Empty Nesters

**This article was first published as "Empty Nesters, Yay?" in the American Mothers Inc. blog in March 2014.  We all know how it turned out! -G**

My husband and I are about to become Empty Nesters.  Our only child, Kyle, will soon be off to a university half way across the country.

Many of our friends have recently murmured their sympathies: “Your house will be so quiet/empty/lonely,” and “How sad he’ll be so far away from home,” and “Why doesn’t he go to an in-state college so he can come home on the weekends?”  

Yes, Todd and I love and will certainly miss our son – he has been the main focus of our lives for the past 18 years, after all.  But Kyle hasn’t been our only focus, and being his parents hasn’t been our only role in life; Todd and I have jobs and friends and each other; we share interests that don’t involve parenting; interests, that, before long, we’ll pursue whole-heartedly when we find ourselves unencumbered by the day-to-day responsibilities of child rearing.  

We are proud that our son has grown into the well-adjusted young man he is today, and pleased he chose the college that best suits his strengths (even though it is four states away).  Now is Kyle’s time to begin exploring the world independently without his parents by his side and, née, his beck-and-call (although technology like Skype and Facebook and cell phones and airplanes will keep us in touch).

Besides, Todd and I have plans: after first taking over Kyle’s newly vacated bedroom for our hobbies, we will begin doing the things we’ve dreamed about for years, such as traveling on a whim; no longer having to schedule vacations during school breaks; spending entire days wandering museums or walking foreign cities together (without worrying whether our child is bored or tired or hungry); dining at restaurants that don’t feature mainly chicken fingers and French fries; booking at a B&B without having to ask, “is there space in the room for a child's cot?”  

Most of all, Todd and I look forward to reconnecting with each other, spending time as a couple, exploring the world together.  We’ll take advantage of this maybe-more-than-once-but-rare-in-a-lifetime chance to enjoy being a married pair without children around.  Then, these Empty Nesters will look forward to, eventually (we hope), sharing some wonderful out-of-the-nest stories with our future grandchildren.  

Your Child Might Not Be the Next Mario Andretti if...

**This article was first published in the American Mothers Inc. blog in August of 2014. Enjoy! -G**

After 15 years and countless hours spent taxiing my son to and from school, hockey practice, study groups and more social events than Prince William, I admit to being more excited than he was to become eligible to get his learner’s permit.

When Kyle can drive himself, I daydreamed, I might have hours of actual "free time" with which to do stuff that doesn’t involve seatbelts and stop lights! Cool stuff, like mastering jiu jitsu, crocheting stuff, and ridding Washington DC of corruption!  Well, maybe not the latter, but the anticipation of replacing a carload of smelly hockey gear with pretty yarn things inspired me to offer a driving lesson that very day.  “Meh,” the boy shrugged.

Whaaa???  Why wasn’t Kyle chomping at the bit, pestering me for the keys?  Didn’t every teenage boy dream of cruising solo down the road blaring awful dubstep remixes with enough bass to give you a nosebleed?  Apparently, my child was content to play games on his phone in the back seat, earbuds firmly in place (so as to more easily ignore the Carpool Girls), and leave the responsibility of Getting There to mom.  Well, I was determined this teenager must learn to drive soon, if I wanted any hope of tapping out Chuck Liddell or crocheting something any time this decade. 

Somehow, my efforts to get my son interested in driving failed: Hours of telepathically beaming Kyle images of himself sliding into the driver’s seat did not get my son behind the wheel.  Super fun-sounding enticements like “See more friends, more often!” and “Go wherever you want, whenever you want (within reason)!” were met with indifference.  Even shouting “Driving is FREEDOM!” like William Wallace in Braveheart failed to produce the desired response.  Until one day…

We were idling in the school pickup zone, again waiting for the always-running-late-singing-annoying-Justin Bieber-songs-followed-by-nonstop-chatter Carpool Girls.  I focused my Mom powers and sighed at my son in the rearview mirror, “If only you could drive yourself, you wouldn’t have to be in The Carpool.”  

One hour later:  Despite the fact that my son’s heretofore “driving experience” consisted of ramming carnival bumper cars and beating Level 7 of The Simpsons Hit & Run Xbox game, his first lesson was happily devoid of insurance claims.  Yes, there was enough rapid-fire brake pedal stomping to wear out a dashboard hula girl, but I only had to grab the steering wheel twice, I yelled only once, Kyle didn’t crash into anything, and, impressively, I didn’t even swear.  We both consider that a success. 

