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Will Black Lives Matter Next Week?

by BethJuly 11, 2016August 18, 2017Family / Health / My Three Cents

Recently it was #humantrafficking in response to sexual violence and literal human trafficking. Then it was it was #Orlando and everyone became #LGBT strong. Of course then everyone had a gay friend! Now, after the horrific and unjust deaths of two black men, and some crazy dude going on an anti-cop rampage, it is about black people because #blacklivesmatter. What I realize is that in my safe (white) neighborhood (including my Facebook community), it is easy to say #blacklivesmatter. It is easy to jump into a cause. See, sex-traffickers, gay people, and black people are not directly interfering with our very white world. And in our very white world, how will black lives actually always matter instead of becoming this week’s convenient and self-glorifying upper-middle-class-white-person #CauseOfTheWeek?

Sure, among the better-intentioned of my peers, black lives, really all lives, are not a cause. To my well-intentioned peers all lives sincerely matter today, tomorrow and forever. For the rest of us, I think we need to face our own reality. What about when no one is looking, will black lives matter then? Will a black life matter when, say, a loud and out-of-control homeless man, a man who happens to be black, approaches your very white child?

Here it is. I am no expert on humanity. I have no degrees in psychology, sociology, or even biology. I am not paid clergy. I am not gay. I am not Muslim. I am not a person of color.

Makeda, Eli, Kyle & Dima, Mound, Minnesota, November, 2006

I am white.

In fact, I am a woman who lives around a lot of other LuluLemon-wearing, upper middle class white people. The demographic of my neighborhood consists almost entirely of well-educated white folk: lawyers, MBA graduates, high-tech VP’s, dentists, doctors and University of Utah professors. Here in the Country Club neighborhood (yes, that is literally the name of my neighborhood), we do not often see people who look different than us. Because I also live in a high-density white, Mormon, upper middle class area, different and shocking around here is akin to seeing the occasional inactive (fallen), and also white, Mormon out in public, holding a Starbucks cup filled with actual coffee. If we are really lucky, we may see a tattoo or a tasteful nose piercing. As such, I am certain platforms like my Facebook feed, my local retailers, and my sons’ school community are all reflections of my white, upper middle class world.

The best I can offer is my very limited perspective. My family and I travel often and throughout the world. We make a point to walk and learn a community. We seek out neighborhood grocery stores and love to talk to the locals. We love to see a world different than our own. I also grew up lower middle class, often on the brink of teetering out of the middle class. I knew what it was like to have no food in the fridge, to have the electricity shut off, have my father out of work, and to not have enough money to buy the clothes I needed to fit in socially. I began working when I was eleven, babysitting full time during the summers. I needed to babysit so I could afford the “right” clothes and have spending money. I continued working all throughout high school.

Now I am a wife and a mother. I do not work. Moments ago my two sons left to hang out with their friends. Eli is going longboarding. He and his friends will be looking for Pokemon. Kyle is going to a birthday party. He will spend the afternoon hanging out and swimming. Kyle and Eli do not have summer jobs. In fact, they do not need summer jobs. We want them to focus their efforts on getting good grades and participating in extracurricular activities. Next year Kyle will have a summer internship, followed by Eli two years later. Of course these internships are so they can bolster their college applications. Kyle leaves later this week for a Student Body Officer camp. After that, he will go to an ACT Prep Camp and a Peer Court Camp.

Marianne and her kids, Shady Oak Lake, Minnetonka, MN

Eli and Dima, Shady Oak Lake, Minnetonka, MN

All of this to say that I am deeply concerned that hashtag black lives matter does not really touch my world. Instead, among people in my demographic, at best #blacklivesmatter really is the self-congratulatory cause of the week. At worst, it’s something to be annoyed or even outraged by. Further, I am worried that the following and very serious issue will be completely missed: we live in a world where people are separate and NOT EQUAL.

Somewhere we have been taught to fear those who are different than we are. And because we have been taught to fear difference, I think we struggle to see anyone different equally? It is a fact. Black people look different than white people. Orthodox Muslims dress differently than we do and homeless people often look shabby enough that we cannot recognize them at a distance. How can we see black people equally when we simply cannot? How can we have compassion when one black man decides to kill five police officers? How can we see people equally when we assume the veiled and robed lady is a terrorist — or at least knows one? How can we all matter when one of our presidential contenders is all about the divide, suggesting we ban all the Muslims and have the Mexicans build a wall *(directly from his website, by the way) between them and us? Ok. Let me simplify and bring it closer to my own neighborhood. How can black lives matter when even the sight of a white homeless person makes you fear for your child’s life?

Complicating the matter, I wonder, how can #blacklivesmatter, or even any life matter, when we live in a country that was founded on the basis of separating itself from another? Consequently, we separate to differentiate, feel safe and feel comfortable. We surround ourselves with sameness — even black people do that. Nevertheless, when it comes to the fundamental American concept of equality, there is mostly lip service. People of color consistently get the extremely short end of the stick – no question. Beyond hashtag, how can we live in and maintain a world where we we are treated equally?

Marianne and I, Shady Oak Lake, Minnetonka, MN

I was born and raised in Minnesota right outside of Minneapolis. As a result, I must admit that the Philando Castile murder caught my attention more than Alton Sterling’s did two days prior. Falcon Heights, Minnesota, the place of Philando Castile’s murder, is also a predominantly white (*73.3%), middle class urban neighborhood situated next to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul campus. I imagine it is similar to where I live now. A few days ago my best friend Marianne called me. She currently lives in Minnesota. She has four children. Three are biracial (dad from Africa and white Marianne). She recently gained custody of her fourth, a gorgeous African-American teenage girl. Marianne called as she was driving through Falcon Heights. She called just to tell me how “eerie” and “white” Falcon Heights is.

