re married – sometimes for years after the wedding vows are spoken. And, how you find out these new things about your partner can be quite an adventure.
For instance, I believe how they handle international travel speaks volumes to how they handle life. I understand building a house (or other home renovation) has erected and dismantled many marriages. (And, God willing, I’ll find out one day.)
Today, I add yet another activity to the list of How to Find Out All Kinds Of Things –and Quickly — About Your Spouse That You Didn’t Know: puppy-sitting.
I have made no secret of my pet lust. Some women’s biological clocks cry out for a baby. Mine? It whispers, puppy. In fact, it’s part of Husband’s and my marriage contract. No more new kids. So, we get to foster animals instead.
However, Husband remains firmon the timing. No animals until our house is built. (And, thanks to the lax CEOs of several financial institutions across the U.S. — who, by the way probably own three houses, each, themselves — that’s not happening anytime soon for us.)
Husband and I have very different ideas about pets, too. Husband believes all animals should:
- Stay outside, for the most part,
- Never get on the furniture,
- Be avoided altogether if they shed,
- Be independent, entertaining themselves for hours on end, and
- Never, ever get in bed with you.
I, on the other hand, believe why have an animal if you aren’t going to live with it? I mean really live with it.
Fortunately for us, we have friend with pets. And, for the last two weeks, we had been puppy sitting a 20 week-old, Cavalier King Charles spaniel named Chloe. (Or Princess Chloe, if you ask her.) Husband had hoped this would cure me of my desire for a dog. Puppies require all manners of care and attention. He thought it would put me over the edge. But, I ask you, could such a face like this put anyone over the edge?
Husband made sure I knew, when she first arrived, that puppy duty was all mine. But, years ago my friend Y told me don’t listen to what men say, rather watch what they do. That’s where you’ll find the truth. If our puppy-sitting is any indicator of that truism, I don’t know what is.
First, within the first 48 hours of our Chloe-sitting stint, she had claimed her favorite spot: Husband’s lap. Then, one day I called from work to ask about Chloe (Husband stayed home that day). He said, she’s fine. She’s sitting right here.
Where?
On my lap.
Though we had a few long nights of taking Princess Chloe out to “widdle” – even sometimes in the middle of a snow storm – she was tons of fun. She would regal us with her tricks (zooming around and around our couch with toys in her mouth, for one) and giving lots of puppy kisses.
Husband soon was playing with Chloe every night, taking her for long walks, and even giving her a bath after one particularly long and wet romp through our 30 inches of recent snowfall. (Wet snow + puppy fur = a rather distinct smell.) By the end of our two weeks he was even getting up in the middle of the night to take her out, though he swore that was going to be my job.
In essence, very quickly, Husband was putty in the paws of said puppy.
(The man with his remote and Chloe. What more could someone ask for?)
On the last morning before we were to hand her over to her rightful minions owners, without provocation, Husband got the sleepy puppy out of her crate and brought her to bed. She is a real cuddler and snoozed away with us for a few more hours, alternatively resting her head on me or Husband. Interestingly, Husband kept trying to get her to stay on his side of the bed. But, she’s an equal opportunity snuggler. I got my share of nose-nudging.
George M. Schulz was right: Happiness is a warm puppy. But, it’s also Husbands who understand, even if it isn’t always spoken outloud.
(*Note: Title of blog post is from the poem, What Are Little Boys Made Of?)
The Year of Fun. So Be It.
Posted by: | CommentsWe’ve all read the myriad of advice columns, blog posts and articles about how New Year’s resolutions really don’t work. They are either too big or too vague or too something. They usually just set you up for more unhappiness. So, I swore of New Year’s resolutions years ago. However, being the self-help junkie that I am, I have not, however, sworn off good ideas that, in my gut, feel like they would bring progress.
A few days ago, Sister announced on her blog that she and her Husband have a New Year tradition in which they “name” their year. One year was the “Year of Travel,” in which they ended up taking 10 trips. (The fact they live in Europe tells me these trips also were not jaunts to the local park, either.) This past year was the “Year of the Book,” as Sister was writing and promoting her book, the Power of Slow. This year will be the “Year of Beauty” – surrounding themselves with beautiful things, beautiful people, beautiful experiences. (At this point in her blog post, I was thinking about how I could pull a Freaky Friday and adopt her life.)