Chivalry is Not Dead

**This article was first published in the American Mother's Inc. blog in April 2014.    -G**


For my birthday, my husband surprised me and at least two strangers.

It started when Todd asked me what I wanted for my birthday dinner.  "Oh, I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."  Todd handed me the iPad and said, "Maybe you can find something you like here."  The tablet was open to the website of the best restaurant in the valley, a place we'd never been to because every time we'd wanted to go, there were no tables available, or we couldn't find a babysitter.  "Our reservation is at 6:30 tonight."


The young couple seated at the table next to us was quiet and a little nervous, perhaps not entirely comfortable being alone together at this white-linen-tablecloths-spend-your-whole-paycheck-on-dinner restaurant. The two were dressed up for the occasion, though, and spoke softly and sparingly to each other over their meal.  Todd and I smiled and nodded in greeting, and settled into our table.

As we were enjoying our first course, I saw Todd's eyebrows raise and he whispered, "I think he's proposing!" I glanced to my right just in time to see the young man on bended knee before his girlfriend, opening a ring box with shaky hands.

When the youth was seated back in his chair, Todd asked him, "Did you two just get engaged?"  The young man held his breath, tense, until his new fiancé smiled and showed her ring.  The boy visibly relaxed and nodded "yes!"  We congratulated them, then turned back to our own table.

Todd and I discussed how nice it was to see that some traditions continue. We reminisced quietly about the day he proposed to me, nearly 22 years before, on the beach, on a lovely June afternoon.  A twinkle caught Todd's eye, and he whispered to me, "Do you want to pay for their meal?"  Without hesitating I nodded, and Todd called our waiter for a quick, discrete chat.

I'll never forget the look on that young man's face when he called for the check, and his waiter informed him that we had already paid their bill. For a split second, he wore a completed stunned expression, realizing he was the recipient of an unexpected act of kindness (an expression seen far too rarely, in my opinion).  The couple thanked us heartily and left the restaurant giddy with plans for their future together.

Word quickly spread among the wait staff - not that someone had proposed marriage in their fancy restaurant, but that Todd and I had secretly paid for these strangers' special dinner.  At the time, I didn't think it was a really big deal, but, over the course of the rest of the evening, one by one, each of the waiters caught my eye, smiled and nodded approval at us across the dining room.  One stopped at our table to say, "That was so kind of you." Another told us, "That couple was ecstatic!"  Yet another stated, "You have restored our faith in -- well, what you did was really cool."

As Todd and I strolled out of the restaurant arm-in-arm, I silently marveled how our small, spontaneous gesture of celebration and goodwill seemed to have made such a big impact, and how grateful I am that my husband, after 20 years of marriage, continues to surprise me with his generosity and romance.  I truly wish upon that unnamed young couple a happy life together, and I hope that she is lucky enough to witness such thoughtful chivalry by her own husband someday.

I miss my dad

One year ago today, the world lost a wonderful man.  I'm on the Mississippi Gulf Coast this week celebrating my dad's favorite holiday, Mardi Gras, with family.

The following tribute was originally published in the American Mothers Inc. Blog in March 2015:

A mother thinks of her son and remembers her father, who was recently buried with full military honors in Biloxi, Mississippi.

I never got the chance to share this joke with my dad.  I think he would have laughed. 

One Sunday Pastor Joe played hooky to golf.  He was enjoying himself on the course, when an angel said to God, “Are you going to let him get away with this?  Do something!”  God said, “Watch this.”  Just then, Pastor Joe hit a beautiful 425 yard tee shot right into the cup for a double-eagle hole-in-one.  The angel exclaimed, “Why did you reward him?!”  God replied, “Who’s he gonna tell?”

Me and my Daddy

I’m not sure it was a Sunday when my dad hit the only hole-in-one of his life, but none of his friends saw it, either.  He was trying to catch up to them, but they were still one green ahead.  That was some 40 years ago, and might have been the last time Dad was ever late for his foursome’s Tee time.  But it made a great story!  

Dad had a lot of great stories.  He’d had a lot of great experiences.  Fortunately, he loved to share them, with both words and deeds.  

My dad was an avid scuba diver.  When I was small, there were big sea shells and hunks of coral perched all around the house to supplement tales of his encounters with eels and sharks.  When I was 3 years old, Dad taught me how to snorkel, so that I, too, could see what was beneath the waves.  

