Getting out of your comfort zone

Although I’m partial to the green rolling hills of Middle Tennessee, it’s hard to deny that England in the summer is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Even if you’ve never been, you undoubtedly have images in your mind…try it. Close your eyes and imagine the English countryside. What do you see?

Quaint villages with narrow roads twisting from end to end?

Stone cottages with enormous roses climbing the walls?

Cheerful pubs with swinging signs and colorful names like the Saxon’s Horse or King’s Head?

Steep hills covered with sheep?

If you can imagine it, chances are, I saw it last week. The images might be cliche, but they are true and they are a wonder.

England is breathtaking from the outside. It’s when I go indoors that I have a problem.

A SIDE NOTE: I think I am what most British people would consider a typical  American. Wasteful, profligate, loud and spoiled. Yes, we are two people living in a large house…4 tvs, 4 computers, 2 cars and a great yard. But I am not wasteful or profligate by American standards. Not in the least. It’s all relative.

And that brings me to paper towels. (Are you reading Hellbilly?)

I have a strange addiction to paper towels. I have to have them. In fact, when the weather people start talking about snow, I go buy paper towels. When I go off on my annual weekend at the lake with my girlfriends, one of them brings an extra roll of paper towels so I won’t have a come apart if we run out. To take my paper products fetish a step further, I also can literally not eat unless I have a napkin (linen or paper) in my lap. Really, I can’t.

Sadly, both napkins and paper towels were in short supply at some of the places where we stayed–including one where we were charged with cleaning the kitchen after meals. Asking me to clean up without benefit of paper towels, Clorox wipes or even a sponge was perplexing. I’m not being obtuse here…I really didn’t know how I was to wipe the counters and tables without those products.

I’m sure that many of you are laughing at me and my ignorance now and that you already know the answer to cleaning without paper products is the cloth rag.

Ugh. Ugh. And double ugh. It was gray. It had crumbs permanently attached in the meshy holes. I imagine it smelled, but I didn’t get it anywhere close to my nose.

BUT, I am an adult and I had to suck it up and show a good example for the kids (who were equally perplexed). We wiped the tables and counters, but I wouldn’t call them clean.

I’m sure that the average person living in England has a much smaller carbon footprint than I do. They just use less stuff. Yes, my paper towels and napkins are going in the landfill. Yes, I turn my shower on full blast and enjoy the hot water all I want. And yes…I throw away food I don’t want or don’t like.

Am I spoiled? You bet. Does it make me a less worthy person? Not by a long shot.

It’s just all a part of what you assimilate when you travel. Being a pilgrim is not the same thing as being a tourist. We were asked to step out of our comfort zones. For the most part, that’s not as hard as it seems. But asking me to go two weeks without paper towels is tough. I’ll just know to pack a roll or two next time.

What are you afraid of?

Lindisfarne is a tiny tidal island in the North Sea. It is in northern England, not far from the Scottish border. Lindisfarne was founded by St. Aidan in the seventh century to help spread Christianity in that part of England and it has been a place of pilgrimage ever since. The island’s first priory was destroyed by Vikings in the ninth century. The ruins below were built c. 1150 and housed a small community of monks until Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in 1537. 

 

Twice a day the rising tides make passage on or off the island impossible. Sir Walter Scott wrote:

For with the low and ebb, its style

varies from continent to isle;

dry shood o’er sands, twice every day,

the pilgrims to the shrine find way;

twice every day the waves efface

of staves and sandelled feet the trace.

I made the walk onto Lindisfarne last week with 2 other adults and 8 newly confirmed teenagers. We followed the ancient route known as the Pilgrim’s Way. Tall poles mark the safest route (there is the possibility of quicksand) and rescue boxes are available for those caught by a rising tide.

I quickly took off my sandals and walked barefoot through the squishy, splashy mud with the kids. We had been asked to make the first part of the journey in silence. It would’ve been easier to ask the tide to stand still. You see, it turns out that one of our group is afraid of mud–terrified of its texture, especially when slippery seaweed is added to the mix. 

She thought she had the right shoes, but they quickly filled with mud and silt. So I gave her my shoes and I gave her my hand to help her along the way. Soon others were helping–one on each side–preventing slips and offering encouragement. And when that wasn’t enough, the boys literally carried her through the mud. It was simultaneously funny and moving. We worked as a team and helped our fellow pilgrim.

