Naxos – Another Goodbye

Greece is a maritime country and its freeway of choice is the sea. By sailing the immensity of its endless “wine dark” waters as Odysseus once did, you fully experience the journey with every one of your senses alert and reach your destination after a magical journey. Such was our ferry ride from Mykonos to Naxos.

The ship we boarded was in a totally different category from the rusty, creaky ferries we’d experienced while backpacking in the ‘70s. The Sea Jet 2 was brand spanking new with the leather seats and lounge areas of a modern cruise ship and a smooth, fast ride that had us to Naxos in just over two hours, including a stop on Paros. We first saw the Portara, the 20-foot tall great marble doorway to the ancient temple of Dionysus (or Apollo, depending on which guidebook you reference) and the island’s signature symbol that sits on a hill on an islet beside Naxos Town. It’s like a vigilant magic picture frame whose one side watches over the arc of the busy harbor and the other gazes out to sea. With minimal trappings of a typical tourist destination, save the dozens of inviting tavernas along the waterfront, Naxos is an island on which to experience simple, daily Greek life.

We met all who worked at and lived in our sweet little blue-shuttered, family-run hotel just a block from the beach and a 10-minute walk to the port. The exact relationships were never quite clear, but they all revolved around three year-old, curly-haired Georgios who was oblivious to the hotel guests as he played with his boats and trucks in the lobby and by the pool. The various players checked us in, served us breakfast and cleaned our room and we felt more like houseguests than hotel patrons. We became part of the clan over the course of our stay, as we smelled what they cooked for lunch, overheard their conversations and shared the comfy couch in the registration area in front of the big-screen TV. The hotel interiors were swathed in bright white Naxian marble from the famous nearby quarries, which we later drove through on a road trip to the rocky north shore where we had lunch by the bay in the sleepy fishing village of Apollon on the island’s tip. After a full week in Greece, we’d gotten into the swing of saying kalimera to those we greeted during the day, kalispera in the evening and kalinihta at night and offering a quick yassou to those we passed on the street. Greece was feeling like home.

What we enjoyed most during our four days on Naxos was the simple nature of the unscheduled, relaxing time with our children. We had plenty of time to discuss our favorite subjects (books, movies, politics and history) and spent many hours reclined on the beach and by the pool reading, resting and soaking up the sun. We enjoyed eating outdoors, watching lovely sunsets, beholding starry nights and then sleeping in late. I enjoyed some alone time with each of the children -- a several mile hike along the beach with Chris and a couple of runs and a shopping trip with Caroline. We wandered the old town along the narrow whitewashed streets and shaded passageways crossed by thick archways that led up to and around the Venetian castle and then back down the stairs past bright red potted geraniums to the lower town. At one point, I was arm-in-arm with my son, my daughter held my other hand and Joe snapped a picture, freezing the image and making time stand still as I so wished I could. I was just happy and content to be with my family – the four of us together, on a Greek isle, no less. Chris has long towered over me and Caroline can look down on me as well. As we strolled along the harbor trying to decide in which of the string of tavernas to stop and have dinner, they rubbed my back, patted my head and called me their “Little Maman,” one of their most apt pet nicknames for me. When did I suddenly get so tiny in between my now adult children?

While we met neither the Cyclops nor the Hydra on Naxos (although Joe and Chris lamented the fact that we encountered no nymphs), we did face the trial of having to once again say goodbye to our progeny. Having and loving children opens up your heart to joys a-plenty but it also exposes you to the possibility of very real pain. There’s the deep ache you feel when they are hurting, especially when they are hurts of the emotional kind, the difficulty of letting them make their own decisions and inevitable mistakes along the way and the realization one day that your babies are gone and that now standing before you are a young man and young woman with lives of their own. And while letting them go is the ultimate goal of successful childrearing, it is never easy to do so or to fill the chasm that remains when they finally leave home for good. You just hope and pray that you’ve given them the gifts of sound judgment, common sense and an open heart that will lead to good decision-making – at least most of the time.