So, not one to let a good idea go unstolen, I asked Husband If we could do the same. Not telling him my thoughts around a potential theme, I simply asked, what would you like to do more of in 2010? What would you like to dedicate the year to being?
I was particularly enthralled to hear his answer. This was because, to add to this idea of declaring how you might set yourself on a desired course, I also discovered a book last summer, The Gift of a Year: How to Achieve the Most Meaningful, Satisfying and Pleasureable Year of Your Life” by Mira Kirschenbaum. In this book, she walks you through the steps to identify what you’ve always wanted (or perhaps just need) and coaches you to take a year for yourself to finally just go do it, get it, have it, and/or be it. I was so enthralled with this book that I gave out 25 copies this year to friends at Christmastime.
So what would 2010 be about, Husband? He answered, I want to have more fun around work.
Wowsa. Over the past summer, The Gift of a Year showed me that what I really wanted – what I really needed – was more fun. I declared months ago that I would take a year to discover what brings joy to my life. I mean honest to goodness bliss. Because, I had no idea. Really.
And, here Husband’s thinking was on a similar path (even if it was attached to work). Clearly, a theme has been resonating in our life. And, thanks to this idea (or set of ideas), 2010 will be more fun. Because, isn’t it already better when you and your spouse have a common goal? Let the games begin.
What will your year be about?
What I Really Want for Christmas: Time
Posted by: | CommentsI finally got Husband’s wish list. On said list is a $3,600 item. (I ask, is it wrong then to ask for a puppy?) Anyway, I yelled from my home office to his home office (around the corner), “hey, that’s one pricey item.” He yelled back, “you asked for a wish list.”
Something tells me Husband actually read my latest blog post on marital gift giving.
If I could, I would buy anything for Husband. But, truth be told, what we both really, really want this year is time. Unfortunately, the one thing I am not able to give Husband is more than 24 hours in a day.
But, thanks to friends of ours, “G” and “L”, another idea has emerged. They have an interesting way of buying time for one another. They take “staycations” throughout the year. “G” and “L” take a week off – no work, no computer, no “to-do” lists. But, they stay at home. There is no travel, no packing, no schlepping the 24 ounce face wash to a hotel room that has no counter space for it anyway. They simply relish their home and do whatever is fun – in-home massages, movies, dinners, walks around the property looking at the bluebirds. Heaven!
Imagine time away from the computer. But, rather spending time at the movies. Time to practice the slow movement over dinner (read: dinner takes 3 hours). Time to think. Time to fool around. The end of the endless “to-do” list. Rather you are enjoying “unstructured downtime,” as my friend “T” said yesterday during one of our catch-up calls. Imagine having the time to really, really, look each other in the eye and really, really listen to the answer to “what’s happening?”
So, men, here’s an idea for you for a holiday gift: plan a “staycation” with your spouse. This means choose a week. (Yes, you have to nail down the details.). Plan several fun things, and leave some time open for your spouse to plan some fun things. For instance, are there things in your area you’ve always wanted to do, to visit, to just check out? (Personally, I’d like to spend an hour in Feast! just sampling their hundreds of cheeses.) Or, don’t plan anything at all. Just go with it.
I boldly recommend to you – older marital couple or not – your spouse will be delighted by the idea of playing through this very different kind of “to-do” list – one filled with fun, rest, and togetherness.
I know I would.
And, if we could make it a “threesome” with the puppy, it’d be perfect.
Marital Gift Giving: ‘Tis the Season for Expectation Management
Posted by: | CommentsAh, ‘tis the season for making merry, singing carols, drinking liqueurs you normally wouldn’t touch, and giving presents.
The gift giving is one of my favorite parts. I love Christmas shopping. Always have. After all, we’re talking justified shopping. I love every aspect of it – the lights, the crammed shops, the hunt for that perfect something. Total glee.
Husband, on the other hand, positively, absolutely despises any kind of shopping. He complains every Christmastime that he doesn’t know what to give. (The fact that Husband has given me some of the most amazing presents I have ever received belies this angst. But, hey, you feel what you feel.)
