Jeanette's Travel Tips for the 60+

In spirit, I love to travel, or maybe I should use the past tense; I loved to travel. It might be more the idea rather than the actuality that I love. The romance is always there, always has been, just like the lyrics, “See the pyramids along the Nile, see the marketplace in old Algiers.” I remember my first trip to continental Europe the summer following my freshman year in college, the sun melting like liquid copper over vineyards in Tuscany and the Parthenon standing white as bleached bone against a blue Grecian sky. But now, forty years later, the view isn't quite so romantic.

Travel posters tell the story I want to experience much better than words: a beautiful, very slim woman in beige and white linen, her sun-streaked hair pulled back into a messy bun, sunglasses perched on her perfect nose, slender arms faintly tanned, finger and toe nails buffed, Colgate-white teeth, smiling at her companion, an equally beautiful man, strong features, a full head of dark hair, smiling back with the kind of tolerance rarely seen in a real-life husband after a week of 24-7 travel.

          The truth is, travel is uncomfortable. Sometimes it even hurts. It’s lugging suitcases down city blocks to a subway station, walking long distances on sore feet, drinks with no ice and food that upsets sensitive stomachs. It’s enduring less than sanitary bathrooms and listening to strangers breathe and cough on the other side of too thin walls and no escape to the guest room when your beloved on the other side of the bed tosses and turns on an unfamiliar mattress, or worse yet, snores. It’s unexpected delays and unforeseen All Star playoffs, (I won’t belabor the claustrophobic nightmare of flying coach or attempting Bourbon Street in New Orleans on a festival night) crowded elevators, pillows that aren’t right and restaurants whose menus look better online than they taste on the street. In short, travel, the kind I remember when I was young, is no longer the pleasure it was.  I'd love to recreate that lost sense of adventure, but I'm no longer 20 or 30 or even 50. I can't do it the way I did.
          So…what is a woman who isn’t ready to turn in her passport, who craves comfort but isn’t wealthy to do when she still dreams of riding the Orient Express and sipping coffee in a outdoor café along the Via Veneto in Rome? Do less, I've decided, and do it more slowly and in comfort.

Jeanette's travel tips for the 60+

• Rent high end, comfortable accommodations with plenty of light: gone are the days when you can leave the hotel at 8:00 am, walk for 12 hours, read maps at street-corners lit with gas lamps and still look like the cover of a magazine at 11:00 pm.

• Don’t leave home without large sunglasses, sunscreen and lipstick. Remarkable anti-aging inventions.

• Forget fashion and leave the cute shoes at home. Cute, in no way, makes up for blistered feet.

• Make note of bathrooms in the area BEFORE you have to go.

• Keep a fizzy bicarbonate in your suitcase. Exotic food is no longer the adventure it once was.

• Do without that second Hurricane. Trust me. 

• Drink lots of water unless you’re on a bus tour and avoid bus tours longer than 2 hours.

• Use taxi cabs instead of subways or buses. You’ve spent plenty to reach your destination. Spend a little more for the convenience of a ride.

• If possible, ship your luggage ahead or pay to check that bag. Pulling rolling carry-ons from overhead bins isn’t as easy as it was 5 years ago.

• If your flight isn’t direct, plan layovers at least 90 minutes apart. Delayed or lost luggage is miserable.

• Use a credit card that allows you to accumulate travel points and save up for a Business Class booking. The difference in service is beyond belief.

• Many EU countries don’t allow people 70+ to rent cars. Be prepared. The tour that you scorned in your youth may be just the ticket to the perfect, stress-free vacation. Cruises are a terrific alternative as well. No need to pack up at all.

• Stay in one place at least two nights. Better yet, use one destination as a base and take day trips.

• Above all, make sure your accommodations are exactly where you want to be. Walking six blocks to the subway and standing for a fifteen minute ride is no way to see a city.   

• Take fewer trips but, if possible, make them more upscale. You deserve it. Happy traveling and Bon Voyage.

                                               

New Rules for Babies

My grandson is now 4 months old. Although he’s only 15 pounds, he takes up a lot of space, at least his accouterments do. Along with the crib he hasn’t used yet, due to new research claiming babies should stay in their parent’s bedroom for at least six months, he has a Bugaboo stroller that adjusts to so many positions it reminds me of the transformers my son played with in the 80’s, and a Britax car seat with enough straps and padding it looks capable of lifting off and reentering the stratosphere. 

He also has a mini-bassinet that vibrates as he sleeps, a Rainforest Jumperoo that bounces while the toys around the rim emit rattling, chirping and crackling sounds, a white noise machine, a swing with six different movement controls and tunes to match, an umbrella stroller, (my purchase because I couldn’t figure out how to collapse the Bugaboo) an Ergo infant carrier, another one that goes over the shoulder (again my purchase because adjusting the Ergo is beyond me) a tub that has an ever fresh water supply, an infant gym with owls and fish that make animal noises, booties that jingle or crunch (I can’t remember which) and, thank goodness, something recognizable, books. Lots of books.

