Rise To The Sun

Rise To The Sun (Alabama Shakes)

  The consequence of a month’s non-stop carousel of activity was apparent.  My head unfocused, my body sore from miles of walking with children strapped to my back, and the dirt on my un-mopped floors created a film on my needed-to-be-laundered-slipper-socks.  I shuffled around my kitchen in a daze, sipping coffee, opening the fridge, eyeing the dishes in the sink, asking the contents of the pantry for advice as to where to begin to start my regular routine, but half-heartedly listening to the answer.  Like a sleepy child who had over-exerted herself at a State fair – I was still soaring with the memories created over the past month.  On the flip side, I was also like the parent, facing the mounting tasks of housework and administration neglect.  It was Sunday morning.  The house, in direct contrast of the recent weeks, was quiet.  Although the kids were eating breakfast in the next room, I felt alone.  V was gone.  The heavy front door sighed after V shut it.  He solemnly rolled his suitcase down the sidewalk, leaving his family behind, en route to Amsterdam Schipol Airport.  Destination: America. 

   We had recently hosted three rounds of visitors: A two-week visit from my Mom, four days of film crew, and then 12-hours after the House Hunters film crew said goodbye, two long-time friends from Waco met V at the airport – extremely excited about their first (ever!) visit to Europe for two weeks.  I matched each visitor’s giddiness armed with train tickets, guidebooks, self-created walking tours, insights into ‘life in Holland’, and a menu plan of home-cooked meals.  I could not believe my luck and good fortune to have a month full of festive daily events and friends from home living and experiencing the day-to-day and with me.  Between my Mom and my friends from Waco, we did it all – the Eiffel tower, tulip gardens, Bruges, the Jumbo grocery store, canal cruises, Amsterdam, Anne Frank House, Delft, the beach, train rides, brunch, canal rides, the library, the Paris Metro, The Dutch Resistance Museum, Baby Girl’s preschool, souvenir shopping, stairs, laundry, the Rijksmuseum tunnel, naps, squeezed into Paris apartment elevators, Amsterdam Centraal Station, home-cooked, delivery, more stairs, De Burcht, dishes, and much, much more.  V’s business trip resulted in him leaving 24-hours after mania-month ended.  I was exhausted, a little sad, and more than a little weary of my 2-week stint in single-motherhood looming before me.  I had no doubts about my ability to get through it alone.  It was the little things he does for me everyday to just make life better that I’d miss the most - like how he makes coffee for me every morning.  With a deep breath, I turned back to the contents of the pantry: the peanut butter in the cupboard told me I was nuts, but things would smooth out in the end. 

  Night 1:  I decided to start things out on a good note:  Go to bed early.  Little Man had other ideas for my strategic planning. Up at 11 p.m., 12 p.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m. and then the dogs were up with the sun.  Being mid-June in The Netherlands, that would be 5:00 a.m.  Side-note: There are two things that people just can’t understand unless you’ve been through them:  1. The mental and physical anguish that comes with hearing your baby scream through the middle of the night due to teething (and in turn, not only does your heart just reach out to your pained sweetie - your sleep is limited to 2-hour increments if you’re lucky, which kind of jacks with your mental well-being as well).   2. The exhaustion that comes with a sun that sets at 11:30 p.m. and rises at 5:00.  I get it.  I do.  On paper, it’s like, what’s the big deal?  But really, it’s weird.  The yin-yang, the rest-energy cycle, or whatever it is, is  All.  Out. Of. Whack. Too much light is too much energy which means not enough rest.  Animals feel this energy imbalance, so while the clock may say one thing, reasoning with dogs is about as effective as reasoning with a 20-month-old.  Yeeeeeaaaahhh.  The next morning at playgroup, I was about as social as a floor lamp. 

 

Meanwhile. . . .  (Side pan to V arriving in America with two Dutch co-workers).  Dutchmen: “Oh no! Our luggage has been lost!  What’s this?  A voucher to go buy clothes?!  But it’s Sunday night at 8:00 p.m?  Oh, you mean stores are OPEN at 8 p.m.?!?  Even on a SUNDAY?!?!  What is this wonderful place you speak of where you can get anything you need including business attire?  Kohl’s?!?  Whoo-hoo!  We LOVE AMERICA!” 

Pan back. . . the rest of the week was fine.  Quiet.  I replaced our usual background noise of ESPN America with a host of my favorite feel-good movies – You’ve Got Mail, Can’t Hardly Wait, Sabrina (the original – with Audrey Hepburn), and threw in Swingers for good measure.  I took care of the kids.  I took care of the house.  I made dinner.  I took the kids to the park, the library, the museum.  I invited girlfriends over for dinner.  I even booked a sitter and went to Book Club. . .

Meanwhile. . . (Side pan to V eating at Friday’s with two Dutch co-workers)

Dutchmen: “What is this?  Spinach-Artichoke dip?!?  This is AMAZING. . . Yum, yum, yum. . . What do you mean ‘you’re sorry it took a while to bring us the appetizer?’ yes, perhaps it took more than 5 minutes. . . this is ‘a while’?  Oh okay. . . what is this FREE word you speak of?  FREE SPINACH ARTICHOKE DIP?!?!?  Whoo-hooo!  We LOVE AMERICA!” 

Pan back. . . I decide to get brave.  Or desperate.  After going to the market by ourselves on Saturday, I just felt a little sad.  It may sound silly, but buying cheese with Daddy is a Baby Girl and Daddy tradition, not a Mama and Baby Girl thing.  After a week of broken sleep and trying to make the best of things in Leiden and after being a bit jealous that V was hanging out with my Dad in Dallas on Father’s Day, I reminded myself to make the most of it.  On Sunday, I finally gained enough courage, after a year-and-a-half decided to put the double stroller (and two kids) on the train by myself, and we headed to Amsterdam. . .

Meanwhile. . . (Side pan to two Dutch co-workers hanging out a hotel pool with Texas girl they met at bar during previous night.  V, is off-stage, hanging out with my family) Dutchman: “Hallo my Texas Angel – you’re quite sociable! You actually talk to me and make eye-contact.  What is this, go-to-bar-and-meet-girls-thing I’ve fallen into?  In The Netherlands we just go-to-bars-to-drink-and-talk-to-guy-friends. . . this is so EASY and you are SO tan and SO friendly!!!  Whoo-hooo!  I LOVE AMERICA!!!!”

Pan back. . . Amsterdam was cool. . . let’s keep on this get-out-of-town-thing. . . let’s go to Utrecht kids! Let’s check out the Music Box museum and have a picnic in the park. . .