As December creeps along, I begin to see the wrinkles start in Husband’s forehead as we draw nearer to December 25. Husband asks for my Christmas wish list. I oblige. I tell him the truth – I don’t care, as long as it comes from him. In fact, don’t get me anything. (Oh, but do get me a card. He gives the best cards.) Husband continues to worry. Nothing I say seems to matter.
Apparently – if you are Husband — giving your spouse that perfect little something can drive you mad.
I understand some of this. For one, when you are someone who has gotten married later in life, you have already filled your life with things you love. You’ve had a lot of earning years, not to mention physical years on the planet, to accumulate. So, your wants are fewer. This makes for an interesting conundrum around giving to your new spouse.
When older, three major “categories” of desires emerge. You are left with:
- Things you want. But, since you can afford it yourself, you just go buy it.
- Things you want. But, these wants are pricier and a little more luxurious so you hesitate to gift yourselves with such extravagance. (Like jewelry, for me.)
- The surprises. Things you didn’t even know you’d like but somehow someone saw it, thought you’d be into it, and gifted you with it. You’re thrilled.
So, really, you’re left with two and three. Category three freaks out Husband. He doesn’t like surprises and wants to know what will thrill me. Yes, this is a good thing. But, it also leaves us with category two, which makes me feel a bit greedy, needy and guilty. I mean the world is in economic chaos at the moment. Do I really need a diamond tennis bracelet? No. Want one. But, will live without it.
But, we’ve taken an oath of honesty – that we’ll tell each other the truth – so I hurl verbally provide Husband with the “A” list at first. (Or, now known as the four horses of the gift-giving apocalypse.)
- A puppy
- A house
- A diamond eternity ring
- A trip to Sweden
Not necessarily in that order, either.
I also feel guilty in this honesty. (Did I mention the economic chaos?) I tell him, I’ll live without any one of them, was not expecting him to deliver the entire list, and, really, he shouldn’t feel the need to stick to that list at all. To add to my remorse for providing such an extravagant set of desires, he e-mails me me for a Christmas wish list again. This means, List A didn’t pass muster. (Or, he didn’t think I was serious.)
So, I try to be realistic. I give him a list that spans the economic – and kindness — scale. I try to get creative when Husband asks what I’d like to receive as a gift. I suggest
- A “day of romance” (Can you hear Husband’s eye rolling on that one?)
- A day where we go to the Washington, DC Design Center to look at furniture (No buying required. However, I demand he finally point out what he means by a quality couch since after three years I’m still clueless as to what he is talking about.)
- Detailing my car
- A big coffee table book on Sweden
- Less expensive jewelry (I had to sneak that one in.)
I ask Husband what he would like from me. No answer. I’m left with figuring him out. But, I’m not worried. I can shop ‘til I drop.
I don’t hear back on this later wish list. This is a good sign. But, the silence kills me, and for some reason makes me feel even guiltier for asking for anything – because the worried brow is still there. So, I tell him don’t get me a present, which is where we started. I up the ante. I say, let’s not exchange presents at all.
But, then he also knows, no matter the good intentions, I won’t be able to stick to this. I’ll see something that’s perfect for Husband and be compelled to get it.
So, he continues to worry.
And, I continue to worry about him.
To make myself feel better I go Christmas shopping.
A Room That Even Husband Will Say is Cool Enough – the ICEHOTEL
Posted by: | CommentsSo, I know exactly how I’m going to get that trip to Scandinavia out of Husband now. We’re bookin’ the ICEHOTEL in Sweden.
You know about Husband’s and my temperature wars. (And, remember, apparently shivering causes the fat-burning fat –called brown fat — to grow.) Well, there will be no question about how many covers we’ll need for – or how much brown fat we’ll stimulate in –THIS bed. (Clearly, it is “bed theme month” at LBB.)
My friend, Amy, recently turned me on to this destination. It is a hotel – or rather a palace — built completely out of ice. And, you can stay there. In ice beds. And, sit on ice chairs. And, even take a tour of how they did it. Husband must be salivating at the thought at this very moment.
Side thought: Must. Buy. New. Wardrobe. (Darn.) Gorsuch, here I come. You think I’m sitting on an ice chair in cotton pants?