Fast forward a couple of days. We’re off the island and in the fabulous city of York with its centuries-old wall surrounding the town. The Romans built the walls to serve as a defense against invaders in the second and third centuries. We climbed up the stairs and set off to walk the walls. It was an easy stroll until we got to a section that only had one wall and no railing…meaning there was only a narrow passageway between me and the ground. Most of our group walked on without a care.

But not me. I am as afraid of heights as some people are of slippery mud. I don’t even like to stand on chairs to change a light bulb. I didn’t go up the scary stairs in my grandmother’s antebellum home until I was a teenager.

I was toward the end of the group, so most didn’t realize my fear. I mentioned to the one behind me that it was “pretty scary” as she passed me. So there I was with no other pilgrims around, navigating the way. Pressing myself to the one wall when others passed going in the opposite direction. Heart racing. Knees like jelly. Focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to cry.

But I made it, by myself.

I much prefer having my two feet on the ground. Or in the mud–that’s fine with me too.

Things You’ll Be Hearing More About

 

England’s chilly

England’s chili

Duvets–bedcovers from hell or not?

Why I love paper towels

And thanks for all the good wishes and comments. Ellie, sorry I won’t be anywhere near the smoke, so raincheck, ok?

The things I’ll miss…the things I won’t

This time tomorrow I’ll be on my way to Manchester, England with two other adults and 8 kids, all 17 years old. We’ll be gone 12 days and I really should be packing right now. But I couldn’t resist the idea of a list.

Here goes.

What I’ll Miss

1. Husband, of course. Especially since he’s been in Buenos Aires since last Wednesday. His plane lands in Nashville 5 minutes after mine takes off.
2. Privacy. We’re staying at retreat houses for the most part and that means shared bathrooms in some cases. I do have my own room though for most of the time.
3. Large diet cokes with lime from Sonic.
4. Ice. I’ve given up trying to figure out why they think it’s so damned valuable.
5. The U.S. Open golf tournament…really want to see Tiger tame on Bethpage Black like he did a few years ago.
6. TV in general.
7. Cooking. I really like to cook. Maybe some of the places will let me help.
8. Connectivity…no more 24-hour access, though there may be a blog or two.

What I Won’t Miss

1. Work. Not for a single second.
2. The 95 degree heat that’s predicted for Nashville tomorrow
3. Driving
4. Worrying about what to pack…that’ll all be done
5. Finding random piles of feathers and entrails courtesy of the cat
6. Did I mention the heat?

And If, Perchance, You’re Missing Me….check  out our Pilgrim’s blog.

There’s something in the air in Buenos Aires

As I’m preparing for a two-week trip to England, husband is on business in Argentina. Lazy blogger that I am, I’m relaying an e-mail of his. I’ve  seen all the typical European pickpocketing scams–I’ve had people trying to give me fake gold rings they found on the street. I’ve had babies practically thrown at me. But you gotta hand it to the South American criminals. Read on and let me know if you’ve ever seen this scam before.

Tonight I was the victim of a pickpocket, the first time in my life.

 

I keep my passport, credit cards, and “big money” in a little folio on a lanyard, and the lanyard is always strung around my belt. Most of the time the folio is actually inside my pants, it is hard to get to, even for me.

 

I keep “accessible” money folded in a front pocket, with the big bills on the inside, smaller bills outside.

 

So, on the way to dinner tonight (It was a fine dinner, the restaurant has a gigantic wood firepit in the front window, with various racks of rib and other meats impaled next to the fire), I get the bad luck of bird droppings landing all over me. My colleague was next to me, but it missed him, more or less. A woman was nearby, she was so close that surely she was a victim too. She pulled out a kleenex, and helped me wipe it off. . . yes, it was also on my trousers. Colleague helped too. Indeed, the people here are friendly, just like the taxi driver woman this afternoon who took it upon herself to teach me some Spanish.

 

Unfortunately, I have some experience with bird droppings. These were odd in that they had a sour vinegar-like smell. Pretty disgusting, and something I wanted to get off of my clothes, . . . PRONTO!  Yes, I know, “pronto” is Italian, but that’s close enough, my lousy Italian is helpful here too.

 

When it came time to pay the bill at the restaurant, that’s when it sank in that my pocket cash was gone. That’s when I quickly figured out that the bird incident was contrived, and that bird shit STILL does not smell like salad dressing, even in the southern hemisphere. I’m trying to calculate the loss, it is somewhere in the realm of $75. Everything in the lanyard-folio is still with me, including my passport and a few hundred US$. That is where I also had some reserve Argentina pesos.