Once upon a time I, too, had babies, two of them. They each had a crib, a stroller, a car seat and, eventually, a high chair. I seem to remember a rocking horse and something that attached to the door frame and bounced. They also had toys and books. Lots of books. Life was crowded, but nowhere as crowded as my daughter and son-in-law’s small apartment.

The rules are different now. No putting babies to sleep on their tummies and all car seats must face backwards for TWO years.  A pediatrician posted an interesting comment about backwards car seats: “My own babies screamed so much facing the back seat that even though I would never advise patients to do this, I turned my own children around.” Her rationale: “They were in far more danger with my twisting backwards to check on them than they were from whiplash.” Now, however, there is no choice in the matter. It’s the law. Babies must face backwards. The list goes on: no solid food for six months and then, vegetables instead of rice cereal because rice cereal is no longer considered nutritious, no upright position in the stroller until a baby can sit up without support, no bumper guards in the crib, etc. etc.

Our baby doesn’t sleep well on his back. He doesn’t like lying flat in his stroller nor does he like facing the back seat in a moving car. “Safety is paramount,” my daughter, ever the rule-follower, tells me.  "Studies show that SIDS is down as a result of the new rules.” I agree that safety is important and I’m relieved that SIDS is down. Of course, I observe all the “new” safety rules. After all, the baby isn't actually mine and he appears to be surviving his restrictions. He coos and babbles, sucks his fingers, smiles, laughs out loud (when he’s not in his stroller or car seat) and rolls over, front to back, all milestones of a healthy 4 month old infant. My daughter is a good mother, loving and vigilant, patient with her baby and with me. She is also very particular and so meticulously clean that sometimes I wonder if, all those years ago, I brought home the wrong baby. I'm sure she wonders the same thing...only sometimes, I hope.

HANNIE RISING - March sale

 

Just in time for St. Patrick's Day, HANNIE RISING will go on sale

Weather is Everything

“Chicago’s a great city and, maybe, it wouldn’t be so hard to go back if I lived in Baltimore or Minneapolis, cities with real winters, but I’m leaving California for a wind chill of 60 below.”

This was my son’s lament the night before his plane was scheduled to take him back to the windy city. I imagine more than a few California natives wondered, this week, what made them choose to attend school in a state where a single storm drops twenty-one inches of snow in a weekend. In Michael’s case it was a no-brainer. Pritzker is a top 10 medical school with amazing credentials and he was offered a full scholarship, meaning, if he’s frugal, no debt.

Mike is definitely a Southern Californian with a love for surf and sand, Mexican food, coffee houses with outdoor seating, palm trees, 80 degree winters, Disneyland, Universal Studios, bare feet, shorts, and a complete disregard for checking weather conditions. His memories of winter mornings include the Rose Parade, running on the beach, young moms balancing lattes and jogging strollers, eating Korean barbecue at one of the ethnic restaurants dotting the coastline and aging surfers cycling with long boards under one arm. Driving the freeways between Los Angeles and San Diego poses no greater challenge for him than patience during traffic jams and following the rules of the road. He was, until Chicago, a neophyte when it came to lightning storms, delayed flights, snow, bitter cold and, that terrifying of all road conditions, black ice. 

I’m not sorry that Pritzker chose Michael, or that Michael chose Pritzker. I miss him terribly but I’m grateful for his change of venue and the not always so comfortable weather. Living here in the golden state is a privilege that is rarely appreciated until we experience inconvenience elsewhere. My son is no exception. 

Here, in Southern California, we don’t have the glorious displays of autumn leaves they have in New England, although we have our own kind of beauty especially in areas close to the foothills, nor do we have the wonder of a first snowfall with the exception of those who live in the mountains. But we do have a marvelous, easy, relaxed climate in which to work and play. We do have warm, dry days and nights cold enough to sleep comfortably, days and nights so unique and lovely that even though we pay a great deal more for real estate that sits close to our neighbors and has less square footage than we would if we lived in other states, our population surges and most of our children come home to live.

We don’t think much about weather in Southern California. We don’t have to. But for Michael, an expatriate who elected to temporarily live elsewhere, “Weather is everything.”

Hannie Rising Excerpt 5

Kate Kelliher, nee Enright, was angry. She’d been angry for a long time. It felt like years. She’d narrowed down the root of her misery to her marriage. Ever since she’d been mindless enough to marry Dermot Kelliher and set up housekeeping in the tiny apartment over the hardware store his family had owned for generations, happiness had eluded her. The flat was no place to raise a child, not to mention two adults who were constantly banging into each other every time someone wanted a cup of tea or a snack from the cupboard. The washroom was so cramped there was no need for a lock on the door. All she had to do was sit on the toilet in the natural position. One knee, the left one, and the corresponding forearm would be involuntarily pressed up against the door so tightly there was no possibility of anyone surprising her in the act.