According to the ICEHOTEL’s Web site, as soon as winter begins, the building team (snowbuilders, architects, designers), who hail from all over, meet in Jukkasjärvi, the town that is home to the ICEHOTEL in Lapland, to create that year’s version. It takes between December 10 and 30 to construct.
(Even in Lapland, ice does melt. So, yes, they have to rebuild each year.)
Reindeer skins for doorways, an icebar that serves Absolut (naturally), and – check it out – ice art. And, view these images!
The ideal, even according to the ICEHOTEL proprietors, is to just stay one night in an ice room and stay in warmer hotel rooms the other nights. (Yes, they have regular rooms.) Husband and I might have to negotiate that one, if my marital history bears true.
They also suggest combining a trip to Stockholm with the ICEHOTEL experience. Don’t need to tell me twice. So, got plans for the holidays?
What’s a Girl Gotta Do To Get a Puppy Around Here?
Posted by: | CommentsI want a puppy. Husband knows this. In fact, it was part of The Marriage Deal. No new kids. So, we get New Dog instead. This was five years ago.
About two weeks ago, friends of ours got married. (The bride is now an official LBB.) And, guess what her wedding present was?
A puppy.
Cutest thing you have ever seen. In fact, he so damned cute, he doesn’t look real. Rather, he looks like a stuffed animal. (Husband didn’t respond to my shoving my laptop in his face with my Facebook page open to the posted picture, saying, See? See? Isn’t he cute? He remained silent.)
The fact is because we live in such a small (temporary) space until our #^%&^!! house gets built, we do not have room for anything else that breathes. (See these earlier blog posts, here and here, for a somewhat explanation.)
If I was single, I would have a menagerie of animals. I’m sure of it. (Of course,I would live in a much larger place, too.)
I grew up on a farm where I had (in no particular order)
- a horse (well, about 16, but only one was mine)
- a dog – or two, or three (the number could never be determined because they would just wander in and kinda stay)
- a parakeet,
- an aquarium (the number of fish could never be determined because the Siamese Fighting Fish didn’t get along with anyone),
- a donkey
- a hermit crab (hey, he counted),
- cows (yes, they counted, too),
- two gerbils
- cats (the number could never be determined because, well, have you ever been in a barn? They come. They go. They have kittens. They come. They go.)
Oh, I’m sure there were others but who could tell now?
Now I’m married. (And, no, I won’t give into any animal-husband jokes. I have my standards.) This means, Husband gets a say. So, we have plants. (More than Husband wants based on the look he gives me every Fall when I haul them back inside.)
So, I dream. Of one—just one — little fur ball that can lick your face and love you more than they even love themselves. Some day. Sigh.
The Break-Up or How this Late Bloomer Bride Lost Paris
Posted by: | CommentsHello Special Friends! I wasn’t going to post the entry below. But, my public has spoken. The friends I’ve shared this with, privately, have said, Oh, go ahead. Post it. So, I acquiesce.
Like I posted earlier, there really is nothing like international travel to bring to light all kinds of things about your spouse. Our recent trip to Bavaria and Barcelona were great. The only downside is we had to go through Paris. Normally, I would have been thrilled, having long ago established a romantic view of the City of Lights. But, sadly, things have changed. I’m afraid I’m having to write a “Dear John” letter to France. Oh, the drama.
Dear France,
We have to talk. I think it’s time we start seeing other countries.
I know, I know. Our love affair goes way back. And, now my dreams of having a romantic week with Husband in Paris have been dashed. Yes, yes, he promised. But unfortunately, in the last 10 days Husband and I have experienced some things:
- Air France airline
- Charles de Gaulle airport
- Did I mention Air France?
You see when I booked Delta airlines and they put us on their “partner” Air France, I thought nothing of it. The fact we were going to go through Paris also was not a big deal to me. I am so naïve.
First, when Husband sat down in his assigned seat on our Air France flight, he quickly discovered that – during his entire night trip—his monitor wouldn’t work (so, no movies), his light wouldn’t work (so, no reading), and it would be a continual 90 degrees the whole way (so, no dryness). His neighbor’s light, however, wouldn’t turn off, so sleep also was out of the question. You could say things started to go a little south from that point forward.
