Day One of Travail: The Never Ending Day

This is a tale of traveling travail.

I must begin this tale with a list of excuses. To do otherwise would be to allow more stupidity then I am already going to admit. And there’s a good deal of it to go around, have no fear. I will, in no way, come out looking like the brightest tool in the shed or the sharpest crayon in the box, regardless of these excuses. The list follows and will make no sense until you have read the post (feel free to skim and return to them later). Nevertheless - I am putting my excuses front and center. 

1. We had to book the houses for the road trip before detailed planning for the move to England (in January to be exact - think about renting a beach house on the coast - one must begin at least six months in advance to get something decent).
2. We had to rent the van in France because it was thousands of dollars less expensive. 
3. We had no way of knowing about needing to pick up the identity cards until after we applied for them (instructions at the end of the process) and you can’t apply for them before a couple of months before your trip.
4. Googlemap time estimates in Europe are hours off. Much different then the States where they are more or less accurate plus or minus an car accident or two.
5. My husband thought of (thinks of) this tale as a tale of triumph. I think of it as a tale of mishaps and lost efficiency and a great deal of failure - of travail. But, we are still around and "what doesn't kill you it makes you stronger",  so I guess he is righter then me.

OK - on to the stupidity and failure.

On July 31st we awoke to the sound of waves in Rehoboth, Delaware. We had just finished 5 days with the best in-laws a girl could want. It was the perfect breather between packing up our home to prepare for our tenants and our 7-week European road trip which was going to culminate in moving into our Oxford home for 10 months. Around noon we packed up our few beach things, said our final goodbyes and drove 4 hours to drop off our van and catch our ride to the airport. 

We took 2 medium suitcases, two small suitcases, two travel camp beds, two boosters, two strollers and a small army of backpacks and kindles. Got to the gate with no problem. It was the last time I’d feel like, “I got this. I am ROCKING this.”

Our flight left at 8ish on a Monday night. I passed out the Melatonin gummies I had packed for this trip while the kids answered to siren call of Icelandic Air’s inflight entertainment. I tried to sleep, I did. But IT WAS HAPPENING!!! I was going to Iceland! To England! To Europe! I was NOT packing up my house! That might have been the best part in that particular moment. The only kids who slept a wink on the flight were the two who also had fevers (because, of course…). So we landed in Iceland at 2:30 AM EST. (6:30 a.m. Icelandic time). Honestly, the entire Iceland situation is a blur of utter and complete exhaustion for me.

There was at least 1.5 hours of kids collapsed on the airport floor in a dead sleep while John hunted around for the strollers (that ended up being checked all the way through to London). So we were stroller-less and had no plans except to wander around Reykjavik and discover cool Iceland stuff (the tours we had initially planned on doing were all too long for our 10-hour layover). There was also very long walks in search of a bakery. When we found the bakery there was a line. When we ordered eight croissants and paid for them we discovered too late that it cost $45. No way were they that good. The rest of Iceland for me was spent just trying to keep putting one foot in front of the other, carrying a small child or two and keep other kids moving. There isn’t a coffee or a 5-hour Energy strong enough to deal with that degree of tired.

I have pictures of Iceland that are beautiful and wonderful
However, this is the internal story, not the external story.
And these pictures are more accurate a portrayal of the experience
even though that does not reflect the awesomeness that Iceland is. 

Somehow we made it onto the next plane and landed in London at 9:30 pm that day. As we are getting off the plane Thomas (9 years old) starts wailing. Thomas is NOT a public wailer. He ascribes to the "real men don't cry" school of thought.

So we were pretty quickly alarmed. He went to the side of the gangway and just curled up in a fetal position on the floor. We requested a wheelchair and started thinking about how to get him to a doctor to rule out appendicitis. Parading through the airport, we picked up our luggage and then went to wait in line  for customs. The line was…absolutely amazing. Winding around and around and around a huge room. But, because of Thomas’s wheelchair we got into a very short and fast medical-needs line! Woohoo! But a very subdued woohoo because it wasn’t worth the price of the poor child’s pain. We were through customs by 10:30, which was awesome. Thomas’s episodes of pain seemed to be coming slower. Then it was revealed that it had been several days since he'd visited the bathroom in a particularly important way. Ahem. So at least at that point we were pretty sure we knew what was happening. He was still uncomfortable but we didn't think it would require hospitalization.