Dad was a skydiver, too.  Instead of tossing me out of a Cessna (for surely my mother would have disapproved), he took me on a roller coaster and together we laughed down the big hills with the wind screaming in our ears and butterflies in our stomachs.  After, Dad told me that it felt a little bit like jumping out of an airplane.  

In 1976 my father took me to his US Naval Review office way up in the World Trade Center.  We looked out the window onto a panoramic view of New York Harbor where dozens of ships filed past the Statue of Liberty for the International Naval Review, part of the US Bicentennial celebration.  With fervor, Dad pointed out to me every boat in the harbor by name and type: vintage tall ships, the boat that the President was on, and the vessels of all the visiting nations.  He was like a kid in a candy store!  “This is history in the making,” he delighted.  “Nobody will ever see all these ships together like this again.” 

When I was preparing a vacation to Barcelona, Dad told me that our ancestors could be traced back to Spain, to a little town north of Pamplona, where they do the Running of the Bulls.  On the map, I found the town called Olague, my maiden surname.  My whole life, wherever I went, or wanted to go, Dad could tell me something cool about the place.  

After retiring (first from the US Navy, then from the family restaurant, and finally from the Mississippi Department of Tourism), my dad volunteered as a tour guide at Beauvoir, Jefferson Davis’ last home.  For many years, he dressed in period costume and happily beguiled thousands of Gulf Coast visitors with lesser-known facts about the place and its people.

I credit my dad’s enthusiastic stories for my own sense of adventure, love of travel, and joy in learning new things.  

Three generations

My Brother and sister and I have Dad to thank for more than just our good looks (and our height).  Also, too, our natural sense of rhythm, ready humor, easy-going manner, fondness for science fiction, love of playing card games, and penchant for serving others.   

Everyone who crossed his path witnessed my father’s joie de vivre, through his wonderful stories; appreciation of other cultures; affection for animated jokes; his laugh; his love of music, cooking, wine, dancing, animals, and cool cars; and his passion for our nation’s history, that he is now part of.  

I’m glad that my child had a chance to know my dad, and hope that Dad’s marvelous traits have passed down from grandfather to grandson.

Thanks for the memories, Dad.

In loving memory of Jerry G. Olague

I went blonde when I went grey

You know it's time to get your hair done when your husband nonchalantly mentions that there's time for you to get your hair done today, unsolicited.

It had been 12 weeks since Steph last beautified me.  Steph has been doing my hair for years; she knows the perfect shape to cut and the perfect color combinations to apply, and does it so well that I don't even need to explain what I want.  I don't know exactly what she does, mostly, but I always walk away with fabulous-looking locks that miraculously stay grey-free for 9+ weeks at a time.

Unfortunately, Steph was 4,000 miles away, and I was in a small town in France.  I didn't have a nice hat to hide the silver that was quickly overtaking the blonde and brown on my head like Dale Earnhardt Jr. when the traffic light turns red.  I could put off a visit to a salon no longer, lest I start getting mistaken for my mother.  

Unsure of my fate, I sat in Madam Astrid's Belfort, France salon chair.  She smiled sweetly and asked if I wanted anything more than a cut, in French.  Uh oh.  I'd exhausted my knowledge of the language just getting through "May I please get a trim?" and she spoke no English.  She pointed to the glaring grey part on my head and I nodded, "Yes!  Colour, oui, s'il vous plait!"

As Mme Astrid was mixing the blonde color, I alarmingly realized that Steph had always mixed at least two colors for my hair, sometimes even three.  And she didn't slather it on all over, she used dainty little foil sheets and would paint on the colors after pulling out little strands with the comb, and the bottom part of my head was all brown, blending into mostly blonde at the top.

How do I say that in French?  All I could do was point to a box of foils sitting on the counter, and I mimicked Steph, weaving a finger through a strand of hair, and Mme Astrid understood, opening the foils, saying, "Le meche, oui, il est plus naturel."  I then tried to ask for two colors, but Mme Astrid only looked confused, so we left it at one.

I walked out of Mme Astrid's salon a little less brunette and a little more blonde, but the grey was once again nicely camouflaged and my ends were once again the same length.

