Decades

Hard to believe that David is 30 years old today. Talking quietly on the couch last night, we were both a little shocked when we realized that we had been together more than a decade. All of our adult lives. It doesn't seem like it has been that long.

I guess time slips by when you're busy doing other things like dancing with your daughter:


This man is such a good husband and father. I will spare you the details because in the telling I would either only embarrass him or myself. It's only fitting then, that David's birthday is a holiday in Romania: Martisor. The Romanians celebrate the first of march by buying baubles tied with a red and white string. It celebrates the new year, the promise of winter's end, and evokes ancient Rome's celebration of Martius.



Here are some of the Martisors for sale at the eponymous festival we attended yesterday.

It seems that the charms have been doing their work on the weather. It is markedly warmer outside and the sun even shone for a few hours yesterday. So today we are celebrating the promise of spring and a new decade for David.

Book # 11 "Teacher Man" by Frank McCourt

"Teacher Man", told in McCourt's "put your feet up by the fire and pour yourself a glass of whiskey" brand of storytelling is a fascinating foray into the New York City public school system.

For McCourt, teaching is a job, a daily slog, and a joy. McCourt does not romanticize his 30+ years of teaching high school students, do not expect a Hallmark movie style ending, but it is a satisfying read nonetheless.

RrrrWheeeeeeeee!

Now that I am safely back home and huddled on my couch, hiding under my thick wool blanket from Guatemala, with my wonderfully protective husband cooking me a nice soft dinner in the kitchen, let me just make the suggestion that if you are considering visiting a dentist in Eastern Europe you perhaps reconsider.

Even if you just need to have your teeth cleaned, as I did.

Just.

Don't.

Ash Wednesday

David went to church on behalf of the family tonight. I was stuck at work, and while Bee would have loved going (all that holy water to practice making the sign of the cross with) there wasn't enough time for him to swing by our apartment and liberate Bee from her babysitter before Mass.

David arrived home around 6 pm. Bee and I were waiting to inform him that we were not cooking dinner tonight, but picking up a pizza instead. A fasting pizza. The dog still needed to go for his nightly walk, I had brought home a stack of work so I could actually come home, and I still had to bake chocolate cupcakes for book club. Lenten cupcakes?

I am not feeling like a very good Catholic. The rigors of daily life too easily get in the way of religion, when it should be the other way around. Fortunately, with Lent, it seems like we are being asked to reflect on that very conundrum.

But I can sing this song . . .

For the past couple of months now, I have been singing to Bee before she goes to sleep. It all began one night where some toddler drama happened too close to bedtime and she was inconsolable. Reaching for my favorite parenting trick, aka, "change the subject." I asked Bee whether she wanted me to sing her a special song. Snuffly and tear streaked, she stammered, "Yessss."

I lay down on the couch with my daughter, frantically trying to think of a song that she would consider to be special. It couldn't be one of the usual lullabies, and it had to be something to which I knew all the words. This limited my options to the Beatles (which I deemed a little too high energy for bedtime) and James Taylor. I picked "Sweet Baby James" and sang the song, pleased that I could remember all the words and changed the refrain to "sweet Abigail." She snuggled deeply into my arms, stopped crying, and went to sleep in her bed without protesting. Parent victorious.

The only thing is, and this is the way it goes I guess, is that now, the "special song" has become an essential part of the bedtime repertoire. Bee has learned almost all the words, and she frequently sings along. Her favorite line, the one that she sings every night in her sweet soprano, "And as the moon rises/ he sits by his fire/ thinking about women and glasses of beer." Bee puts really a nice emphasis on "mooon" and "beeeer," as she sings.

When I mentioned to my parents that cowboy drinking songs had all but usurped our nightly family prayers, they were mildly horrified. So now I sing "Sweet Baby James" and "You can close your eyes," which a little more bedtime appropriate.

I was thinking about it tonight, how maybe the extra singing is coddling and coddling leads to all sorts of other bad habits, but you know, I don't really care. I will sing to her for as long as she wants to listen.

Books #9 and #10

I am almost embarrassed to list the these two books in the same post:

"The View From Castle Rock" by Alice Munro
"Round Ireland with a Fridge" by Tony Hawks

The two authors could not be any more different from each other. Munro is an author for all time, the queen of short stories. Hawks is an author one reads to pass the time, a comedian who can write decent prose.

