Years ago Dave and I became hooked on a documentary series called, “The Long Way Round.” It starred Ewan Mcgregor and his friend, Charley Boorman. The concept: drive your motorcycle from point A to point B — the long way. I loved this show. Perhaps I loved it because I had (yes, past tense), a huge crush on Ewan Mcgregor. Perhaps it was also my love of travel that drew me in, or maybe the hilarious banter between the two men as I watched Ewan and Charlie figure out how the were going to make their way.
Fast forward to yesterday. I found myself texting my friend, Reginia, from the Frankfurt, Germany Airport, She needs a painter in Salt Lake City, by the way. If he have any good suggestions, please let me know. Anyway, after learning about our flights and long layovers, Regina stated that we were taking the long way round, which of course made me think of that one show. Yes, I thought about Ewan and Charlie and motorcycles. Yes, I wondered what it would be like to be traveling with them, but mostly I thought about what a crazy, awesome journey I was on with the ones I love most. Our journey did not include a former movie-star crush or motorcycles. It did, however, include long stops in San Francisco and Boston, a crazy ankle/leg rash, where I reached out to two doctor friends and a pharmacist in Athens, lots of rain, the best breakfast in Jason’s neighborhood [wink, wink], pastries from Mike’s in Boston,, and a huge climb to the top of the Bunker Hill Monument (my legs still hurt from racing up those stairs). It did not include a run-in with a Wahlberg or Beacon Hill Historic District, or at least, not that I am aware of.
Along the way I took some notes. I keep thinking about all of our trips and how I often wait until I am home to write. I understand why. I am often jet-lagged (am now), distracted with walking tours, historical sites, and yummy local cuisine. And when I finally have the time to write (like now), it is way too late. I am sitting in Eli’s bed and he just asked,
“Mom, how much longer are you going to be?”
“Not long.”
I realize as I type that catching these moments are what I don’t want to miss. I imagine once I get home I may forget that I had overtaken Eli’s bed. It was the outlet. Next to his bed I found the available outlet. I am using it.
Notes on My iPhone
San Francisco Day One
Dave, the boys and I are at the American Express Lounge. As soon as we enter Dave urges,
“Head straight back.”
We did and there were three chaises in this quiet area of a very noisy airport lounge. We noticed a woman sitting in the middle lounger. Empty cups and luggage were spread all over. Of course it seemed she was laying claim to the area. She did not look up, and Dave and I ignored her as we took the two chairs on each side. I thought about all the people who would offer to move so we could sit together. She didn’t. We didn’t budge. Game on.. We had been up since 3:30 AM and in bed at 2:00 AM the night before. Those chaise lounges were hypnotic, no crabby airport citizen could bully us away.
Eventually I learned that this crazy-seeming lady was stuck in San Francisco. All my hopes of her leaving the lounge were dashed as I learned she would not leave until she got her business class upgrade.I know this because she put her airline call on speakerphone while while she filed her finger and toenails. Of course after all of this I assumed she was a travel bully, that was, until the bar opened. She left for a few minutes and returned with a half-filled glass of wine. She warmly looked at me and asked,
“Are you on your way home?” “Nope. Just heading out.” “Our world is strange.” I thought.
Because we had a sixteen hour layover in San Francisco, we decided to leave our comfortable chaises and to head into the city. It was raining and we felt limited. Because Dave had a coupon (of course he had a coupon), we rode Lyft (not über) So after hanging out at the airport for a few hours, we got into our Lyft (the Lyft driver also works for uber, by the way). The lady driver has a thick Eastern European accent and seems a little ADD as she rapidly channel surfs landing on on Sheila E’s The Glamorous Life.” I was sitting in the backseat, which was covered in animal hair. I think cat hair. As she drove, and frantically changed radio stations, she spoke about the rain and asserted that she would only be able to drive 45 mph. She is now driving 70 mph, and in this moment the sun is out. Hello San Francisco!
Breakfast outside in the cold rain. Santorini, Greece
Hours later, and after visiting Dave’s office, the Embarcadero, and the free train museum, we are at the San Francisco bank I overhear a girl ask the teller if she could use her cannabis card for i.d.
“No.” The teller responded, “But you do have $200. In your bank.”
The girl seemed relieved as she gleefully walked out the door to find the nearest ATM.
Boston
Now in Boston, our friend Jason, the orthopedic surgeon recommends I read the book, “Being Mortal.” Then I saw it sitting on his shelf. We all had breakfast in Charlestown. Jason gave us a quick and informative walking tour. I said, “NO,” to the ship tour.
“Jason, you know I love Dave, and I know yesterday was his birthday, but we have no time for a ship tour. Maybe all the other ship tours we have done will make up for us skipping this one.”
Dave pushed past his disappoint and we move on the Freedom Trail.
Hanging with our friend, Jason, in Boston
Stopover in Frankfurt, Germany
I have no idea what Frankfurt is like. I do know that now I can technically say that I have been to Germany. Woot. The Frankfurt Airport Highlight: Our customs agent scoffed, then huge eye-rolled us, when we told him we are continuing on to Athens.
I would have to say that the worst part of the trip so far is the allergic reaction I am having on my ankles and calves. Each flight we took made my ankles swell larger and larger — making them cankles. Several times I thought I was going to claw my ankles to the bone. Yes, it wa gross and painful. I am currently on a regime of benadryl every four hours, and cortisone 3 – 4 times a day. Cross your fingers and pray this doesn’t turn into cellulitis.
Crazy Rash
Santorini, Greece
We are now in Santorni, Greece.It took us almost three days to get here. The rain followed us all the way. And with this cold rain, today was nothing like we expected. We are underdressed. The wind nearly blew us off the island. We ate breakfast outside in the cold rain, and napped for five hours (which we never do). Nevertheless, the day was awesome. We went on a super cool scenic drive. We drove through narrow streets we thought we could pass through. We ate a yummy traditional dinner. I am with Dave and the boys. The entertain me constantly, and are always up for a crazy long-way-round styled adventure, like going to the windy lighthouse on the Southeastern tip of Santorini.