I don’t know exactly what we did as parents to encourage and cement the bond between our children, but they have always been the best of friends, often communicate in a language we fail to understand and simply enjoy each other’s company. Knowing they would be making the trip home side-by-side helped lessen the feeling of loss just a bit. You never stop worrying about your children, no matter what their age, and we felt the familiar anxiety as we hugged and kissed them multiple times before finally letting go at the single Naxos gate. They boarded the prop plane, together, which then whisked them off to Athens for their international flight home. There we stood, choking back tears, peering through the chain-link fence at the tiny airport, waving at the plane as it took off as if they could actually see us.

The first few minutes after a goodbye are the most difficult but bit-by-bit the sting of separation finally subsides. We made a hasty escape from “family Naxos” to “couples Santorini” -- a worthy distraction if ever there were one -- to assuage the sharp, short-term sadness of missing the kids so acutely. We needed a view of the world’s most stunning island to help us move on to the final third of our trip.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Guilt Be Gone

I’ve vacillated over the course of our trip between feelings of guilt about indulging for so long in something so pleasurable and elation due to the daily delights of traveling. The world is filled with interesting people and places, so isn’t experiencing and appreciating them a good thing? Why is it that I fret so? Is taking a year off with the opportunity to enjoy two uninterrupted expanses of time with my children abroad a frivolous guilty pleasure or a worthwhile luxury? If a guilty pleasure rewards you in the process and then brings pangs of remorse later, I tell myself, then surely our year is a luxury of the finest kind.

I debate with myself about this now and then and one side reasons, we both worked hard for over 30 years and if this is how we want to reward ourselves before going back to the daily grind, all is as it should be. But then the residual memories of going to the office all those many years kick in and the other side of me hisses in my ear, shouldn’t you be doing something more, well, productive? And even though “deserves” never, ever enters my vocabulary, I still manage to feel just a little bit uncomfortable about our sabbatical. Over the years I’ve discussed with a dear friend whether my Catholic guilt or the self-reproach of his Jewish faith is more dramatic and we’ve never come to a conclusion so the jury remains out. But guilt is not a state in which I care to linger so I do my best to move on to more constructive thinking. It helps to envision our year as a scenic educational tour that has taken us via planes, trains, busses and ferries to an ever-changing school with no walls. We hope that all we’ve seen and learned about the world will, in the end, make us better, more well-rounded people with a heightened sensitivity to others. And our fondest wish is that we can pass along our experiences to our children, one day our grandchildren and in my case, to future students in my classroom. I’m a very lucky lady and make sure I remember this every single day.

Guilt be gone, I have more to see and more to learn, and I’m leaving you behind – at least as far as everything gap year related is concerned.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

From Urban Utopia to Island Paradise

We had a wonderful but hectic week in Paris punctuated with the arrivals of our kids, nephew and friends. Planning a trip around a race with some who are running and some who’ll be on the sidelines can be a crazy endeavor because there are countless logistics to worry about, not to mention the physical and mental task of getting ready for the challenge. But now that we're in the land of tzatsiki and the sea, our trip has taken on quite a different pace. We went from urban utopia to island paradise -- and the temperatures jumped by 15 degrees -- after just a few short hours in the air and have started focusing our efforts on being very busy relaxing!

First a bit of background on our family’s history with Mykonos... Joe and I visited the island as backpackers in May 1979, just before the crowds of the high season had descended, and fell in love with the place. Its whitewashed labyrinth of pedestrian lanes, fresh seafood, sunburned hills and picture-perfect harbor were everything we’d imagined a Greek Island would be. At our suggestion, Chris and Caroline also paid a visit when they backpacked in Europe in 2007. They loved Mykonos perhaps even more than we did since the beach party atmosphere in late June was in full swing. We’d always hoped we could visit Mykonos as a family and somehow the stars aligned so that we could make it happen. We enjoyed swapping details and comparing notes about our two trips with the children, almost 30 years apart. Joe and I enjoyed finding the simple little beachside guesthouse we’d stayed in a mile and half outside town for about $10 a night and showing it to the kids. And they took us to the thatched roof hut they’d rented at a backpackers’ colony for about the same on the other side of the island.