As I stood in line for one of the two bathrooms that were working (but with no TP) for all the economy passengers aboard the Airbus A320, I saw the steward look at the screen that tells him which passengers have lit their call signs. I saw Husband’s lone seat light up. Air France steward’s training immediately kicked in. He turned the screen off and went back to his coffee.
(Husband wants me to pause and tell you that they also had one – count ‘em – one flight attendant for the entire economy contingent. Oh, and they served chicken in green sauce. We never did figure out what that was all about. Perhaps you could explain?)
Then, when we landed at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport for our four-hour layover before catching yet another Air France flight to Munich (our final destination), the flight attendants refused to let us take an earlier flight to Munich. (Note to self: Never keep Husband from Germany. Apparently, things always work in Germany, which is where Husband wants to be.)
Paris, you’re great as a destination. But, heaven help you if us if have to go through you.
Yes, air France gets kudos for not losing our luggage. But, I’m afraid that’s a little bit like getting credit for showing up at work after collecting your paycheck.
We then, of course, experienced Germany. No, we’re not having an affair. Well, okay, maybe Husband is. But, Germany and I? We’re just friends.
But, yes, we did meet someone else. Sorry.
No, it’s not Italy. It’s Barcelona. I needed a change of scenery and everyone kept telling us that we simply must, must, must meet Barcelona.
So, we flew Lufthansa airline to Barcelona with my sister and her husband after spending some time in Munich, where they live. (My niece loudly proclaimed, of course, we had an earlier bad flight to Munich. We weren’t on Lufthansa, her preferred airline. She’s 10.)
I know, France, you’ve had the lock on romance, good wine and good food for centuries. But, well, there’s someone else in the picture now.
Ah, Barcelona. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
There were far too many cute Spanish boys (who always smile), crisp cool white wine (you couldn’t order a bad bottle if you wanted to), and streets – large and small –lined with interesting architecture and history for us to fight it. And, then, there was the tapas. And shoes. And, paella. And, gazpacho. And, shoes. And, Gaudi, And Picasso. And, more shoes. And, really, you have to love an airport – like Barcelona’s – that has more shoe and handbag stores than all of the stores in our hometown. Well, yes, I’m getting a little red in the face.
It’s true love.
So, needless to say, when catching yet another Air France flight from Barcelona back to the U.S., well, it took some wheeling and dealing to get Husband on board. He gets major kudos for not saying anything – even to the Air France attendants who told us to “go get some coffee and come back to check in luggage later because they weren’t ready for us yet.” All this after standing in line for about 30 minutes.
By the way, did you know that Air France (even in Barcelona) won’t let you check your luggage in until the earlier flight — going to the same destination – has left? That is because they were afraid our luggage would end up on the wrong flight. Apparently, the luggage tags are for mere decoration.
But, rather than leaving the area (just in case they changed their minds), we stood in a que especially designed for our flight, along with the other 100 angry (and caffeine-deprived) people who arrived early to check in but found out that no such thing was going to happen.
No, I’m afraid, counseling won’t help us.
You see, we then had to go through Charles de Gaulle airport again. Sigh.
We land. Hike about half a mile to the Passport Control area and stand in line for about 90 minutes. And, this was all before going through security.
I know, I know, airports are famous for lines. But, only Paris’ lines must have invisible heaters that rise up from the floor (and waiting areas the size of gerbil cages).
There were about 14 guards at the Passport Control area. I quickly ascertained that this amazingly large number has nothing to do with terrorists attempting to get into the country. Rather, the guards are there to protect the sole passport control officer who was attempting to process three international flights. At once.
The lines of people grew longer (beyond where we could see) and, while we all spoke different languages, our faces read the same: Hey, Mr. Lone Passport Officer – what about calling your friends away from their coffee in the back room and opening up more stations? But, instead, his training kicked in. He ignored us. C’est la vie.
The ever-growing-angrier mob included a family who had been travelling some time and still had a way to go — to Leningrad – to get home. I guess 90 minutes wasn’t enough time for them to catch their flight. As people began to systematically miss their flights, the guards’ training kicked in. They shrugged their shoulders.