You'd think that at this point our night would be nearly over and light was at the end of the tunnel. And so it was, sort of. But before we could leave the airport John had to go rent a car for the morning run to Oxford (details on that ridiculousness to follow) and get SIM cards for the phones. He ran off to slay those dragons and I was there with the kids, the luggage, and the wheelchair.

All we had eaten in the last 35 hours were airplane pretzels and those highly over-rated croissants in Reykjavik so I hauled around all that stuff and all those people in search of some chips or chocolate (the only things available at 11pm on a Tuesday night in the airport). I ended up buying some very weirdly flavored Cajun Cheetos accidentally. Tired. So tired. Hungry. So hungry. So hangry, truthfully. It took forever. We didn’t leave the airport until midnight. We were now at 36 hours with no significant food or sleep, two kids with fevers and another one doubled over with abdominal pain. 
         John stuffed the tiny compact car with most of the luggage and most of the kids and drove them a harrowing half hour to an apartment we had rented for just that night (more will follow about the complication he encountered on his first UK drive). Rosie, Gloria and I took a taxi drive to the apartment. It took for forEVER to figure out how to get in. The kids were all crying or punching. In fact, we first walked into what was clearly some other person’s kitchen (at 1 am - poor folks - we probably scared the begeesus out of them). Finding the correct door we walked into a very cramped place without enough beds. The kids started collapsing onto beds here or there. Thomas was asleep the SECOND his head hit the pillow. A pain-induced first in his entire life (never has there been a more restless sleeper than him, usually). There weren’t enough beds for all of us so John and I put together the camp beds. I fell into my own bed in my clothes and hit a rock. I mean, it was technically a mattress but it was as hard as plywood. Of course. That’s about right. End of Day One. 

Kid-o-bunks in action. Cece on the bottom, Anthony on top. We used the heck out of these and we are still using them everyday in Oxford.

Day Two would be used for recuperating. NOT!

        This is where things get complicated. The devil is truly in the details. We needed to rent that compact car at the airport because John need to leave at the butt-crack of dawn to go and pick up his Damn Biometric ID Card (do you sense how I felt about that situation?). These are ID cards that we needed because we would be returning to the UK as residents. We needed to pick them up within 10 days of arriving but we were immediately leaving for France to pick up our van (see excuse #2) and we couldn’t delay for a day to take care of this business of moving (see excuse #3) because we had already booked 7 weeks worth of “holiday homes” on the continent and couldn’t just bump our itinerary back a day (see excuse #1). 
         In our planning phase we had learned this information in such a way and in such an order that our gentle entry plan with our day of recouping after a draining travel day just kept getting squashed right out and looking more and more unmanageable. To make matters worse our biometric ID cards had been mailed to separate post offices. Seven of them (the kids and me) in London near our one-night-stand apartment and John's to Oxford, near our future residence. Hence, John rented a small (cheap) car for the morning to 1. buzz over to Oxford. He was supposed to be back in time for us to get from the apartment, to 2. the other post office for me and the kids to pick up our Damn Biometric ID Cards (found out later that all 6 kids had to be present in order for me to pick up), 3. catch the train to 4. the Tube to 5. another train to 6. the taxi to 7. the ferry from Dover to France where 8. our van would be waiting and we would drive 3 short hours to arrive in 9. Normandy. With all the luggage. And the six kids. Having barely slept or ate. (Insert maniacal, devilish laughter because the DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS). 
          If you are wondering why we didn’t just plan to get a van and drive with the kids and the luggage to run these errands and then over to the ferry then you will be answered with the feeble excuse that it seemed absurdly expensive to rent a big enough van for one day and drop it off in a location other then where it had been rented. In retrospect, WORTH EVERY PENNY, is what it would have been. 

        I want to take a moment to refer you back to the aforementioned excuses. Did we think this would all work? Well, one of us had a lot of hope and optimism and one of us...didn't. 

Day Two in our next installment of my Tale of Travel Travails. 

A Feast of Identity

As I write this I am wondering if anyone will find it interesting. I have been asked several times how we went about planning the road trip of Europe (part 1) but I have no idea if those people were being polite by showing interest in my obsession or were actually curious. So, in the case that someone out there wants to understand our schema for the trip we planned I am going to write my “big picture” answer down here without continuing this apologetic prelude. 