Upon arrival in Mykonos, this time by plane to its tiny airport, I was transported back to the first time I set foot on the island off the ferry ramp. It was my initial taste of the Aegean and through the cool smell of the sea, Mykonos exuded the charm and warmth the Greek isles are known for. Its enchanting beauty captured my imagination at first sight with its particular palette of red, white and blue: brilliant whitewashed buildings offset by shutters and furnishings in shiny royal blue enamel and abundant arbors of magenta bougainvillea. The Myconian tricolored decor hadn’t changed in 33 years and we were pleasantly surprised to discover that neither had the town. Mykonos had remained the same, save the addition of an ugly concrete parking lot on reclaimed land just beyond the harbor and a new port for large ships about two miles up the coast north of the old town.

The one other difference was that the fleet of pastel Vespas had morphed into a parade of brightly colored ATVs. A few of the delicate motorbikes continued to zip around the island, but the sturdy vehicles, decidedly safer and which led to many fewer tourist mishaps, reigned supreme. We rented two of the rugged four-wheelers and with two of us on each, had a blast exploring as many corners as we had time for on the hilly island. We drove to several out-of-way corners including the famous party sands of both Paradise and Super Paradise beaches. Of course, both were deserted save the four of us, a group of middle-aged singles from a tour staying at our hotel and a handful of camera-laden Japanese tourists. Since it's late April, all remains calm but it’s clear that the season is about to begin. As we ate our Greek salads on the taverna terrace at Paradise, we watched as workers hung super-sized speakers from the rafters, polished the seaside dance floors, painted myriad barstools and varnished the undulating bar. Quiet, unassuming Mykonos becomes a party island in June and an around-the-clock, pulsing bacchanalia in July and August. But in the spring it is a tranquil, picturesque fishing haven with just enough people-watching, including the transient streams of day-tripping visitors from the cruise ships which have started to anchor offshore, to make it interesting.

Our whitewashed hotel overlooked the harbor where we caught the ferry for a morning trip to Delos, the Aegean’s holy island noted as the birthplace of Apollo and Artemis. Majestic stone lions line its sacred main way and there are significant ruins of what used to be a bustling commercial and religious center. Just outside our airy room for four was the enchanting, powerful smell of jasmine from the profusion of delicate, pale yellow flowers bursting from the bushes encircling the patio. From the hotel's wrap-around portico, we had a beautiful view of the town's windmills set on a hill and built by the Venetians in the 16th century. I will never tire of looking at Mykonos' trademark row of white cylindrical structures with their pointed, straw-capped roofs and graceful wooden spokes. I indulged in a manicure-pedicure, one of my favorite personal pampering treats and one I hadn’t enjoyed since we’d left home, at a freshly opened salon down one of the town’s bright lanes. The cherry on top of the treat was enjoying it with Caroline – a perfect mother-daughter shared pleasure that would serve us well as we slipped into our sandals and exposed our now pretty feet to the Greek sunshine.

Our days on Mykonos have been so very different from those in Paris in terms of almost everything: mood, food, colors, tempo, language, weather and attitude. But despite their distinctions, they’re two of my favorite places in the world and I am still finding it hard to believe that I’ve been lucky enough to share them back-to-back with the three people I love most.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Race Day Aftermath

Joe and I did the “Marathon Shuffle” for three days post race, literally limping our way through the streets of Paris. We felt every mile we’d run in muscles we didn’t know we had but considered our sorry gait as a badge of honor, nonetheless. Going up stairs was tolerable but coming down was agonizing. I had to grasp railings for dear life wherever I could find them as I tried to take as much weight as possible off my tender thighs screaming in pain. What were we thinking when we headed up the steep incline to Montmartre (with the attendant steep descent) the day after the race? But the kids really wanted to visit and so we soldiered on. While I was prepared for some serious post-marathon aches, I wasn’t quite ready for them to last for so long or for the onset of the inevitable lowered immune system cold that followed a couple days later.

As my Parisian hobble continued, I tried to keep in mind what my dear friend Cathy emailed me right after the race. She suggested that from now on I always refer to ANY injury, even if not the result of running as a marathon war wound. “Yes, that’s my tricky knee -- I injured it running the Paris Marathon,” or “Oh, that sore shoulder – ever since I ran the marathon in Paris it’s never been the same.”