Kyle taking pictures in Santorini, Greece
PS. I will add more pictures in our Greek morning 🙂 (he he. I was obviously tired when I wrote that PS. Nevertheless, as promised, here are more pictures):
Walk from Fira to Oia, Santorini, GreeceOia, Santorini, GreeceWalk from Fira to Oia, Greece
Bryce Canyon National Park with friends, January, 2016
On January 31,2016, our friend, Stephen Jones, was caught unexpectedly in an avalanche. He had all the necessary gear, knowledge and experience. He had his avalanche beacon. He was on familiar terrain. His family knew where he would be, and he knew the backcountry well. All of Steve’s preparations made no difference. The snow is mighty and the avalanche was powerful. And I am certain I am not the only one who desperately hates that the mountain Steve was skiing defeated him.
Saturday, as I sat at Steve’s funeral, and as the tears rolled freely, over and over I heard the words,
“Steve always had an opinion. Steve cared about everyone! Steve was generous, enthusiastic, outspoken, freakishly intelligent, driven and mostly. Steve was devoted to his wife Melissa and their children.” Steve’s mom brought the crowd to tears as she declared, “Melissa, once Steve realized what was happening, I am certain his first thoughts were, Melissa, I am sorry.”
Dave and I have been doing a lot of talking about our passionately opinionated and brave friend, Steve. I have been doing a lot of processing. Honestly, Steve’s presence was intensely bright, and I often find myself saying,
“I cannot believe he is gone.”
Dave always responds with, “I can’t either.”
Dave and I, Lindon, Utah with friends.
I think it is common knowledge among those who knew Steve that he would not have been fully able to be Steve without Melissa, his amazing wife. She is gorgeous (inside and out), generous, kind, and grounded. She also affirmed Steve’s seemingly crazy, ambitious dreams right into realities. In his mid-forties, for instance, Steve took up ultra-running. Last summer, at age forty-nine, he ran two 200-mile races, five weeks apart. Melissa was there, encouraging him through his solo, unsupported endeavors.
That is what I love about both Steve and Melissa. They cheer for all of us. Steve wanted you to feel his joy (hence his strong advice),
“Beth, you have the best trails behind your house. Get out and see them.”
Melissa generously offered that I publicly share as many Steve photos as I want.
“If it helps lessen the pain,” she said, “then I say do it.”
So I will.
First, it is important to note that I overflow with a paralyzing amount of empathy. I want to help people. I always have. I am incredibly clumsy when it comes to the juncture between following my dreams and my huge impulse not to step on your toes. Yet, as lame as I can be to myself (like not following dreams), I am really good at helping others fulfill their own (dreams, that is). Ask Dave, I am a most excellent second-hand-dream-fulfiller, unifier, matchmaker and cheerleader. It gives me impossible joy to bring people together. When it comes to my family or my friends (even in those times when I am uncomfortable or afraid), I am devoted. I am loyal. I will step aside for their needs. When you need something, I love to find it. I will apologize (even when I don’t need to). When I know you are hurting, I am there. I will stand by your side.
Mostly, with those I love, I will NOT remain neutral. I will NOT stand on the sidelines. I will always take a risk. And I always have. Being a good friend has always been my super power, or at least, I think it has. Ok. Wait. This is not a post to tell you how awesome I am. I am not, awesome, that is. I am no saint. I do hurt feelings (often). Ask Dave and the boys. For starters, I swear (and swear more when I am trying to stop). I yell and I am often late to pick-up. Nevertheless, I remain solid.
Us, Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, December, 2015
This week, a week, when I am full of reflection, and in a world where life is brief, and bright stars burn out, I have concluded that I would rather be an outspoken Steve Jones, or a generous Melissa, than someone who stands aside. I admire how Steve and Melissa treat those they love. And through them, I have been reminded that I would rather be someone who unconventionally goes out of her way, rather than someone who refuses. I would rather be what Steve was for me and Melissa still is: a friend who persistently tries to push me out of my Seasonal-Affected-Disorder blues, a friend who pays attention, and a friend who generously allows me to share because it helps me heal. In the end, (yes, the real end), I want to be remembered as someone who gave a shit, someone who was not afraid to speak up, someone who cared deeply, and someone who was not afraid to get involved.
But to be remembered that way, I must actually be that way.
Steve and his son a few years back on a school field with Kyle and Eli.
Every so often I try to tackle my blog archives. I say, every so often, because tackling my archives is a complex, time sucking, and emotionally consuming (totally existential) endeavor. See, I didn’t just remove my posts from the public’s view by say setting them to “draft” in the backend of my website, I (literally) yanked my blog offline (well Dave yanked it because I asked him to). Consequently, for the past several years, my blog has existed (been stored) in a variety of database files. I know. Crazy, right? I completely agree! In truth, this creative act of duct-taping all the former pieces together is often why I find myself republishing my archives only “every so often.” And when I actually do jump into the republishing “process,” I always ask myself the same question:
Our first Christmas in the Park City House. December 2007.
“Beth, why oh why did you ever take your blog down?”
Good question. I am sure my therapist will have a much different answer than the one I present here [wink wink]. And really, my answer is always dependent on my mood, the time of the month, or what crazy emotion a specific post reignites. Recently, and after reanimating several posts, Dave and I both weighed in. We agree (yet again). I was an idiot for taking my blog offline – if only for the fact that keeping my blog online would make this whole re-publishing process easier – and it would.
Park City House in Winter
Further, I think it is helpful to understand the process to see why it drives me nuts. First, before reposting/reanimating, I always recheck the post for bad grammar (don’t judge. I am sure I could re-edit until the cows come home and you would still find a comma splice, dangling modifier, or run-on sentence). Next, there are the images. Currently the images that are attached to the archived post only exist in file names (99% off the time). What the image issue implies is if I want the image, I need to relocate it, or find a similar image from the same time period. Ay-yi-yi! The image issue is confounded because new blog software requires me to set a post image. If I do not have a set post image, my blog posts look dumb. And because appearance is everything [wink wink], “dumb” is not acceptable. Then there are the links. In my old posts, they are often dead — not always, but often, which is almost worse. And because I am totally OCD, I search out active links that correlate with the old link. Yesterday, I searched for Tom Cruise and his couch-jumping, Oprah chewing out James Frey, and Oprah speaking about Hurricane Katrina. What I learned: late-winter-and-early-spring-of-2006 Beth loves the Oprah! The boys were also age four and six at the time. I think Oprah was a good friend to 2006-Beth.