“I cannot believe what happened here.” She said and then paused. “It’s so quiet.”

Then right before I went to sleep last night Dave shared what he had just been reading:

“Beth.” He said and continued, “Did you know that Philando Castile had been pulled over fifty-two times for minor infractions before he was shot on the fifty-third?”

“Are you serious?” I asked and then kept asking.

My eyes widened and I contemplated how it would be to be pulled over by the police fifty-three times. I thought of the already-prepared statement I would have in my head. As I imagined the police officer approaching, I would want to get it all out there,

“Look officer. I am a good person. I am with my family. Now I am going to reach for my license and registration….”

I imagined Philando saying those same things. I felt physically ill. That is when I lost it. I kept saying.

“How can we change? Can we change?”

The other day I walked into my local Walmart. Right behind me was a well-dressed, clean cut, suburban-looking, middle-aged African American woman. She was wearing a purse-styled backpack. Walking next to her was her adorable tween daughter. The adorable tween gave me a sweet smile, and held the door for me, as we walked in. Right behind us was a Walmart security guard. I did not notice him until I saw him frantically running up to the woman. I assumed he was going to say something helpful such as,

“Ma’am I noticed you left your car door open.”

Nope. Here is what he said,

“Ma’am you cannot take that in here.”

I was completely confused.

“What in here?” I thought.

I come to find that the security guard would not allow her to take her not-large backpack purse into the store. I wanted to say something, but feared I would make it worse for her. I watched the security guard walk her over to a little area all-the-while explaining how “here at Walmart it’s against the rules to wear a backpack into the store.” She was filled with grace and pleasantly placed her backpack into a locker.

Ok. The Walmart security guard was not telling the whole truth. If I had a dollar for every time I have been wearing my very backpack-y-looking and not all all purse-like backpack and walked right past that very same security guard into that very same Walmart, I could buy you lunch. I have never been asked to place my bright green nylon backpack in a locker — ever. (ok. once Dave was after I wrote this post.)

I have driven my Volvo SUV in cities and suburbs all over this country, in nice neighborhoods like Beverly Hills, Potomac, Palo Alto, and oue Country Club neighborhood , and also South Central LA, Oakland, Southeast DC, and west Salt Lake. Never once have I been pulled over for a broken tail light (though I’ve had one) or an expired registration (though I’ve had one — now once) or any other trivial infraction. I asked Dave and he said he’s been pulled over for a registration, but was let off with a warning.

In America, white soccer moms in Volvos don’t get pulled over by cops in Beverly Hills, and they don’t get pulled over in South Central. Black men like Philando Castile get pulled over 53 times for driving in nice white neighborhoods. According to from article in NPR, Black folks in not-so-nice neighborhoods like Ferguson Missouri have it just as bad or worse: the 21,135 people who live there were issued 32,975 arrest warrants for nonviolent offenses, mostly driving violations, in a single year.

Yes, I realize that I’m such a Volvo-driving soccer mom that I just cited an NPR story. Case closed.

–This piece was written by David and Beth Adams

Please Fix Me

by BethJuly 7, 2016July 7, 2016Archives / Family / Health109 Comments

Originally posted on July 7, 2006 at 9:57 PM.

Wednesday, July 5, 2006, there we were. It was beautiful, sunny and warm.

Dave took the day off and we were driving East on I-80. I turned on our CD player and instead of listening to Kyle’s Magic Treehouse CD, I randomly switched to something else. Immediately I recognized that it was one of the CDs that has been in the car for at least six months. You see, between NPR and children’s CD books, it is hard to fit in the occasional Mommy-Mixed-CD. And out of the speakers I heard Coldplay’s Chris Martin sing,

“When you try your best but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
could it be worse?”

I could not stop them. Through heaving sobs, I shook my fist in the air and yelled,

Damn You, Chris Martin! Damn you Coldplay!

Just the night before, I mean, just hours before, Dave and I were talking about how much we enjoy sex when I am pregnant. Dave joked about how much better the love-making would be as my belly grew. We felt close and I was finally letting myself be excited about this little baby. As Dave touched the tiny beginnings of my pregnant belly, we decided that we were probably having a boy . . .

I sat in the passenger seat choking. I could not breathe. Snot covered my face.

“Lights will guide you home
and ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.”

I thought my head was going to explode. For the past two days I have remained the strong mother and stoic MidWesterner that I am supposed to be. Then the blindside: a silly, love song’s profound words completely knock me off center.

Right now it is happening now. I am sniffing away the wet, tear drips that cover my face. I know I cannot hide anymore. (I have been hiding since Wednesday.)

Zeke's Pink Gerber Daisy, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006 — Zeke’s Pink Gerber Daisy, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006

Another blindside happened earlier. I saw something sitting on our back doorstep. It was a bouquet of flowers. My friend left them after she received Dave’s phone message. She knew that I could not speak, so she left the flowers in a safe place for me to find. When I found them, my tears found me. I needed those flowers. And I needed (still need) the phone calls. I needed the chocolate wheat-free, dairy-free cookies. I needed the tea. I needed those beautiful pink nutmeg-smelling irises. I needed the gentle phone call warning me that they were coming and that I didn’t have to come to the door if I didn’t want to. I needed the card hidden in our secret mailbox. I needed my sister’s email and my other sisters’ caring words. I needed little Zeke’s pink Gerber Daisy. I needed the hugs. I needed my friend Marianne, who was visiting from Minneapolis to grab me and say,

“I know you can’t talk right now, but Beth, I love you.”