Three days after the marathon, the four of us flew out of Charles de Gaulle headed for Greece. We needed a good, long rest and couldn’t imagine a better place to recuperate than the whitewashed Greek Islands. Lying on a beach eating Greek salads and saganaki in the sun is our simple plan for recovery. Mykonos, we are yours.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Race Day

I’m not a runner, never will be and surviving a marathon was not on my bucket list. I love to walk long distances and hiking for miles on end is one of my favorite pastimes, but a runner I’ll never be. We’d set our sights on the Paris race simply as a motivator for maintaining a workout program as we ate our way through Europe and attempted to stay in reasonable shape through the winter. Joe has long enjoyed running and ran two previous marathons (the 2009 Marine Corps in DC and the 2010 New York City race), while I’d done two half marathons in the past few years just to see what they were like with no training at all (and my times and race-wrecked body confirmed my lack of preparation).

The big day finally arrived after seven long months of arduous training. We ran at least twice a week until January, between three and eight miles each time out, and then in the new year started a three run a week ASICS training plan we found on the Paris Marathon web site. All proceeded as recommended until a painful bout of bursitis in my hip erupted in mid-March on a 17.5-mile run in Vienna. Once I’d made an Internet diagnosis, I followed the recommended prescription for recovery: no more running for at least a month. My hopes for completing the marathon were promptly dashed and my plan for Paris took a dramatic turn; after several weeks of rest, I would start the race and simply run whatever piece my body allowed me. We went to pick up our race packets while the children slept off their arrival jetlag, but I felt like a fraud at the running expo. There I was with my official number and bright blue Paris Marathon tote, but I was sure I wouldn’t be able to finish the course. I hadn’t run in just over three weeks in an attempt to heal my sore hip and I knew that if the bursitis flared up during the race, I’d never make it more than a mile or two after the pain erupted. Rather than start the race cold turkey, I finally decided to test my beleaguered joint with a short, comfortable three-mile run with Caroline around the Champs de Mars and along the Seine on Friday, two days before the marathon, just to see how I felt. I was amazed that the jog yielded absolutely no pain and I allowed myself to think that maybe, just maybe, I’d be okay. But I found it impossible to believe that the excruciating pain I’d felt just three weeks earlier would have disappeared so thoroughly and wouldn’t return.  

The alarm rang on race day at 6:00 AM sharp. The skies were overcast with threatening clouds and the temperatures were chilly, in the upper 30s with the low 40s forecast by midday. Except for the winds, which kicked up some strong gusts, it was perfect marathon weather. We had organized our gear the night before, safety-pinned our race numbers to our shirts and set out our Garmin GPS running watches, ready to go. We took hot showers, donned all our layers, including our “throwaway clothes” that would keep us warm as we waited in the cold for the race to begin. Joe looked the part of the quintessential runner in his standard attire: black compression shorts, red singlet, white long-sleeved jersey as a throwaway shirt and his favorite white visor. Much more concerned about warding off the elements, I, on the other hand, looked like “Nanook of the North,” a marathon ringer if ever there was one. My multiple layers included black shorts, a black long sleeved running shirt, a turquoise short-sleeved shirt and a light blue fleece, the warmest piece of clothing I own. On my head was the Paris Marathon-sponsored do-rag, which I found perfect for keeping my hair out of my face, especially if it was going to be windy. But the pièce de résistance, and what got Joe laughing out loud was my disposable layer: a set of baby blue cotton pajamas that I managed to pull on over everything else and planned to jettison once the starting gun sounded. My PJs had served their cold weather purpose on our trip but I would no longer need their warmth once we headed south, so I thought why not? I’ll put them on for one good final use. I figured that I was about to attempt a marathon and could wear whatever get-up made me most comfortable. Joe called me his Arctic warrior but I just called myself cozy.