Moving past Oprah, and the links to Oprah, there is the vanity part. I mean my vanity, which is in direct proportion to my comment total. Pushing further, you and I both know that the amount of comments one has directly correlates to how awesome one is. See, I may not be awesome now, but long ago, in a land far, far away I was, awesome, that is [wink wink]. The formula is simple. Because I am vain (and used to be awesome), I want people to see the accompanying thread. It still kills me that I have misplaced most of them like the 148 comments that accompanied one of my craziest posts. If one can be that awesome after a post like that, well then, wow! So in my search for the missing comments, just yesterday I came one step closer to finding them. They are not only in a database, they are attached to Moveable Type not WordPress. They are probably gone and I will get over it, because in truth, everyone is awesome!
Love that we always had moose in our yard. Park City, Utah
While we’re on the topic of my comment vanity, the craziest, hardest, most exhilarating, most healing and weirdest part about re-posting old posts is falling into the emotional vortex of my past. Consequently, when I work on bringing a post back to life, I find it very difficult not to fall in. Because I did not have a crystal ball back then or have one now, I could not see. I could not see what would be important now. For instance, in my posts in the Spring of 2006, I see a woman getting caught up in a Mommy Blogger World. My posts became more about getting along with other mommy bloggers than being true to myself. I see myself getting sadder and sadder and I now see that stepping away was really smart, actually. I see how frustrated I was and how frustrating that world was. To fit in, I was starting to hide a lot of who I was. I became fearful. Ultimately, brave-Beth morphed into a very insecure lady. I had a hard time calling bullshit and often couched my frustrations in posts about truth-telling. Dude, I wrote so many posts about truth. I was mad. Why didn’t I just say it? Anyway.
As I re-read my old posts I noticed that I hold onto everything personal. Meaning, if Kyle or Eli said something cute, I want more. When I mentioned a trip, I want to know where we went. Why didn’t I write down where we went? So weird. When I briefly mentioned Park City, or that we were building a house there, I wanted details. What I know now is that I wish I had been less concerned about getting a ton of comments (for instance) and more concerned about recording the cool details going on around me, details like what it was like to build a freaking house in Park City, Utah. I am so proud of Dave. I still am. The process was completely mind-blowing, hilarious, marriage-testing and totally worth it. Did I ever tell you how Dave bought our land in Park City? He literally called my bluff.
Dave was very interested in living in Park City, and had been looking at lots. I did not particularly want to live in Park City. He found a lot up in a canyon that was in the crook of a bend in the road. I said,
Our Park City House when we put it up for sale
“I don’t like that lot. Now, if it were one of those lots across the street in that cozy little enclave, then I would be interested”
Those lots were not for sale. I thought I was safe. Little did I know that Dave would go to the city, see who owned the plots, approach the owner and ask if they would be interested in selling it to us. They were. Bluff called.
Did you know Dave also put a team together, and with his own two hands built a Park City mountain retreat? Our Park City neighbors were also building a house (the same ones who sold us the plot). I thought it was hilarious that the contractors let Dave and his team have at the discarded (almost new) pieces of wood they carelessly threw away each day, to the extent that at least 5% of our house was built with materials scrounged from the neighbor’s dumpster.
The guy who taught Dave everything he knows about carpentry was our college friend James. I did not think it was hilarious when James’ dog bit the neighbor (and Eli). James also went AWOL and Dave had to complete the job on his own. He rocked it. I hated that all of our tools were stolen (out of a huge lock box no less). I loved that after our tools were stolen that Aaron, one of the guys working on the house moved into the old camper on our lot. I loved Fatty the Squirrel. Phil, another builder, did not love that Fatty always ate his lunch. To help Phil save his lunch, we bought him a locking lunchbox. Fatty had it coming to him the day he was hit by a car. May he rest in peace. I loved our Moose! And yes, ask anyone, I hated living in that snowy mountain place, yet I absolutely loved that house! We miss it!
… So back in 2006 (because those are the archives I am working on now) I wish I could have seen the future. I wish that all of us could. Blogs were new. We took our cues from the Mommy-blog leaders and thought, at least I did, that we needed to write like they were writing. Trying to one-up the personal tragedy of other mommy bloggers grew old. Looking back, I wish I did not feel like I had to tailor my content to get the attention of other mommy bloggers. Now I see that before there was sponsorship sell-out, bloggers were selling out to each other (myself included). Further, publicly writing my pain on a daily basis became tiresome (and was sort of dishonest because it made people think my life was much sadder than it was). Today, the landscape has completely changed. I am not sure that is such a bad thing. I see those old blogs old-school bloggers pulling the plug on their once cherished blogs. Yet, in a full circle moment, maybe blogs of today will fund their success by returning to the very beginnings, the time before sponsorships, the time before people really cared about keeping up, the time where we were (possibly) our truest selves. Just a thought.
Our last day in our Park City House, January 31, 2014.
Whatever the case, I am happy to be reviving my archives now.
“It never comes down this hard.” I hear someone say.
They sky is an ominous, medium grey. The wind is blowing. Inside, the air conditioner is freezing me out. They ask me where I will be. I respond as if they should already know,
“Here.” My gaze immediately moves toward the window. “I am not walking outside in this.”
We both laugh and the manager cheerfully responds, “You mean you don’t want to do a little Gene Kelly walk outside?”
Again we both laugh. I am also equally impressed that she actually knows who Gene Kelly is.
“No.” I say.