The next time I needed a 'do I was in Barcelona, in the southeast corner of Spain, a region called Catalonia.  This is where I discovered that the Catalan language is not Spanish.  Fortunately, the word "meche" means the same thing in Catalonia as it does in France, so I did get grey-camouflaging color woven in with foils.  There was a bit of miscommunication with trimming up a long layer, though, so I walked out with not just blonder, but also shorter tresses.  Oh, well, it'll grow out.

Todd had been getting regular cuts throughout Europe, with consistently good results.  Only the last one was a drastic change for him.  Todd came home from the barber in Gouda, Netherlands with not his customary James Bond-looking style, but instead with a buzzed high-n-tight.  He said to me, "I think probably everybody who goes to that barber gets this same cut."  Oh, well, it'll grow out.

TIPS for successful future haircuts while in a non-English-speaking place:

1. Research words in the local language that describe what you want before you go.  
2. Bring a photo of what you want your hair to look like.
3. Remember, it'll grow out!

Ahnu, Nike, Rieker, Ecco, I love you!!! (Comfortable shoes can save your marriage)

I used to have a daily goal of walking 10,000 steps.  Thanks to my desk job, this was often (annoyingly) a challenge; even when I'd go 3 miles at lunch with coworkers, I would sometimes have to add an after-dinner walk before my pedometer would reach the magic number.

But I felt like I had pretty good walking legs - ready for all-day adventures!  The first couple of weeks after arriving in Europe, my dogs were barking by mid-afternoon, and I often came perilously close to violating our "no whining while in Europe" agreement a few times - such a travesty would surely have resulted in a hasty divorce.  I remembered to put on my pedometer after a week or so, and imagine my surprise when these numbers appeared on the display, again and again:

  

In Europe, you just walk.  A lot.  Even taking public transportation involves plenty of foot power: a half mile from your hotel to the metro station; 300 meters down to the train; 1/4 mile to change from the red line to the yellow line; 100 steps back up to street level; then three blocks to the castle where, of course, you'll be on your feet for the next couple of hours touring the structure.

Big cities like London, Dublin, Munich and Paris are veritable outdoor museums.  So, too, are the small hamlets.  You have only to make your way into the "old town" area to be surrounded by historic buildings, ancient architecture, famous monuments, gorgeous gardens.  And, of course, the best way to see it all is on foot.  And if you don't have the right footwear (like I didn't), you might really suffer for it (like I did).

Early on in our European journey,  I mostly wore a pair of Naturalizers flats, but the arch support broke down and they began to give me blisters after only three weeks of wear.

Ready to roll in my Ahnu boots

I'd also brought with me a really excellent pair of Ahnu hiking boots: lightweight, uber comfortable, perfect for tromping through vineyards. But they look pretty dorky under a skirt or khaki slacks in the city.  Also in my suitcase are my black Nike Free running shoes.  Again, comfy, but I'm not Punk Girl enough to look cool wearing them with a dress.

So I had a good excuse to indulge in a bit of shoe shopping.

Among his many travel tips, travel guru Rick Steves recommends Ecco walking shoes, a fact I conveniently remembered as I was hobbling past the Ecco shop.  Todd and I each bought a pair (no, not the same model!) and we both agree they were an excellent investment.  I wear my black patent leather Ecco "Mary Jane's" with just about everything, in all-day comfort.

Rieker flats

For variety, I later picked up a pair of Rieker flats.  They are so comfortable and light, I hardly feel them on my feet.  Plus, they are easy to pack because they're very low-profile.  But the thin sole is scarce insulation against hot pavement, so I wear these shoes only in moderate temps.

Even on a long European trek, you don't need to be Imelda Marcos in order to keep your tootsies happy.  Just wear comfortable shoes, and you'll enjoy all the fabulous sights Europe offers you, without worrying (or whining) about how far you might walk to see them.  And your marriage will be intact.

Schengen who?

Last year when we were planning our extended tour of Europe, I stumbled across the term "Schengen rules."  The what?  I had to Google "Schengen" to discover that the Schengen Agreement (named for the city in Luxembourg where the agreement was signed) "...allows unrestricted trade and common visa policy among member countries."  This saves the governments money by greatly reducing border controls, and makes it easy for Europeans to travel within Europe.  It also acts as immigration control by limiting the length of time non-Eropean Union (EU) passport holders can legally be anywhere within the whole Schengen area to 90 days in every 180 days.  Good for Europeans; annoying for Americans like me wanting an extended visit.