In the beginning when John and I realized that we were about to be given a rare and once in a lifetime opportunity to travel with our “large” family (if you knew my crowd you’d know why it’s appropriate to use quotation marks even though according to the NYTimes we fall into .05% of families in the USA having eight of us under one roof) we sat down that night  and sketched out a brainstorming page about what we would do, see and experience. It was crazy how absolutely in line we were in our priorities. It was easy peasy to set out a basic scheme. And in execution it looks remarkably similar to that very first flurry of ideas and enthusiasms.

I say it’s crazy because there are an enormous amount of good reasons to travel and to lap up an opportunity like this. There’s the much sought after growth of open mindedness - expanding our horizons by encountering the other and finding in it the familiar at the same time. This is a very good motivator for travel and one I’m happy to have been able to give to the children, having had the opportunity myself growing up. There’s language acquisition in a natural environment (though most of the our time this year will be in England). In addition, cultivating a sense of adventure can certainly spice up life. Chasing beauty in art, music or nature is an excellent reason to travel. And there’s the allure of Living History which is the flame to my moth of a homeschooling heart. And then there’s the FOOD. That alone…

But, there is also a weird Travel Worship thing that makes me uncomfortable. An idea that it’s a wasted life to stay home and run soccer duty and do the conventional thing. As if you are not REALLY living unless you are traveling and experiencing all that life has to offer (which even on a budget is out of reach for moderate to large families the vast majority of the time). I find that insulting and narrow, actually. As if the only way to broaden one’s horizons is to go beyond the horizon. If you’ve ever read the children’s book Toot and Puddle you will have come to the conclusion that I have come to. Toot travels all over the world (loving every minute) and Puddle stays home and enjoys the finer things of the domestic life (loving every minute). There’s nothing wrong with either emphasis. If one wants to traipse and alight here and there and everywhere then, OK. I am certainly more of a rooted sort of person. I want to be making the home that you will come back to eventually. I am more a Puddle then a Toot. But hey- I’m not going to turn down an opportunity to Toot! And Toot the heck out of my children, that’s for SURE.

In the year leading up to leaving I thought a lot about what our emphasis for our trip would be - where to focus our energies and attention. When Europe is laid at your feet the only problem is narrowing down to the most perfect exciting and amazingly interesting things out of the amazingly interesting things. When we looked at our brainstorming we discovered that everything fell into one of three “tracks” for our journey. 1. Family History 2. Saint Patrons and 3. Cultural Highlights. It wasn’t until we were actually weeks into our big road trip that I tuned into the common denominator: developing a sense of identity. John and I had both been shaped in significant ways during our travels in highschool and college and intuitively knew what we wanted to give the children before it was even explicit in our own minds. 

The idea of answering the question, “What makes our family different then every other family on the block?” was a really helpful exercise offered in the book, “The 3 Big Questions for a Frantic Family”, by Patrick Lencioni. Lancioni guides your answer by saying that if it’s only your religion then that’s too easy an answer, even if it’s true. (Or, as another friend told me the other day, “You need to give them more then Catholicism so that they have something else to rebel against.” #realism) Lencioni suggests looking into what made you fall in love with your spouse and he said that will be a good starting point to identify what you most desire to pass onto your children. This trip was an amazing opportunity to be able to pass on in really tangible ways pieces of our identity.

We were able to pass on to our children a sense of family pride. John’s grandfather was a distinguished admiral who commanded the naval forces at Sicily, North Africa and finally, and most grandly, at D-Day. My Great Uncle died for his country in the unfortunate last gasp of the Nazis in the Battle of the Bulge and we were able to visit his grave. We were able to visit the place that John’s mother made her first communion in Germany  - where all the gruff men in town toasted her as they slung her up onto the bar in the pub after what was the first of many communions - a defining aspect of her life to this day. We were able to weed and and tidy the forgotten grave of my Great Great Grandfather and Great Great Grandmother in Vienna, praying for their souls and thanking God for their role in bringing about each of our lives. Leading up to the trip we read books about the relevant battles and the kids are now writing papers and following up with more research and reading family memoirs by some of John’s family. Knowing where we have come from often leads to a greater knowledge of where we are going.

Looking out over Omaha Beach near the American cemetery.

Descendents of the Head of the Western Task Force and the Admiral of the D-Day ships. And they better never forget it!