The Coliseum Rome in the rain
They give me an estimate. I agree, and we both assume they will find something else wrong (they do). I gather my things and find my way to the line of semi-comfortable, medium blue-colored upholstered seats. “The Young and The Restless” plays in the background. I pick up the remote, change the channel and turn the volume down. I hear the voice of an auto-shop customer on the phone. He is wearing a cowboy hat. It is black. His shirt is blue. I notice the words: “Cowboy” written across his chest. Eventually he sits down.
I unpack my laptop and listen while two women, one and employee, one a customer, talk about the people washed down the river.
“A women had twelve children in the van.” One says.
“They are FLDS (Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints). I can tell by the way they fix their hair and by the clothes they were wearing.” The other responds.
I want to tell the two women that it is actually two families, including three adults and ten children. It is not my place, and really, why do I know this? Here is why. It is easy. I read a lot of news — probably way too much news. Local news is my favorite. Instead of responding, I drift and think about images I have seen, pictures of FLDS women wearing long, puffy-shouldered, plain dresses of purples, grays and blues. I wondered what it would be like to be standing in a long dress as the brisk, muddy water raced by. It is heartbreaking and it is clear. Tragedy is tragedy, no matter who you are.
Driving back to Rome from the Amalfi Coast in a downpour
I look at my browser, type in KSL.com, and begin to read an article about the Zion National Park hikers who were swept away in another flood caused by the same storm. Three hikers and one FLDS child are still missing.
To drown out the noise I turn my music on. I am glad I did not forget my earbuds. The Head and the Heart’s song “Rivers and Roads” plays. (I do not expect you to know the song, yet selfishly I hope you do. I want you to feel the painful heartache only a mournful song can evoke.) I hear the crescendo(ed) phrase, “Rivers and roads, Rivers and roads, Rivers ’til I reach you.” My eyes tear up. I smile as I think about how these relevant lyrics,like a warm blanket on a rainy day, completely envelop my multi-media melancholy.
I stop to call Dave.
“Hey, they think we need back brake pads, rotors and hoses.”
He agrees. We already knew this is where we were headed. With Kyle nearly ready to inherit my car, I need my son to be safe. I stop to talk to the manager. We commiserate about our teenage drivers.
I have been thinking about my sons more than usual today. Maybe it is the sad, dark rain.
Southern Utah in the rainSouthern Utah in the rain
Consequently, I am feeling that kind of heartache that comes with knowledge that time does indeed move forward. I know the time I have with Kyle and Eli is less than the time I have already had. Kyle is talking college. Eli just discovered girls. And to hold onto as much of them as I can, I have been forcing Eli to go on a walk each night. He always begins the walk disgruntled and pissed off. Never fear, he always walks his way to happy. Soon, as we hoof our way down the city streets, he is filled with delightful chatter, stories of new friends, longboard rides, and hilarious homework woes. The other night he completely blew my mind (in the best of ways) when he paused and said,
“Mom, do you think I can get into Harvard for comedy writing? What do you think I should do to prepare?”
“Absolutely!” I exclaimed.
The fact that my son believes he can is something I always hoped for. Seeing it happen is beyond my wildest dreams. Go Eli!
Regardless of the rain, this evening I want to go for a walk with Kyle. He has been busy with school and Cross Country. I miss him and wanted to make sure I am not missing something.
Costa Rica in the water, not the rainThe Spanish Steps in the rain. Rome, Italy
The rain keeps falling. Now I think about snails. Utah has a lot of them and they come out in the rain. Just the other night (when Eli and I were walking), apparently (so says Eli) I kicked one (a snail) high into the air.
Thoughts or is it sounds of rain keep filling my brain. Now I think about the rain in Costa Rica. There is nothing better than sitting in a hot spring in the rain. Thoughts of Costa-Rican rain makes me think about all of our rainy travel (of course). I think about Rome. I often wish I could keep Rome safely tucked away for a rainy day, (just like this one). The first time we were in Rome it rained. It rained almost the entire time. It was a cold, wet and bone-chilling rain. Selfie-stick sellers quickly switched their pitch as soon as the drops began to fall. Step after rainy step, street vendors shoved umbrellas in our faces chanting,
“Five euro. Five euro.”
As we continued walking, the vendors would exclaim, “Wait! I sell it to you for three.”
Eventually, and when we were completely soaked, we bought two.
Dave and I recorded the following in an email and also in my journal.
September 16, 2001:
I live in the Washington DC area (Northern Virginia), but this week Dave, Kyle and I flew from the Washington Dulles Airport to Atlanta, Georgia so Dave could speak at trade show. The best part was that I got to spend time with my long time BFF, Melanie, who lives in Atlanta.
We realize that our personal experience pales in comparison to the loss or tragedy that so many experienced because of the tragedy (*note we as a society were not calling it 9/11 yet), this is what happened, where we were . . .
Tuesday Morning., September 11, 2001
My lifetime BFF, Melanie and I. Utah, 2003
I just dropped Davy off at the Subway Station and was eager to return to our hotel so I could put Kyle (almost two) back to bed. At seven and a half months pregnant (with Eli) I was feeling the great urge for some rest. I put Kyle in his port-a-crib. At about 8:55am the hotel phone rang. It was Melanie exclaiming,
“A plane just flew in to the World Trade Center.”
I thought, as most people initially did, that unfortunately, a small plane crashed into the World Trade Center. I was pretty out of it and Melanie said,
“Are you watching TV?”
I said “No.”
Then I asked if I could call her back after Kyle took a nap.
Instead of sleeping, I called Dave, who was now at Atlanta’s World Congress Center, which is across the street from the CNN building. As news left my mouth, I heard him relay it to the people around him at the trade show that,
“A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”
I was trying to connect the dots, and connect myself from being a pregnant lady trying to take a morning nap to the crazy that was happening around me. The dot I connected was my sister, Dominique, who introduced us to our friend, Bill. Bill had worked with my brother in law, George, Dominique’s husband at Cantor Fitzgerald. Kyle and his son, Quinn are toddler BFF’s (and yes, there is totally such a thing), and I adore Quinn’s mom, Stephanie. After working with Dave, Bill was back doing consulting work for World Trade Center-based, Cantor Fitzgerald.
