Partly serenissima. Partly deliziosamente bizzaro. Partly magnifico.

When we decided to get tickets to a masked ball for Carnivale in Venice, I didn't really know what to expect. 

We had decided to take another big trip. It had been a while, and we wanted something fabulous.

So we made a plan to go to Italy in February, over the week of my birthday and, coincidentally, over Venetian Carnival, which I didn't ever know was the OG carnival celebration. 

The plan was Venice, where I had never been (Greg had, of course). Skiing in the Dolomites, which I had never done (Greg had, of course). And then impromptu tooling around for a couple of days without a set destination (which is the way Greg prefers to travel).

Carnival meant we should try to attend a masked ball. I had visions of elegant people in fabulous costumes in opulent rooms with plush furniture and a buffet that looked like something out of a movie about life at Versailles. Dancing a quadrille. Maybe to the music of a string quartet. 

And given the price of the tickets, it was not an unreasonable notion.

We bought clothes and wigs. A big dress and a big crinoline for me. A coat (I don't remember what you call that kind of coat) and pants (I don't remember what you call those kinds of pants) for Greg. We got the masks in Venice. It was quite fun and exciting.

Dressing up is fun! Costumes are fun! Venice is fun!  

It felt very appropriate. The night we arrived, we checked into our hotel and strolled around the beautiful rainy streets of Venice, and were delighted by all of the people walking around in extraordinarily beautiful, fancy costumes. 

Back when Venice was its own republic, it's official name was La Serenissima de Venezia - the most serene. That's what it felt like on that late night stroll after an extremely long day of travel. 

Our costumes were cheap ones we ordered on Amazon - it didn't make sense to pay hundreds of dollars to buy them ((even renting the fancy ones was crazy spendy). We still looked awesome, as far as I was concerned. 

On the night of the event, we first went to hear some classical music - Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which was lovely. Then we went and got some dinner. We were fully in costume, which many passers-by found charming, and then headed over to the venue.

It ended up being enormously entertaining. 

We walked in and up a very wide, grand staircase. So far, so good.

Then we walked into a grand room. There were very few people, most of whom were not talking and were sitting on sofas on the side of the room. Occasionally some would get up and walk around in a very stilted stylized way. The vibe was weird. 

As you can see, in the far corner there was a sad clown jester. He was weirdly dancing and keeping time by hitting a tambourine that appeared to be hidden in his pants over his groin. 

Oh, and all of this was happening to the piano accompaniment to ABBA's "Chiquitita."

It was at this point that Greg and I started laughing hysterically. 

Immediately people started looking at us as if we were the most vulgar, inappropriate people they had every seen. We tried to laugh quietly, but they continued to be very disapproving. 

After a while, I had a realization. 

"I think I know what's going on," I said to Greg. "I think these people are participating in this unironically. They don't see what's so funny or bizarre about it."

We tried to stifle our laughs.

Over time, the room, which did not have open windows or any other discernable ventilation, began to heat up. It became quite oppressive.

Which is when they brought in the next episode of entertainment - a belly dancer who played with fire. Exactly what you want in an unventilated room that is eleventy-billion degrees.

We watched (and giggled) for a little while, then I got to the point of being so seriously overheated that I needed to get some cooler air.

Downstairs we went out on a little landing that was right on a canal. The air was cool and the lights were shining on the water.

Venice is so beautiful.  

After a little while people were herded downstairs and into a tiny, unventilated room playing club music. I vogued because, much to Greg's delight, I am incapable of not cheesing it up.

Eventually the organizers abruptly kicked everyone out and we made our way back to the hotel. We walked over the Rialto bridge in the middle of the night and took pictures with a drunk lady who was delighted by our costumes and who came close to passing out with her head on my shoulder. 

We made our way back to our hotel where I managed to figure out a way to watch the last half of the Super Bowl on my phone. 

Pretty much a perfect night. 

Serene. Delightfully bizarre. Magnificent.

No backpacks, dahlink. And would you like some creamed cod, a typical northern Italian dish?