Yes, I know, we caught our flight. With a whole 10 minutes to spare. The flight home was uneventful, albeit still hot. Husband’s monitor and light both worked, and our luggage arrived. But, the damage had been done.
But, you see it’s really not you, France, it’s us. We’ve grown quite accustomed to being treated like human beings. But, I know you’ll find someone else. Husband has broken up with you, and where he doesn’t go I must follow. He has demanded asked me, in no uncertain terms, that we are never to go through Paris again or fly Air France. But there are plenty of poisson in the sea. I’m sure you can fry up some others in our place.
(Note: No French airport security guards were harmed during the writing of this blog post.)
Learning About Men. From Traveling.
Posted by: | CommentsYou can learn a lot about men by traveling with them. Traveling with Husband is vastly different from going somewhere with girlfriends (my main travel companions when I was single for all those years). So, I was quite naïve, being the LBB, when it came to what to expect when traveling with a member of the opposite sex. (I had weekend trips with boyfriends, of course. But, it’s just not the same,either.)
For one, you don’t have to fight with your girlfriends about taking a taxi to the cool restaurant. This is because they are wearing heels, too. They also understand that the cute outfit you lovingly packed and schlepped across the Atlantic Ocean clashes horribly with the subway train. Husbands do not get the big deal around this.
(Lest you think I am a wuss, I believe in public transportation during sightseeing and the greater the hiking, climbing and stair-climbing the better. It’s hard enough to get a workout in during travel. You might as well get it in during cathedral hopping.)
In general, Husband and I travel well together (provided we don’t ever enter France. We had a bad experience in Charles de Galle airport. Or, shall I say, a series of bad encounters. Enough said.)
Traveling well together is a very good thing, too. Because there is a long list of romantic (and some too scary to go to without a man) places I am dying to visit. And, with Husband, I also get help with my bags, money exchange, and other romantic things not PG enough to mention here.
But, nothing will test your marriage mettle like international travel (house-building, aside). Our destinations are always fabulous. But, getting from point A to B can be taxing.
My sister says the best travelers are those comfortable with uncertainty. Add the following items and you’ve got an ordeal ahead of you: sleep deprivation, snotty French guards people tired of dealing with the international public all day, negotiations over who sits in the middle seat on the red-eye, dehydration, different languages, culture and people, differing ideas of what constitutes adequate guest space, exchange rates, and I won’t even go into airline food because comedians all over the world have it covered.
So, I put on the list of things all LBBs must do before they get married – travel internationally with Mr. Potential Husband. All kinds of things come up that are telling.
For example:
- Does he do well with the unexpected? (My sister says the best traveler understand that nothing ever goes as planned. Period.)
- How well does he do in long lines? (Patience is a virtue. And, this comes in handy when he has to wait for us for just about anything.)
- Will he make you take the middle seat every time when flying “trans-atlantically”? (To me, this is a sign of chauvinism if he insists the woman must always sit in the middle. A friend of mine lovingly dubbed the middle seat the “sausage seat.” So, what are we, chopped liver?)
- How does he deal with the snotty French guards persons of authority who clearly are so over dealing with the public? (This is yet another sign of how he might deal with, say, moments of weakness we might display when woken up too early.)
- Does he understand the cardinal rule of traveling? Thou can only be cranky if the other person isn’t. One at a time, please. And, yes, this goes for us, too.
- Does he offer to help you with your bag, even if it weighs a ton? (I say if he does this willingly, a knight exists in there somewhere.)
- Does he make a mad dash for Customs, leaving you in the dust? (The answer to this one doesn’t even require explaining.)
- Will he consult a map when you’re deep in the maze of Barcelona’s gothic district? (Enough said there, too.)
- Does he understand the importance of food and watering during long treks around cities and country sides? (Offers to stop at cafes now and again for replenishment are another caring sign.)
- And, last but not least, does he roll his eyes when you want to buy those great Italians boots in the highway robbery very expensive airport shop in Rome? (So long as it is your money, who cares?)
What other things would you add to the list? Do tell!
Fun with the Bidet in Barcelona
Posted by: | CommentsBefore last week I had never been to Spain. Now that I’ve been to Barcelona I cannot for the life of me understand why not. You’ve simply got to love a county that
- Offers a café that serves tapas and wine every 10 feet (I am not exaggerating).