Dave, Bill and Stephanie, Northern Virginia, 2010Eli, Max, Kyle and Quinn. Cabin John Park, Maryland, 2006. These kids are lifers!
In my hazy morning mind, I kept thinking, “Was Bill in NYC this week?”
See, on Friday, September 7, Bill called me to see if Dave had any work for him to do in DC the next week. I pressed Dave to make sure there was work for Bill. I called Bill back and said, “Yes, please come back to DC. We have work for you.” I wasn’t sure if Bill stayed in NYC or came back to DC. I wanted to stop worrying so I called him. Bill answered.
“Thank God you are not in NYC this week? Do you know what just happened Bill? Turn on your television. You have to turn on your TV. A plane just hit the WTC. I am so glad you are home.”
We hung up. I got settled when the phone rang again. It was Melanie.
“Do you have your TV on? Another plane hit the other tower of the World Trade Center.”
I turned on my TV and could not believe my eyes. I called Dave again. It took me a few times to reach him.
“Davy, another plane hit the other tower.”
I could hear his horror and disbelief as he telephone-game-style relayed the news. As he spoke, I heard the scared and confused responses of his co-workers in the background.
I called Bill again.
“Did you see the other plane hit? What about Cantor?”
Again, I said,
“Bill, I am so glad you are working with Davy this week. I could not bear to lose you. I can’t get through to Dominique and George. Will you email them and make sure they are ok?” (In truth, I knew Dominique and George were ok, yet in the space-time continuum that shocking disaster causes, in that moment, I was second guessing my reality.)
Bill told me he needed to get off the phone so he could try getting through to his NYC Cantor colleagues. Among the others he knew, his good friend and college mate, Doug Gardner, was in the building. He was with Doug at Cantor last week.
With no luck I tried getting through to my family in NYC. Watching television was the only thing I could do in this isolated hotel room. In the other room I heard Kyle chattering. I tried to remain still and watch this tragedy unfold so he would go back to sleep. Katie Couric was on the phone with a man at the Pentagon discussing the WTC when he said,
“I just heard the building shake.”
“Well, if it is safe can you go and see what happened?”
A few minutes later I hear this man’s voice again,
“A bomb has hit the Pentagon.”
Melanie and I are on a hamster wheel of calling each other.
I make one last call I can to Dave.
“Davy, a bomb has hit the Pentagon.”
At that moment I did not know it was a plane. I hear Davy as the spokesman, a spokesman to to all these isolated people — trade show presenters,
“A bomb has hit the Pentagon.”
I hear groans in the back ground of our call. Davy tells me that they have been trying to call out on cellphones and check news websites, but no one can get through. All the major news websites are down, overwhelmed with traffic. We talk about George, Bill and Cantor, I ask him to be safe, tell him I love him and then we hang up.
Kyle, October 2011, Herndon, Virginia. We went and met local fireman after 9/11.
Dave’s words:
About this time, the trade show opens. As people start entering the Red Hat (the company I work for) booth, everyone’s on auto pilot, doing demos and passing out literature. It seems, though, that everyone on the floor of the convention center has a cell phone glued to their ear. People huddle around computers trying to get web sites to come up. They see the first pictures of the tower on fire on some British newspaper’s site and read about the events on Slashdot, a technology news site that temporarily re-makes itself into the epicenter of geek news gathering and grief.
Beth’s words:
Kyle is crying. Comforting him is a distraction. I am stunned and hazy. Kyle cries out again. I pick him up, pace the room, with my eyes glued to the television. In this first hour of chaos I hear about planes, planes still in the air. (Later this week I hear a story from my friend who’s Dad’s friend was in the sky when he got the orders to land at a Municipal Airport. The man said his plane was too big and the air strip too short to land safely. The orders came back, “You either land or get shot down.” He landed.) By the time the buildings go down, everyone knows this was an attack. I hear on local news that they are evacuating the CNN building and the CDC. I think,
“If the terrorists are moving down the coast, will Atlanta be next?”
I’m a jumble of thoughts and emotions. I don’t know what to think. I want Davy out of the World Congress Center. I don’t want to be alone. I keep trying Davy and he does not answer. I am panic. I can’t get through to anyone. I dial Melanie’s number at least twenty times and hear a busy signal. I dial again and get through. I ask her to keep trying Dave’s cell. I hop in the shower and hear the phone ring. I run to answer and miss it. My body stiffens. I feel like I’m floating alone in the ocean. I see the message light light up and hope it was Davy. It was. I listen to his message:
“I am looking for you and I love you.”
Let’s be clear, everyone, I mean, everyone across the entire country was scared. No one knew what was next. I cannot state enough the fear and confusion people felt these first few hours. Consequently, as I watch the news, the nation’s fear manifests. I hear rumors of more planes in the air. It is all confusing, and the confused thought I had was this:
“Did I miss anything while I was in the shower? Is Davy ok?”
Dave’s words:
We’re desperate for information. With the concentration of cell phone users in the conference, the circuits become overloaded. I can no longer call out. I finally borrow a cell phone from another network and manage to call the hotel. No answer. One of my co-workers is an ex-special forces, ex-army intelligence guy. He starts calling his military friends, looking stern but not quite as shocked as the rest of us. He tells us the military is on high alert. We’re not paying much attention to the trade show attendees. We receive word from Red Hat that we’re to pack up and prepare to leave the conference. Several other companies’ booths in our area are already vacant. Don’t worry about the booth or the computers. We’ll figure that out later. I start handing out the T-shirts that we were going to use to lure people into my presentation. Suddenly a throng of people surrounds the booth. It seems as though the attendees know that this conference is about to be abandoned and they want to get at least one bit of free swag before they bug out.
Beth’s words:
Alone, I fret.
“Are my friends and family in NYC and DC safe? Is Atlanta next? Where is my husband?”
As I leave the hotel the phone rings. It’s Davy.
“I am ok. They are shutting down the trade show. Red Hat has hired a bus to take everyone back to Durham, NC (their headquarters). We have to leave in three hours. Do you want to go? Should we go?”
It began to sink in that in this remote hotel I was now part, an extremely small part, but a little ripple in this tragedy.