American Cemetery at Utah Beach. Acres of sacrifice.

Another part of our family are the Saints. We each have several patron saints and being able to take the kids on pilgrimages to each of their name saints (we aren’t quite done yet but the ones we have done have been so absolutely worth they hype) is just an astounding opportunity. I could cry thinking about how meaningful it has been. We also visited lots of saints that are more peripheral for us but are very meaningful to our friends and so we are enlarging our sense of family all the time - both on Earth and in Heaven. Opening up wider and wider to bring more people into our fold both those in the Church Triumphant and the Church Militant (which sounds significantly more brutal then it is). We carried with us the prayers of hundreds of friends and communities and we lit candles all over the continent for those intentions. Space and time shrink in eternity and spending time with our friends in the Heavens have brought us closer to our friends on earth.

Patron Saint Therese of Lisieux, France. 

In front of the kitchen hearth at St. Therese's family home.

In the garden behind the house. 

The basilica of a tiny little nun who is now a doctor of the Church.

The family home of 3 saints (at least). St. Therese, and her father and mother Sts. Louis and Zelie.

At St. Therese's parish church. Praying for all our friends and family who entrusted their needs to us.

The third track was things that have been significant in Western Civilization. It could be musical, artistic, nature, historical. Oh my. This is sort of a catchall except that it’s not when you are focused on developing a sense of identity. What do I want to pass on to my children? What is significant to my sense of self and valuable enough to make room in a packed itinerary? This is how we ended up seeing a Mozart concert in Salzburg, visiting Monet’s Water Lily Gardens in Giverny, seeing Corrie Ten Boom’s house in Haarlem, and spending a wonderful week soaking in the beauty of Venice. We were certainly limited in what we could do given the ages of the kids (for example my husband took just the three older kids to Auschwitz and took them on an abbreviated tour that hopefully had the effect of pointing their moral compass true north but won’t cause nightmares and PTSD) but we didn’t just tour science museums and parks either. Seeing Mozart’s house made them more interested when I put on Mozart for music study. It was worth putting up with a lot of whining and bellyaching for certain culturally significant things and not for others (sorry Schonbrunn).

Monet's house in Giverny. You can barely see it for all the flowers.

While the boys ran hither and yon exploring the incredibly expansive gardens the girls and I sketched the pond. The amount of tourists that took our picture was hilarious. All over Asia we are memorialized in photo albums.

Just me and my girly on the Japanese bridge. Chilling next to this poor lady who immediately dropped that phone in the water after the picture was taken.

Monet's incredible kitchen in his incredibly colorful house. He was certainly no "starving artist" when he went.

We were really living the dream, that's for sure.

I don’t know how much of it will stick, certainly more for some then others. But I also don’t know how big the seeds will grow. During this school year we are following up on a lot of the things we just saw. Reading and researching and writing and watching documentaries. I feel so incredibly grateful to have been given the opportunity to superintend this rich feast that has been laid before my children. It’s up to them to partake but it has been offered and we will continue to nibble away at it for years once we are back in the cozy confines of our personal Woodcock Pocket, like Toot returning from his journeys.

P.S. Italy houses SO MUCH of what we want to share with the kids that we are hoping to take a full month there in the spring. That is why Rome and Florence are so underrepresented in my examples.

P.P.S. Upon re-reading this post I think it is clear that John and I thought more about the opportunity for forming our children then about the pure enjoyment of any particular place. Well, yeah. Anyone who has travelled with children to anywhere except Disney (and maybe even there) knows that they will suck the joy right out of anything with their demands and varying levels of interest and disinterest. And when there are six of them then you are guaranteed to have at least one very unhappy, obstinate person with you at all times - no matter how much ice-cream you feed them.

Also, there was very little leisure for “soaking up” any particular environment. If that is what you are trying to do then I’d certainly wait to take a trip when the kids are older or gone :) Verily. However, we both had pockets of time alone and together to breath deep and take a good look around. The kids really needed objectives to enjoy themselves - we would have been more content with wandering and eating. That will have to be a different trip though. No one here is disappointed with what the trip was and wasn’t. Life with these little folks has prepared us well for travel with them. They are the same kids here, there and everywhere. For better or for worse.