Dutchman Pre-Boomstick consumption

 Meanwhile. . . (Side pan to V with two Dutch co-workers at a Texas Ranger’s baseball game with my best friend, Nikki and her cousin, Cody)  Dutchman: “What is this?  A Boomstick?  This is a 2-foot long hotdog covered in chili and cheese?  What do you mean you will buy me a beer if I eat this whole thing, Cody?!  Oh okay – I am up to your challenge (munch, munch, munch)  Ugh. . . I ate this whole 2-foot-chili-cheese-dog-that-was-so-lekker-but-now-I-feel-like-crap-where’s-my-beer?”

After Boomstick consumption

Pan back. . . I’m losing grip on my momentum.  The floors I have not mopped in six weeks are screaming for a clean.  I don’t have any swiffer refills (it’s different here, yes, they have Swiffer, but no bottles.  You buy pre-wet pads and stick them on your mop.)  I decide to old-school it with a pad and a bucket.  Things I learn. . . when it’s 93% humidity and you mop your floors in an environment without central A/C (a.k.a. without any air circulation. . . ) it will take HOURS for the floors to dry.  I feel like Meg Ryan in French Kiss (which of course, I’ve recently viewed in V’s absence) who cleans out her computer keys with a Q-tip while her fiancé is overseas. . . totally. . . lame. 

Dutchman Bull Riding in Uptown Dallas

Meanwhile. . . (Side pan to V living it up in Dallas Uptown Bars with more of our mutual friends. . . without kids. . . ) Actually, I don’t even know or want to know what happened. . . I’m happy he got to hang out and see everyone. . . he was glowing sunshine every time I talked to him on the phone. . . it’s good for him.  It really was.  Yeah.  I’ll keep telling myself that. . .   

Pan back. . . It’s Saturday morning.  Months ago V signed Baby Girl up for dance class, with the intention of taking her every week.  He wanted it to be their bonding-time together, while I stayed at home with Little Man, which is endearing and cute.  Unfortunately, if he’s out of town, that means I’m rushing around before 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday, trying to get three of us out the door so she’s there in time before the class starts because girls running around speaking Dutch kind of freaks her out if we’re not there on time. . . “We’ve got to move it move it!” I chant as the front door closes with a sigh. . . and I hear the sound of a suitcase being rolled down the sidewalk.  V appears a second later, in front of our house.  I smile, relieved.  “Hi.  I missed you.  I’m so glad you’re here.  Drop your bags and jump in the car – it’s time to go to dance class.” I fire rapid instructions to him.  “The coffee I made this morning was horrible - it’s the color of iced tea.  I was doing ok, making it for myself, but I added more water because I knew you’d be here soon, but not enough grounds.”  I throw Baby Girl’s ballet slippers into the car and snap Little Man into his car seat.  I’m a machine of efficiency at this point.  “No problem,” he shrugs, “Let’s take her to dance class and go to Starbucks,” he shakes his head with an undertone of arrogance in his voice. “What?  Starbucks?  You know how overpriced that is?  Oh wait. . . where have you been for the past two weeks?”  He smiled.  We dropped Baby Girl off at dance class and indulged in the Starbucks coffee at the train station.  A nod to the present and past – time to get back to routine in our Alternate-Reality.              

I Could Be A King

I Could Be A King (The Dunwells)

Queen's Day in Leiden

  Orange Feather Boa – check!  Homemade orange crown – check!  Orange baby overalls – check!  Orange button-down shirt – check!  Orange balloons attached to double-stroller – check!  At 9:30 a.m. on April 30, 2013 – we rolled out into the sunny morning, every cast member fully-costumed and anxious to play his or her part in our family’s second, and, incidentally, The Netherland’s last - Queen’s Day. 

  On January 28, 2013, Queen Beatrix announced her abdication of the throne, after a reign of 33 years – and her son, His Royal Highness Price of Orange, Prince Willem-Alexander would be her successor.   The grand handing-over-the-torch-ceremony, was scheduled at 10:30 a.m. a few months later, on Queen’s Day.  At 46 years old, King Willem-Alexander became the world’s youngest king, and The Netherlands first male monarch since 1890.  More fun facts for you folks reading at home – the King will rule over an actual kingdom, the most magical of geographical terms, including: The Netherlands, Curacao, Sint Maarten, & Aruba.  (As I type this in late June with my fireplace roaring. . . . just dreaming about fairytale real estate on a tropical Caribbean island sounds like a pretty awesome job perk).         

  After last’s year’s experience, we decided an early start would be key to ensure a perfect Queen’s Day in our family’s book: shopping success, crowd avoidance, and a “family naptime” by 2:00 p.m.  We entered into town around 9:45 a.m. and easily soared into the marketplace, scooping down and resurfacing with some prime junk from the peddling children who had set their worldly wares on blankets along the sides of the canals.  Among our plunder: a Dutch Elmo Christmas DVD, a children’s xylophone, & a plexi-glass candelabra – for a Euro each.  

Souvenir shop in Amsterdam

   There was a relaxed excitement as the sun cast morning shadows and the fresh breeze tickled everyone awake. As we mingled casually among the smiling faces, the relaxed interactions felt like an early-morning tailgate prior to a college football game slotted for the 7 p.m. TV timeslot.  The crowds of drunken revelers who would flood the cobbles later were still to awake and migrate into town.  The canal in front of the town hall was covered with a large platform and tables and chairs covered the surface like confetti.  People talked quietly to one another, sipping tiny cups of coffee between closing their eyes and smiling up towards the sun (a seemingly required Dutch custom to partake in when the sun shines).  All chairs were turned towards the Corn Bridge.  The bridge was built in 1642 and for hundreds of years vendors sold corn underneath its one-of-a-kind roof, thus sheltering the precious commodity from the rain.  Today, the roof protected hoards of lighting, sound, and musical equipment for the entertainment line-up as well as a huge flat-screen TV showing the Royal Proceedings going on at the Royal Palace in Amsterdam.  V and I had visited Amsterdam earlier in the week, and enjoyed seeing the Dam Square decorated for the festivities.  Souvenir shops stocked orange everything in anticipation of the event, large crowns sat atop the fancy department store, De Bijenkorf, and stages were already erected in the center of town. 