“I don’t know, Davy. I just want you back here. I need you here. I need to see you.”
“I think we should wait it out. I will take the Marta back. Pick me up where you dropped me off. I will be there in about an hour. I love you.”
Because cellphones were sketchy, I had to wing it and trust that Davy would be there.
Kyle in a New York Subway, June 2009.
Dave’s words:
On the train, everyone is stunned. Complete strangers are having intimate, emotional conversations about the tragedy, while usually you don’t even make eye contact. The guy sitting next to me strikes up a conversation about Palm Pilots. He seems to not want to talk about the attack, but has to talk about something, just to not feel alone. We all feel like we’re fleeing. There are still rumors of hijacked planes in the air.
Visiting my Staten Island, New York, sister, Thea and here family, June 2009.
Beth’s words:
Kyle and I left to pick up Melanie. Traffic to her house was slower than the previous night’s rush hour. I saw the parking lot of cars trying to get out of Atlanta. This was Atlanta not New York City. The ripple had moved so fast. At Melanie’s, Davy called again, despondent.
“I took the wrong train. My tracks split in a fork and my train went to the wrong terminal. I have to go back and get on the right train!”
“Just get on the right train and get back to me as soon as you can. I love you.”
At the Marta station there was no sign of Davy. I was nervous, scared, and alone with Melanie and Kyle. I tried calling several people. The only person I could get through to was Bill. We think it was because we share the same 202 phone exchange. Bill tells me that he thinks Cantor was hit hard. He warns me about biological warfare and riding on mass transit. He thinks we should drive back to DC. I still hear rumors of planes in the air.
“What the hell is going on?” I say.
I hang up with Bill. Kyle and I wait and wait. Still no Davy. Kyle is starving and thankfully Melanie feeds him his favorite, Bapple sauce (yes Apple sauce). From this desolate train station I finally see a tall man walking up the stairs in a black Red Hat shirt. It is Davy. He gets to the car, asks me to give him a hug and we both cry.
I know I am the lucky one. I am with my family, with people I love. I know others are not. I am beginning to process, and to realize how much people are going through. I also cannot take it in. I get that people surrounding the World Trade Center are seeing way more than I have. They have lost more than I can imagine. At this early moment in the tragedy, these people have no idea how much they have lost. My tears keep coming and my life seems so small.
Like everyone I know, we numbly remained attached to the twenty-four-hour news coverage. We can’t stop watching, but also realize we have a super active Kyle, who needs his mom and dad to be present. In our hotel room Kyle runs and sings, “la la la la Lola.” Thankfully Kyle finally took a long long nap. Dave and I sat in front of the television. We did not move. At about 3PM I finally got through to my home answering machine. Frantic, tearful messages from my sisters and brother.
“Are you ok? Call me and let me know you are ok.”
We all live so far apart that I knew they didn’t know the lay of the land in DC. They did not know I was in Atlanta. All they knew was that they couldn’t find me. I called them one by one to let them know we were ok. We were just here in Atlanta.
A man was sitting outside near where I stood. His eyes teary.
“My Sister in law is in the Pentagon. I can’t get through. We don’t know where she is.”
He continued, “My sister is in Miami in the marines. She was just called in and asked to bring three days of clothes with her.” He and I discuss the fact that how in these few short hours we are all united.
The word, “surreal,” is what I keep hearing. I finally get through to my sister, Dominique. In this moment I am so glad George is no longer working for Cantor Fitzgerald. He used to be a partner at that firm and and was in charge of their technological initiatives. My sister told me how he was not talking, just sitting there. I could not imagine his loss. She relayed stories of how the Cantor folks were having a conference call with the LA office when the plane hit. She told me how the people in LA helplessly listened to the horror.
“We are trapped. We have to wait for someone to come and get us. There is so much smoke.”
Then the line went dead… She told me about Howard, the CEO who was dropping his son off at school and was late that day. I cried as I relayed these stories to Davy. Then next day when I heard these same stories on the news, I felt eerily close to it all.
We decided we needed to get get home. The next day we drove our rental car back to DC. The Atlanta airport was still closed when we left. We were lucky we already had a rental car. On the trip back, it started to sink in how blessed we are. Davy and I listened to talk radio. In many areas, there was only right wing talk radio and call-in shows. It was a George Bush love-a-thon. They managed to blame the World Trade Center attacks on Bill Clinton, which we thought was funny. In thick southern accents we hear,
“This week George Bush brought this country to God. Thank God Bill Clinton wasn’t in Office because he is not a Christian.”
Another person spoke up,
“I didn’t think I was prejudiced, but them foreigners are ruining our country. We give these foreigners money and they take away my son’s scholarship.”
As we approach larger metropolitan areas, we take a deep cleansing breath as we hear NPR’s familiar voices of Noah Adams and Linda Wirtheimer.
We returned our rental car at 1AM Friday to Dulles airport. Like my sister, who took three hours to get home from Brooklyn on Tuesday, wiping the soot and ashes from her car, we have no complaints about the long drive. We are just glad to be home.
Me and Kyle, Northern Virginia, 2001
Epilogue:
As I continue to hear personal accounts, stories, watch my friends travel to funerals, and as we all experience the fallout of September 11, life somehow sadly and a bit disheveled goes on. I am grateful that Kyle calmly sat in a car so we could make it home. I am glad that George and Bill no longer work at Cantor Fitzgerald. I am glad than Bill stayed in DC this week. I am glad that even though some of my friends are homeless and some had to walk out of NYC, that they are alive. I am glad Neil had his bike so he could get out of DC. I am glad that many of the people I know made it out of the Pentagon and the World Trade Centers safely. I am devastated for those who did not. I feel for and relate to my friends who are so far away and feel completely fragmented, wanting to feel a part, and not quite sure how. I see pictures, but cannot wrap my head around the devastation.
I am sickened by the words of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson reported in the Washington Post who said that we are being punished by God because of feminism, homosexuality and the ACLU. I guess it is good to have a reminder that America has its hate-filled religious extremists too. Nevertheless, I am grateful for to live in a country where we can say things, even things I do not like.