After a quick breakfast in the apartment, we donned the plastic, thermal Paris Marathon sheaths we received in our race packets, kissed the kids goodbye, confirmed the mile markers where they hoped to cheer us on and headed out the door at 7:30 AM looking like a couple of Parisian bag people. When we reached La Motte-Picquet metro stop on the Boulevard de Grenelle, we were the only ones on the platform but were soon joined by about a dozen other runners on their way to the Place Charles de Gaulle-Étoile. The train soon arrived, and before we knew it, we were at the base of the Arc de Triomphe with tens of thousands of other runners. Joe dropped off his post-race dry clothes at the baggage storage area (Caroline had mine since I feared officials might not give me easy access to the storage bags if I failed to finish the race), took advantage of the porta-johns where I lined up cheek to cheek, so to speak, with a gentleman using one of the open-air, molded blue plastic portable pissoirs that lined the usually grand Avenue Foch. We got a kick out of doing what we would never dare attempt on any other day of the year: we walked across the Place de l’Étoile to the Arc de Triomphe and on down the middle of the Champs Elysées. We were able to squeeze our way into the 4:15 starting corral (the result of some inexplicable error, I was assigned to the same corral as fleet-of-foot Joe). It was 8:30 AM and we had about 15 minutes before the gun went off at 8:45 to officially start 32,000 competitors running through the streets of Paris. Emotions run high at marathons for all sorts of reasons (nerves, excitement, fear and the exhilaration of the challenge) and I reflected on the fact that every one of the competitors had a personal reason for being there that day. While hopping from one foot to the other to stay warm while waiting for the start, we met Linda from Colorado who had the noblest of reasons for running the marathon and had me on the verge of bursting into tears. She and her French husband, Air Force Major Philip Ambard, a naturalized American citizen and recipient of both the Bronze Star and Purple Heart, had planned to run the 2012 Paris Marathon together when he was on leave. But those plans evaporated in an instant when he was killed in Afghanistan last April; Linda would be running for both of them on her own. Linda’s story helped me let go of all the nerves and anxiety I was feeling to embrace what I was doing and enjoy the experience; my children would be cheering us on and we were all together in Paris. Nothing else was needed and nothing else mattered.

Once the starting gun sounded, I discarded the security blanket of my protective pajamas and we slowly inched up to the starting line as successive corrals of runners were released. We walked over piles of discarded clothing, food wrappers, orange peels, trash bags and water bottles filled with urine (men sure do have it easy when nature calls). Just before the arc of bright balloons indicating the start of the race and next to the announcer’s platform, the final opportunity for bladder emptying overpowered any personal reticence. The men peeing in the middle of the Champs Elysées was expected, but the fact that women joined them was a surprise. One woman scooted up to a barrier, squatted and let it go. Apparently, she broke the ice because there were soon five lily-white derrières clustered around the divider. Only in Paris and just the sight we needed to lighten any remaining tension. It was 9:20, at long last, by the time our group crossed the starting line. Joe and I kissed each other goodbye, wished each other bonne chance et bon courage and started our running adventure through Paris.

The course was amazing, as I knew it would be. I felt like a million bucks as I ran down the magnificent Champs Elysées, through the Place de la Concorde and along the Rue de Rivoli with the Tuileries along the right. The gardens soon gave way to the Louvre, Châtelet, the Hôtel de Ville and Le Marais. All my nervousness had vanished; I was in the zone, simply running, taking in the sights and having fun. Just before the Place de la Bastille was the three-mile mark where my former colleague and 20-marathon veteran, Neil (he and his girlfriend were in Paris as part of a two-week trip to Europe), had promised to join me as my Sherpa. He had given Joe a training plan for his first marathon and had run the final 10 miles of the race with him for moral support. Right at mile 3, there he was, with fresh legs and enough enthusiasm to keep me and a whole crew of runners going. Just after Neil joined me, we saw the kids: Chris, Caroline and my nephew Pat were there as my personal cheerleaders. We quickly traded hugs on the sidelines at La Bastille as planned.

I generally like to run alone. I set and then adjust my pace according to how I’m feeling and I never want to think I’m holding someone back, but having Neil at my side as my own cheering squad was a godsend. We had agreed that he would stay with me for perhaps six miles in deference to my lone-runner mindset so I took advantage of his selfless support for as long as I could. He grabbed and held water bottles for me, got me banana slices when I needed them, gave me running strategy pointers and encouraged me every step of the way. We made it through the long 6.5-mile stretch in the Bois de Vincennes on the eastern flank of Paris, which was convenient for stopping to lighten my bladder’s load in the au natural facilities.

