Old, New, Borrowed, Blue

It was the first time I slept on our new air mattress, camping.  I even felt a little guilty, like I was cheating on camping.  But my hips thanked me for passing on the Target One Spot yoga mats to our daughters for sleeping pads.

I lay in my sleeping bag on a hot summer night made cool by the mesh roof of our tent and the being-outside-ness.  Our tent, a family double-wide, was a freebie from a friend, and the five of us (including borrowed nephew) fit with plenty of room for more friends.  I slept smack dab in the middle between husband and nephew, flanked by daughters, with an amphitheater-like view of stars above.

I felt a surge of affection for my sleeping bag, an REI mummy model I mush instead of roll when I stow it away so as not to stretch the seams.  My mother had sewn in half, lengthwise, an old blue sheet of my brother's from his childhood bed linens, explaining that the cotton layer would make sleeping inside a nylon bag more comfortable, less sweaty.  She was right. I'd found the sheet at the bottom of my cinch sack, where I'd kept it packed faithfully for twenty years. I recalled how gritty it and my eyelids and nostrils had become when I slept outside in a Moroccan sandstorm.

My sleeping bag and I backpacked on the Appalachian trail with eighth graders.  It traveled to Kenya, Tanzania, and Morocco.  It had hung from trees to dry out after rain.  I tried, once, to zip it together with a boyfriend's bag.

My sleeping bag brought me back to my solo days, when a summer adventure cost only one plane ticket and my own gumption and supplies.  Only I and the sleeping bag and the sheet inside connected the Me of 15 years ago to this moment, camping under the stars with my family and friends.

On an evening hike with Big Sis, as she experienced the natural high and exhilaration of wide open space and birdsand deer and lizards and jack rabbits and unexpected tarantulas on the trail, she turned to me and exclaimed, "Mom, I want to camp as often as we can.  And I want to go camping for my whole life."

Amen, sister.  And maybe when you're 41, you can sleep on an air mattress.

Bar Tricks

That right there in the foreground, folks, is the cherry stem I tied in a knot with my tongue a few weeks ago.

In the background is the rum punch I drank to celebrate this feat.

I didn't accomplish much while on vacation with my daughters and extended family in the USVI (the point of the trip was less doing, more being), but there you go.

Here's to the stuff that doesn't happen every day, including ordering drinks garnished with maraschino cherries.

Nightswimming

"The moon is low tonight.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
I'm not sure all these people understand.
It's not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water...
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday."
--REM

St. John. Three families...all cousins, pretty much (cousins of cousins: what do you call those?). Fifteen kids, but the four eldest of them are at an overnight eco-camp for three days. The remaining are spending the night at a lovely resort with an expansive pool with waterfalls, overlooking the bay.

Kids and parents are fed. Rum drinks have been drunk. It's time for nightswimming.

A dark walk to the pool, where we dive and jump and tumble to the sounds of crickets, birds, and frogs.

Magical.

Then my brother whisks me off to the bay, where the resort has an obstacle course of Wipeout! sorts, with trampolines stretched between inflated pathways seemingly impossible to traverse. We swim across the calm, quiet water beneath the Big Dipper and a billion other stars and then clumsily climb on and stumble and fall off the inflatables, our giggles, squeals, and exclamations the only punctuation in nature-sound sentences.

This is vacation. Family. Beauty. Extraordinary experiences. Letting go.

If only Husband were here.

The Beer is Nice in Oregon, and So Are the People

I just blogged about preferring to crash at your place, didn't I? Be glad we didn't land on your doorstep the other night, when we derailed from our overnight train (Portland--->Oakland) in Eugene after Big Sis lost her lunch on the seat next to her, and in the aisle, and on her shirt and on my jacket AND in the plastic Amtrak kids' goody bag with the box of crayons remaining inside.

No one on the train even looked horrified. Or made that face of ewwww. I don't care where they were from; I am giving the credit to Oregon. Because besides the guy on the road who flipped off my sister, everyone in Oregon has been remarkably kind. Not disingenuous, sticky-sweet ingratiating, but nice. Like it's normal to be concerned about people and willing to go out of one's way. Even the strung-out looking woman we encountered today near the "Parole/Probations" building who was fighting with her boyfriend thoughtfully shushed him with a "there are little kids!" when she saw us coming.

When it seemed a better solution for everyone concerned that we get off the train in Eugene and hope that the 24-hour waiting period wasn't the same as incubation for next kid's bout of flu, the conductor helped reserve us places on the next night's train, and a helpful man at the depot pointed out that the Hilton was within walking distance. "It might cost you $50, though," he warned me.

