Jumping in Puddles

How to jump in puddles and not get hurt – life’s little lessons

I’ve always considered myself coordinated.  I play sports, with a certain degree of aptitude and grace.  I’m slower than I was, it just means I have more time to concentrate on the next move and not pull a muscle.  But one day, I fell . . . hard.  A healthy, and eerily beautiful Midwestern thunderstorm had blown though.  The pot holes and lowlands returned to their marsh like youth, and the time was ripe for . . . puddle jumping. 

I am of age, have been.  We often forget the revelry of youth.  The days when grass stained jeans meant you had fun, and it didn’t matter if you had been sweating all day playing in the field, because Danny’s mom would always have a cold bottle of water when you returned during the dog days of summer.  Dan is now a hundred miles away.  My youth seems like a hundred years ago.  But amid all the hustle of corporate offices, of the fear of losing a job, of self-imposed responsibility, we need to remember what puddles are really for . . . to be jumped in. 

Sure, you’ll get wet.  Your trousers will probably need to be treated before washing, assuming you don’t just take them off in the street (no pants make puddle jumping easier but legally problematic).  

Sure, you’ll look like a child.

Sure, you’ll feel like a child.

And isn’t it wonderful.  Revel in it.  Smile.  Laugh.  Forget about the ridiculousness of it all.  Forget the idea that adulthood is playing the straight man.  Who is on First is not a question, it’s a statement, and no one knows who is on third. 

We need to be reminded that being an adult is not about following every moral principle.  Decorum and kindness exist, and always will, and should never be thoroughly abandoned.  But fart jokes aren’t funny; they’re hilarious.   

But whatever you do, just before you jump, don’t slip in the mud.  Falls hurt more as you age.  

Like a Virgin

Every time I travel I inevitably get the feeling, at some point, as though it was my first time away from home.

On a recent trip to Italy, the feeling of experiential virginity washed over me.  The trip was a fluke.  My friend won the trip.  Seriously, he won it, sweepstakes and all.  I thought that only happened on TV and in horror movies.  It was a trip for four, airfare, rental car, accommodations at an agritourismo outside of Florence, and a wine tasting were all included.

As the cast, my friend, his pregnant wife, myself and my partner, assembled at the airport, I could tell this would not be the usual travel experience my partner and I typically have.  We are the bed and breakfast, hostel, and occasional couch surfing type.  No amenities, all meals sourced locally, no chains.  We love open air markets and grocery stores.  We have never rented a car, rarely stay outside walking distance from basic necessities, and have never been with anyone beside ourselves.

We met my friend at the airline ticket counter.  The airport was busy, but the beach ball belly of his pregnant wife and suitcases that could smuggle mules tend to stick out.  As I walked toward them, I could see security start to circle, their talons on their radios.  Just before I reached them, one agent spoke, loudly enough, “Ma’am may I ask you to . . . Oh my!  Congratulations.  When are you due?”

I was nervous traveling with a soon to be mother.  What if she went into labor in Italy?  In the car?  While driving some absurdly steep and windy road?  I know nothing of how babies are born, stork?     Then I laughed out loud.  Women in Italy have babies, too.  I reminded myself.  And, my friend can rub her feet.  I hear that feels good.

Sitting comfortably in my coach window seat, I thought of the adventure, of Italian wine, the Tuscan hills.  I would be enjoying the same vistas that for two millennia have pleased people the world over.  I have never seen the movie Under the Tuscan Sun but saw the stage I would soon grace.

During the long flight over the Atlantic, I thought I would speak with Lauren, the mother to be.  I asked her about her job as an elementary school teacher.  About curriculum, state and federal standards, students and their parents.  Each new topic ended with some reference to pregnancy, newborns, and was generally preceded by “When the baby gets here . . .”  Then it dawned on me.  “Have you ever been overseas before?” I asked.  Her response “I've never been outside the county.”  Her eyes were wide with worried fright.

I was speechless.  I had to give her credit, though.  She was traveling thousands of miles.  To a country where she did not know the language, with two strangers she has never met before, no expectations (except maybe the worst), no knowledge.  She must have really trusted her husband.

The trip started out on a hilarious note.  She was white knuckled on the seats of our new rental car (an Audi, literally 106 miles on it) as we maneuvered the roads southeast of Florence.  Screaming, for the safety of her unborn child.  When we finally arrived, about thirty minutes later all she mustered  was a frantic “I have to pee.”

Everything was new for her.  “How do I get my hair dryer to work, I don’t see any plugs?”  to “What is that man saying, his hands are all over the place.”  It was not as funny as the trip went on.  And I could not help but remember my first trip anywhere.  I thought I was pretty smart deciding on Ireland and Scotland because they speak English.  At least that’s what I thought until I arrived.  They may as well have spoken another language.  But, here she was, somewhere where they were really speaking a foreign tongue.

I started to feel bad for her.  Her hormones were swinging wildly.  She had no idea what to do.  One hand was always caressing her beach ball, somehow assuring her soon to be daughter everything was ok while at the same time reassuring herself that her bump was still there.  Even at the end of our week, she looked panicked, fearing the worst.  About the only time I saw her smile: eating a cannoli outside the Uffizi.