Corn Bridge with TV coverage - Leiden

Our family grabbed a table and chairs at Einstein’s on the canal, ordered a few coffees, juice, and a typical Dutch snack of sausages and cheeses.  V and I smiled at each other, across the heads of our children.  We have photos of the two of us, taken years ago during our visit to Leiden, drinking beer on the canal boat outside the same bar – the Town Hall in the background.  We placed ourselves back into the present moment, taking in the anxious faces surrounding us as the abdication of Queen Beatrix commenced at 10:00 a.m. that morning.  We sipped coffee – “I can’t believe we’re really here, in this place, at this moment,” I said to him.  At 10:30 a.m., the royal family made their first official appearance on the Royal Palace balcony.  Everyone in Leiden turned toward the TV, watched, waved, and cheered.  My entire family clapped and “whoo-hooed” - Little Man probably the loudest.  The Town Hall bells rang for an eternity in celebration.  For a culture that seems to be pretty stoic most days, the emotion of pride radiating from the country at that moment in time was incredible.  As I took in the scene before me, it was impossible not to feel a few tears come to my own eyes.  “Are you okay?” my husband asked, smiling and a bit confused. . . “Yeah, it’s just that. . . well, the whole thing is just pretty awesome.  It’s a huge moment in history for them. . . and really, for us, too.”  He nodded slowly and reflectively. 

   With the inauguration of the King – the big question was how it would affect future parties.  Queen Beatrix’s birthday is actually January 31^st, but no one really likes to party outside when there is a guarantee of total crap weather, so she decided to keep the Queen’s Day party on the less-risky birthday of her mother, Juliana.  Lucky for The Netherlands (and perhaps, a nod to even more planning on her part) Beatrix’s son, Willem, was born in April – just three days before his Grandmother’s birthday.  So, for the foreseeable future, King’s Day will be celebrated on April 27^th.  (Unless of course, April 27^th falls on a Sunday – which, actually 2014 is one of the exceptions) SO King’s Day will be celebrated on Saturday, April 26^th. (Which, is actually kind of cool – since that’s me and V’s 6^th wedding anniversary).  The party will go on, without a hitch! 

  Later that evening, we celebrated the Queen in our own way – with some American Expat friends at a house-party BBQ complete with hamburgers & potato salad.  I don’t know if we’ll be here for 2014’s King’s Day celebration, but no matter where I am, I might just have to bust out my orange feather boa in honor of King Willem.     

    

De Bijenkorf for Queen's Day - Amsterdam

All-Star

All-Star (Smash Mouth)

V had decided that a telephone call with detailed explanation was necessary – a text or e-mail, our usual method of correspondence, just wasn’t going to get the point across.   Our landlord only had one question after V had called and calmly explained what we needed from him.  “So.  You mean, you want to be American t.v. stars?” I pictured the tall Dutch man leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, his ear pressed to the telephone, his face a void of expression except for a small hint of puzzlement on his eyebrows.  “Um, yes,” my husband replies, as humbly as he can, he breathes in and out – waiting for the response.  “Oh-kay.  I sign the form and send it to you.” With that, we received permission for House Hunters International to film at his home. 

Because of this lovely blog – a casting producer for House Hunters International found our story and emailed me wondering if I, or someone I knew, would be interested in auditioning for the show.  We had just finished dinner – Baby Girl and Little Man were at the height of their crazy-evening-time.  My computer is setup in the kitchen and I had clicked on the ‘refresh’ button between carrying dirty plates to the sink, desperate for a brief distraction - trying to tune-out the shouting and whining of my children.  The swift maneuver is like a nervous habit and usually, the ‘refresh’ results in nothing note-worthy.  But this time - my jaw dropped as I read the email, and then a wave of denial rushed over me. “There’s no way this is even true!” I shouted to V.  My husband is struggling to get my squirmy son out of his high chair safely.  My daughter is chanting “I’m finished!  I’m finished!” incessantly.  My husband, a mere three feet away from me, squints as if trying to focus on something upon the horizon – the distractions are thick.   “What?  What is it?” he calls out. 

After putting the kids to bed, we google the email address and discover – Leopard Films DOES produce HGTV’s International House Hunters.  As the reality seeps in. . .that a real-life casting producer has emailed me. . . that they found me because of my blog. . . I become really, really excited.  You could pretty much say that I started jumping up and down (literally) with the enthusiasm of a homecoming queen from a West Texas high school.  I was SO excited. 

House Hunters International was one of the two shows I watched religiously before moving to The Netherlands (Good Morning America being the other one. . . I miss seeing Robin Roberts in the morning about as much as I miss my college roommate).  The most popular question amongst co-workers and friends upon announcing I was moving overseas was, “So. . . are you going to be on International House Hunters?” – which was followed by a chuckle, and an elbow to my ribs, everyone proud of their ‘little joke.”  I just smiled, and tick-marked the umpteenth time I’ve heard the spiel.  I loved HHI though. . . and secretly was confused how to even get on the show.     

We arranged a Skype video-interview with the casting producer at 5:00 p.m.  We strategically setup the computer to accommodate the best view of the house, we changed our clothes, allowed Baby Girl some ‘relax time’ in her crib and gave her a few books to read.  (Sounds harsh, but she really was being a bit crazy and likes her alone time).  Little Man was awake and in his high chair – at 17 months, I’m at a loss as to what I should do with him.  There is no ‘relax time’ for him.  During the ‘interview’ the lady explained she had a 7-month old at home.  A wave of relief came over me.  At least she had a clue about how hard doing anything with a baby is.  We talked.  We smiled.  We listened.  Little Man screamed to be let out of his high chair.  More talking. . .Little Man is now running around our living room screaming (and due to our ‘strategic planning – it’s all in full view).  We answer her questions.  Little Man is now rocking the screen in front of the lit fireplace back and forth.  I have to run and get him and put him on my lap.  She’s asking more questions.  Little Man wriggles out of my grip in his usual 2-second-sit-still-style.  I smile apologetically and he’s on the floor like sand falling between my hands.   She’s still asking questions and we’re trying to answer her as best as we can.  It’s V’s turn to prevent Little Man from climbing onto the coffee table (a stunt, amazingly, he only pulls when he knows tensions in the household are at a climax) – of course, all within. . . full view of the camera.  In conclusion, she smiles and tells us to produce a casting video.  V and I both smile in return, thank her for the phone call, and we sign off.  I shut the computer and look at my husband, not able to decide whether to cry or scream.  If I’m a homecoming queen, I’ve just tripped and fallen face first in the mud on the 50-yard line on my way to accept the crown.  Embarrassment and frustration starts flooding out of my mouth, “You know. . . I used to be able to have a conversation with an adult!” I shout to my husband.  I do like being a stay-at-home-mom, but I’m also a CPA.  Sometimes. . . like that moment right there. . . I feel about a thousand-times-removed from my former self that I left a mere, 14-months ago.  “That was one of the most important conversations in my life and I couldn’t even talk!”  The tide has shifted - I’m on the brink of tears now.  “Honey,” V tries to console me, “You may not have seen it, but every-time Little Man was on the camera, she stopped listening to us, anyway.  She couldn’t take her eyes off of him.  She loved him!”  I pause for a minute to consider.  I must admit, Little Man is pretty cute.  His little blond curls dancing in and out of the screen were comical, if you’re in that sort of mood. . . “Really?” I sniffed.  “Yes.  Trust me.  It was okay.  And she told us to make the video – she would have told us another line if she didn’t think we had potential,” he looked me square in the face and held my hand, as Little Man threw all the pots and pans from his play kitchen across the family room.  I smiled.  Okay.  We’ll give it a shot.           