I needed my kind doctor to choke up and lower his head as he, Dave, and I viewed my ultrasound. I needed Dave to quietly hold my hand. I am sure I will continue to need while I struggle through this. But honestly, I don’t know how to say,

“I need you.” I usually don’t need.

I was about to take Marianne and her two beautiful children, Makeda and Dima to the airport as I stood at the back of our car fighting with her double stroller. In a flash, all the angry pain I was holding in came crashing out. And then I really began to fight with that stupid, gigantic, awkward, idiotic, four-wheeled, piece of shit (a child’s stroller).

Marianne physically grabbed a hold of me, encouraged me to stop long enough so she could say,

“Beth, I am here to help. I know you want to do it all by yourself, but you can’t. I understand. I do the same thing.”

I needed to hear that. I needed her to stop me.

Easy E, The Gateway, Salt Lake City, Utah, July 2006

I know you know where this is going. I have to say it anyway. See, Wednesday I was headed for my ultrasound. Before leaving for my appointment, all the calm I had felt this past month was washed away when Eli completely freaked out while I attempted to get him into his car seat.

[screaming] “MOM! I CAN’T GET INTO THE CAR! KYLE’S POPSICLE IS BIGGER THAN MINE!”

“What? You can’t be serious? Eli, those Popsicles are precisely measured by a machine. They are ALL the same size. Now stop it and get in the car!”

Of course I was nervous about being late. I needed to drop the boys off at the park first where My mom was waiting to watch them.

[crying] “Mom, I can’t buckle my seat belt.”

“Eli, just do it! Please. We are going to be late.”

Immediately I felt bad for yelling. I felt bad for letting my nerves take over.

“Eli, I am sorry. I love you.”

“Mommy, I love you too.”

I think Eli knew. I think he knew something was wrong.

Now at the appointment things seemed weird. Instead of waiting the usual forty-five minutes, my doctor was on time. He, not a nurse, whisked us back. I stepped away to empty my bladder, undressed from the waist down and hopped on the table. Quickly he inserted the ultra-sound device. It didn’t take seconds, or even a breath. Immediately I knew. So did my doctor. Desperately he fiddled with the device trying to see if somehow he had done something wrong. He hadn’t. We both saw it: There was no baby, just an empty egg sac. In the last few days my body had absorbed the baby. Sick! And why the hell did I ever have to see an embryo and a heartbeat? Seriously, why?

Instantly I was positive and pragmatic. I sat up on the hospital bed and assured both Dave and the doctor that everything would be ok. Then I reassured. My doctor lowered his head. I watched him intently. He was so quiet and still. He was honoring our moment. He knew our journey well. He knew that this wasn’t just a miscarriage. He knew about our years of trying, years of doctors, treatments, x-rays, blood tests, I.U.I, laparoscopies, hysteroscopys, and huge disappointments. Then I stopped reassuring. I breathed in his wise silence. Kindly, he raised his head and said.

Beth, if you don’t let yourself grieve, you will not heal.

Those simple words broke through and the tears began sneaking out. I tried to hold them back. I urgently tried to force them back in. I needed to be alone. I felt humiliated.

Dave and I spent the next few hours alone while my wonderful mom entertained my boys, Marianne, and her children.

“What will I tell people? Just yesterday I was telling people how safe I thought I was because I had made it to my twelfth week. I can’t . . .”

See, my body still thought there was a little baby growing inside. It did not want to let go either. And there I was dealing with my miscarriage at home. I do not handle anesthesia very well so my doctor opted to give me pills to start the process. Though the embryo was gone, all of the tissue that supports the embryo’s growth remained. My body did not want to let go.

It was time. We put the kids to bed. Next we went over our back-up plan of what we should do in case there were complications and I needed to be rushed to the hospital. Then Dave helped me with the little pills. I had to insert six of them vaginally. It was supposed to happen fast. We started watching the movie, Must Love Dogs, because that was what was on. As the movie ended, I felt the cramping and we decided we would try to sleep.

As I lay there, I felt just like I did when I went into labor with Kyle. This time, instead of having a big belly, I was small and completely alone — no doctors, no nurses, no excited well-wishers, just stillness. In our dark room, I was tense. My fists were clenched and I felt the contractions. They hurt so much more than I had anticipated. They progressed, as any labor should. The process went on for hours. That is when I realized there was a problem. Because I was so tense, nothing was happening. I knew that nothing was happening because I was not letting go. Dave was now sleeping. Alone, I talked myself through what needed to happen. I unclenched my hands. I let my body relax and finally let myself feel this sad, sad heartache. I said good-bye to this new little part of me, and then I lay there until I could not handle the pain any longer. I ran to the bathroom. As I sat on the toilet, I felt a huge gush of blood. I felt the passing of a large mass. Then I heard a loud thud as the mass dropped into the already very bloody toilet bowl. I stood up and turned toward the toilet bowl. I saw enough without turning on the light. I knew if the room was any brighter that I would have to face my reality. I had faced enough. I repeated the process of running to the bathroom for hours until I could not bear the intense contractions any longer. Then I literally passed out.