 

The hotel gave me a new pass card, and said that the old one is now invalid. I told them about the incident, and the young woman at the desk seemed to be familiar with the ruse.

CMA Music Fest–Helpful Hints

Last year when I only had about six regular readers, I posted the following rules for people visiting Nashville for the CMA Music Fest.  Now that I’m up to 23 regulars, I thought I’d post them again. Heck, it might be a yearly occurrence.

The CMA Music Fest (formerly known as Fan Fair) is a  huge tourist draw for Nashville and country music’s biggest acts come out and sing and sign autographs. It’s a chance to hear a lot of artists in a short time and it’s a windfall for the tourism industry.

Unfortunately, it happens in June and that means 90 degree heat combined with 90 percent humidity. Weather like that just brings out the worst in people. If you’re planning to come this way, I hope you’ll follow the simple rules listed below.

 1. I don’t care how hot it is…that’s no excuse for tacky clothes. This includes tube tops, halter tops, tank tops and daisy dukes. Unless you’re a supermodel, the less skin the better.

2. Leave the cowboy hat at home.

3. Leave the cowboy boots at home. Don’t you people know how hot it is here?

4. Tattooing your favorite star’s name onto your body is not going to make him/her like you better. In fact, it will probably just creep them out. Besides, chances are it will be spelled wrong.

5. Please keep your shirts on. Nobody needs to see that. It’s only the first day and I’ve already seen way more of you people than I want to.

6. Standing in the middle of a downtown street and fighting with your companion while looking for the river stages really isn’t a good idea. Ditto jay-walking at 5 p.m.

7. I do not know where Keith and Nicole live. Ditto Kenny or Brad. I do know a really famous star’s drummer’s wife, but I’m not telling you who. And if you’re looking for Wynonna, try the Target here in Franklin.

If you’ll just follow these simple rules, we’ll all get along fine. Have a good time. Spend lots of money. Pick up your trash.

And if you’re going to Bonnaroo(which is also this weekend), I know you’re going to spend most of the time nekkid. So please bring sun screen and a hat.

It’s getting crowded around here

The other day I ran over a tweet. I didn’t mean too, but it darted out it front of my car before I could stop. Truth be known, I’ve probably plowed into thousands of tweets in the last year. The same goes for text messages, e-mails and facebook status updates. The point is, all this stuff is flying through the air around us…bouncing from satellite to cell phone tower to antenna and back again.

Even as I write this, an album of Gregorian chants is flying through the air onto my iPod (I’ll be spending a lot of time in ancient ruins a couple of weeks from now and monks make the perfect soundtrack.) According to Wikipedia, these chants are the oldest music known to man, dating back to the 10th century. They were created during a time when people were dirty and rough. Most never traveled more than a few miles from their villages. But now these chants have traveled through thin air right into my laptop.

Ancient song, meet modern technology.

In my mind, every time I step outside I’m being knocked silly by all the information zooming through the atmosphere. A little like this, but not as malevolent:

Now imagine those birds multiplied by millions and millions of messages a day, all around the world.

Think about it the next time you go outside–think about the waves and waves of information (most of it useless) billowing around you. We’re wading through other people’s stuff. You might’ve stepped on the text I sent my sister. I might’ve swatted at the e-mail you sent your spouse. Spam is slamming into my roof right now, but thanks to my force fields, it’s not getting through. Does it give up and go next door?

Really, I wonder if there’s a breaking point…or can the atmosphere just absorb an infinite amount of this stuff?

Oh, and if that was your tweet I squished, sorry.

Michelle, ma belle

I’ve never been one to let celebrities influence my daily life.

I don’t take relationship advice from Dr. Phil.

Brad Pitt doesn’t tell me who to vote for.

My home certainly doesn’t follow the edicts of Martha Stewart.

But I must admit to a new celebrity crush–Michelle Obama. I am completely enchanted by her.

She reminds me a lot of Princess Diana. Last night, NBC aired a special that gave us a behind-the-scenes glimpse of life in the White House. Michelle was wearing capri pants and flat slippers. I think it was the shoes that first brought the princess to mind. Even in that casual attire, she was elegant and graceful. We saw her speaking to a room full of school children who were just enraptured by her. She hugged them with genuine warmth…there was no phoniness or fakery. You just knew that her actions would’ve been the same whether or not the cameras were there.