We went on-line.  We found other casting videos.  We found a really good one from a couple in Kyrgyzstan and who were picked for the show.  So we modeled ours after theirs, more or less.  The casting producer said she loved our ‘story’ about how V’s parents immigrated to the U.S. when he was 2, about how he has family still here, etc.  So again, we tried to incorporate that into the video as well.  I wanted to show the differences between America and The Netherlands.  I had started collecting video footage whenever we moved here, with hopes of creating a video to my most favorite song of all time – Home, by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. . . and now was our chance.  I was so proud of the final product – even if we didn’t get picked for the show. 

The producers may have liked it, but they wanted more.  They wanted more of us talking directly to the camera, unscripted.  This assignment was seemingly impossible to accomplish for an ex-accountant and an IT consultant.   We’re planners!  So we had to produce two more videos, thus dragging out the anticipation and acceptance for months.  My nervous-refresh-email-habit-neared obscene levels as I waited for a final yea-or-nay confirmation. 

Finally, as I was enjoying a day to myself in London before my friend’s wedding, I received a phone call.  I was shopping for souvenirs at Harrods.  V was calling me.  With international roaming charges, I knew he wasn’t just calling to say hi.  “Hello?” I turned away from the Harrod’s chocolates I had been eyeing.  “We got it!” he shouted into the phone.  He’s the Quarterback of the high school who just won the State title.  I can feel the radiation from his gleaming smile through the phone.  “What?!?!  Do you really mean….” I say, unbelieving the news and dodging customers.  “Yes!  We’re going to be on International House Hunters!” he repeats.  I’m overjoyed and relieved.  It was an exciting but tedious process to get accepted and many friends in Leiden helped watch the kids, film, walk the dogs, and just give general support for us to even get this far.  I’m so glad that all the hard work had paid off. 

We found out a little over a month ago.  The film crew will be here in two days and will be filming for four days here in Leiden.  The final filming schedule was sent to us tonight and everything is a go.  As I perused through the schedule and read words like “Line Producer, Supervising Field Producer, & Production Coordinator” I found myself slightly hyperventilating.  I’m really going to be on TV!  It’s a little nerve-wrecking, but exciting.  On our end, we’ve had 6 haircuts (the dogs included), organized outfits, and booked babysitters.  On their end, they’ve received permission to film at the DeValk windmill in town with an amusing request that each film crew member pay the 4 Euro entrance fee (can we say ‘thank you for the international publicity?”), at the Leiden Market, at the kids’ daycare, and at a local hotel.   

So with that, my cover is blown.  All my attempts to maintain the privacy of my husband and children are gone.  My husband’s name in Vinny, my daughter is Cosette, and son is Holden.  Luckily, after showing the video to a regular reader (whom I haven’t met in real life, yet) she told me that I was how she pictured me – which makes me happy.  So here we are, probably even more authentic than what you’re going to see on House Hunters (at least, from what I’ve read).  And if anyone out there has connections to Good Morning America and could forward it on to Robin Roberts – that would be awesome.  

I Paid My Income Tax Today

I Paid My Income Tax Today (Irving Berlin)

“The only things certain in life are death and taxes” – Benjamin Franklin

  What Ben didn’t mention was that the dead still need to complete their taxes.  Even in The Netherlands. 

   

  My husband was born in The Netherlands.  He can trace his Dutch family history back 300 years on both sides.  His Grandmother, on his mother’s side, lived and died in Gouda – a small town about 30 minutes from where we live in Leiden.  The story of  her death and burial was a dramatic process and being the only living relatives she has in The Netherlands, my husband has been granted the prestigious title of Executor of The Estate – and for months, has been working through all the tedious challenges of the job description.  The Dutch, and their love of paperwork and challenging efficiency, have been doing their best in dragging out and complicating the process as much as possible. 

  My husband received a 30-page document (in Dutch, obviously) from the government explaining how to complete his Grandmother’s tax return.  He flipped through it, amazed at the heft of the package.  He lugged it up to his father’s relatives, pleading for assistance, and discovered the taxes were due April 1 as opposed to August 1 as he had mistakenly skimming-translated.

  The first step was to contact the tax office to make an appointment to visit with someone in order to complete the tax form.  “Ja.  Okay.  So.  Are you free, Wednesday between the hours of 11:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.?” the pleasant-sounding Dutch woman asked V.  V leaned his phone on his shoulder, and checked his calendar, “Um, yes.  I can be.  Where do I need to go?” he responded.  “Oh, no, no, no.  Someone will be calling you on Wednesday between 11:00 and 1:00 in order to make an appointment for your taxes,” she explained with an air of factuality and finality in her voice.  V’s eyes lit up and he made an imaginary fist pump in the air.  All the Expat websites and cultural guidebooks had warned us about the appointment-for-an-appointment quirky Dutch custom, and after a year, he finally could say he too, had been indoctrinated into the club.  It tipped the scales from long-term tourist, to local - like getting your bike stolen in Amsterdam.

   Two days later, the phone rang at the appointed time and a man’s voice confirmed the date for the filing of the taxes.  “You free in two weeks, yes?” he said roughly.  “Yes, of course – but isn’t that date after the April 1^st deadline to file?” V responded, quite confused. . . his mind reminiscing of Americans driving all over town to find the one post office open late on April 15^th, then shoving their stamped envelopes desperately into the mail slots like breathless marathon runners crossing the finish line.  “No. No.  It is okay.  As long as you have an appointment to file your taxes, then it will be just fine.”  Of course.  This appointment business again.   He instructed V to go to the Hogeschool in Leiden.  Hogeschool, isn’t that a college? V thought to himself.  Confused, but humbled by the whole filing-taxes-in-The-Netherlands-process thus far, V left the unspoken question linger in the air.     

  The Hogeschool was within walking distance of our home.  Rain fell softly as he entered the glass revolving door.  The tile floor stretched before him and the odor of cheap cleaning products similar to high schools all over the world (apparently) assaulted his nose.  He followed the low buzz echoing throughout the hall and came upon the gymnasium.  Folding card tables were set outside the gym and he checked in, and then sat in a row of chairs, waiting for his name to be called, as if at the DMV in Texas. 