Today at the doctor’s office I had another ultrasound. He wanted to make sure all pieces were gone, and they were. We talked about my options. We decided that I would continue seeing him and that I would also see a miscarriage specialist. We even made an appointment with the other specialist, who will be squeezing me into his schedule. I was actually feeling hopeful. And then Dave and I went to dinner. As I watched the parents with their babies and thought about what I lost, I realized that this is just not going to be that easy to get over. I am still barely letting myself touch the devastation. I mean, come on, I have not even been able to tell most of my friends and family about this. Dave and my mom have been speaking for me. And if you are finding out now, it is not a slight. I just don’t know how to say it in person. What do you say?

I feel all of it. I like shit.I feel lucky and grateful. I feel blessed to be alive. I am also devastated.I know many women cannot have children of their own. I am very aware that I have two beautiful boys. I am grateful for friends, friends who keep calling me, even when I cannot talk. I am grateful because as alone as I feel, I know I am not. I am grateful for those who have approached me even when I am not approachable. While simultaneously being filled with love, it also sucks. When people actually reach me with their kind words, I am reminded of what I have lost. When I actually feel their love, I cannot escape the pain. And right now, the pain is almost too much.

I want to run away, but really, where would I go?

Tagged : Infertility / Miscarriage

Alone, Lost and Really, Super Tired

by BethMay 26, 2016May 31, 2016Family / Health / Travel / Travel Tips

Me and Easy E, Acadia National Park, June, 2009

I am certain if I had time to take a nap, the alone and lost feelings would go away.

Consequently, when I am super duper tired, every emotion seems super duper intense. Do you ever feel this way? Crazed because you have not had enough sleep? It is awful. My thoughts are weak. My self-control is hard to access.

It does not have to be this way. I had a plan and the plan fell apart. I am too tired to put the pieces back together.

I know that if I do not have our family packed and ready to go, Dave will blow a gasket. I am talking about a real gasket, and it will explode right out of his head. Ew!

We are going on a backpacking trip. I am exhausted. I am terrified. Dave is asleep. I need a nap.

Easy E Shelbourne Museum, Vermont, 2009 — Easy E. Shelburne Museum, Vermont, 2009

It was approximately 8:22 AM — two minutes later than usual. Eli’s school starts at 8:50 AM and he likes to be early. I had just sent Dave an angry email, followed by a “PS” email. My bedhead was screaming from the headrest as my oversized, grey and yellow-striped pajama bottoms Eli gave me for Christmas a few years back touched the car floor. There we sat, angry and frustrated. I saw his big middle school through the window. I insisted he stay.

“I need you to change your tone before you go.” I said.

I knew he was annoyed. I watched as he watched all of his friends pass by. He took a medium-sized breath and said he was sorry. Then he opened the door. I grabbed his hand for our usual hand squeeze, which we call a hand hug. Instead, he flopped his lifeless hand into mine.

“Really?” I said and followed with, “I need a hand hug.”

His hand clamped approximately 3 millimeters more. He said he was sorry again. As I looked into his angry eyes, I knew he was sorry. I grabbed his hand, squeezed it hard, and said,

“I love you, Eli.”

He opened the door and was gone.

I thought, “Oh Eli, I am sorry I was such a bitch this morning. I could be better, even when you are not. It is my job to model. I am the parent. I failed. I hope that somewhere in there was a lesson (for both of us). I know you get it. I know you get me. Thank you for that. Eli, you are awesome. Your heart is big. I love you!”

We leave this afternoon. Because I was working so hard yesterday to get us out the door on time today, my mother-in-law was convinced we were leaving today — at 4AM. What?

“Why would you think that?” I thought. “I need to be prepared.” I kept thinking. Then I did say,

“Do you know your son? He will lose it if we are not ready to go.”

She gave me a knowing glance and then I literally (yes, for real) thought,

“I wonder if she is thinking what I am thinking?”

I was thinking about Darryl, Dave’s Dad. I was thinking about the time he decided to take a shower while the rest of us waited in the car. It was June on a hot Maryland day. Dave and I were about to get married. Dave’s dad took a shower and decided he needed a snack.

Truth is, I do believe Dave’s family struggles with the space-time-continuum. Plans, letting others now there are changes in plans, being on time, and mostly, getting out of the house before most us are coming home, are all struggles. As such, Darryl’s shower on was as normal as the setting sun.

Dave fights this behavior in himself constantly. I am always impressed with his ability to get out the door on time. He is really good at it. I see him struggle to keep plans in order, and watch while he tries new ways to manage his time. Nevertheless, Dave’s scars run deep. I have paid the price for his displaced frustration. It is my job. I love my husband. He helps me heal. I want to do the same.

As such, when we travel, Dave loses it when we are not ready to go. I feel Dave’s anxiety profoundly (and probably irrationally). I literally lose my mind (and a lot of sleep) trying to manage (help him trust that I will not let him down). And folks, that is why I was busting my ass yesterday when all I wanted was a nap.

Last night I seriously considered packing a few things and checking myself into a hotel. I didn’t. Instead I grabbed two pillows, walked downstairs and turned on the television. I tried to lull myself to sleep with the sounds of a season finale. All I could hear were the very loud voices of my husband and his mom. Not a problem. She is visiting. They were laughing. I heard “frogs” and “Kyle.” And before Dave could finish his sentence, I knew what he was talking about the time we stayed with my friend, Alana, and her family in Hardwick, Vermont. Kyle and Eli didn’t want to leave. It was 2009. We traveled to Maine’s Acadia National Park. We traveled all over the North East. The friends we visited at Lake George in upstate New York are now divorced. In Burlington, Vermont Dave threatened to fly home — alone. I can still see him now. He was standing in front of that Courtyard by Marriott hotel declaring his frustration. I told him to get over it.