But, it got me thinking.  Everywhere we go and everything we do while we are there is a new experience.  Some small part changes, even if we repeat the process.  But perhaps most importantly, we change.  Our principles may not, but our priorities do, our personal states of affairs.  There is a large world out there to discover and experience, but what we learn changes based on whatever filter we use to screen the outside world.  Our impact on others change as we change, as we evolve into global legionnaires, doing battle not with our surroundings, but with ourselves as we struggle to break the bonds to the land beneath our feet and our notions of how the other half live.

I instantly reverted back to that state of mind, where the possibilities were endless, where just around the corner would be something I personally have never seen, and would be seeing it for the first time, to touch the door and move the handle and step though to a new world.

I learned a lot from this trip and from Lauren.  You never know what baggage people bring with them, whether as the traveler or the local.  But, mostly, I learned that everyone loves a babino.   

The Future of History . . . Part 1

What I love about Rome, and Italy in general, is that history is all around you.  You can look around, take a seat, even lean against a wall and at some point a young centurion had done exactly the same thing.  For me, holder of a history degree and self-admitted nerd, this is something I live for.  But, history, with all its imagination inducing potential, can serve, not to foster inspired leadership or parenthetical phrases, but as a rallying point for mediocrity. 

History is one of the most useful tools in creating the future.  The present is predicated upon the past just as the future is predicated upon the present.  But even the best tools can leave its users with stitches.  Obsession with the past yields stagnation as does ignorance of the past.  Both are dangerous.  By obsessing we distract ourselves from the focus we ought to reserve for the future or set forth plans to regress to the past.  Ignoring the past places blinders firmly over our eyes and we make our way forward, without sight, stubbing our toes on the corner of each piece of furniture before we eventually collapse. 

Italy, for all the bad press the she gets, may stagnate for many reasons but history is not necessarily one.  Their long and varied past is celebrated for what it was: a stepping stone to the modern world but not without its skeletons.  Life goes on.  Italy could easily just sit back safe in knowledge that the Eternal City is just that, Eternal.  The efforts of today, detrimental or positive, may have little bearing on the fact that the Tiber will continue to snake through human habitation a thousand years from now. 

While traveling, or living for that matter, consider the impact that history has on a place, its people, and their future.  

**This theme will be expanded upon in time, and by expanded I mean that I'll actually come to a cohesive point.

Traveling with Parents

It was just like being a teenager again.  Could I sleep in?  Could I stay out just an hour later?  Would I have to ask for Dad’s permission?  It was all these thoughts and more when I traveled with my . . . Dad.

The thought of traveling with a fully life experienced parent (whew, glad I didn’t use “senior citizen”) initially heralded that adolescent wanderlust that fueled my daydreams to far away lands.  “I have been to Ireland several times before,” I thought, “but, this time, it’s totally different.” 

It did not take long for the novelty to wear off.  There were serious matters of concern.  What is the availability of prescriptions?  Of doctors willing to see a tourist?  Insurance?  Sure, Ireland has the internet; WebMD to the rescue.

The patriarch had his own questions.  Being a man of fixed means, and this college graduate facing the “Great Recession,” he pondered, and possibly feared, “where will we stay on such a tight budget?”  “8 hours on a plane,” he said, “and it’s a felony to tamper with smoke detectors in the lavatory?” 

I shrugged many of his concerns off, naively thinking “what is the worst that can happen?”  After all, I had yet to have a serious injury or medical situation occur in my previous adventures.  But the friend of old age is the blind sided mishap, the blip on the screen suddenly appearing or, even worse, disappearing.  While Dad started the logistical research, I checked and double checked all safeguards. 

European cell phone?  Check. 

Emergency numbers?  Check. 

Written list of medical ailments and scripts?  Check. 

Instructions on the international sign for help should an airplane spot us?  Check. 

As the date drew nearer, though, the excitement began to show.  The worries appeared less worrisome.  “Hey,” Dad would whisper at conversational lulls, as though the secret of life were to follow, “we’re going to Ireland.”  I laughed and thought that for three weeks I might be babysitting a child. 

The two flights we took to get to Dublin were eerily expedient.  No delays, no having to run a marathon for the connecting flight.  It must have been the calm before the storm.  We landed slightly ahead of schedule.  There was no rush off the plane (we only had a carry on bag each), no hurry to get though passport control.  And, when I realized that the airport had changed since I was last there and had no idea where to catch the bus, there was no feeling of impending doom.  Huh, so this is what retired life is like. 

The next three weeks were some of the best traveling I have ever experienced.  It was experiential travel at its best.  Some of our adventures can only be prefaced with “you had to be there.”  Not because I am a terrible storyteller, though stories do get better with each pint, rather they follow plots from a Disney inspired Twilight Zone, misfortune could lay just around the bend, but magically the clouds parted, the sun shone, and the glass slipper fit.  And, I must confess, it was due in large part to traveling with pops.

There must be a secret handshake all old men know.  Their penchant for finding other old men defies logic.  Their gift of conversation, of turning lemons into a dry martini with a twist, is what traveling is really about.  Sure, we saw the sights, took the obligatory selfies and photos we still have yet to decipher.  But, it is the stores that are legendary.  Homer’s Oddyssey replaced with “remember that one time in Ireland.”  Each story predicated upon someone that Dad had a conversation with.

Amid all the pre-flight checks and concerns, the blatently obvious was overlooked: that life experience trumps all.  Well, that, and a gallon bag of airline rum bottles.  So, dust off grandma and grandpa and go.  Sure, you don’t even know the handshake.