Writing It Down Now So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Dublin and Beyond

Our trip to Europe played against type for the most part. While it rained for most of our time in Paris and Vienna, our three days in normally wet and gloomy Ireland saw nothing but sunshine and blue skies.

It is at this point that I must share something intensely personal (spoiler alert - there is much more of this to come). World travel is not like in the movies, where you meet a tall dark stranger who whisks you away to an island paradise*. Yes, destinations can be glamorous and beautiful, but everyday problems still occur that must be dealt with.

* Surprise - he's going to hunt you for sport!

And that is why, despite warm weather, charming people and breathtaking scenery (and Guinness), what I will remember most from our time in Ireland was the battle raging in my pants, that of thighs vs. chafing. And chafing was taking it to my thighs like Georgia Tech to Cumberland.

Each day in Dublin was an exercise in futility. We'd set out in the morning, and 12 steps from our hotel I was already forced to walk like a man trying to hold a yardstick between my knees. Our dystopian future may end up with us egg-shaped and riding around on scooters, but at least we won't need to carry a metric ton of baby powder with us everywhere we go.

That said, I have to admit that I have buried the lead (Thigh chafing wasn't the lead?) to this point.

There is a reason why it took me this long to recap the last part of our journey, and that is because the end of our trip will be forever linked in my mind with what came directly after.

While in Dublin, Hilary's mood began to change. She was tired. She craved Wagamama. Her boobs hurt, she said.

To each complaint, I jokingly said, "Maybe you're pregnant."

"Ha," she said.

We returned home to the states on a Friday. On Sunday, still grumpy, tired, and boob-hurty, Hilary took a pregnancy test, and this time I was present for the occasion. And what do you know? My boys could swim again!

The first time we found out we were pregnant, I was equal parts excited and terrified. This time, knowing at least what it's like on the other side, I was mostly excited. Although in the weeks since I've noticed that the finish line somehow keeps moving.

Before we had kids, I would always hear parents say how much their lives changed after they started a family. I was nervous about giving up so much of myself and my free time, but in the nearly two years that we've had Jamie we've managed to find an equilibrium.

So it's been disheartening to hear parents now let us in on the information that really, one kid is a breeze. "Just wait until you have two," they say, "then things really get hectic."

All this time I thought we'd cleared the final hurdle, and now you're telling me the race hasn't even begun?

Not cool.

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Some people might not take kindly to new information that threatens to turn their lives upside down.

Apparently, I am one of them.

In the immediate aftermath of finding out we were bringing another piece of inventory into the Jewish camping system (as my dad likes to say), my body held a closed door meeting to discuss the news.

After a heated exchange, my appendix decided this was more than it could stomach** and tendered its resignation effectively immediately, no two weeks notice given.

** I know. I couldn't resist.

For the entirety of my adult life, getting appendicitis has been my biggest non-plane-crash-related fear. Literally, any time I would have even a modicum of discomfort in my abdomen, I'd immediately worry that my appendix was about to burst.

Everyone I've spoken with since this happened has found this fact hilarious. "What's wrong with you that you're so afraid of appendicitis?" they snicker.

To which I say, NO - what is wrong with YOU that you aren't MORE afraid of it?

Our appendices are ticking time bombs people. They refuse to go gentle into that good night. Nay, they rage - rage against the dying of the light! They can go at any moment, for any reason, often having nothing to do with finding out your wife is with child.

I have heard too many horror stories about people with appendicitis experiencing intense stomach pain, projectile vomiting, and high fevers***. What fun! But hey, at least if it goes untreated for like 24 hours it can become toxic and potentially life-threatening!

*** But no thigh-chafing, so I suppose that's a plus.

I refuse to believe this is an irrational fear. It is rati-fucking-nal. But I digress. The point of this diatribe is to say that barely 24 hours after finding out Hilary was knocked up, I was in the emergency room getting prepped to have my appendix removed.

And yet - after all the flop sweat I wasted over the years on the subject, it turned out to be likely the most mundane case of appendicitis on record.

In summary: I felt sort of off, Hilary made me grudgingly go to the minute clinic, they sent me on to the hospital, and the next day I was sans appendix, without ever feeling pain any worse than say a really annoying hangnail.

Truly, the worst part of the whole experience by FAR was the trump card it gave Hilary regarding health care. I'm not sure what the expiration date is for her being able to hold this over my head. How long until the end of all time and space? That, plus maybe a few weeks added on for good measure.

If you're still reading at this point, you are probably long past wondering why I am including any of this in what is supposed to be a recap of our trip to Ireland, but for me the discovery of the pregnancy (holy shit!) and the appendicitis (HOLY SHIT!) will forever be inseparable from the memories I have of the Emerald Isle.