“We are in this together.” I exclaimed.

He stayed, and later that night it was my mom who told me that Michael Jackson was dead. I loved that trip. I love fighting for us.

I am tired.

Dave is asleep.

So is his mom.

“We are in this together.”

Those are the words I am thinking of today.

Thank God I can write. Thank God it took writing to remind me how good things really are. Eli and Kyle are awesome and Dave is now awake and downstairs getting things packed. Thank God I chose to write today. When I write, I re-set. I cannot forget this space. It is mine. And if I don’t take my space, I will lose myself. I will stop fighting. And if I stop fighting, I stop.

Kyle Lake George, NY — Kyle. Lake George, NY

Easy E Lake George, NY, 2009 — Easy E. Lake George, NY, 2009

Courtyard by Marriott Hotel, Burlington, Vermont

Me, Dave and Easy E, The Staten Island Ferry, New York, New York, 2009 (we made it past Burlington, Vermont — woot)!

As You Go, Write it Down: Chronicling Greece Part Two, Including a Little San Francisco

by BethMarch 30, 2016March 30, 2016Family / Travel / Travel Photgraphy / Travel Tips

I cannot say this enough: When you are on the road, and for that matter, anytime you feel inspired, and even if you photograph said moment, you should still find a way to jot the moment down.

We are all busy. We all take pictures. As many pictures as we take, and as much as we try to remember, we often forget. I know I do. I am far from a perfect chronicler. If I had a dollar for every yummy Thai restaurant I find, then forget its name and location, I could use that money to go on the best yellow curry tour our world has to offer. There is magic in visually capturing a moment. I would argue that there is also magic in note taking. Writing moments down and capturing the tiny details allows us to remember the nuance of our journey. Great lodging, crazy places, odd encounters, and yummy restaurants (if I remember to write them down) are accurately recounted. My notes remind me why something is so trashy, or why a restaurant is so good in a very personal, “best yellow curry ever” sort of way.

Sure, the pictures of the San Francisco Airport Centurion Lounge show, tucked away in the San Francisco airport, a hip, contemporary-designed foodie paradise. Notes, on the other hand, can convey the dirt, such as what really happened while we waited. In the lounge Dave and I sat on each side of this very peculiar lady. She was sitting in the quiet area on one of three chaise lounges. She would not move and I needed to rest. While I rested, she filed her toenails. And yes, her use of her cellphone’s speakerphone pushed me over the edge. At once I knew that I needed to up my airport-lounge-game. Next time I will be more creative about getting a good seat. Odd folks or not, I keep going back because Dave has a membership. I also know the Centurion Lounge has really good food and serves alcohol — both served the weird lady well. See, once the weird lady took a break, ate some food and drank a glass of wine, she became delightful and conversant. I remember these little details because I wrote them down.

Last weekend we ate at a San Francisco-based Burmese/Thai restaurant. I did not write the name down so I had to search. Thankfully, I found it. We were about one-third of the way on our coast hike from the Sutro Baths to the Golden Gate Bridge. I was hungry and needed to pee. We left the path, crossed the street, and walked along a golf course. We walked up and over a hill, I think, and into Lincoln Park, which of course reminded me of the OPI nail polish color, “Lincoln Park After Dark.”

Then I said it out loud: “Lincoln Park After Dark.”

It was early afternoon and as we walked closer, Pagen Restaurant appeared closed. We read the sign: Open Fridays from 11:00 AM – 3:00 PM.

“Isn’t it Friday?” I asked.
“Yes it is.” The boys answered.

California Coastal Trail, San Francisco, California. In this photos, I believe Dave is searching for a bathroom. — California Coastal Trail, San Francisco, California. In this photos, I believe Dave is searching for a place to get a snack.

My last “Notes on My iPhone” post was on our third day, (March 14). Since then I have been distracted writing about such things as beautiful and historic Greece, Greece’s crumbling economy, and all of my various existential crises. Now home, it is time to share these notes with you. Between loads of laundry and refilling my cup of Clipper Brand Organic White Tea with Vanilla (yes, I wrote the brand and flavor down when I found this tea at the Kensington, London Whole Foods — and now have it shipped right here to Salt Lake City, Utah),

Clipper Brand Organic White Tea with Vanilla. (And no, I am not being paid to post this.)

I present to you, The Adams Family Takes on Greece Par Deux (of course with some editorializing along the way)!

Never fear. I do not have time to edit and post all of the notes here (and I don’t want to overload you in one offering). I promise that over the next bit that I will iPhone-note you through our entire “San Francisco to Greece and Back” journey. Enjoy.

The Arrivals area of the Santorini, Greece, Airport — The Arrivals Area of the Santorini, Greece, Airport

The Arrivals Area, including the Rental Car Area of the Santorini, Greece Airport -To orient the two pictures note Kyle’s foot is on the lower right.

Leaving Santorini (Morning, Day 5)

[I love Dave. I love Dave’s reactions to things. The following took place at the Santorini Airport. The airport car rentals are located in a very small part of the arrivals area. The boys were sitting on the floor. I had asked a man to move over so I could sit on the bench. He hesitated, picked his bag down, and let me sit. I watched the following.]