  He shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair until his name was called and a plain, young girl escorted him into the gymnasium.  The room was crowded with tables, ‘tax advisors’, and customers.  A hum resonated throughout the room as she led V to her own spot among the rows of folding tables and plastic chairs.   “Ga zitten” she instructed, and V sat.  She shuffled some papers, shifted in her chair, subconsciously wiped her hands on her jeans, and consciously relaxed her shoulders.  She asked how she could help him – in Dutch.  “Um, spreek ja Engles?” V responded.  He’s been taking Dutch classes.  He can read children’s books and have a decent conversation with people in shops, restaurants, at the train station, etc., but he’d prefer to speak English when dealing with The Netherlands Government - can’t be too cautious.  The girl frowns at him, but responds that she would give it a try.  V continues to explain his position.  Her eyes widen as his story continues.  As he concludes, the look of horrified bewilderment upon her face is solidified.  Her hand shoots up into the air.  Apparently, the chapter that explains: How to file taxes for a Dead Dutch Grandmother of an English-speaking-Expat-grandson had not been covered in her Introduction to Individual Taxation course.  At least, not yet.  

  Her professor comes to her aid.  In rapid Dutch, the flustered student enlightens the woman of the unique case my husband has presented her.  The lecturer pats her lightly on the shoulder and ushers my husband away from the scene like a woman shielding someone from an accident, and towards an older gentleman.  As V handed him a pile of statements, papers, and notes, the elderly man nodded with the calm wisdom of an unfazed tax advisor who had seen it all.  A few flips through the documents, a few keystrokes into his computer, and a couple of penciled digits onto a receipt slip – and Oma’s taxes were filed.  The bill would come later.

  V shook the man’s hand and passed the rows of students on his way out.  With an enlightened sense of self, V danced out of the gym, proud of his accomplishment.  Filing my Grandmother’s taxes in an hour - in The Netherlands – check!  But before he left, V asked the all-knowing tax advisor about how to handle the subsequent inheritance tax.  His response, as if you had not guessed it already – “Oh yes.  Just call the tax office.  And make an appointment!”       

All I Really Need

All I Really Need (Raffi)

  The overwhelming task that lay before me – each step to be approached and passed like mile markers on a stretch of highway in the desert – prevented me from indulging myself in too many heartfelt, tearful, fully-aware goodbyes.  It was a sunny day in January 2012.  I had less than 12 hours remaining in my hometown – Dallas.  The place I was born, raised and visited during college holidays.  It was the city where I returned, fell in love with my husband, bought my first house, birthed our children, and worked for nearly ten years.  My entire house had been packed up and the goods shipped across the ocean.  My two dogs and husband anxiously awaited the reconciliation to occur the next morning.  In a smart black skirt and fishnet tights I saw my husband’s 2000 Explorer being hauled away from my office building at lunch.  The security guards dancing with excitement, waiting for a confrontation with the suspicious tow-truck driver, until I informed them of my plans to move to The Netherlands the next day – thus the need to get rid of everything that was not necessary.  We had already haggled with CarMax over the value of my car – a fair but lower-handed struggle considering we had no return purchase as a bargaining chip.  The Cars for Kids tow truck driver waved goodbye as I stood in the warm parking lot, grateful for the donation.   Later that afternoon,  I packed up my last few belongings in my cube, hugged my co-workers one last time, pressed the lobby button in the glass elevator, and greeted my Dad, who was waiting to pick me up from my last day at work.  “You okay?” he asked suspiciously.  “Yup!  Just fine.  Let’s go pick up Baby Girl,” I said determinedly.  My To-Do List still running through my head.

  We weaved the SUV through the familiar streets of my childhood, and arrived at her school.  I’m sure I passed the building every day on my way to high school.  I never noticed it until I was a mother.  We pressed the individually assigned security code and entered – for the last time.  My daughter started attending daycare when she was 3-months old.  I cried and cried the first day I dropped her off.  As Miss Betty held her arms around me, she talked to me in a honeyed-voice dripping with years of experience, “There, there.  During the first week, we don’t worry about the babies, it’s the Mamas we worry most about.  Don’t you fret, child – your Baby Girl will be just fine.  You take care, now.” and she handed me a tissue.  To my surprise and delight, she was right.  My little Baby Girl was just fine and I too, improved in a weeks’ time.    For the next 19 months, my daughter was showered with an endless supply of affection from these wonderful, caring ladies.  We spent Baby Girl’s first birthdays and holidays together.  They celebrated my 2^nd pregnancy and anxiously awaited the birth of our son.  They sunk with disappointment and cried when I told them our plans to move overseas.  I adored these ladies as much as they adored my daughter – they made my apprehensions and confusion of being a first-time parent, a hugely less stressful experience in so many uncountable ways. 

  My Dad and I entered her classroom and there she sat – playing in a circle with all her friends.  My innocent Baby Girl – what was I doing?  Taking her away from everything and everyone she knew?  She was only 21-months old – too young to understand, but old enough to know that things were different.  I hugged her teachers, the principal, secretaries, everyone as we left.  Tears brimming over everyone’s eyes – for the first time – my heart got the best of me.  My To-Do List nearly complete and crumpled deep in my pocket – completely forgotten during this significant moment of time.   We drove to my Dad’s house, my Baby Girl oblivious to the huge blow that would be coming to her tiny little world.  I knew a move overseas would be a positive experience – the lessons and opportunities would be boundless and amazing.  Everything would work out and be wonderful.  But as we drove to my Dad’s house with her tiny voice singing the ABCs from the backseat, my head and heart ached.

  We flew over the big huge ocean.  We settled into our house.  I tried my best to entertain her and my 3-month old simultaneously, but even as Raffi belted out of my stereo speakers accompanying us as we walked around our house for hours (her pushing her play grocery cart, and my baby in his stroller) – it was clear that this stay-at-home-mom-gig was a far cry from her regular routine of vibrant learning and playing with kids her own age.  I needed help.  She needed social interaction.  In April 2012 we decided we needed to enroll her in daycare at least one day a week.  

  V and I searched the neighborhood for options and we discovered one at the end of our block that had been rated highly on a local Expat website.  We attended an open-house one evening.  Flustered and running late (as always), the director opened the door.  Confused by the term ‘open house’ – I had pictured a large group of people, mingling, sipping fruit punch out of tiny cups while attempting to hold adult conversations – I realized that it was actually a private tour.  My family, and one other expecting couple were the only ones attending.  Fun fact about me – when I know, I know.  My wedding venue?  I researched online and I had limited the options to one.  We visited and I was sold – it was exactly what I wanted.  Our family home in Texas?  When I saw it from the street, I knew it was the one I wanted.  We walked into the Dutch preschool that cool spring evening and I had that certain feeling.  I knew it was where I wanted my daughter to go to school – despite my anxiousness of enrolling her in a school where they did not speak English and she knew no Dutch.  I knew it was where she needed to be. 