We hoped that our trip to Europe would be our last hurrah before a large change in the family dynamic, and while from a logistical standpoint (earmuffs kids) I don't think we have any reason to name our kids Eiffel or Erin Go Bragh, I like to think it provided a wonderful close of chapter, a tentpole experience to help demarcate the years as they inevitably begin to smush together.

Plus, I no longer have to worry about appendicitis. Kidney stones, I guess it's your time to shine.

Writing It Down Now So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Vienna

The hills are alive

Vienna marked the first place on our trip that I hadn't been before. There is always some trepidation when you arrive in a new city/country -- what if they don't speak English? What if we can't find our hotel? And what if they don't speak English?

Fortunately, we found Vienna to be remarkably friendly and easy to navigate. Or at least we did after we spent 3 rain-soaked hours walking around cursing at unintelligible street signs (I curse you, random German B letter!) trying to find a cafe a friend recommended to us. After that though? A delight!

Travel is about many things to me: exploring history, observing different cultural norms, obsessively scouring for pickpockets. More than anything, it is the extrapolation of my general outlook on life. Namely, if you allow natural twists and turns to take place, sometimes awesome things will happen. For every fruitless 3-hour search for Babette's Cafe (they weren't even serving food when we got there Richie, you sonofabitch), there are the two memories that stand out for me from our time in Austria.

Memory 1: Exhausted on our second night, we decided to head to bed early after dinner. On our way back to our hotel, we happened to hear what everyone goes to Austria for - the sound of music (eh?). Hilary and I aren't big concert-goers, and we had to get up early the next morning for a bike tour (more on that shortly), but our curiosity led us to investigate. We followed the sound for several blocks then came upon a free concert, where a band was finishing up a cover of "Folsom Prison Blues". It was the last song of their set, but we decided to stick around to see if any other bands were going to play. As we were deciding whether or not to call it a night, we noticed the band that had just played leading a group of people, Pied-Piper like, into an alleyway to perform a more intimate encore.

We joined the group and formed a circle around the band, who proceeded to sing a song we'd never heard of but were certain was a cover of some popular Alt-Folk-Rock band like Avett Brothers or Mumford and Sons or Maclemore. It was an awesome performance, and a great song, and if we'd just headed home we'd have missed the whole thing.

Thanks to the glory that is the internet, you don't even have to imagine the performance in your head. Someone posted the whole thing on YouTube!


Here's a different version of the song, "Nine-to-Five" by Nowhere Train, which will forever be the soundtrack to all my memories of this vacation.

Memory #2: The next day we went on a bike tour of the Wachau Valley, a famous wine region of Austria.

Sidebar: My friends and family most often make fun of me (to my face anyway - I can't vouch for what they say behind my back so much, at least not until I finish bugging all of their houses) for never being properly dressed for any occasion. If everyone else is wearing coat and tie, I'm in a dress shirt at best. What can I say, I like to be comfortable.

I assumed a bike tour in June would make for a lot of sweating, so I dressed in a dry-fit shirt and mesh shorts. Little did I realize it would be 50 degrees and rainy, allowing me to fulfill what I like to call Yanover's Law: No matter the weather, there will always be one idiot in shorts. In this case, idiot = me.

Repping Texas. Always repping Texas.

Our tour was scheduled as an all-day affair, with our group riding between several different villages along the Danube to sample various wineries. However, one village/winery into the trip, we were informed the river was starting to flood (it turned out to be the start of the worst flooding in Central Europe in a decade). We were going to have to cut our trip short and turn back.

This was disappointing news to be sure (even though I was freezing my tits off), but what could we do? You can't fight Mother Nature.

And so our wine and biking tour ended, but a new one soon began: Wasting Time And Getting To Know A Bunch of Strangers While Stuck At A Restaurant And Then On A Train Back to Vienna. They really should come up with a better name. There were 12 of us, comprised of 4 Americans, 2 Russians, 2 Norwegians, 2 South Africans, and 2 Hong Kongians (Hong Kongites? Chinese?), plus our Dutch tour guide.

I would love to recount the hilarious conversations we had, but as is typical with these things, you had to be there.*

*Hang on, let me check YouTube. Nothing ... yet.

Oh screw it, I'll recount one. One of our Russian compatriots spent about 30 minutes of the train ride back trying to convince us that there were kangaroos in Austria, based on having seen signs in some stores that said "No Kangaroos Allowed".** I'll assume they were joke signs playing off the similarities between Austria and Australia, but either way he could not be talked off of it, getting more and more exasperated at our unwillingness to believe him as time wore on.

** Internet check again and bam. No Kangaroos.

So, life, lemons, lemonade, and all that.

What I took away most of all from the unexpected change of itinerary was a general feeling of brotherhood with my fellow man. It is so easy to become depressed when watching, oh, all of the news, but actually spending quality time with people from other countries is a great reminder that we really do have a lot in common, and can get along pretty easily when given the opportunity. I was freezing and soaked, yet I felt warmer than at any other point on our vacation.