Dave is talking to the Hertz agent. The Hertz agent leaves and comes back. They talk. I can see that Dave is annoyed. He just stormed out of the airport, mumbling something about the half full tank. He has been gone, I mean, disappeared for the past 15 minutes, apparently long enough to put enough gas in the car. Dave is back. The Hertz guy just went to check our tank again. I’m waiting for him to return and tell Dave that there is still not enough gas. In the meantime, I recommend that Dave tell us where he is going next time.

He agrees. Dave tells me that Hertz would charge something like 43 euro to put in another two gallons. That’s lame. I am with Dave. [Additionally], that same Hertz dude argued with me when we rented our smashed up Hertz car.

“What’s the problem?” He asked.
“It’s smashed on the outside, not the inside.” I responded.
“It doesn’t change how the car runs, does it?” He snapped.

[Another crazy thing is the lack or inconsistent security at the Greece airports. Santorini is no different. My favorite, and really a non-security, item is the following]:

Small Sterilite containers, like you might buy at Wal-Mart, to place items in to go through security.

The roads of Greece are covered in variations on this style of roadside memorial. Different parts of Greece have distinctive architecture for their churches, and the roadside mini-churches mirror this.

Back on Mainland Greece

The Athens Airport is very nice and very modern. My very favorite part was the pharmacy located in the arrivals area. I think I mentioned that I had a crazy allergic reaction somewhere between Boston and Frankfurt. I nearly itched all of the skin off of my very swollen ankles and calves. The Athens airport pharmacist was competent, spoke really good English, and gave me what my at-home doctor recommended. The rental car was a different story. Here is what I wrote. By the way, that car grew on me.

Avis Athens, [on the other hand], was not as awesome. Avis, thank you for renting us a car that smells like a freaking ashtray. We are Avis preferred. Your Mazda 3 is smashed up and has nearly 57,000 km on it. Bad job.

Lobby of the Elefsina Hotel, Elefsina, Greece

Elefsina, Greece (25 miles West of Athens)

[It is now March 18. We are at our first mainland Greece hotel, the Elefsina Hotel in none other than Elefsina, Greece. It is a very nice, business-style hotel in an area where there are no other hotels. It was late when we checked in and the Americans in the room next to ours were partying like rock stars. Ok. They were not partying like rockstars. They were very loud. I commend the hotel for dealing with the noise. And I applaud those American girls for quieting down when asked. Your mothers would be proud. The breakfast was not special, but good. The best part was the music — at breakfast, that is. There is nothing better than being in a place where no one speaks English and hearing one of your favorite songs.]

The Head in the Heart’s, “Winter Song” is playing right now at the hotel breakfast. It feels like home.

We left the hotel and began our five day four night Greece road trip. What an eye opener.

________________

SIDEBAR

When planning Greece lodging, I think it is important to mention that we found the hotels, VRBOs, and Airbnbs are located in the same general areas with few hotels in between.

Travel Reason #7: Travel Gets Me Out of My Head

by BethMarch 29, 2016May 2, 2016Family / Health / Travel

Walking from Fira to Oia, Santorini, Greece.

I do not think anyone who knows me would be shocked if I were to tell them (or you, for that matter), that I can get a little cloudy and consumed with the world around me. In truth, I am not afraid of the dark. I have written many a dark post, and am all about processing pain. I come by my lifelong “living in my head” journey honestly. Yes, I was that shy, angsty high school girl who wrote macabre stuff like a poem about seeing a picture of a dead Marilyn Monroe. It went something like this:

Marilyn Monroe.

I saw her dead.

Her face was purple and caved in.

She wasn’t beautiful.

My grandpa lay,

Alone,

In his coffin relaxed.

With a smile on his face.

And even further back there was the time I was invited to a family friend’s for a sleepover. At one point in the evening my friend was having some sort of meltdown. I remember his mom sending him to his room. Then she understandably left me to deal with him. After about thirty minutes of sitting alone on their living room couch my thoughts got the best of me. I wanted to go home! Breathlessly, I asked the mother to call my mom. She did. When my mom arrived they both agreed,

“We left her alone too long. She thinks too much.”

I do. I do think too much. I always have. And if there is any question, by what I mean by thinking too much, I am referring to all the behaviors that come along with living in your head: fear, insecurity, criticism, doubt, depression, worthlessness, reality imbalance, and so on.

Safely back in my mom’s care and with some distance, I took a breath and realized that everything was ok. As a result of this realization, I was actually disappointed that I did not stay. I told my mom how I was feeling and that is when my mom and I worked on a plan. How could I avoid thinking too much in the future? We both realized that I need to feel safe. And for me to feel safe, my environment needs to be uplifting, filling my head with positive thoughts.

Pyrgos, Greece, twenty minute drive from Ancient Olympia, Greece. Perspective. — Pyrgos, Greece, twenty minute drive from Ancient Olympia, Greece. Piles of trash sat along miles of road. Perspective.

This morning my thoughts went to a Facebook post that my friend Cam made. First, I wondered if he had been reading my mind. (He described feeling dark and in his head.) Second, I realized he made a most excellent observation:

“It’s said that we’re the average of the five people we spend the most time with. I like to think that average is weighted favorably by the scores of souls I interact with online.”

I would like to add to Cam’s conclusion by saying,

“I think my average is weighted not only by my online connections, but by the people I meet all over the world.”

Connections are why I love travel. Let me explain.