In the late 1980's, I remember stopping at the border for immigration control driving from Germany to the Netherlands.  My military ID was scrutinized, my car license plate number recorded.  I won't have to stop now, because Germany and the Netherlands are both Schengen countries.

26 countries are now in the Schengen area. But it's anything but simple to follow.  Most participating countries are in the European Union, but some, like Iceland and Norway, are outside the EU.  And not all of the EU nations participate; Ireland and the UK have opted out, yet others like Croatia have not opted out and may apply.  (See the full list of 26 Schengen Area Member States here.)  To further complicate matters, not all Schengen countries use the Euro for currency, and some countries that do have the Euro are not part of Schengen.

This all has to do with immigration, not money and not customs (which deals with things, not people.)

Schengen really wants our visits to be "short term" (so foreigners do not try to get jobs that should be had by Europeans).  You can parse up the 90 days however you want to, but the 90-days clock starts the moment your passport is stamped in a Schengen country.  The 90-days clock will reset 180 days later.

This is actually pretty generous when you compare immigration and visa restrictions of other countries.  For example, foreign visitors to the US can stay up to 90 days in one year without a visa.  Brazil, Argentina and Costa Rica all allow 90 days.  One cannot go to China or Russia at all without an advance visa.  Egypt requires a tourist visa which is valid only for 30 days.

It is technically possible to stay in Europe longer than 90 days without breaking the law, if you're willing to hop in and out of Schengen countries.  For example:

• Start in France for 30 days (the 90/180-day clock starts) = 60 Schengen days remain/150 days left to clock restart
• England (non-Schengen) 30 days = 60 Schengen days remain/120 days left to clock restart
• Spain 30 days = 60/90 
• Morocco (non-Schengen) 30 days = 60/60, etc. 

With careful planning and an accurate calendar count, a visitor could remain in Europe indefinitely, without a visa.  Granted, this is impractical, and expensive.

What happens to visitors who intentionally overstay?  Among the unpleasant possible consequences are an expensive fine, a visa record making it really, REALLY tough to get a visa later, deportation, and/or they may be barred from re-entry into any Schengen country for a period of 1-5 years.  There is no "standard" penalty; it all depends on the country and the mood of the border agent who catches the violator.

We began our European travels with 5 weeks in Ireland and the UK (non-Schengen countries), and the past 2 months in Schengen countries.  We haven't yet decided whether we will extend our time in Schengen Europe by spending more time in non-Schengen countries.  But if we do not, we must leave and stay out of the Schengen area until our 180-day clock re-starts, or else risk penalty for violating the 90-day rule.

I'm thinking that Croatia looks good this time of year...

How Not to Embarrass Yourself Whilst Getting Around the UK

It’s one thing to drive on the left ("wrong") side of the road; it’s quite another to add a manual transmission with the stick shift also on the “wrong” side.  Opting to  save our marriage, we elected other modes of travel in the UK, leaving the stress of a driving lesson for another visit.

We moved from Dublin across Ireland to Galway via bus. Bus is a popular mode of transport; they are clean, quiet, and generally reliable.  We also took the local bus from Galway to visit nearby towns. We found the local drivers to be helpful and friendly, and its easy to enjoy the countryside from high up in a bus.

Ferry across the Irish Sea

We left Ireland on an Irish Ferries high speed boat from Dublin, crossing the Irish Sea to land in Holyhead, Wales in under two hours.  

Holyhead was a pleasant surprise; we’d expected a peninsula empty but for an industrial-looking port and a couple of hotels.  What we found was a modern port and train station, an adorable town, and a gorgeous coastline uncrowded by tourists.  (By-the-way, Holyhead is on an island, attached to the rest of Wales by bridges.  We crossed one on a train the next day.)  Our inn was near enough to the port/train station to easily make our way on foot, even dragging our luggage.

Inside our carriage

Our introduction to VirginRail (“Virgin”, as in Richard Branson’s company -  it’s not just an airline!) was a 7-car train that departed Holyhead at 9 the next morning.  The station was as you’d imagine - have your ticket, look on the board for your train, drag your luggage to the right platform, wait for the train to arrive, get on the train.  The cars on our train were unmarked, so our reserved seat in “D” carriage was a mystery until Todd asked an employee.  This train’s “A” car was at the back end; “D” car was three ahead of it, with “H” being the First Class carriage located directly behind the engine.  Reserved seats were marked with a ticket tucked into the headrest; anybody on the train without a reserved seat could sit at any seat not marked with a Reserved ticket.**  We took advantage of this “open” seating rule five minutes into our journey, as our seats had no window, so we moved for a better view.  Also, at our train change, when a family with a fussy baby settled in directly across from us, we moved to another, quieter carriage.