Also, it is awesome that everyone else has to learn to speak English, it's a real perk of being American.

Writing It Down So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Paris

My grandfather has always told me that anytime I travel I should write down my memories, that way I'll always have a record of my journeys to look back on later in life. Like most advice given by my elders, I've completely ignored it - until today.

Having a kid has taught me, among many other lessons, that you truly have to cherish your opportunities to travel and see the world, because they come fewer and further between now that SOMEBODY has to be home to feed the little bastard all the time.

So in an effort to keep a record of our trek to Europe, I am going to try to file at least one missive from each portion of our journey. This is Paris.

I don't feel the need to rehash the entirety of our time in France; rather I think a snippet of one of the days will adequately sum up all of the thrills and frustrations that come with being a stranger in a strange land.

We had been told by a friend that there was an excellent falafel place in Paris called L'as Du Falafel. I realize Paris is known for food that is much hoitier and/or toitier, but in my experience, where there is falafel there is often also shawarma, and I made a deal with myself long ago that if shawarma were within a 10-mile radius of my mouth, it'd soon be in my stomach as well.

We went to L'as Du Falafel for lunch on Wednesday, and while standing in line for it, I found myself in a familiar setting. I recognized someone I knew.

Note: This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I have run into former campers at the Vatican, a former girlfriend's college roommate in Nice, and once, in Prague, a girl I had met at a high school retreat for one goddamn weekend in 10th grade (It may seem quite ridiculous that I would remember/recognize her, but to be fair, her first name was Hart. Hard to forget someone like that when you are me.). At this point, running into people I know all over the world is a trivial experience, much akin to the surprise I get when I win a dollar on a scratch and win lottery ticket.

Therefore, it was no surprise that standing in line for falafel was a girl I went to college with -- not even someone I was especially friendly with, just one of the multitude of Jewish girls at Texas that vomited in their mouths at the thought of hanging out with my fraternity. Not that I am bitter. All kidding aside, it was nice to see her and catch up for a few minutes, and while the "holy shit" factor of crossing paths so randomly with someone has worn off, it really is one of the warmest feelings you get when traveling.

That warm feeling was immediately followed by one of the coldest feelings you get when traveling -- getting solicited. It's truly one of the worst parts of being an American abroad. You are almost instantly recognizable and generally seen as a giant walking dollar sign. Or Euro. Whatever.

The falafel stand is right in the midst of the Jewish section of town, which in this case meant our solicitor was not selling Eiffel Tower replicas or handbags, he was selling something I'm even less interested in -- orthodox religion*.

* It is here I must give my standard disclaimer that everyone should feel free to believe and observe what they like, but I have particuar disdain for the fundamentalist sects of every religion, who often feel the need to lecture you on how you are doing it all wrong. GOOD. I'M GLAD I AM. NOW LET ME SIN IN PEACE.

As we ate, a Chasid with no regard for personal space entered ours to ask if we wanted to lay tefillin. We politely said no, and hoped that would be the end of it, but solicitors are not ones to take no for an answer, at least not the first several times. So he asked us if we were Jewish, which, thinking quickly and hoping to avoid an endlessly drawn out situation that no matter how it goes down does NOT end in me laying tefillin, I simply said, "No."

This caught him by surprise. "You're not Jewish?" he asked.

"Nope." I said.

"I could have sworn you were Jewish," he said, rightly assuming that any American eating at a falafel stand in fucking Paris is probably a member of the tribe.

"Sorry," I said. "B'Hatzlacha!"

Kidding! I didn't say that, but I wouldn't have felt any shame if I had. I am proud of my Jewish heritage, but the ends justify the means, and in this case the ends of eating my delectable shawarma undisturbed far outweighed any remorse I might have for baldly** lying right to someone's face. Also, to be fair, I'm pretty sure by his definition I'm not a Jew anyway, so I think we're all good here. 

** I suppose every lie I tell is done baldly.

After lunch Hilary and I headed to Montmarte to see Sacre' Coeur and walk around the artist colony. On our way up to the church, I saw a group of men trying to sell bracelets, and knew we'd have to get by them to reach our destination. One approached me, and once again any respect for my personal space went right out the window. I tried to change directions, but he beat me to it and began to try to forcibly put a bracelet on my arm.

I literally had to yank my arm free from him, and heard my self angrily say, "Please don't touch me!"

It's probably the angriest I've spoken to anyone outside my immediate family since I told Amy Cohen to PLEASE shut the fuck up when everyone was trying to nap on the last day of camp one summer. Both of them had it coming.

I'm curious how successful that level of aggression is as a sales tactic, but I had no interest in sticking around to find out. At least he didn't want me to lay tefillin.

As it turns out, traveling is a lot like being a parent. There are moments of sheer joy and wonder, but you often times have no idea what you are doing and you are constantly suspicious that someone is trying to steal your wallet.