You know (because I just told you) that I tend to live in my head. I also allow my environment to weigh me down. Here is an example. A few years back I had a friend who was eager to lose weight. (She was also someone I spent a lot of time with, which relates to Cam’s conclusion). Often she walked around chomping on a bag a carrots and celery. She went from a size 12 to a size 2 in what seemed a matter of seconds. Weight, food, and body image were our constant conversation topics. Soon I noticed that all I was thinking about was my weight and my body image. Instead of losing weight, I am certain I gained. Instead of being ok with myself, I felt worthless and fat (of course). It was not her fault. That being said, how I felt around her was a red flag. Because I get into my head and am heavily influenced by my environment, I knew that I needed to create an uplifting space. Uplifting space is definitely a space I still struggle to exist in.

Walk from Fira to Oia, Santorini, Greece

Travel gives me a break from that everyday struggle. The connections I make along the way stretch my perspective. Consequently, a stretched perspective and a break from my day to day influences are excellent tools for fighting my crazy head demons.

Breakfast our first morning in Santorini, Greece

Our first day in Santorini was cold and wet. The Airbnb we were staying at was connected to a local hotel, The Blue Dolphin. We were told that breakfast would be at the hotel, which was about a ten minute walk or a five minute drive. Because it was cold and rainy we opted to drive. We parked our car and walked several stairs down and then up to the breakfast patio. I was crabby and disappointed when I realized we would be eating breakfast outside. I noticed a woman with funky red-dyed hair, which was pulled back and mostly hiding under this woman’s hood. The sun was peeking through the clouds and the rain stopped. She and another woman directed Dave, the boys and I to our table. As soon as we sat down, the wind blew stronger and it began to drizzle. The view was spectacular and all I could think was,

“Can’t they find us somewhere to eat inside?”

They didn’t. Instead Ada and this woman cheerfully brought us breakfast. A few minutes later her boss came to greet us. It seemed he was scolding her in Greek (of course).

“Do you want to eat inside?” He asked and continued, “We can make you a room?”

We were almost done. The wind had calmed down.

“No. We are ok.” We responded.

Then Ada said,

“We will make you a room tomorrow.”

Over the next few days I got to know Ada. Her English is very good. My Greek is non-existent. I learned that the woman with her is her sister. They work together at the hotel. After they finish at the Blue Dolphin they head over to work at another hotel. At the end of our stay we needed to wash some clothes. When we couldn’t find a local coin operated laundry, I asked Ada. She offered to do our laundry at the hotel. Of course there was a fee and of course that is ok. Usually they insist that the guests give them twenty-four hours notice. They squeezed our laundry in. She was happy to use my “Free and Clear” laundry detergent and double checked to make sure I was ok with fabric softener.

“Nope. That stuff makes me itch.”

Ada is cheerful and hardworking, so is her sister. Wearing her big curly, dyed-red hair down is how I remember her. That is how it was when I came to pick up our clothes. She took such care to fold everything and placed our clothes in new bags. As I we parted she gave me a hug and then said,

“You are nice!”

In lovely Santorini, Greece, my world expanded. My environment uplifted. The dark, raining clouds parted. Instead of living in my head, I was looking at the stunning caldera and islands dotting the horizon, crazy white painted architecture, and worrying (in a good way) about how we were going to wash our dirty socks and underwear.

Our last full day in Greece at the Temple of Zeus, Athens

And with my perspective shifted and my environment lifted I was able to come home feeling happy. Sunday morning Kyle and I found ourselves driving down an industrial section of Salt Lake City. I looked around at a place I normally ignore, feel depressed in or want to through quickly. It is actually a place I considered (yes, past tense) run down. After traveling through Greece, and seeing the results of that country’s current economic hardships, I stretched again. Greece is actually beautiful and my world at home is pretty awesome. My town is clean, well kept and vibrant. Ultimately, because traveling forces me out of my dark head, I can return and realize the truth: my world is bright.

Brussels in Greece and Greece in Brussels: Our World

by BethMarch 23, 2016March 23, 2016Family / Travel

Words are hard to come by. I feel like my words may sound like a broken record in the story of our world. I am sad. I am heartbroken to hear about another terrorist attack. I am devastated to hear about loss of life and injury. I feel terrible for everyone who has been disrupted by this unconscionable act.

…One year ago I remember walking through Southern France. In a small seaside shop in the town of Collioure, I saw a little sign, “Je suis Charlie.” I felt heartened. I wanted to capture that moment. I felt grateful that France was finding its way back.

It is interesting how we find our travel and how travel finds us. A year ago we pulled the boys out of school for a semester, enrolled them in online school, and decided we should travel. At the time my mom was understandably worried when I told her I was planning to visit Paris. The Charlie Hebdo attacks had just happened and I got it. Instead of Paris, we opted for Rome, Barcelona and Southern France. We have been to Europe three times since that trip.

Easy E, Street Art, Waffles, Brussels, Belgium

As fate would have it, we found our way to Paris five months later. Paris was better than I could imagine. The French people are kind (yes kind), strong and resolute. I also felt an odd comfort at the site of the occasional “Je Suis Charlie” sign. My first site of the Eiffel Tower was magical and I still dream about the quiet little park we found in the city. A few times we would bring lunch there, find a bench, eat our crazy grocery store mix and people watch. At one point Dave dropped his iPhone and shattered his screen. He had to work so the boys and I found our way to the Apple Store next to the Louvre. I stood in a long, long line. When I showed the Apple guy Dave’s iPhone screen, once he connected that we were REALLY Americans, and not Germans or English (and therefore he couldn’t swap our phone for one of the ones they had in stock), he gave me a very compassionate eye roll and told me (in a very nice French way) that we were boned.