Tram, Edinburgh

The train stopped at several stations on the way to Edinburgh, and our picturesque journey took about 5 hours.  There was a snack car where we purchased reasonably-priced (and surprisingly fresh and tasty) sandwiches, potato chips, fruit, cookie bars and bottled water.  Soft drinks, liquor, wine and beer were also available.  The train was comfortable, clean and bright, with roomy seats in three configurations (side-by-side forward-facing; side-by-side backward-facing; and tables with two seats forward facing and two across the table facing backward), uncrowded and quite pleasant.  Near the entrance to each car were shelves for our larger luggage, with overhead racks for smaller pieces as on an airplane.  (The gentleman seated across from us was on his way to cycle across Scotland; he told us you can store your bicycle at one end of the carriage.)  Our carriage also had a large, clean, full-room sized restroom, complete with an audio recording reminding visitors of toilet etiquette a la typical British humor.  Once in motion, 15 minutes of free wifi was available (after which you had to purchase wifi for the rest of the journey.)  

**Not all trains have open seating, as we discovered on another trip.  We didn't like our assigned, backward-facing seats.  Directly ahead of us was a table seating arrangement, empty.  We waited until one minute before departure time to move to the forward-facing table seats when, just then, you guessed it, a harried French family with two small children rushed into the carriage and angrily stared us down; we were clearly occupying their spot.  Oops.  Note to self: On TGV trains, assume that all seats are assigned and do not move to unoccupied seats until the train is in motion. 

Also of note, train stations in the UK are typically fabulous works of architecture and history, and I couldn't help but snap a few photos along our journey. 

Inside a tube station

Riding the Tube

London is a fabulous walking town, and the tube (underground metro rail) is a great way to get around, though there are also plenty of taxis.  We took one of the old-fashioned-looking black cabs, just for the ride.  But mostly we walked and took the tube.

Those with automobiles can drive from England to France through the Chunnel (that's the Channel Tunnel from the UK to France, under the English Channel), or take a ferry.  We had no car and opted for the train.

Our Eurostar train from London to Lille, France was a TGV (high speed train).  The international train station at King’s Cross/St. Pancras felt quite like an airport; ticket holders went through immigration and security, and we waited together for the announcement that our train could be boarded.  Once on our carriage, things felt a bit more formal than on the VirginRail train, but still roomy, clean, quiet and comfortable.  This train was fast - our journey to the continent sped by in under 90 minutes, and I fell asleep in the Chunnel.

So if you don't want to fly, trains, cars, public busses, inter-city rail, bicycles and boats are other options for getting around the UK.  I recommend trying them all!

London

Behind Todd, you can see tarps and scaffolding on Parliament

London Bridge really isn't falling down, but you might think it is based on the amount of construction equipment around it.

Its no secret that I believe London is one of the coolest cities in the world.  The first time I laid eyes on Big Ben overlooking the gothic spires of Parliament 10 years ago, London shot to the top of my Best Places list.  But this visit, I was a bit less enchanted with England's capital.

Not so attractive view from our apartment

First off, rents have escalated as demand has increased in an already expensive city; nothing in our price range was available anywhere near Westminster, where we have stayed before and wanted to be again. Where we ended up was, well, I won't say it was the least attractive neighborhood in London...  Alarmingly, wifi was absent in the building.  Worse, there were no nearby pubs to pop into for a neighborly pint.  Inconveniently, we had to hop on the DLR (extension of the tube) and change to the tube in order to get someplace we'd even want to walk around.  (Chalk that up to a lesson learned: stay in a place where, when you walk out the door, you're happy to be right there.)

Construction cranes

More cranes

More construction

Secondly, and most annoying, it seems half the city is torn up or under construction.  It was hard to frame a photograph free of building materials.  Many of our favorite strolls (including along the Themes between Tower Bridge and Parliament) were blocked by construction barriers.  Beautiful facades and historic edifices throughout the city were obscured by tarps and scaffolding.  A once gorgeous skyline was marred by dozens of huge cranes as old stone buildings were being replaced by towering, modern glass and metal structures.  Plus, there were a lot of tube station closures due to maintenance, further disrupting and eating precious time from our daily journeys.  Add to that the cacophony of construction-related noises everywhere you turn, and it sometimes became near drudgery to move around portions of the city.