I had previously read Munro's much acclaimed "Runaway" and while it was very well written, I didn't entirely enjoy it. It felt like the sort of book where I needed to highlight key passages in preparation for a college assignment. Her prose is so perfect, it occasionally falls into the category of "Look at me and my beautiful use of the English language." In other words, borderline pretentious. I was surprised then, when I enjoyed "Castle Rock" as much as I did. In writing the fictionalized history of her own family, Munro throws off the trappings of a world famous author and seizes her own authentic voice.

On the other end of the literary spectrum, and by making this distinction I do not intend to insult Mr. Hawks, because I think he'd agree, "Round Ireland with a Fridge" is a drunken, rollicking travelogue about hitchhiking around Ireland with a small refrigerator. Hence the very straightforward title. It was funnier than "Playing Tennis with the Moldovans," and in reading it reminded me that Ireland needs to be the next country in Great Britain that I visit/empty my checking account into.

Well, I have jumbo chocolate chip scones cooling on my counter. Bee just woke up. I'm off to go see who is sweeter!

Like being inside a snow cone (Ice Hotel: Part III)

After we checked in and reserved our seven course ice hotel dinner extravaganza, David and I headed back out into the snow to visit the ice complex. I was most impressed by the ice church. Inside, there were a few day visitors snapping photographs, but they quickly left, headed for to take one of the last cable cars down the mountain. After their departure, the silence was incredible. The igloo we were standing it muffled the noise of the wind outside. It's hard to explain, but the silence felt thick, viscous, and filled my ears. I think I could have spent the evening there, just absorbing the silence of the ice church, but for the fact that my feet were becoming numb.


I cannot imagine carving "The Last Supper" into a wall of ice, I really can't. The ice church is used more often for baptisms than weddings, believe it or not. I have no idea why anyone would even consider bringing a newborn baby to the top of a mountain, into below freezing temperatures, and then pouring water on it. But evidently some people do.

After warming up in the lodge, we headed back into the blizzard toward our multi-course dinner extravaganza. This is a view of the entry to the ice hotel, as seen through the snow. Lovely, isn't it?



I was more impressed with the vaulted ceiling inside. It looked very solid. The bartender explained to me that they cut ice from Lake Balea to build the hotel. He said that it takes between 10-20 workers about a month to build the entire structure. This year they actually had to make the hotel twice. They started in December, but right before Christmas, temperatures rose to above 40F and the whole thing melted. He said that if temperatures rise above 40F and stay there for more than a day or two, the hotel will close for the season.



To the right you can see the ice bar, where David was able to fulfill his birthday wish and have a shot of vodka in a glass carved from ice. To the left is the table where we were served a very ambitious seven course meal. As it turned out, we were the only guests in the ice hotel restaurant that evening. Everyone else elected to eat in the hotel. Smart of them.

Our meal rapidly deteriorated into an absurd ballet. One waiter woud run from the main hotel, through the blizzard, to the ice hotel. By the time he arrived, the entree would be stone cold. Huddled together, the waiters would attempt to revive it in a small microwave and rush it to our table. However, everything, with the exception of the delicious homemade bread, was served lukewarm. I give the waiters credit for trying hard, as we were likewise trying hard to eat our meal with our mittens on, avoid shivering in front of the wait staff, and to generally give the impression that we were enjoying our meal. It was akin to eating in a freezer. Fortunately, the waiters finally took pity on us and served the sixth and seventh courses together.

The blizzard continued to rage outside, and we prepared to trek to the cable car building to get brush our teeth and get ready for bed. The ice hotel had no bathroom facilities. This was probably the worst part of the entire trip. The bathroom had been visited by several hundred tourists over the course of the weekend and most definitely had not been cleaned. No toilet paper, no toilet seat, and only a trickle of running water. Yuck.

Once we waded back to the ice hotel, we immediately climbed into our ice bed. The unfortunate thing was that the sleeping bags the hotel provided were not quite warm enough, although they did leave us a pile of sheepskins. The sheepskins were warm, but smelled rather strongly of, well, sheep.