In the end, there many questions. There are so many things for us to deal with, to process and to say. I live in the Washington DC area. My sisters live in New York. I, like, many of you, feel close. I have been in the WTC. I have driven by the Pentagon. I remember my brother-in-law, George, taking me showing me around the Cantor Fitzgerald offices, showing me Bernie Cantor’s Rodin sculptures. I was blown away by these offices in the sky. I remember hearing the wind hit the building and asking George,
“does this ever freak you out?”
Now it is all gone.
Kyle and Quinn April, 2003, Northern, Virginia.
Later today.
Davy and I just got back from our walk to the bread store. As we strolled up we saw our next door neighbor, Mohammed pulling out of his driveway. I waved. I know he is from Pakistan. I was hoping to see him and was glad he stopped. It seemed as though he was hoping we would wave. We tiptoed around the issues and exchanged words of remorse. He knew we traveled a lot and was worried. We know he is from the middle east and were concerned about what he now had to face living here in America.
I hope we can all heal and I hope we will all heal together. . .
Take care wherever you are.
-Beth, Dave and Kyle (Eli would be here soon and thank God!)
PS After reading this, I realize (once again) how all of this is about family, connections, and the people you hold close. xo
Vomiting in Amsterdam written the night I became sick
After another crazy train ride, and a confusing exit from the train station, we were in Amsterdam. Our Amsterdam friends were excited for us to see their beautiful city. We were excited to ride bikes, and likewise see all the bike-riding people we had heard about. We wanted to see lovely Dutch architecture, look for cute little wooden clogs, and see the town (large city) our friend, Raquel, had recently visited. The bad hotel bacon I ate earlier in the day (and in Belgium), on the other hand, was less enthused. Truth be told, I think I knew the bacon was bad. My fate was sealed at the Antwerp Belgium Radisson Blu’s breakfast buffet. I ate the bacon the day before and was fine. Unlike the day before, however, this time the large bacon container was nearly empty. Somewhere inside of me, as I looked at that that last discarded, rubbery, and grayish-looking piece of bacon, I knew I shouldn’t do it. I knew I should not scoop up. My hunger took over and I ignored that very wise voice in my head. Come on, the bacon was sitting in a pool of grease.
“It can’t be that bad. All that grease is probably protecting it. I will be fine.” I thought.
Still unsure and now at the table, I picked up my piece of bacon and convinced myself I would simply eat around the grey so I did. Then I do what I often do, (which I should have done before taking a bite). I performed the if-Dave-doesn’t-drop-dead-while-eating-said-food-then-it-must-be-safe food test. (Please don’t tell Dave). So I placed the grey part of the bacon on Dave’s plate.
“Oh crap!” I thought. [insert panic here]
I have never seen this reaction. Dave was not eating the bacon. Instead, he picked it up, looked at it, and tossed it aside. I was too late. I should have known. For hours, I felt fine. I moved on to train travel, yummy Belgian chocolate, forgetting all about the bacon.
Bruges, Belgium: Twenty-four hours before full barf meltdown. I had no idea what was going to happen.
So there we were walking through Amsterdam’s Red Light District (a Google miscalculation, I might add). I was fine, except for being mortified that Dave and I had walked our two teenage sons through this depressing and weird part of town.
You know how really bad food poisoning goes? A switch flips. And from one breath to the next you go from “let’s get our boys away from all the prostitutes in the windows” to “I think I am dying.” With me it was between the hey-I-am-starving-lets-go-out-to-dinner to the if-I-do-not-leave-this-restaurant-now-I-am-going-to-projectile-vomit-all-over-our-table. Yelp gave our Malaysian restaurant five stars. Understandably, I have no opinion. I cannot even remember the name. Wait. I do have an opinion. Belgium and The Netherlands, seriously, please get with the program. Let people order “tap” water, or at least have fair priced bottled water. The Netherlands has some of the cleanest tap water in the world. Letting my boys drink crazy Malaysian “root beer” or whatever local delicacy is available at every meal is not healthy!
Dave took us to the Malaysian restaurant knowing there would be something there I could eat, and that something was my very favorite yellow curry. The curry arrived at our table in all its yellowy splendor. I took one bite. The fish sauce smell nearly killed me, and had to stop. Sadly, I relinquished the yellow curry and was left muscling my way through a last hope for my angry stomach, a bowl of white rice.
“Rice will calm the angriest of stomachs.” I thought.
Wrong. I could not do stomach (literally) another bite.
Weakly I exclaimed, “Dave, I need to leave!”
At that, Eli offered to go, and he and I left, and walked the two blocks back to our Radisson Blu Amsterdam hotel, which was a lovely hotel, I might add, except for the pee water smelling toilet bowl, a toilet bowl, I know now too well.
Eli was a sport. He knew his mom was sick, and he made sure to return me safely to our room. Inside, I felt that seasick feeling one can only feel on the sea, or when feeling really sick. All I could do was drop down and lay myself on the floor. I can only imagine how many strange and naked feet have stepped on the carpet where my head now lay. In that moment, all the strange and stinky naked feet I was laying my head on did not matter.
“I think I am going to puke!” I screamed.
Eli followed with a, “Mom, are you ok? I am here.”
I thrust myself up and ran to the bathroom.
And like the beginning of a very clichéd song, which I will title: Diarrhea and Vomit, I found myself sitting on our hotel room toilet. And like that the familiar tune, as I sat on the toilet, of course I had a sudden and an excruciating urge to throw up. Doesn’t it always go this way? Amsterdam was no different. Sweaty and panicked, I grabbed at both the toilet paper and the trashcan. A quick and thorough wipe later, I was kneeling to the porcelain throne. I honestly thought I was done after that first go round. And perhaps the blessing that cognitive dissonance gave me is that I really had no idea what the next forty-eight hours would bring. Oh, thank God!
As I was getting further acquainted with our hotel room toilet, Dave ran into the room screaming,
“Beth, Beth, do you have any euros? The restaurant only takes cash! I left Kyle there until we pay.” (Yes, this really happened.)