Wrestling with Belonging

I went to a women’s group. No woman wants to walk into a room full of women alone - with no social buffer. No Gal Pal, no babe in arms, no glass of wine. Social misery. As I walked up to the hall I caught glimpses of white bobbing around. Must be the reflection in the window. Nope. Those bobs of white were attached to the scalps of several women of venerable age.  I was a solid 3 decades younger then every other lady there. And to make matters worse they are each paired up. There wasn't one solo head of white which to sidle up to. So, I did what I think a very British thing to do - I got a cup of tea in order to have something to fiddle with. Knowing that my presence in this tight knit group of church ladies was probably making them feel as awkward as I felt I sat with my "approachable" look on my face. Well, at least I tried to think many approachable thoughts so it could ooze out through my body language. More ladies filtered into the room. Each lady was greeted by name and then quickly paired up with another one, pairing, pairing. The seat next to me was finally occupied by a kindly woman who very helpfully told me, "There's a Mum's Group on Thursday mornings." The priest then came in, introduced himself and immediately followed up by saying, "There's a Mum's Group on Thursday mornings." I returned my tea cup to the lady in charge of tea and she asked me if I'd heard about the Mum's Group on Thursday mornings. 
OK, well. 😂 Message received.
But I stayed because I'm not a quitter. Well, that's a lie. I'm totally a quitter, however John was my ride and I had to wait for him. So I stayed and we prayed the rosary. I realized just how flat a sound it is when an American says, “God.” I haven’t resolved the issue yet. First I just said it my way - but it sounded so loud and obnoxious that I started trying to soften it to a rounder “Oh” sound. But then it sounded like I was trying to fake an accent and that’s infinitely weirder then just having the one you were born with. Then I tried to just whisper the “God” part but that was a lot of diligence and not a lot of prayer. I really should not be allowed out of my bubble.

Going to this women’s group is yet another microcosm of my overall experience of traveling here in Europe with my dozens of children. “Dozens” is the European translation for six. Weirdo American, with her brood of, what must be Super-Rich, offspring.

Knowing that as soon as I open my mouth I will be spotted as the newcomer - I tend to offer weird, tight grins and lots of head bobbing to distract from the fact that I am not saying more then hello, please, and thank you. Like a kid who just had braces clapped on their now-forgotten smiles, I will NOT show my teeth. I will not be forced to admit how foreign I feel. 

But I continue to go and try stuff. Partly because my husband is forcing me to and partly because it is the right thing to do. Openness is important. Be open to life - open to relationship and open to change. My life has revolved around Openness to Life and this is not the moment to shut down in a funk of nervousness because last Sunday the tea with the Indian couple (who were apparently not a couple) was so weird. And it WAS weird. 

I knew better. My social instincts were all the heck over that one. But again. Open to life. Open to people. This is what I do because I believe in the value of people and relationship and community, not because it’s always comfortable. Often it’s painfully uncomfortable. We escaped that disastrously awkward experience with nothing worse then an hour and a half of lurching around for topics to discuss that could last more then two volleys then Anthony eating a spring roll and finding out that it was filled with cabbage instead of chocolate. And frankly, I was glad we tried. It wasn’t a friendship made in heaven but it was a sincere human connection and it was a generosity offered and received. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Launching into the next jungle of social engagement, I will take comfort from that awful moment in Venice when I was made to feel like the outsider among outsiders. When I felt I was being told to leave. Who on earth would consider bring children to Venice anyway? After 5 weeks on the road already I thought I was becoming immune to that feeling. But no. Actually, I’m not sure that maturity and self-confidence has any staying power for me - they both seems more like the tides. Sometimes high and sometimes low - the only thing being certain is that it will go out again at some point - probably when it is most inconvenient.

But then I preach to myself, my most fitful and distracted audience (even taking into account my 9 year old, Thomas). "You belong. You belong because you were called. This IS your place and where you are MEANT to be - whatever that lady thinks." Hmmm. My preaching is not taking. The tide of self-confidence and maturity is well on its way out and the best I can hope for is to find a little tide pool and curl up to wait for the return of deeper waters - exposed and vulnerable until covered again. 

Gradually, I tune into the bells. The bells that followed us all over the Continent. We were rarely, if ever, more then a hop, skip and a jump (or “spittin’ distance”, as my neighbor would say) from Christ in the tabernacle. The bells sing to insecure and lonely me, to the fallen world, to the sick and pained and hardened: I am here. I am never far. I have chosen to dwell among you. I follow you on your journeys and I await you in the tabernacle. My light is always on for you. I remain incarnate in this world in order to be close to you. Because I enjoy your presence. I just love to be near you.