   Despite her love of her preschool in Texas – the transition to her new Dutch preschool was a little rocky.  I saw tears I had never seen before as I dropped her off.  I cried the entire block home as well.  I berated myself – what are you doing?  Dropping your vulnerable daughter off at a school where she knows no one and doesn’t even understand what they’re saying.  Mantras such as “Oh, children are so resilient!” and “They’ll soak up a new language like a sponge,” provided little comfort to me in my equally vulnerable state.  Weeks passed.  Months passed.  Baby Girl started to look forward to one-day-a-week daycare excursions.  We packed her bags, she became accustomed to routine.  Considering I’m at home with the kids all day, I have limited contact with adults.  When I would pick her up at school, I’d talk with her teachers in the garden for much longer than probably necessary.  They indulged me in talking about my daughter, America, and how I was finding living in The Netherlands.  One rainy day in July, my husband had been out of town for a week, and I had had a particularly stressful night and morning with the two kids.  Baby Girl could feel my sadness and she hugged me for an extra-long time during drop off.  As the rain drops fell, she wrapped her tiny arms around me, and in my exhausted-state, I missed my husband.  My eyes watered at her sweet nature as I encouraged her to sit by her friends for breakfast.   I took a deep breath, smiled a little too widely, and hastily said goodbye, trying to mask my unreasonable vulnerability.  Before I was out the door, the director chased me down.  “Are you OK?” she said with a concerned look in her eyes.  “Yes, yes. I’m fine.  I’m just quite tired,” and I turned for the door but stopped and turned around again.  “Thank you, though,” and I nodded.  She nodded back. 

  I reflected as I push my son’s stroller back to our house, and a small, awe-filled smile replaced the frustration I had previously felt on the walk 20 minutes earlier.  I never thought that I would find a school with such loving, caring people to take care of my daughter.  And I had.  Twice.  Like in Dallas, my daughter’s Dutch teachers love her, but they also help take care of me.  A confusing, overwhelming experience becomes manageable and enjoyable – and for that, no matter where in the world we live, I will always be grateful for the love and support of teachers who touch my children’s lives.        

La Vie En Rose

La Vie en Rose (Edith Piaf)

The high dive represents a rite of passage.  Mine was at Jack Carter pool in Plano, Texas, but regardless of where you grew up, the high dive at the community pool terrorized your small, but important, youthful world.  You gazed for months with envy at the other children carelessly flipping, tossing, and cannon-balling over the edge of the scratchy white platform suspended at an unimaginable height.  You carefully calculated the steps, envisioned yourself being one of them, and finally decided that it was your time.  But as your tiny feet slapped water on the burning concrete determined to join the ranks, your palms started sweating and doubt filled your mind.  Questions raced through you like scrolling credits of a movie:  What if I fall?  What if I hurt myself?  And most importantly – What if I do both and everyone laughs at me?  As you approach the looming metal ladder with steps that lead to heaven, your safety-net pulls too hard.  With the cartoon devil and angel on your shoulder tormenting your little brain, you decide to wait for a more opportune time to risk embarrassment.   Slinking back to the shallow end of the pool you disappointingly sit in the shimmering water with ego still safely intact.

   That was me.  But it wasn't a pool and I wasn't ten.  I was approaching my mid-30s.  For more than a year, I watched the skinny Dutch women perch elegantly on the backs of their boyfriends' bicycles, riding through the picturesque town of Leiden.  Their legs crossed at the ankles, heeled boots pointing daintily at the street, and carefully draping their arm around the waist of the man pedaling.  With the longing of an adolescent, I wanted to be one of them.  It looked so fun, so romantic, and so. . . free of physical exertion for the lady!  Most lovers are not hanging out during the hours of 9:30 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. – it’s mostly a bakfiets (mini-van bike) crowd at that time.  I had seen the skill required to hop on the back of a bike only a few times – and the running, giggling girls gave me doubt as to my abilities to replicate the same move.  It required the first person to start pedaling in order to balance the bike, and the rider to complete a series of steps and then hop sideways onto the luggage rack on the back.  The footwork reminded me of a basketball lay-up: step left, right, left, and then hop up!   After time, like any successful athlete, I visualized myself effortlessly completing the steps.  But I had yet to practice.

  This stunt was not a solo effort, and I doubted my teammate’s ability to execute his task.  Now I’ve seen the Dutch carry everything from suitcases, to framed works of art, to Christmas trees one-handed while pedaling down the bike paths.  V had trouble balancing his bike with a bottle of wine hanging from one handle bar.  We are American and that obviously means that we have acquired no such innate balancing skills over the past 30 years.  So thus, my dream had been left unfulfilled, unwilling to risk the seemingly unattainable feat.                   

   Then we saw an 80-year old man pedaling his side-saddling elderly wife in front of our house a few weeks ago.  If that’s not mockery, I don’t know what is.  

  Date night, Saturday night.  We planned to take our bikes.  There’s no place to park, walking just takes too long, and so it was decided, we’d ride our bikes.  As much as I love pedaling my kids around town, my mini-van bike is as sexy as a vegetable.  I purposefully put away my thoughts of ever wearing a skirt on a date night again.  I know the Dutch cycle with them on, but I just don’t think I’m mentally ready to pull that one off.   We say goodbye to the babysitter and close our heavy front door.  I’m about to unlock my avocado bike from its spot in the front yard and V gently touches my arm.  “You want to try?” he looks at me suspiciously and raises an eyebrow.  “Try what?” I cock my head to the side, rolling my eyes.  “To ride on the back of my bike?” he says pointedly with a smile.  “What?  Now!?  No way!  I’m not ready!” I reply, flustered and smoothing my hair.  My hands start sweating and I reflexively look up and down our street to see who is witnessing this ridiculous exchange.  “Yes!  Now – no anticipation.  Let’s just do it,” he says, and I meet his gaze and challenge.  He unlocks his bike.  Like two kids who jointly agree to a dare but wither during execution, we glance at each other with questions in our eyes.  “Should we try it first on the sidewalk?” I ask.  “No – look at those bikes parked all over the place.  There’s not enough room to get through,” he calculates and shakes his head.  We gaze up and down our block and wait for a group of taunting bikes to pass.  When the coast was clear, he bravely pedals into the middle of the road.  I trot behind him and just like I had envisioned, perform the cadence with wobbly style: left, right, left, hop!  Within seconds, I realize that I’m flying through the air with the bravery of my 10-year-old self – I am channeling through this rite of passage and I’m ecstatic at my courageous, youthful accomplishment!  “Are you on?” V shouts, disbelieving his own elementary success.  “Yes!  Yes I am!” I say with amazement.  We’ve done it!  We’re pedaling down the road at a snail’s pace because, we’re uh, American and V isn’t that fast – but we’re doing it!      