Our journey to Paris actually began in London. After a few crazy fun London days, we took the Chunnel to Paris, where we met up with Dave. After a few days in Paris the four of us hopped on a train to Antwerp, Belgium with a stopover in Brussels. I will be honest. We spent more time in Bruges and Antwerp than we did in Brussels. Antwerp is also the place where I got the worst food poisoning of my adult existence, which led me to my terrible Amsterdam experience: three days of not-stop puking.

My first impression of Brussels was also terrible. We arrived at the Brussels train station. It was cold and rainy. People were peeing in the street. In fact I think people in the area of the train station pee in the streets so so often that Brussels caved and set up an outdoor open urinal system sort of akin to a giant plastic hand washing station. I only wish I had a picture. As we left the Brussels train station for downtown Brussels, we realized that we had no idea where to go. We walked back and forth when I finally suggested we ask someone. So we walked across the street and into a little restaurant. The man did not speak English or German or French. I want to say the shops next to his and his included were vaguely Arabic, but I am not sure. I showed him the map and pointed to where I wanted to go. He kindly directed us toward the downtown area. His shop, along with all the other shops next to his, were also mostly empty. I felt guilty not buying anything.

We left and found our way to historic Brussels. Please know that I am not saying this next part to jump on the bandwagon of today’s sad news. I am saying it because it is true. Here is where I try to make a connection by telling you what a trashy, unkempt hole Athens appears to be. And like my lovely Finish friend, Marika, kept promising:

“Belba (because that is what she calls me), within this trashy hole there is magic.” (She is right, by the way).

As we walk along dirty, trash-filled streets, littered with abandoned cars and structures, Dave keeps repeating the following phrase (or close to it):

“Once you get out of the historical section, most European cities are like this (“this” meaning trashy, dismal, and 1970’s broken-down-dystopia-like).”

Eating Greek Food in Brussels, Belgium — Eating Greek food in Brussels, Belgium

Dave is correct and actually Athens has been the worst city so far. Back to Brussels. It was was not much different. The area around the train station felt heartbroken and discarded. Yet, like Dave promised (get to the historical center), Brussels also holds the magic. He was right. The closer we walked to the center of town (which really did not take long), the more inviting Brussels became. The energy changed. The cold, dark, rainy air lifted. Graffiti morphed into beautiful wall art, art depicting favorite comics like the Smurfs, Tin-Tin and Asterix.

Like I mentioned, we spent more time in Bruges and Antwerp. And even though Bruges is literally out of a movie and Antwerp is the diamond capital or whatever, the people in Brussels were friendly and inviting. Dave is right. Brussels is cool, put together and effective. We loved the food. The boys could not get enough of the 1 Euro waffles. We were tired from traveling and cold from walking in the rain. A very nice Greek man welcomed us into his restaurant. Sure, hailing us over is part of their schtick. It didn’t matter. They treated us well. Talked to us and made us feel safe in a town we were only passing through. I remember sitting at this man’s restaurant asking Dave why there were so many Greeks in Brussels. We talked about the poor Greek economy and we talked about established systems and that these immigrants were finding a better way here in Brussels.

A few days ago (while in Athens) I was commenting on how much I loved the Greek Food in Brussels. I said,

“those Greeks were so much happier about serving their food there.”

I think Dave responded with something like,

“It is more prosperous in Brussels. I’d bet that a popular Greek restaurant in Brussels provides them with a comfortable income and they get to live in a country with more effective institutions.”

Between that trip and this trip, another terrible terrorist attack took place in Paris.

Now we are in Greece thinking about Brussels. I am really sad. This is our last day in Athens. We spent our day walking through the city, finding our way to the temple of Zeus, ignoring selfie-stick-sellers, inserting ourselves into traffic (the Greek way, as you have to be a little aggressive or you’ll never get across the street), admiring the graffiti, eating Gyros and potatoes, moving hotels and buying more water. I have been reading Facebook posts about Brussels. I was especially touched by one friend who was born in Brussels. I hope he doesn’t mind me sharing his words here:

“So …. I was born in Belgium … I’ve always had this ‘thing’ with my daughters that whenever they mention Belgium … Usually ordering waffles I yell Belgium loudly … Sometimes they embrace it and laugh and sometimes in the middle of a restaurant they cringe with embarrassment. Today I yell BELGIUM at the top of my lungs for everyone to hear. BELGIUM!! Tout mon amour a mes freses et soeurs de Belgique.”

K. of Belgium, Grunge Heart, Belgium Flag

Holly in Belgium. Thank you for letting me post this very cool picture!

Another friend posted a picture of herself in Brussels in colors representing the Belgium flag. I love how she points out how the photographer specifically arranged this photo. See, the colors she was wearing and the flowers in front of her reflect the Belgium flag. I feel oddly connected to the Brussels tragedy because Mormon missionaries from Utah were injured. I wonder if anyone else feels the same. Several friends are traveling in Europe right now. I was glad to hear one made it safely to Turkey and the other was safely on a plane back to the US from Paris with her daughter and husband. Other friends contacted us to see if we were ok. Selfishly I was grateful they checked in.

Of course we are aware that France, the United States and Belgium are not the only ones who suffer terrorism, tragedy, economic devastation or are fleeing a terrorist regime. As we travel it is beyond clear that people are struggling, suffering, in over their heads, fleeing and simply trying to find a better way of life. It has not gone missed on Dave, the boys and I that our world is not a pretty, well-kept historical village. I wish it were. In this moment I want to turn my thoughts, prayers and love towards Belgium.Life is hard! In all the moments, please know we always lean our love and hope to all those who are suffering and trying to make it better.

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