We belong because He belongs and we belong within Him. He dwells in the tabernacle. A throne, or a cell? Or both? He is forgotten and left alone. Treated as a relic of a long dead past. The gilding of the ark far more admired then for the flesh and blood it houses. And yet. He remains. 

He remains. He remains among the thousand of surging tourists in Notre Dame - Paris, San Marco - Venice, Mont St. Michel, The Milan Duomo, St. Stephen’s-Vienna. People photographing and enjoying the beautiful art that was created to honor him - yet He is forgotten. 

This finds me disconcerted and unsettled initially. And then completely comforted. It is infinitely better that He remain then be set aside. The world surges around Him in these places - the world comes to him and he dwells among us in all of our varying levels of openness and awareness. There is nothing more fitting and at the same time, less fitting then seeing our Lord in the tabernacle in one of these places. It forces me repeatedly to come to terms with my own fittingness to receive. We are none of us worthy - we are none of us aware enough of the honor - we are none of us pure vessels of his body to the world. And yet - he doggedly remains with us. He just won’t be got rid of. He will stay. 

And his presence is what tells us that we are just where we belong and also just where we don’t belong. We are a pilgrim people - never fully at home in this world but fully home in Him. We are here to carry him to the farthest corners of the earth with the confidence that He has gone before us. He also dwells in the places that are least “appropriate”. Least fitting. My discomfort in my own skin and my place in a community (or lack there-of) is dissolved in knowing that Christ in the tabernacle is the fulfillment of the paradox of belonging and not belonging. I am in good company. The best company.

Krakow, Poland. We wandered into a church off the main Market Square, just to check it out. We had been soaking in the cosmopolitan feels of the square, street musicians, fountains, fruit stands, playing some soccer, etc. Mixing with all sorts of folks. We walked into this church and BAM! Incense, gorgeous music, the place was packed with an enormous hodgepodge of people adoring the Lord in the Eucharist and going to confession. We are blown away. 

It was standing room only. Well, most people were kneeling. The entire nave was jam packed. People kneeling in the aisles. Poland is doing something very very right.

At the Divine Mercy Shrine Christ's tabernacle is actually a globe. He dwells among us all. He is in this world because he loves to be with us.

There are flags leading up to the chapel where Christ appeared to St. Faustina and instituted the Divine Mercy devotion. We prayed with the sisters at 3pm - "For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and ON THE WHOLE WORLD."

Sacre Coeur in Paris has had Perpetual Adoration for 400 years. Most people are pushing and shoving to get a view of Paris from the portico (which, I must admit is outstanding) and see the beautiful art inside. The line to get in was snaking back and forth in front of the doors. But if you ask for the "Believer" entrance you can get in for Mass or adoration.

This map is of the area surrounding Sacre Coeur. During WWII those divots are all places that bombs landed. The Parisians attributed the lack of damage to the actual building of the church to the presence of the Eucharist being adored.

Again, lines of people to see the art. But, I got the distinct impression that our Lord enjoys being surrounded by all these people from all over. He dwells here in order to be near us - even if we are unaware of him (as all of us are to some degree or other all the time. After all - the veil has not been lifted yet). There is a crown of thorns housed here. The thorns on the crown are from a plant native to Israel and have blood from a person who was alive during the 1st century. The rest, as our tour guide said, is a matter of faith. 

Our Lord has a great view of Salzburg, Austria from the Abbey that Maria von Trapp attempted to join.

St. Stephensplatz in the center of Vienna is another of his homes here on this planet. This home was filled with Hungarian pilgrims there to venerate the Weeping Madonna who has taken from Hungry. She hasn't wept since the 1600s but believe me, those Hungarians don't feel forgotten by her.

He even dwells hundreds of meters below the surface of the Earth in a chapel carved entirely out of salt. (Poland)

I couldn't believe that tabernacle light was lit! They even have Sunday Mass at 7 am every Sunday down here.

"He holds in his hands the depths of the earth and the highest mountains as well."

Totally random, in no reasonable order or comprehensiveness...OurGrandTour Anecdotes

This might just serve as my ongoing (for me - for you it will appear at once) of quirky or funny observations or happenings.