“Find my wallet. I have some cash.” I said in a surprisingly calm and attentive voice.
I heard Dave rifling through my wallet. “It is not enough. We are three euros short. Do you have any more?”
“Eli, do you have any euros?” I asked between heaves.
Dave continued, “I need to find a cash machine.”
“Good luck.” I said.
Dave left and I started barfing again.
Barfing in Amsterdam: The “allergic” food poisoning caused my face to get really red and puffy.
I cannot believe how sick I was. My saving grace was this: I knew I had between two and ten minutes of calm after each vomit episode. I embraced those peaceful moments when I could reach out to friends and family on Facebook. I will tell you what: Social Media is a savior when you are alone in a foreign country. Do not hesitate to reach out. During one of those reprieves, I was messaging my sister. I likened my bacon food poisoning to the time I ate a moldy bagel. As a result of eating the moldy bagel (I thought it was blueberry and yes, this is a true story), I had both black vomit and diarrhea. My sister, Brenda, was living with me during the blueberry-bagel ordeal. When we were messaging I said,
Our room, which was a strange sort of family room,, had three twin beds. One of the twin beds was separated by a wall. In the moments before I became sick, I had ideas of mommy daddy time [cue Marvin Gaye’s, “Let’s Get it On,”] so Dave and I slept in the lone twin bed. For some reason I decided to sleep on the inside, next to a very cold cement wall. Dave and I slept this way during my entire round-the-clock-vomit cycle. Here is how it would go. I would wake with a painful urge to throw-up. Before I could get out of bed, I would begin to throw-up so I would power through, holding the barf in my mouth while grabbing onto the blankets I would use to power thrust myself out of bed. Then I would throw my body forward, land on the carpeted floor, and I would run to the bathroom. Dave and I still wonder why I did not move to the outside.
Truthfully, most of the time as I cried, I spent hovered over a pillow on the floor. While Dave and Kyle went sight-seeing with our Dutch friend, Thom, Eli remained by my side. Go Eli! I tried to drink water. I tried to drink the Dutch version of Ginger Ale. Nothing would stay down, not even ice chips. My friend Amber, who is a Physician’s Assistant, coached me through long distance. Thank you, Amber! Again, I would argue that in these moments you take advantage of social media. I could not have done this without her. Finally, between Amber’s advice, and the fact that nothing was staying down or in, we opted to seek medical help. The hotel made me an appointment. Our Dutch friend, Thom, who was visiting us, helped translate. He also accompanied Dave and I to the doctor. The whole experience was scary. We think the doctor was Italian. Her Dutch and English were less than ideal. At one point she turned her computer screen towards us, handed Dave her keyboard, and asked us to Google the medication. She sent me away with two prescriptions, and an admonition to go to the hospital if I didn’t feel better in the next few hours. Rehydrating was up to me, which freaked me out. Here in the United States, a doctor would give me an IV in their office. I am not sure who is right. I just know the Dutch do it differently and that left me uneasy. Consequently, I left feeling weak and afraid. As I stood outside of the doctor’s office I looked around at row houses along the canal, the canal boats, and people on bikes. There were lots of people on bikes.
I love to walk and for a millisecond we considered walking to the pharmacist. That was the hardest moment. I am strong and always able to walk. Realizing that I had lost my strength was terrifying. We called a cab, and made our way. Dave and Thom left me with the sweet, grandfatherly, cab driver while they ran to the pharmacist. The sweet cab driver tried to speak to me in English. Nothing was translating. Finally he said, “women problems.” I said, “I wish.” Oh yes, that is the super surprise to this story. Not only was I sick, the cab driver was correct. I was also having women problems. Geez!
We parted ways with Thom. Then the cab driver took Dave and I back to our hotel. Thankfully, I began to keep water down, and started to regain my strength. Being sick away from home was terrible. I do not recommend it. I also think you can probably be more prepared than I was. No. You do not need to be neurotic, just careful.
Favorite Family Photo: Strömstad, Sweden. Kyle with crazy hair, Eli thinking, me green and sick. Dave = beautiful
The doctor sent me away with a note recommending that I skip my flight to Sweden the next day. Thankfully I did not have to. And yes, as of today, I prefer Sweden over Amsterdam. I think you can understand why.
In the end, horrifically throwing-up non-stop in Amsterdam was not part of the plan. As such, a long, and well processed view of our hotel room bathroom, the curves of the European-styled toilet seat, the clever print (including Danish clogs, and fruit, I think) of our hotel room carpet, a Malaysian restaurant, the doctor’s office (located in an old canal building), a friendly cab driver, and the outside of Amsterdam’s Prostitute Museum, may not make for the most fair or accurate Amsterdam review, or maybe, my Amsterdam experience was spot on [wink, wink].
Amsterdam seen through my hotel window
SIDEBAR
Have your insurance card (even when you don’t need it, it is good to have).
Know if you have any allergies
Seek a translator
Get help before you end up in the hospital. This is the one thing I did right. When I finally went to the Dutch medical clinic, I was on the fence. My blood pressure was very low and I was dehydrated. Had I waited a few more hours, I would have been in the hospital and would have missed the next morning’s flight.
We stayed at Radisson Blu Hotels our entire trip, except for our first two nights in London. We did this because Club Carlson was running a “stay one night get the second free” special. We used points.
Be overly cautious with your food choices when eating hotel buffets or at restaurants with high-impact contamination potential.
Amsterdam is a lovely city. If you want to avoid the Red Light District, learn the city, and map out your path ahead of time.
When paying for a particular type room such as a business class room, (even with points), when you check in, make sure that is the room you are given. Although our room at the Amsterdam Radisson Blu was lovely, it was actually a Superior Room not a Business class room.
If you are traveling, you will most likely be in an unfamiliar setting. Be preemptive. For example, if you start to get sick, make sure you are hydrating, resting and always washing your hands. Being sick away from home sucks!
Homemade Rehydration Recipe: 1 liter water, mixed with 6 teaspoons of sugar and ½ teaspoon of salt. Mix well.