For the first time in decades, there is a vegetable garden at the White House. There is a swing set on the lawn and puppy running down the halls. Clearly this administration is doing things a little differently and I think Michelle has played a big role in that–all for the good.

Michelle took a lot of heat when she broke centuries-old protocol and hugged the Queen of England.

But look at the picture…the Queen hugged back…her teeny little gloved hand is right there in plain view.

I think that’s the effect Michelle has on people. They just want to hug her. I know I do.

Sleeping Around

I have spent the night in some pretty amazing places. Like on the shores of the Grand Canal in Venice.

In the shadows of Canterbury Cathedral.

And over Memorial Day weekend. at the Historic Botel in Savannah, Tennessee.

You have to understand about Botels. A botel is a “hotel for boats.”  We stayed at a botel in the Keys a few years ago. It was a campy place–the back door led to a deck where you tied up your boat. It was cool.

So when we decided to go to the Shiloh battlefield over Memorial Day, I started looking for places to stay.

I love fancy hotels. I love staying on concierge floors in rooms that come with fluffy robes and complimentary cocktails. But I like camp as well. So when I saw a botel on the Tennessee River, I thought it would be like the one in the Keys.

This was the picture of the Historic Botel’s pool on their web site:

Here’s husband’s picture:

Note Port-A-Potty and beer gut. Also, please notice that this botel was not on the water. But it did have its own strange totem:

That’s a fish head on the awning.

So, it wasn’t my favorite hotel, or even my favorite botel. But since I had chosen it, I was stuck with it. I made the most of it. I grabbed a beer and some cheese from the cooler and made myself at home in the shade on the deck. The owner’s cat coame by and I read. All in all, not bad.

As long as you ignore the fish head.

Tradition, or Silver the Wonder Pony

Franklin was already an old town when I first knew it. The signs at the city limits say it was established in 1799, and for Middle Tennessee, that’s darn near ancient.

There are lots of great things about old towns. The trees are big and offer shade on hot summer days. The homes have histories–point to almost any house downtown and I can tell you a story about it. (And if I can’t, I can make one up quick as a wink that will fool a visitor–one about Yankees and silver buried in the back yard.)  But above and beyond all that, there is tradition–and for those of us who have been here a while, an inherent knowledge of the rhythm of the year.

Every organization has an event of some sort, many of which have been around for decades. Summer is for fish fries and barbecues at the various churches. Fall brings football and country ham breakfasts. Winter is the holidays and all the attendent frippery.

And for the past 60 years, spring has brought the Rodeo Parade. (There is an actual rodeo, too–but the parade was always my favorite part of the festivities.) As children, the Rodeo Parade was one of the year’s highlights. There was a grand marshall, a queen and marching bands. The cowboys in town to compete put on their western finery and brought their horses to ride down the streets lined with cheering families.

Back then, there were a lot more horses around, even when it wasn’t rodeo time. It wasn’t unusual to see people riding down the street. Or to see a horse tied to a tree outside a business in town. This was a horsey area. Franklin was known as the home of one of the most famous Tennessee Walking Horses of all time–Midnight Sun. And my aunt, who lived on a small farm just outside of town, had two mares and a pony or two for the kids. For the rodeo parade, she would load the pony and the pony cart into her truck and drive them to the parade’s starting point. Me, my sister and our two cousins would squeeze into the cart and our mothers would lead us in the parade.

The most recent installment of the parade was a couple of weeks ago. We have a friend with a gorgeous old home along the parade route and we gathered there with lots of friends, many who were new to town and had never seen the parade before. I warned the newcomers ahead of time that this was the epitome of a small town parade–no flowery floats, no cartoon character balloons, certainly no tv cameras. After watching the third pickup truck go by, someone asked what the criteria was for entering the parade. Hmmmm….my guess would be showing up. But there was a Rodeo Queen.

Miss Tennessee was there.

 

Three school bands marched by.

And this little cart was cute:

But not nearly as cute as this one:

 

That’s me holding the reins. The camera shy pony is Silver. He was lazy and not always nice. He would do anything to avoid having a bit between his teeth and a slow trot was as fast as he ever went. Regardless, we all loved Silver.

I love to travel and enjoy learning about different lands and cultures. But it’s nice to know that some things in here in Franklin are constant.