- In Iceland I was marveling at just how different everything is there. It was the first country and I was super jet-lagged so the thoughts weren't super deep. But as I walked by a coffee shop I looked inside and happened to see the computer screen of the guy sitting at the table near the window. He was shopping on Amazon.com. There's nothing new under the sun. But they probably don't have 2-day shipping to Iceland, huh?

-As we exited the elevator at the top of the Eiffel Tower we (almost) all experienced what could be equated to emotional endorphins. We had been holding in all our stress and pent up energy and despair over the wait and hunger and need to pee for FIVE HOURS in close-quarter lines with strangers from around the world. The only breaks from lines were climbing up over 700 steps to the elevator because...we are that cheap (and the lines to climb the stairs were shorter. Go figure. So when we burst forth from that elevator door with the stream of BO-having humanity we were all feeling on top of the world, not just on top of Paris. Cece, unfortunately, is afraid of heights so wasn't experiencing the same emotional release as the rest of us as we stepped out. "Thomas, today you're Joy and I'm Fear." Inside Out once again comes to the rescue in complicated emotional moments. How did I ever cope emotionally before that movie?

-How bout that time John said, "Merci Beaucoup" and I heard, "She has to poop."

-Or the time that we saved $200 by staying in a hotel that had large amounts of large Middle-East men roaming the halls in nothing but their boxers banging and shouting at each other through the doors until well after 11pm. At least they were boxers. If they'd been French they would have been speedos. And then the power to our rooms kept going out? And the only bathrooms were down the halls and I was having lady times with "supplies" that I was super unfamiliar with? TMI? Yup. It was an expensive savings. It cost many harsh words and some tears.

-Also, French people jogging. Hilarious. Keds with black socks and cut off black jeans. Or maybe holding your arms out to the side so far that it looks like you are taking off. But going so slowly that my three year old passed you walking backward? As John puts it: it's like jogging has never occurred to them before. They just woke up and thought, "you know what? I think I'll have a jog..." Very enjoyable.

And how about the shining moments? (I'm going to NOT write down the many uglier and less flattering moments. Not because I want to be "real" or honest but because my own bad moments are mine to share but not my children's or my husbands. You'll just have to take my word for it. I have to be on the lookout for these good moments - otherwise I will be overwhelmed by the weight of the bad ones. Raising a family is hard work and there are some very upsetting moments along the way.

-I was crying earlier because we got fined 135 Euros because we didn't put pictures on the bus passes. It was a mess. A very frustrating mess. I HATE wasting. Wasting time (thankYOU Eiffel Tower!), wasting money (Here's looking at you, London - who do you think you are, the Queen?), etc. I mean, I hate it. Like, break down in public crying for ten minutes hate it. The kids, and especially Thomas, were so so so sweet towards me while I was upset. He held my hand for a half hour (at eight he generally does not let me hold his hand - he's way above it) and rubbed my back on and off. He pushed the stroller so I could more easily hold the umbrella. He gave his coat to his sister when she was cold and tucked it in. He even instigated a picture in front of Notre Dame when I was so demoralized I couldn't care less. Usually I have the HARDEST times getting him to stand for a picture so I know for sure it was because he loves me and wanted to make me happy. I'm learning to feel so valued. My people love me. They want me to be happy and they care when I'm sad. How blessed am I to have 7 other people in Europe who want me to be happy and will even pose for a picture to help me bounce back? It is the very best, I tell ya.

-Strangers have been unfailingly helpful. And not grudgingly so but genuinely helpful. They see us struggling to get luggage up a flight of stairs, they help. They see me stuck in a bank because I can't even read enough French to understand that I need to push a green button to get out? They push the button. My card gets declined because...well, who the heck knows?! I don't know why this keeps happening! They patiently leave my groceries on the belt while I run down the street to the ATM (which by the way has an "Error", thank you Google Translate and that is why I get stuck in the bank, released and then finally find another ATM) and then ask if I need another bag (for free!). Or, when we are stuck behind some, apparently suspicious, looking people at Eiffel Tower Security a lady in the next line over waves us (all 8 of us!) in ahead of her. I'm telling, you. People are people and there are always a couple of grumps here and there but I can say that bringing a lot of kids to Europe hasn't been at all the intimidating in terms of judgementalism (yet!), these folks have been as kind to us as I could hope. Even when we clear them out of their morning supply of croissants.