For several miles I was actually able to speak while running, to tell Neil about the monuments we were seeing and the neighborhoods we were passing through. He was still there next to me as we headed back into the heart of the city and approached the critical halfway mark, an important psychological threshold since I’d been convinced that by then my hip would be screaming, I’d have run what I could and would call it a day. But miraculously, none of that happened, the pain never materialized and I just kept going. A three-week running abstention must have been the right course of action. My hip was fine, my legs were fine and my lungs were fine, although I’d suddenly become very quiet. I’d lost the ability to do any more talking and left that task to my Sherpa who did his best to pump me up and I did my best to listen. We continued to run along the Seine and I was still able to smile and enjoy the sights that came into view -- Notre Dame, La Conciergerie and then the Louvre, some of the most beautiful architecture in Paris. By this time it was clear that Neil was in for the long haul; he was sticking with me and going the distance at my side. When mile 15 rolled around, I was indulging in frequent walking breaks (many more than my run six minutes, walk one training plan called for) but the kids reappeared at mile 16 with shouts of, “Go Maman!” I was so happy to see their enthusiastic faces because I desperately needed encouragement and an emotional lift. Soon thereafter, we found ourselves in the eerily quiet darkness of a tunnel along the river (the one in which Princess Diana was killed) and emerged to see La Tour Eiffel to our left ­– a stunning sight on any day, but a particularly inspiring one for those in the throes of a marathon. It was at about that point that I learned that sharing a name with the symbol of the French Republic has its advantages. The generally subdued French spectators started shouting in response to the name printed on my race bib, “Marianne, bravo – vous êtes l’esprit de France,” combined with “Allez, allez!” It gave me such a unique psychological boost.

I started to focus on kilometers rather than miles since their markers were much more prominent and they ticked away so much more quickly. Making it into the Bois de Boulogne on the western edge of Paris and through the final leg of the race is somewhat of a blur. All I could do was concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, most of them at a race-walking pace with occasional spurts of 30-yard jogs, but once we were in the park, I knew I could finish the thing. I kept repeating to myself what I’d heard Joe declare that morning, “Once you get into the Bois, you’re basically home free.” When we finally emerged from the interminable woods, I knew the end was near and did my best to pick up my pace. If I was going to complete a marathon, I was going to run the final stretch in style. As we turned the cobblestoned corner onto the Avenue Foch with the Arc de Triomphe looming majestically in the distance, a race official yanked Neil off the course since he wasn’t wearing a number. I would have to run the last leg alone. In any race, anywhere in the world, the finish line is a lovely sight to behold, but the end of the Paris Marathon has to be the most beautiful finale in the world. I dug as deeply as I could to force my broken-down and now shaking body to keep functioning for just a bit longer as the tears started to flow. I had been running on empty for many miles and had to concentrate on fixing my stare on the dramatic sight of the Arc at the end of the boulevard and the fact that I was about to complete the race. I gave it all I had for the last many yards and crossed the line at 5:44. I was in a total state of dreamlike shock. Had I actually done the Paris Marathon? I truly couldn't believe it. I surely hadn’t started the day believing I would complete the race, but there I was on the Avenue Foch after 26.2 miles. I leaned over, hands on my knees, caught my breath and savored the moment. 

Trembling uncontrollably from the dual triggers of exertion and emotion, I immediately pulled the bright yellow marathon tee and the blue insulating poncho provided to all runners over my head, grabbed some water and a Powerade, downed a banana and went to meet up with Neil. As my loyal sidekick and I made the short two-block walk (hobble, in my case) from the Avenue Foche to our appointed meeting place, the Brasserie Le XVI at the corner of the Rue Rude and the Avenue de la Grande Armée, I told him that it was my “one and done” marathon. He then assured me that I'd actually run two: my first and my last! At that point, no truer words were spoken as I remembered thinking as we gutted through the final miles in the Bois de Boulogne, I'd rather go through labor again than run another marathon. I did my best to make sure Neil knew how much I appreciated his help in getting me over the finish line. It was friendship above and beyond the call that provided me with unbelievable assistance for a full 23 miles!