- Practically invented the afternoon nap.
- Puts wine on the breakfast menu. (I kid you not. Every morning, someone at our breakfast café ordered a bottle of wine. We did not. I do have some standards.)
- Designs everything to the hilt, down to the cobblestone streets which are laid out in patterns.
- Offers wine that is always, always good and cheap (though rarely can you buy anything but a bottle, so be ready for some drinking).
- Fills itself up with the cutest boys. Oh, the boys. Gorgeous, sweet and smiley—even to an LBB like me. (If I visited Spain when I was 20, I do believe I would have moved there for the guys, if nothing else.)
- And, did I mention the wine?
Germany is efficient. Beautiful, but efficient. Spain isn’t inefficient, but I could tell within hours of landing that it prized romance over getting things done quickly.
And, then, of course there was our hotel bathroom. We had a bidet. I must have one now.
(We also had the loudest toilet I have ever heard in my life. It put the airplane industrial sucking sounds to shame. I’m surprised our hotel toilet didn’t suck the towels, hanging near it, into its vortex every time.)
Anyway, many places in Europe have bidets, so it wasn’t my first encounter with one. In fact, my Aunt and her family lived in Switzerland for many years, and during one visit she valiantly tried to explain how it worked. But, it was beyond me at age 12 to understand why anyone would need to “hose off” (as I recall interpreting). But, our Spanish version had an adjustable knob that you could position. I’m just sayin’… Spain does everything better.
In Barcelona, I was up before Husband every morning. Surely a first. (And, no, it had nothing to do with the bidet.) I am sure it had something to do with the Spanish sunshine. Also, special.
Plus there was art to see! Wine to drink! Tapas to taste! And, shoes. Oh, the shoes that must be tried on. Sister and I bought Flamenco shoes at a shoe store dedicated to such shoes. Because, really, you never know when you’ll need a pair.
We spent two days wandering all over Barcelona. We wound our way through the Gothic area’s tiny, cavernous streets that twist and turn alongside ancient buildings and architecture. We spent about two hours in the Picasso museum, which boasts more than 1,500 pieces of that artist’s work. And, the park that Gaudi helped design is just cool. We spent a few hours there, taking pictures and drinking beer – just because we needed a break from the wine for a moment. (We stopped every few hours to refuel. It’s the Spanish thing to do.)
A quick cable ride one day, down to the beach, showed us just how clean (and clothing optional) a beach can be. See cute boy reference above for the relevance of this.
Their public transportation goes everywhere. Of course, our men wished to take public transportation (read: hot subway system) everywhere, including at night for dinner. The last night, we put our flamenco-shoed feet down and demanded a cab to and from dinner. We weren’t grad students anymore. Time to honor the shoes and move uptown.
Add two great restaurants for dinner each night: Pla (in the Gothic district) and Flamant (in the university area), and I’m surprised I boarded the flight home.
All LBBs need a little romance in their life. Waiting until you are over 40 to get married makes us romantics deep in our hearts. So, I highly recommend Barcelona to inject a little flirting back into your life. Just make sure you get a room with a bidet.
Europe. With Husband in Tow.
Posted by: | CommentsHusband and I learned early on that we travel well together. This has turned out to be a real God send. About once a year, Husband and I like to visit another country for a dose of different culture and country appreciation (both the U.S.’s when we return and the visiting country’s). And, being able to travel well — internationally — has turned out to be a terrific short cut for learning all kinds of things about one another. Also, marrying later in life usually means you and your spouse have been to places before, which now you can share with each other.
(It also means for the first time, unlike friends, you have someone who is legally bound to go home with you even after you have a hissy fit in JFK over yet another delay.) But, back to the good stuff.
Thanks to frequent flier miles; the fact I have a sister who actually lives outside of Munich, Germany; and my complete and utter desperation that Husband and I actually take a vacation together this year, we headed to Europe last week. And, it was there that I learned something really, really important. I discovered how to get Husband to take over some meals. But, it would involve a move to Germany.