  We glide through Leiden, immaturely speeding up at yellow bike stop lights and avoiding left-hand turns because we don’t want to stop the rhythm of this beautiful moment (and more importantly, we don’t want to stop the bike which would force us to repeat the maneuver in front of expert Dutch eyes.)  We lyrically sweep along the now-familiar sights of our hometown: around windmills, over canals, and through cobbled alleyways.  I berate him for attempting to use hand signals – “Please!  Keep both hands on your handlebars you’re going to make us fall!” we giggle like schoolchildren.  Like a home-cooked meal that you didn’t cook yourself, after pedaling my kids around town for a year – there is nothing more beautiful and appreciated than seeing the world go by at the relaxing pace of a cyclist without actually having to cycle.  The ancient shops and houses dance in the rosy glow of sunset as we smoothly sashay by.  I snuggly wrap my arm around V’s waist and rest my head on his back.  “You’re so light!” he says and I smile at the seamless ease of the moment.  I beam at my crossed ankles and the green high-heeled boots that accent my European-trimmed, but skinny-jeaned legs.  I reflect as we pass over the shimmering silver canals, maybe I will wear those skirts I wishfully imported from the U.S. after all.   

Big Parade

Big Parade (The Lumineers)

Shannon & Richard on the steps of Chelsea Town Hall

  What No One Tells the Bride:  Your vision, whatever it is – detailed, general, simple, complex, town hall or Westminster Abby – will be derailed at some point, no matter the extent you have submerged yourself, and all those around you, into believing and actuating your fairy tale ceremony and celebration. 

  I know.  Total.  Buzz Kill - at least for all those brides-to-be with hopes of their perfect wedding day illuminating before their eyes.  As for those of us who have already been through the momentous occasion, I think I hear a giggle and imagine a few head nods.

  I flew to London on Thursday morning to celebrate one of my best friends’ wedding day.  Shannon and I went to college together, which results in a not-too-shabby-15-year-friendship.  She’s lived in the U.K. for seven years and gave me memorable advice prior to moving overseas:  “You will go to the grocery store and stare. . . not know what the heck this stuff is or what you’re supposed to do with it.  And I had a leg up. . .at least my packaging was in English.”  She shrugged, patted my shoulder and attempted to console my freshman soul with the wisdom of a senior quarterback.

  My pre-flight stresses about making sure there was enough food in the fridge, the wedding gift was intact, laundry was done, hotel confirmations printed, and hundreds of other preparation worries disappeared into the horizon upon take-off from Amsterdam Schiphol, only to be replaced by solo-traveling jitters.  I used to travel to unknown cities alone all the time when I worked for American Airlines – I stumbled upon Leiden while tagging along with one of V’s business trips a bazillion years ago, thus prompting the I’m-going-to-live-here-someday-flashforward.  I had decided to attend Shannon’s wedding alone with a peaceful vision of me frolicking carefree through the streets of London without a stroller or husband for an entire day.  But all that sunshine slowly shifted to cloudy with chances of showers once I started to calculate the logistics of navigating the system – train tickets, tubes, maps, new currency, directions, etc.  Once confident with tromping around Japanese country sides, having a family changed my perspective in ways I never dreamed possible.  There is safety in numbers, but also unbelievable amounts of stress that come with moving an entourage – visions of our family lugging a double stroller up and around the stair bridges of Venice haunt my memory – which led me to waver in my confidence to successfully run around London alone.  I knew it was going to be okay, but I didn’t really know. 

  Upon landing, a wonderful, beautiful rush came over my entire body like your favorite Old Navy hoodie.  English.  Nearly everyone I encounter in The Netherlands has a superb grasp of English, and I’ve caught on to the key phrases in Dutch – but to be submersed in a culture where English is the primary language and spoken without pride or grudge, was fantastic.  I purchased my train ticket with the swiftness of a brushstroke.  Without having to check my map and memory every ten seconds, I relaxed in my train seat, knowing I wouldn’t miss Victoria Station.  (Dordrecht and Vlissingen stations in The Netherlands just get stuck like taffy on my tongue and prompt confusion in my head).  Wandering around London, I felt like I was in New York City – with it’s sky scrapers and busy streets – but I also loved how I had to ask for my bill at Wagamama because, despite how I had told the waiter that I was “all done” and that the “food was great” and how I was “ready to go” those key words: Please Bring Me The Bill – were the only ones that would prompt and actual exit from the building.  West meets East.  In the end – there is nowhere like London. 

     

Me, Shannon, & Tess

  Our friend, Tess from Texas had flown in for the ceremony as well.  We met her with coffee in-hand at the international terminal of Heathrow Airport.  Reunited, we drove back to Shannon’s new hometown of St. Albans and spent the entire day on Friday searching for a basket and tights for her soon-to-be-step-children.  Being accustomed to crap-European retailers and the beat-down that accompanies ANY quest to find ANYTHING you’re looking for, I quite enjoyed the day.  I could empathize with American-friend Tess, though.   She was an awesome sport, ducking in and out of every store, keeping pace with our European abilities to walk forever.  I could tell though, in her jet-lagged state, she would have traded one of those charming English Pubs for a Super Target and after twenty fruitless stores, I joined in on the mental mind force, with disappointment. 

   Friday evening was met with a debate about cottage vs. shepherds pie (Google that one, fans) but either way – it was a fantastically yummy dinner despite the nomenclature of the dish.  Tess and I retired early (relatively? We were on vacation, you know) to our local hotel in St. Albans and instructed the grinning youthful hotel clerk of our intensions for our 7-a.m. wake up calls. 

  Shannon and Richard planned a 10:00 a.m. wedding ceremony in Chelsea. “I really wanted 11:00 a.m., but it was already taken,” she explained.  It was a fabulously intimate wedding and the entire wedding guest list was instructed to meet them at their house to travel with the bride and groom in a Hummer Limo to the wedding ceremony.  Not wanting to disappoint, Tess and I arrived at her house, at 8:15 a.m., empty stomached but fueled on our rations of hotel instant coffee.  We were greeted heartily by Shannon’s family and local friends.  “So, are you nervous?” Tess asked Shannon’s Dad.  “Awww.  Naaah,” he responded, in the finest Texan accent the tuxedo would allow. “This ain’t my first rodeo, you know. . .” and with a wink and a tip of his imaginary hat, he moseyed on in search of his wife’s arm that he’s held close to his heart, for nearly 44 years.           