It's weird to be with someone who has traveled more than I have, by a long shot. 

I'm used to being the worldly one. It's been over thirty years since I left the peripatetic lifestyle of my childhood, during which I lived in 5 different countries before graduating from college, and travelled to many others. I still see myself as a world traveler. In a group of non-Foreign Service brats, I'm usually the one who has been everywhere.

So dating Greg has been an eye-opener, and somewhat humbling. 

He has been everywhere. His everywhere far exceeds my everywhere.

Whenever we plan a trip, it's always an exercise in whittling down options to places he hasn't visited. And we rarely succeed.

With our first trip together in the spring of 2021, when there were still lots of COVID restrictions in place, I said, "what about driving down the PCH? I've never done that." 

"Oh, I've done that. I did it with an old girlfriend. We argued a lot."

"OK. How about a road trip through Idaho? It's so beautiful and I've never been."

"I did that a couple of years ago."

We've gone through multiple rounds of this over the years. Ireland? He's been many times. Prague? Yep. Spain? Claro que si´. Portugal? Indeed. Cambodia and Vietnam? Check. Turkey? Uh-huh.

At some point, I may have said, "oh for fuck's sake."

When we settled on Iceland, I took a certain satisfaction in having been there before, whereas he hadn't. 

With the Alaska cruise, I had been to Alaska to run a marathon a million years ago and he had never been, so that was another check in my ledger.

That's where the list ends. But I can get a leg up if and when we go to Cyprus, Venezuela, Israel, or Egypt.

The good thing is he doesn't mind going places he's already visited. Another good thing is he always has great ideas.

Because of my work schedule, it's easiest for me to take a trip when school isn't in session, i.e., in June after the school year ends, or over winter break. But winter break is a particularly expensive time to travel.

A few weeks ago, we were spitballing about winter trip options, and he mentioned skiing in Europe. Maybe the Dolomites, and we could also see Venice. 

"Oooooh," I responded. "That sounds amazing!"

I have never skied the Dolomites (or anywhere in Europe). I have never been to Venice. Of course, he has done both, but is happy to go back.

So I started looking at flights and discovered that they were outrageously expensive in December. 

Then I thought, what about later in the winter? Maybe in February over my birthday?

The flights were a third of the December price. 

So that's what we're going to do. We got our tickets three nights ago.

I've started looking into developing a schedule for where we'll be and when. Checking out hotels. 

Greg, on the other hand, likes to wing it as far as making reservations goes.

"I've traveled all over the place and frequently don't make reservations - we can just find something!"

No. 

We will not be doing that. Ever.

He actually suggested that when we were planning our 2021 Iceland trip, during which we would be road-tripping around the country. In one of the only countries in the world that was allowing travel-starved tourists in. Over the summer solstice, which is the high season. Or we could just rent a camper-van.

Again, no. 

I ended up making reservations without telling him. 

For skiing in the Dolomites, the pass gives you access to a bunch of different resorts that are near each other. You can do these incredible tours and ski from resort to resort and town to town.

"Where do you think our home base should be? Which town?" I asked via text. "I can start looking for hotels."

He responded that we'll be skiing from town to town and he'd need to map it out.

I was confused about the logistics.

"Where will we stay? Will we be staying in a different place every night?"

The answer was yes. Under his plan, we would ski with backpacks carrying toiletries, shoes, and a change of clothes.

In my head, I was Gary Coleman. Whatchu talkin bout Greg.

"Where will we put our other stuff?"

"A locker." 

"A locker where? I don't understand."

"Any hotel or train station."

No.

So today I went online and found a company that will transfer your luggage from hotel to hotel in the various ski towns. I don't want to ski while carrying around my clothes and toiletries and shoes. I don't want to spend three days wearing the same change of clothes. I want to have my stuff and be able to go out for a nice dinner and not look like a shlub. 

He agreed that that would be a viable option, even though he didn't think carrying our stuff in a backpack was a big deal. 