After wriggling, shifting, piling, and positioning myself, for what seemed like an hour, I finally was able to lie comfortably and enjoy the creeping sensation of warmth. My feet however, were frozen, and would stay that way for most of the night. I woke up, cold, throughout the night, but at one point had the good sense to put my North Face coat on top of the sleeping bag. By 6 AM, I felt as though I had survived a war. I turned to my sleeping husband and grimly said, "Time to get up." Both relieved, we fled the ice hotel, waded through the foot of snow that had fallen overnight and broke a trail to the main hotel.

The rest of the morning was spent sitting in the hotel's deliciously warm dining room, drinking hot tea, eating eggs and toast, and contemplating the long drive back to Bucharest. We left on the first cable car of the morning. If I ever go back to Balea Lake, it will only be in the summertime. And for my 30th birthday, we are going to Mexico!

Blizzard on a mountaintop (Ice Hotel: Part II)

Step right this way, ladies and gentleman . . .

After six hours in the car, no lunch (unless you count goldfish crackers and lemon cake), but a lot of beautiful scenery, we finally arrived at the base of the mountain and set off to find the cable car that would take us the rest of the way.

After wading though deep snow, we arrived in the cable car building and entered a room full of about 70 people , all allegedly waiting in line. There were two cable cars, each one arriving every 15 minutes or so, holding ten people apiece. We settled in for a long wait, made even longer by the fact that cutting in line is a cultural norm. After 20 minutes, ten more people had arrived, yet we were still the last in line. Another half an hour later, I had fought my way far enough ahead in the line to read the sign on the wall that said guests of the hotel had priority boarding. You should have seen the glares, but revenge was sweet.


We filed into the cable car. As it began its upward trajectory, the surrounding scenery vanished into a cloud of white mist and snow. Visibility was completely zero. Everyone became very quiet. The only sound was the grinding of the wheels on the wires as we headed for the top of the mountain. It was a long ride, evidently the longest cable car in Europe, and it took about 15 minutes. A Frenchman began quietly chatting in broken Romanian with the cable car operator about the avalanche conditions on the mountain. Today was evidently were at level 4, which is the second highest possible rating. The cable car operator drew on the fogged up glass with his finger, showing some of the safer lines and general hot spots for avalanches in the area. Incredibly, the skier seemed satisfied with the explanation and seemed determined to continue with his plan, despite the impending blizzard. I don't know what that says about Frenchman, extreme skiers, or extreme skiing Frenchman, but I had to resist the urge to give him my opinion on the matter.

Finally, the gears ground to a halt and we arrived at the resort. We walked out of the cable car building into complete whiteness. It was as if someone had drawn a sheet over my eyes. There was nothing but snow and a few very hazy shapes. To the left, a very tall hill of snow which we recognized as the ice hotel. Directly in front of us were a number of stakes on a line, marking the path. We began following the path and could gradually see the blurry outline of a building in the distance. Sights set on the resort, we began walking. I had the distinct feeling that it would be all too easy to become lost, to wander onto the frozen lake or over the edge of a cliff.


Fortunately we found our way.

In the next installment: praying in the ice church and a seven course ice dinner.

I can finally feel my toes again (Ice Hotel: Part I)

I think the highlight of my weekend getaway with David was this morning, at breakfast, when we decided that we both smelled like chain smoking sheep.

Prior to this discussion, we had just survived a night sleeping in a hotel made entirely out of ice, in the middle of a blizzard. The outside temperature was 5 degrees Celsius, which should have made the inside temperature of 28 degrees seem positively balmy, but it didn't, because 28 degrees, any way you spin it, is really very cold.

This trip was a 30th birthday present to my dear husband, who had wanted, (more than any other possible present, including a whole host of really nice ones I could order on Amazon.com) to toast his 30th birthday at an ice bar, with an ice glass. He even went so far as to threaten me that my 30th birthday wish (and at that time I hadn't even considered what that would be) was contingent upon his ice bar wish coming true.

I began researching traveling to Sweden. The ice hotel there sounds amazing: the arctic circle, northern lights, dog sled rides, and lots of pickled herring. Unfortunately, the price tag and travel time made it all too impossible. How lucky we were to discover that my wild Eastern European country has its very own ice hotel. In fact, it's the only ice hotel in all of Eastern Europe. Imagine that.

The hotel is located at a very interesting resort, located at the top of a mountain. A number of years ago, Romania's former dictator decided that it would be a fun idea to build a road that traverses a particular mountain range. Instead of the round about, meandering set of switch backs that usually characterize a mountain road, he decided on the straight up and over variety. Balea lake is located at the very zenith of this marvel (some might say insanity) of engineering.