The Build Up in Pictures, Pt. 2

We are back from Alaska. Vacation is over. We are now prepping. Prepping, prepping, prepping. An old saying attributed to Ignatius of Loyola is, "Work like everything depends on you and pray like everything depends on God." A trip like this is similar. To get the most out of it we need to prep and plan like we can control our trip and then when we are actually in the middle of it we will need to be as flexible and ready for adventure as if we'd done nothing and have no expectations. After spending most of today just trying to put one foot in front of the other to fight off stress-paralysis I'm not sure that revisiting these old plans and pictures is a good idea or a bad idea. On the one hand it's nice to see that we've actually made progress - on the other hand it reminds me of the immensity of this experience. Overwhelmed is my middle name. OK, time traveling back to December.

December

We bought two umbrella strollers for the Cath and Glo for Christmas. It was a lot of reviews and research and we have been using these strollers for the last 7 months and they are fantastic! 

Christmas Day Stroll.

The girls received the Madeline books for Christmas from Grandma.

Did you know that Madeline went to London? Who knew?!

January

James is never one to let an opportunity for a toast go to waste. To John's new book and to the year abroad! Cheers!

 February

The ever-growing pile of research. I LOVED Take Your Kids to Europe and Europe Through the Back Door. The DK Family Guides to particular cities seem great. I'll let you know more in a few weeks if they are worth the $$$.

March

We took a trip in March to an exhibit of St. Thomas More's relics that were on exhibition at the John Paul II institute in Washington DC. We saw this as a dry-run. It's not that far a drive for us and we remembered that the Tower of London doesn't let you see the cell that Thomas More was kept in. There's a little information about him on the tours of the Tower but not really enough for us. So the weekend before we went was watched A Man for All Seasons with the kids. They all watched it! They all enjoyed it. There was a fair amount of pausing and explaining but it still held their attention. That's just a parent to parent FYI. I was surprised that they had to good taste to see that this is a SUPERIOR movie.
As a dry run of what we hope to do for six weeks straight (road-tripping with stops at awesome sights) this was excellent. It was excellent because it was so real. So less-then-ideal. Don't get your hopes up - it wasn't a total disaster (that has it's own charm eventually) it was just annoying and mildly disappointing. Still glad we did it but really. It wasn't awesome. It's not Alaska, afterall.

As you can see from this picture. We immediately had to stop at The Wal because a half hour from home we realized that SOMEONE

wasn't wearing any shoes.

THANKFULLY, because of this unscheduled stop we were able to obtain the food with a local flair.

It was appreciated.

Not ten minutes further down the road a different SOMEONE had (haaaaaaad!!!!) to go to the bathroom.

And another one.

And another one.

And another one.

But we got down to our great country's great capitol. John worked here for a year between his Masters and Licentiate degrees. He was working there when we first started the conversations that led to us dating. I'd say that he was working there when we first fell in love but that sounds awkward. I don't really use those kind of words.

I couldn't take pictures in the exhibition. It was really, really cool. We got to see a nightcap that Margaret has embroidered for St. Thomas More, Cardinal Wolsey's breviary, and some of More's clothes. I only know that because I snatched glimpses of plaques as I chased REALLY wild, REALLY disobedient highspirited children through the halls. Even though they loved the movie and were objectively interested in what we were seeing they were just in such a state. I have no idea why.
Maybe it was a result of that local Walmart food.

Still trying to eek out something meaningful for them out of the trip, we took them to our beautiful National Basilica that is just down the road. It seemed like a good idea to visit our own nation's National Basilica in our capitol before we go see everybody elses. Also, the year that John and I got engaged we used to attend mass in the mysterious and dark crypt regularly. I was so excited to show them. Surely, this would put them in a more meditative state. They will love the various shrines to to the Madonna from all over the world, surely.

In reality it was very difficult to find a way in with the strollers and then there was Mass so we couldn't spend any time there. Also, the cafeteria smelled really good but wasn't serving any food. So the kids were unable to think about anything except being hungry. OH WELL. That is real life. I'm glad that it went so mediocrelly. It brought my ideals and expectations down to a manageable level. Europe will not make magically well-behaved, engaged and pleasant children. Or parents.

Human's are rarely able to live up to to awesomeness in front of our eyes.