Then he sent me a gif of Zsa Zsa Gabor wearing a fur coat, dripping with diamonds, and drinking in the back of a limo. 

I'll admit that it cracked me up. He's a funny dude.

I dunno. I feel like there's a happy medium between the woman who said, "I've never hated a man enough to give him his diamonds back," and being 53 and skiing with a backpack and traveling like a college kid with a Eurail pass. I'm a grownup, dahlink. 

In any event, we have a solution. 

Now I can fire up my Mango app and start brushing up on my Italian. 

I used Mango to learn Italian six years ago, when my parents went to Lucca for a month after my mom retired from the State Department. It's not a program that is going to take you to fluency, but it's great for learning enough to speak comfortably as a tourist.

As with many language learning apps or books, some lessons focus on a particular sentence or phrase that you work on. Mango's most hilarious offering came in the section when you learn about cooking and food and how to order in a restaurant. 

"Prendo il baccalà mantecato, un piatto tipico del nord italia."

I'll have the creamed cod, a typical northern Italian dish.

At the time, my mom and I were both using Mango to study the language, and the baccala mantecato lessons cracked us up to no end. We would practice speaking with each other and no matter what we started talking about, some how we brought it around to creamed cod. Which neither of us has ever eaten, largely because it looks and sounds disgusting. I'm not a fan of creamy fish.

Before we go on trips, Greg likes to watch YouTube videos about the places we'll be visiting.  Other people Netflix and chill. We watch YouTube and yell at the people who post boring travel videos.

"No one is interested in the fact that you got the check-in time wrong for your hotel, bozo!"

One of the videos we watched takes you through the nightlife in Cortina d'Ampezzo, one of the ski towns that is supposed to be super fun and have great food. 

Including, the guy said, creamy cod, a dish that is popular in northern Italy.

My eyes grew wide. "Baccalà mantecato! Baccalà mantecato!! A typical northern Italian dish!!!" I exclaimed. 

Greg looked at me like I was deranged. 

I was very excited. 

Nonetheless, I'm not going to be ordering creamed cod when we go to Italy. 

But if I did, I could do it in Italian. 

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

 Yesterday was the last day of school in the school district I work in. My kids' schools get out for summer next week, but as far as I can tell, they stopped doing anything of substance about 2 weeks ago. 

My role in the district involves student matters - special education, discipline, truancy, civil rights matters, the day to day of school administration. 

Which means that the day after the last day of school - today - my workload and my stress levels drop precipitously. Teachers go off-contract and everyone is on vacation. My phone stops ringing. The flow of emails reduces to a trickle. I can work on the stuff that has been sitting on the back burner, but at a leisurely pace. 

It's so nice. It's so chill.

Greg and I are leaving for vacation a week from today. We're going on a cruise from Montreal to Boston.

I truly never saw myself taking cruises on the regular, but this one is going to be awesome. I've never been to either Montreal or Quebec City, and we're going to have time in both cities to sightsee and stroll around and soak up the beauty. We will enjoy the charm of Prince Edward Island and towns in Nova Scotia. Kayaking in Halifax. Hiking in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. Seeing Ali and Josh in Boston. 

The ship itself will be a means of transportation, but with beautiful views and yummy meals and dressing for dinner and being gently rocked to sleep by the movement of the ocean. 

And no cell service. No calls from children asking me for money, no coworkers saying, "I know you're on vacation but I have a question..."

It's romantic and fun and relaxing. 

I need it. It's been a tough year. 

Zeke completely cratered his first semester of high school. It took every bit of effort I had to cajole and nag and cry to get him over the line. 

This semester has been a massive improvement. He is objectively incredibly smart - all he needed to do to get As and Bs was to go to class and pay attention. And he did. It's been an incredible relief.

But he's still a 15-year-old boy. He's mean. He's ornery. He argues about everything. Every day it's a struggle to get him up and out to school on time. He's a slob. 

I love him. He also drives me insane. 

Josie, on the other hand, is easy and delightful. It's like she knows I can only handle one gremlin at a time.