Due to the altitude, there is snow year round. In the winter, there is a lot of snow. Heli-skiers and the adventurous snowboarding types come to Balea for some extreme skiing. Balea lake freezes. Back in 2006, someone got the idea to use some of that nice, sturdy lake ice to build an ice hotel. It has since become a local tourist attraction.

Getting to Balea lake in winter, however, is not easy. Parts of the access road close in winter, meaning that we had to drive around to the opposite side of the Fagaras mountain range to access the lake.

We left early Sunday morning, wearing a lot of warm clothing and having packed two pieces of lemon cake as emergency rations. Bee stayed in the comfort of our apartment in the capable hands of her babysitter. Despite the sadness over leaving our daughter for the night, David and I were looking forward to some time alone.

I enjoy the countryside in Romania very much, even at high speed. There is so much to see: bossy roosters strutting about; women drawing water from wells; men wearing sheepskin hats chatting with other men wearing much the same; massive heavy industry including oil drills (they look like dinosaurs), coal plants, and hydroelectric dams; even a gentleman selling what looked like fat, cuddly, St. Bernard puppies on the side of the road. The puppies were nestled in the trunk of his car, snug in a pile of straw and David had the very good sense not to stop.

The journey took about six hours. Finally, we reached the end of the road. We were hungry (having found nowhere to stop for lunch, we had long since eaten the lemon cake) but in good spirits. We could travel no further by car.

To be continued tomorrow. (Right now, I am off to sleep, with much new found appreciation for a warm bed that is not made out of ice!)

The ones I love:

Happy Valentine's Day!

Balthazar

There is one restaurant in this town that I never fail to leave happy, and that is the french-asian-fusion fabulousness of Balthazar restaurant.

Eating there is not without drama. David made us 1 pm lunch reservations today to celebrate Valentine's Day a little bit early. We arrived about five minutes after 1 pm, and walked in the door to a completely empty restaurant. No people. Incongruously, the music was blaring.

After a minute or so, a man walks out from the kitchen wearing an undershirt and torn jeans. He stared in shock at his customers. Apologizing, he explained that the waiter had not yet arrived.

He told us to take our pick of tables. (There are a total of four in the non-smoking alcove.) Ten minutes pass. The waiter, thankfully wearing proper attire, appears and serves us water.

Another ten minutes pass. The waiter reappears with a frightened look on his face. Evidently the table we are sitting in has been reserved specially for someone else, and could we please move to the other identical table which is located less than three feet away from the special table? We do, with much amusement.

I tell David that I bet the customer coming for his special table will be a big, fat, self-important businessman who will smoke in the non smoking section. (It turned out I was right on all counts except for the latter.)

It's an hour until we are served our meals. At this point, I have eaten all of the rolls, most of the truffle butter, and am considering eating my napkin.

I writhing with impatience until, finally, the plates arrive: caramelized scallops for me, seared sesame crusted tuna for my Valentine. Perfect, yet understated, presentation. For dessert, a lemon meringue tart with vanilla ice cream.

I leave sighing with happiness. The nearly naked waiter and ridiculously long wait forgotten, Balthazar wins again.

Playing hookey

You gotta know when to throw in the towel.

No language class for me tonight. Instead, I came home, put on comfy clothes, took the dog for a run, and played with my daughter. These things make me happy. Verb conjugations, not so much.

For dinner, David made the ultimate in comfort food: baked macaroni and cheese with friend onions on top. My mother gave him a cast iron pan for Christmas and our home cooking has done turned southern ever since. Regardless, I loved every calorie. All 9,000 of them.

I have a blissful evening ahead, which will consist of laying on the couch and finishing Alice Munro's latest collection of short stories.

The worst perfect gift

I know she didn't do it on purpose. But still, I feel as though all the wind has been knocked out of my sails.

After a bad day at work, I spent the entire walk home dragging my "mommy" persona up from the self-pitying depths of my spirit. Bee is always so happy to see me when I come home, how can show her any less enthusiasm?

I am proud to say that I managed to pull myself together and walked in the door with a big smile. I was rewarded by Bee's usual excitement and happy chatter about her day.

And then she showed me the Valentine's Day present her babysitter had brought her. A doctor's kit: perfect for caring for sick dollies and teddy bears. The very thing she had been wishing for.