   “Tess!  Celeste!  Your presence is being requested upstairs!” Shannon’s mom sang from the staircase.  Tess had just hunted down the coffee maker and dredged the last of the coffee – literally a shot of grounds – and we smiled at the invitation.  “We’re here!  We were just on our way up!” we echoed back our excitement to the mother-of-the-bride.

   The bedroom was a mess but Shannon looked beautiful.  She took a sip from her coffee cup as we walked in.  “Something Old” the cup said, and the photo of her groom smiled back at her.  A lovely silver wired ribbon adorned the handle.  “Isn’t it cute?  Richard wanted to give it to me as a surprise.” She set the Shannon’s hairdresser shifted around the tiny space surrounding the bed.  She had woken up before dawn to meet Shannon at her house at 5:30 a.m. and all efforts had paid off.  It was time to put on the dress.

"Something Old"

cup down and studied her reflection in the mirror.  Her hair was piled half atop her head while curled tendrils fell among her pale shoulders.  “I’m so white!” she said.  For a beat, Shannon and I teamed up against our tanned-Texas friend with our mutual glares. 

  During lunch the day before Tess and I had predicted Shannon would cry at the wedding.  “No I won’t!” she protested.  “Oh yes you will!  Do you have waterproof mascara just in case?” she waved our accusations away with her hand.  She stepped carefully into her dress and I zipped her up.  She looked at her reflection in the mirror and for that brief moment, her eyes brimmed with glassy tears of happiness.   Business woman that she is, before falling too far over the emotional edge, she looked out the window and she shifted in her dress.  “Where’s the limo?  It’s supposed to be here by now.” she said.  Tess and I put on our coolest calm-collected faces.  “Oh no worries.  It will be here soon.  Everyone is completely ready to go downstairs.” Tess says.  “You know, they can’t start without you.” I chirped happily.  She shakes her head slightly and then, like a key plot point, she delivers the line, “Well. . . see the problem is, they have a wedding scheduled at 11 o’clock and if we are even 20 minutes late, they will cancel our spot.”  I nod once and I’m sure my smile did not mask my nervousness. 

Richard sees his bride for the first time in her dress

  Tess and I go downstairs to witness the big moment when Richard sees Shannon for the first time.  She parades down and runs her hands over the long skirt to mask her anxiousness of the event.  They kiss gently and the admiration in Richard’s eyes is transparent.   The intimate moment is suspended as Richard’s cell phone rings and Shannon’s mother steps to her side.  The limo is lost or running tragically behind schedule – it’s not clear to all of us witnessing the exchange – but what is obvious, is how calmly, intently, and splendidly professional Richard is speaking to the person on the other end of the phone.  He’s going to fix this disastrous blunder the limo company has catapulted into this couple’s wedding day, and potentially – their lives.  In America it wouldn’t quite happen like this.  People would shrug and get in their cars, which are parked outside, and drive.  Insert a majority of car-less people, trains being a far-too-time-consuming-option, a tiny suburb town, and you’ve got a logistical crisis of a monstrous size.  

  Our taxi driver was an eager and willing participant in the challenge that faced him. “I will get you there in time to see your friend’s wedding,” he promised with the seriousness of a wedding vow.  He leaned forward in his seat, barreling our car down the British highway system at Autobahn speeds, admirably never forgetting to use his turn signal, following the path that the bride and groom had taken twenty minutes before in a friend’s borrowed car.  As we zoomed past double-decker busses, our friend Russ received a call.  “Tess?  Do you have Shannon’s lipstick?” we all laughed with relief.  “Oh good, Shannon is on to smaller cosmetic problems.  This is a good sign,” everyone in the car nodded in agreement.  With squealing breaks, our car jolted to a halt outside the Chelsea Town Hall, Hugh Grant-Notting-Hill-style, with two minutes to spare.

  The room was unlike anything you’d imagine in a Texas town hall – floor-to-ceiling-silk draperies, plush velvet chairs, and sparkling chandeliers.  The guests were giddy with excitement – a combination of adrenaline and caffeine, and we quickly found our seats and awaited the ceremony. 

  Shannon and Richard walked down the aisle together - symbolic of their past, present, and future.  The entire ceremony lasted twenty minutes, but it was heartfelt and to the point.  We all applauded the kiss and signing of the nuptials.  The 11 o’clock wedding party need not be worried of us overstepping our time slot. 

Fancy French Dinner

   After the ceremony we celebrated.  Sipping champagne in a hummer limo while passing by Westminster Abby, Big Ben, and other iconic London landmarks will forever be ingrained in my mind.    A 6-course French meal greeted the guests and the food was heavenly.  I had to endure my table-mates smirking at my choice of Spring Pea Soup over Duck Liver (despite living in Europe, I just haven’t quite advanced my pallet that far.), but nothing could deter me from savoring every bite. The champagne and wine flowed, the food appeared and disappeared course after course to the happy pleasure of everyone.  Toasts were sung “To Love!” - Richard’s daughter announced prompting approving applause from everyone in the room.  But beyond the spotlight celebration, what I loved most about the day was observing the couple on their wedding day unscripted.  I watched with interest the loving and intimate way they nodded, smiled, and chatted unrehearsed in between courses – engaging in conversation that no one else was able to hear.   I loved seeing Richard’s children take turns sitting on his knee and seeing the affection he so unabashedly feels towards them.  I appreciated that the couple’s main goal was to make sure that everyone have a good time and how it was achieved by the elegant production:  props of crystal glasses, characters of superb wait staff, and a setting of dining under canopy of branches heavy with delicate pink cherry blossoms. 

Walking into the ceremony together

  The next day, I was treated to more spontaneous observations during the relaxing day-after events: dropping her parents off at the airport, lunch at an English Pub (yes, I ordered the fish and chips because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?), and a languid walk under the shining sun in the woods.  I loved seeing them interact.  If there’s anything that gives you joy and hope for the world, it’s seeing a couple on their first day of marriage.  “Thank you so much!  I totally feel like I crashed your first day of your married life together.  I mean, I am – but thank you!”  She shrugged and explained that they were taking the next day off as well – the honeymoon to be decided later.  As I exited the car, Shannon leaned over in the front passenger seat and reached her right arm out to stroke the back of Richard’s head.  “I’ve told him, but I’ll tell you, too.  Life’s not going to be easy.  But I’d rather go through all the crap with him. . . than to live a different life without him.”  I smiled, thinking of the phone call to the limo company and how, in the midst of the chaotic moments they can’t control, they stayed calm, smiling admirably and confidently at each other.  Life may not turn out how they envisioned, no one’s ever does - but with each other’s daily doses of support, dedication, and love – I know their world will be a joyful and peaceful place together.