She hadn’t intended for her life to end up this way. Kate had been to America on an exchange during her third year at university. She’d easily acclimated to automatic transmission, garbage disposals, French toast with maple syrup and mixers that guaranteed water would pour from the tap at the perfect temperature. She wanted frost-free refrigerators and ice makers and coffee shops that opened for breakfast on Sunday mornings and restaurants that weren’t pubs. She wanted perpetual hot water without having to remember to flip a switch thirty minutes ahead of when she needed it, and heat that turned on and off according to a preset temperature.

She wanted to live in a world that wasn’t obsessed by trash, where to store it and where to dispose of it, in the brown, green or white recycler, in the paper and package dumpster, in the compost pile in the garden or, God forbid, surreptitiously into one of the bins opposite a grocery store, strip mall or take-away express.

She wanted to never see another clothesline with flapping drawers and baby nappies. She wanted ranch dressing for her salads, Splenda for her coffee and tall, sweet, sweating glasses of lemon-flavored iced tea on an outdoor patio with a thermometer that read eighty degrees. She wanted checkers in supermarkets to bag her groceries instead of watching with their arms folded while she juggled plastic bags, a coin purse and a baby pram. She wanted plastic bags at no charge when she forgot hers in the car. She wanted to pay three dollars, not six euro for a pastry and a cup of coffee and she wanted to sit in an outdoor café to eat and drink them. She wanted to wake up without thinking about the weather, engage in conversations that had nothing to do with weather and shop for food without taking an umbrella.

America was perfect. So what if no one could brew a decent cup of tea or that the doors in the bathroom stalls only came down as far as a woman’s knees which really wasn’t very nice at all. So what if white woman never pushed their own babies in their prams or cleaned their own houses? These were small things, hardly significant at all. She wanted it back, the life she left, the entire package.

Most of all, Kate wanted Ritchie O’Shea to divorce his American wife, come back to Ireland and shock all the gossips by walking down Castle Street with his arm around her waist. Actually, if she were completely truthful with herself, and she nearly always was, it wasn’t Ritchie she wanted. She’d given up on Ritchie long ago, but she did want someone very like him. She wanted all the spiteful women who remembered that she’d been jilted to fall off Fenit Pier in the middle of a very cold rain. She wanted them to know that once upon a time she had a career, not a job, that their deliberate references to her marrying up were rude and boring and that, in another lifetime, she could have bought and sold every one of them ten times over if she’d cared enough.

God, how she missed Mickey. Twin tears collected in the corners of her eyes. Hurriedly, she brushed them away. How dare he up and die like that when she desperately needed him, before anything was settled? Nan was no help. She was dotty as a loon and getting worse every day. Liam was only concerned about himself and the latest Miss Ireland he could talk the drawers off of. That left Mom.

Normally, Kate wouldn’t have minded asking her mother for anything. Johannah Enright had always been a soft touch. But there were some things her mother steadfastly refused to consider, and one of them was the breaking of a sacrament, particularly the marriage sacrament.

Baby John

Four weeks ago, Jennifer had a baby boy. Months of nervously awaiting the results of every heart monitor, every fetal size measurement, every glucose test, every pelvic examination were over in 12 hours of miraculously easy labor and delivery. John Hogan Readey IV made his appearance at 7:55 in the evening, all 7 pounds 11 ounces and 20.5 inches of him, a healthy beautiful baby with all his parts intact and working properly.

Delivering a baby in 2013 bears no resemblance to giving birth 40 years ago. The birthing rooms today look like large hotel suites with the exception of all the monitors attached to the mother. Parents, siblings, the husband, of course, and an occasional friend or two walk around freely or sit in comfortable chairs making casual conversation and sharing memories while the laboring mother decides when the contractions merit an epidural. Today’s epidural need not be given at the last moment. Modern medicine has come up with an incredible invention, a pain reliever that does not block contractions allowing the mother to relax, even sleep, through what was once such an uncomfortable experience that I waited six years between children.

Delivery, in Jennifer’s case, was not nearly as dramatic as in the movies. All went smoothly and quickly. Baby John, eyes wide open, was vigorously rubbed into color, his Vitamin K shot administered with only a mild protest, his sugars tested, eyes doused with antibiotics, a beanie pulled over his head and a blanket swaddled tightly around his little limbs. Dad held him first, then mom.

Still only minutes old, my tiny grandson was placed in my

arms. All at once, my universe shifted. For thirty years there were two people on this planet for whom I would step in front of a runaway truck. Now, as of September 16^th, 2013, there are three. As Melanie Wilkes in GONE WITH THE WIND said, “Everyone loves babies, Captain Butler. Babies are life renewing itself.”