What the babysitter had no way of knowing was that hidden away on a shelf in my bedroom, is another doctor's kit, one that I had specially ordered and was saving as Bee's Valentine's day gift from me.

Oh, jealousy.

Child's play

One of Bee's favorite games to play is "makeup." You would be amazed at her eyeshadow application technique. Bee can also do a mean impression of a hairdryer.

However, my favorite part is when she stands real close, looks me in the eyes, and says, "Mommy, I make you so bee-you-ti-ful!"

Bee My Valentine

I changed Bee's winter shelf to a Valentine's Day theme this weekend, with books about love and kisses.


We spent the evening working on a Valentine for Bee's babysitter.


Bee's favorite part? She loved playing with the glue.

Respite

The sun came out yesterday. The city warmed to a delicious 50 degrees.

Walking to work in the morning, I felt like a mole, emerging from weeks underground, squinting up at that strange, orange ball in the sky.

All day at work, I sat at my desk, face turned toward the sunlight that was streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows. The neighborhood stray cats sunned themselves on our windowsill.

After weeks and weeks of gray with snow, gray with rain, and gray with fog, the sunlight was a much welcomed panacea.

After work, I went jogging with Max with a skip in my step. Even Max plodded along a little more quickly than usual.

Saturday morning sunrise brought with it another mild day and blue skies. I am grateful.

Winter will surely return, pulling her dour skirts around the city, subduing its inhabitants once more.

For the time being, I am relishing the promise of winter's end.

Book #8 "Acedia and me" by Kathleen Norris

I have been reading this book a little at a time, savoring a chapter every night or so. Kathleen Norris has a very rare quality as an author. She is able to impart her very deep faith in God across the pages and straight into the hearts of her readers.

Norris is a protestant who becomes an Oblate in a monastery. She is woman of great faith, but not without her own personal struggles and despair. Never holier than thou, never preachy, her voice is that of a friend you would want to have.

Norris' best known book is "The Cloister Walk." It is an extraordinary narrative, and one I take comfort in when I feel my own faith faltering. It has never failed to renew my spirit.

Her most recent book "Acedia & me" delves into acedia as a sin, a vice, a disease, and a path to redemption. She perhaps best explains acedia in its contemporary sense in the following paragraph:

Acedia is at work in us when we prefer buying things to witnessing the beauty of nature, "reading" catalogues instead of books, or lingering in a museum store instead of touring the museum itself. These are not insignificant choices, for in making them we risk losing our capacity for wonder. When acedia has so throughly possessed us, making life seem so dull that only artificial stimulation can get our attention, it may be crazy to suggest that the ordinary rhythms of time, the passing of day and night, have something to teach us, or that there is a world to be revealed when the mall is closed, the electric power has failed, and it is too dark to see anything but shadows and stars. Cast back on our lonely, raw, and wounded selves, we may find that nobody is at home. (194)

She is brutally direct, but so, so right.

Vanities

Five little things that make my life happy:

My morning cup of tea: Harney and Son Cinnamon Spice. I honestly don't know whether I could start my work day without it.

A natural lip gloss that I can share with Bee: Korres lip butter. You should hear her smack her lips when I let her swipe a little bit.

My iPod: a constant soundtrack for all that city walking. And that way no one knows how much 70s music I actually listen to.

Peanut M&Ms: my current addiction of choice. I really, really cannot stop eating them.

My Mom's daily email, telling me all about life at home.

Crossaints, the Eiffel tower and really cool clothes

Just when winter is at its nadir and I have lost hope of ever seeing the sun again, a friend throws a bolt of lightning my way that makes my bleak February positively sparkle.

"Let's meet up in Paris," she says in a email to me and a number of other girlfriends scattered throughout Europe.

My friend goes on to propose a ladies weekend, filled with window shopping, eating, gabbing, and getting away from the grind of everyday life.

The rsvps fly fast and furious over email. Everyone thinks this is a wonderful idea. Winter has a grip on all of us.

When I ask David, he tells me I should go.

And then I realize I have enough American Express points to pay for my flight.

So, this evening has been spent in a swirl of gratefulness. A weekend in Paris!

Our first child

He is loving his new bed, as should, the darn thing takes up half of my bedroom!

She loves to paint with water

I love that it doesn't make a mess.