The best moment of the day was when we walked into the celebratory, party atmosphere at the brasserie where the whole gang from the night before was waiting for us. For the second time in 15 minutes, I was overcome with emotion as Joe, Chris and Caroline jumped up to greet me. I was astounded when the rest of the patrons in the restaurant spontaneously started applauding along with my family. Joe later told me that I looked quite surprised, but with a smile on my face, and that I gave the crowd a “cute” merci curtsy. I don’t even remember that exchange, but I will say that I felt awfully pleased to have been able to complete a marathon with my family cheering me on in my favorite city in the world. I’m always incredibly proud of our children but it was a wonderful turn of events to be on the receiving end of their support and to see how genuinely happy they were that I had finished the race. I was definitely pleased with my own effort but I was also so proud of Joe; he’d run a terrific race with a personal best time of 4:15. “That’s my guy!” I told my handsome husband with tears in my eyes as I hugged him and couldn’t quite let go.

I never understand runners who say they’re not hungry at the end of a race since I always feel like I could eat the proverbial horse. And this time was no different. Joe and I shared a generous serving of creamy steak tartare and salty frites and I had a delicious glass of ice cold Sancerre. I’m not sure a glass of my favorite white wine had ever tasted better or that I’d ever enjoyed one so thoroughly! The laughing, drinking and eating continued for some time at Le XVI, which turned out to be the perfect spot for our post-marathon festivities. We had plenty of room, an adorable, super-sympa young waiter and delicious food. I was able to sit back, relax and beam with indescribable joy at my husband and two children after a monumental day that ended nothing like I’d anticipated. I’d become a marathoner.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

April in Paris

My heart fluttered as if meeting a lover as our high-speed Thalys train from Amsterdam pulled into Paris’s Gare du Nord terminus station. It was almost ten in the evening so all we saw were the twinkling lights of the city until our car slipped under the massive triangular fanlight on the track-side entry of Paris Nord and into the station itself. I’ve arrived in Paris countless times by both plane and train, but this arrival was different. Maybe it was knowing that Chris and Caroline would soon join us or that the marathon was imminent or having just completed a great big circle around Europe with stops in so many new, unfamiliar places, returning to Paris felt like coming home. As we disembarked under the paned glass-ceiling characteristic of so many French rail stations and heard the familiar three-tone arrival chime and the announcement, “Le train en provenance d’Amsterdam est arrivé sur la voie huit,” my heart was aflutter, my palms sweaty and my face flushed. I was actually trembling as we made our way, luggage in tow, towards the metro escalator. “My beloved awaits me!” I whispered to myself. And the best part was, Joe felt exactly the same.

We had about 33 hours in Paris before the kids arrived, to get reacquainted with her, recharge our metro Passes Navigo and stock the fridge of the apartment we’d rented (with a view of the Tour Eiffel!) with eggs and ham for Chris, yogurts, cereal and nuts for Caroline and wine and cheese for us all. It’s remarkable how frugally Joe and I are able to live when it’s just the two of us. But add the children to the mix and it’s equally remarkable just how quickly we can hemorrhage money. The minute we saw their fresh American faces come around the arrivals corner at Charles de Gaulle, we were a family together again and ready for celebration. Let the money-spending games begin -- the children have landed! We treated them to the delights of several restaurants that had become our haunts during our month’s sojourn: the steak/frites bistro near Porte Maillot, Hemingway’s La Rotonde cafe in Montparnasse, the candlelit restaurant on the Île St. Louis and the falafel joint on the Rue des Rosiers. Chris and Caroline are just as content as we are to plan travel itineraries around where we’ll eat.

April in Paris can be quite chilly, but the temperatures hovered in the high fifties and the lilacs were bursting in full bloom, radiating maximum fragrance. Whenever the weather permits, Paris is filled with flowers but I’d never seen the lilacs in such glory. From intense purple to pale lavender and white with even some surprise blossoms of deep mauve, the lilacs made the city even more gorgeous than ever, especially in the gardens around the Eiffel Tower just a few blocks from our apartment. My Mom would have loved it – lilacs were her favorite.

We quickly went from being just Marianne and Joe, the lone American travelers to a critical mass of Americans over the course of a few short days. We arrived on a Tuesday night and were joined by the kids on Thursday morning; our nephew Patrick studying abroad in England arrived on Saturday morning and our friends Neil and Nora, her son and his friend met up with us for a pre-marathon, carb-loading dinner on Saturday night. Nine boisterous Americans raised the decibel level at Carmine’s on the Avenue de Suffren more than a bit that Saturday evening. It was April in Paris at its best and the time for us to run had arrived.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com