If only! At least Big Sis thought the joint was "like the Disney Hotel," (where we've never stayed), and she could have a bath and throw up somewhere with towels and laundry that doesn't belong to any of our friends.

We woke up in Eugene the next morning feeling A-OK and with a day to explore before we re-boarded the train. More Oregonian helpfulness: when the hotel manager saw me plugging my cell charger into every available outlet before determining it didn't work, he promised me a functional one from the hotel's stash of left-behinds. And the bellhop offered us a ride to the train station, only three blocks away, but saving this Mama/Sherpa the agony of three blocks of whining as my daughters dragged their suitcases.

Which reminds me of a story about when I travelled to Morocco and joined a truck camping tour. Our group mates were to meet at the Iqbal Hotel after taking the plane or train to Casablanca. I arrived by air and caught a cab to the hotel. In the hotel bar that evening, members of our tour got acquainted and compared travel stories. Our Canadian friend Matt shared that he had arrived by train and hailed a taxi outside the station. His driver pointed out various Casablanca landmarks en route to our hotel, conveniently located...across the street from the train station.

"Hey...!!" exclaimed Matt to his cabbie, when he looked outside the taxi and noticed both the Iqbal and train station in his line of sight. "You didn't tell me the hotel was across the street!" The driver shrugged and demanded his fare.

Sometimes the ride is worth it (and the story to tell, too).

So glad we didn't drive to Oregon. So glad we waited a day to sleep on the train. So glad to be on this trip with my daughters.

Even if the unexpected costs of this trip make me want to throw up a little.

Hotel "Your House"

Oh, there are so many reasons I would rather crash at your house than stay at a hotel!

First, there's the check-in: The warm, personal greeting accompanied by a sincere "We've been waiting for you!" The kids run off to play and you offer me a drink. I can leave the luggage by the door for now. I know you cleaned your house for us because places in your home (floorboards, windowsills) are spic and span in a way ours have never been. We'll help you mess things up in short order, starting with leaving our shiz all over the place.

Oh my goodness, you have an ice maker. Your water tastes better than ours. Your toys are cooler, too. Hotels don't have toys. Lame! We are so happy to be here! Especially because the long drive up here gave us hemorrhoids and headaches.

I love your towels--so soft and fluffy! I check their brand on the tag, just in case I actually replace the towels we use that my mom sent me in college. Can we talk about your detergent, too? It smells yummy in here. I think our washer must suck. Our laundry is not capable of harboring such good scents.

You welcome us to all your food and snacks. No mini-bar, this is real life and it's awesome. The kids agree you have better bread; your vegetables are fresh and you make some wicked chicken. I become convinced I need a rice cooker (which I can't afford when I get home and buy new towels and mattresses and detergent) and then your other dinner guest teaches us her fail-proof tips for preparing perfect rice. Not gonna learn that in a hotel.

I realize most people don't have as many dishes and silverware as we do (why we don't have to empty our dishwasher daily, and why our cupboards and drawers are overstuffed). We try coconut milk and almond butter sandwiches. You sprinkle brewer's yeast on popcorn. Brilliant!

We read your books (and you recommend some); you introduce us to a new kids' science show, light sabers, and spray bottles.

You have a flat-screen TV. You help me with my iPad--two fingers on the screen to scroll in a text box! Thank you.

I marvel at your functioning toilets (You have more than one; take that, hotel!). You offer to watch the kids while I go for a run, and your hills are forgiving and the air tastes more oxygenated. Your shower is hot and stays so; the water pressure makes me sigh. I try your shampoo. All natural. Not the cheap kind. Goat's milk soap! Luxury.

We take in tourist attractions and fit in a few errands; I admire your efficiency. We feed kids, bathe kids, read to them, let them watch a show so we can chat. I watch your parenting and am alternately inspired and validated. I feel at home in your house, so much so I fear I didn't leave things neater than I found them. I sacrifice tidying for talking with you. I take for granted you'll forgive us when we leave a wake.

No mints on our pillows, but you offer chocolate-chip-loaded graham crackers and the best ice cream in the world, you swear. I snuggle with my kids in bed and read my book to the flashlight you find for me. We sleep in because the sun sets later here and we're tired from the laughing and playing and shouting and shrieking (ssshhhhh!) and running around and driving around and love, love, love. Your kids are my kids now, again.

And you are giving us all your space and time and we don't want to leave. Except we have to, so that we can come back again welcomed with open arms and so we can check in at the next Somebody's House, before we return to our own home which is a little bit more boring than where we've been this trip. But we hope you won't think so the next time you come by.

I might have new towels by then.