Oh, I get that such construction indicates strong infrastructure and investment and jobs and booming economy, and I expect to encounter maintenance of centuries old structures, it was just a bit overwhelming that so much of it was happening throughout this grand city, all at once.


But, what was intact in London was very fine indeed!  The stunning British Museum is free to enter.  A gigantic and well endowed institution, we spent several hours in only the Egyptian and Greek history galleries, leaving most of the museum for future visits.  The Mall leading to Buckingham Palace, fantastically curved Regent Street, numerous pubs, Selfridges on Oxford Street, public gardens, and various corners around the city remain delightful, picturesque and blissfully free of construction.  Pubs and beer are abundant, numerous stately churches and cathedrals are available to visit, plus, the normal touristy spots (the London Eye, The Globe Theatre, Tower of London, etc.) are emphatically open for business.

So, overall, it's never bad to be in London.  But, next time I visit this wondrous city will be after many of those cranes have gone.

Crane skyline

This sign was EVERYWHERE!

Nice view! except for those cranes.

Inside the British Museum

The Mall

Random passengers on the Tube

Dome of St. Paul's Cathedral

The partially completed skyscraper "The Shard"

Regent Street

Storm brewing outside Parliament

Go right now!

If you like to eat good food (and who doesn't?), stop what you're doing!  Hold everything!  Grab the nearest airplane/bus/train/boat/car/horse and go to The Old Barracks in Athenry, County Galway, Ireland right this minute!

The Old Barracks Restaurant

The Old Barracks is a charming, homey restaurant which is firstly a bakery.  So when you walk in through the yellow doorframe, you at once inhale the most wonderful aromas of baking cakes and breads, fragrant arabica coffee, tea, and melting chocolate.  You involuntarily linger here as you stroll toward the dining room, past the fresh artisan breads and rolls on wood shelfs to your left, and the colorful display of decadent desserts behind glass on your right.

The Dominican Priory

The restaurant is cozy and down-homey, complete with a fireplace, paned windows at the front overlooking the street, and large framed photographs of hens, pigs, cows and roosters along the walls, interspersed between shelves adorned with hand-painted teapots and other homey sundries.

The ancient priory and cemetery

The place is busy, and the service is good.  When we first walked in, a few minutes before lunchtime, half the tables were already occupied.  Before our lunch was served, there was a queue of knowing people, mostly school-uniformed teenagers, patiently waiting for a table.

Model of the original walled city of Athenry

After but a short wait, I was served the hands-down best vegetable soup I've ever tasted.  I tried to identify all of the flavors of this pureed delight, but picked out only the perfectly roasted medley of green beans, carrots, butternut squash and red peppers, before I didn't really care anymore what was in it, I just wanted more!  A variety of thickly sliced, dense, soft, brownbreads and a salad of small, bright green and flavorful wild leafs that might have just been plucked out of a field completed my lunch.

Todd cleaned his plate of the traditional Ploughman's lunch: meats, cheeses, eggs, salad, fruit and brown bread served on a traditional wood plate.

And, oh! the Banoffi!  Todd ordered our dessert: a thick graham crust drizzled with caramel, topped with sliced banana, thick whipped cream, and shaved dark chocolate.  I normally have one or two spoons full of dessert, but I kept up with Todd to the last bite of this one!

With our hunger completely satiated, we wandered around the darling village of Athenry, which claims to be the oldest still-standing medieval town in Ireland.  80% of the town's original wall built in the early 1200's still stands, as well as parts of five of its six original towers, a castle dating back to 1240, and the glorious ruins of an ancient Dominican priory founded in 1241.  A friendly volunteer at the Athenry Heritage Center happily recanted the town's history, and told us it is possible to follow the perimeter of the entire wall on foot, although parts of it are in people's backyards (!?!).  We started at the priory and walked one length of the ancient wall, where three large cows were sunning in what once would have been a water-filled moat.

Athenry and the best vegetable soup you'll ever have at The Old Barracks (and a castle.  A CASTLE!) are well worth the six-hour flight from the U.S., three hour trip from Dublin, and 20 minute bus ride from Galway.  Believe me.

Athenry Castle

Walls and tower near the Castle

Cows lounging near the ancient wall