Husband used to live there. So, he speaks the language and knows some really cool places. Plus, since I’ve known him, he has waxed poetic about the early morning brötchen (German hard rolls). Add to the fact it would be Oktoberfest, and you could say a trip to Munich wasn’t a hard sell. How could we not visit? (We also snuck off to Barcelona for two days, because, really, we didn’t get enough to eat and drink in Germany.)
But, let’s talk about Husband and food.
When we were at my sister’s place in Paunzhausen (a village 20 minutes outside of Munich), Husband announced, he would handle breakfast. He got up every single day at 6 a.m. and headed to the bakery to get freshly-baked brötchen. This was entirely his idea. Then, when I woke up (much, much later), he made sure he saved me at least one (and often more) brötchen and created a nice spread of condiments for me. Ham, various wursts, sausages, marmalades and jellies, and about six different cheeses. Oh, and Nutella. Nutella is what many of the European kids eat in place of jelly – it’s basically hazelnut chocolate spread. You can get it in the U.S. now, but not when I was a kid. (Had I known about Nutella at age six, I do believe my parents would have put me up for adoption from all the begging I would have done to move to Europe.)
Husband got many points for his breakfast offerings.
Whenwe weren’t eating, we were drinking beer. This was a good thing because it helped us get ready for the real, original Oktoberfest (which, by the way, is usually in September and is in Munich). Nobody does beer like the Germans. And, nobody drinks as much beer as Germans celebrating Oktoberfest. It is like a giant, beautiful, controlled frat party.
My sister treated us to advance tickets (Thanks, Sister!), which you must do if you are ever going to Oktoberfest. A ticket is your entry into a tent, which is where the real action resides. Our tent – one of about five available — was called the Hippodrom. Do not let the outside fool you. Take a look:
A thousand seats before hundreds of long tables are crammed inside this giant tent. Decorated to the hilt, with a band playing all kinds of eclectic songs, for three hours we swayed and clinked our (liter!) beer mugs with anyone we caught eyes with. I must have sang Que Sera Sera, whatever will be, will be at least six times. (Which is hysterical because Germany is not exactly what I call a “whatever will be” kind of place.)
And, again, with the food, Husband made sure I had plenty of pretzel slathered with some-kind-of-spread in between beers. Each table was laid out with a mini-buffet of radishes, ham, spreads, cucumbers and other goodies. Oh, and gigantic freshly-baked pretzels! (I had two.) The fact Oktoberfest has a higher alcohol content and it is only served in liter sized mugs may have spurred him on to force food upon me. But, I appreciated the gesture, nonetheless. So, we didn’t get too schnockered.
I also learned at this event that Husband can be quite communicative. It just takes several beers at Oktoberfest.
Later during our stay, my brother-in-law lent us his convertible sports car one day so we could go castle-cathedral-cute-town hopping throughout Bavaria. (Thanks, A!)
We first zipped to Ober Ammergau (German spelling here) where I got to browse Christmas shops and Husband got to browse amazing wood carvings of everything, all from one piece of wood.
Then, it was off to Wieskirche, a church whose outside belies its inside (Louis the XIV had nothing on this decorator).
Finally, we visited Schloss Linderhof. (Just click. I can’t even begin to explain this mini-version of Versailles. But, I will never be accused again of going over the top when decorating after seeing this place.)
An evening stop at Starnberger See (see = lake in German) to a restaurant on the water completed our day. We both had fish. Husband’s fish still had its head on. Ewww. But, again, he made sure I was well fed.
So, why the travelogue? Well, as an LBB, we want to learn as much as possible about our guys, as quickly as possible. We have catching up to do. So, I encourage anyone who is an LBB or wishing to become an LBB, to go overseas with their guy. You will learn all kinds of things.
For instance, I didn’t realize that fish-with-their-heads doesn’t bother husband. But, when it bothers me, he covers it up with the rice so I won’t accidentally see it. I also didn’t know breakfast could be such a bonding experience. And, I certainly had no idea for his proclivity for maps until we entered a country where the maps actually matched the street signs. Oh, and his love for the autobahn. This I suspected. But, until you actually find yourself in this jet-stream-for-humans, you just don’t know how much testosterone can exist in one human being.
Watch for Monday’s post about how to use international travel as a guide to your guy. It’s quite amazing.