Work is fine, but things are always hectic during the school year. 

So summer is welcome. I'm looking forward to time with Greg, time with the kids paddleboarding at the reservoir, the Boulder shows for Dead & Company's final tour, a visit from college friends, seeing my family at the Outer Banks. I bought a mountain bike to replace the one that got stolen last summer, so I can do some hiking and biking. 

I sent a picture of it to Greg. He said, "let's go to Fruita!" and sent me this:

I do appreciate his confidence in me, even though there's no way in hell I have the skills to do something like that.

More likely, it would be another in a long line of outings with Greg that ends up with me being bruised. There have been a number of falls off the bike - both mountain and road - that resulted in gorgeous bruises on my ass. Taking a tumble while roller-skating and having massive bruises up my hands and arms from putting them down to catch my fall. Getting bumped around on rocks that we climbed while hiking. And of course, the ruptured ACL.

But at this point, it's funny. I'll take it. Life is an adventure.

So yeah. Summer. All good.

Girls on film

I’ve come to the realization lately that when it comes to my age, there is a disconnect between how I feel or how I think I look, and how I actually look, at least as far as younger people are concerned. 

I mean, for the most part, and most of the time, I feel like I look OK and probably a little younger than I am. I’m not down on myself in the looks department. 

Maybe this is helped by the fact that my daughter, who is my lovely and enthusiastic cheerleader, routinely tells me how beautiful she thinks I am and that I look 35, tops. 

“Mom, everyone in my school thinks you’re so pretty.”

“I’m not sure how that could possibly be true given that I know maybe 6 or 7 people in your school, but that’s very nice of you to say.” 

I digress. This is not about whether or not I am pretty. 

What makes me think about this is that when Greg and I are out in public together, we tend to be very affectionate and a little PDA-ish. Not inappropriately so, but it’s there. He often has his arm around my shoulders (probably because with our difference in height, it’s comfortable for him, like leaning on a counter) or we’ll hold hands or give each other the occasional smooch.

I’ll joke that the younger people around us are probably like, “gawd, why are those old people making out? Gross.” 

We went to New Orleans for the week between Christmas and New Year's. We both adore the city, and I was particularly excited because while I have been in recent years, I haven't been there as a tourist since I was 20 years old. It's such a sexy place, and I wanted to go as a grownup with my dude and have a week of fun and romance.

We did all kinds of great touristy stuff. We walked all over the city and rented bikes and rode up to Lake Pontchartrain. We rented a car and went to see a plantation that focuses its historical presentation entirely on slavery (much like the Holocaust museum, it is powerful and astoundingly well done, and it wrecked me emotionally). We went to the World War II museum. We did a riverboat jazz/dinner cruise. We went to a Billy Strings show. We went to the Sugar Bowl.

We also partied non-stop, listening to live music, eating all the things, drinking all the cocktails. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that I ate bread pudding and/or Bananas Foster every day, sometimes more than once. Breakfast was eggs and biscuits and grits and bacon and whatever else I felt like loading onto my plate. Po’boys. Jambalaya. 

Both. Each. 

“Hey, let’s have lunch! Time for a Hurricane!” Or a Sazerac or a Vieaux Carre or a Paloma - you get the idea. 

No lie, by the time we came home, I was so bloated that I looked 5 months pregnant. 

It was totally worth it.

The ultimate party was New Year’s Eve. We bought tickets for the party at The Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street. It’s a great small music venue, and rather than leave the place open to the public as it normally is, they sold tickets to provide music and drinks and fun on New Year’s while also assuring that they would have a reasonable number of people without insane crowds. We put on party clothes, i.e., he wore a shirt with a collar and I put on a dress that showed lots of cleavage, and we danced and took advantage of the open bar and had a blast. 

At least recently - now that I’m old – I haven’t gone to New Year’s Eve parties and the goal is to make it to 10 p.m. so I can call my family when it’s midnight on the East Coast. This year we were out partying until almost 3 in the morning.

  

After we left The Spotted Cat, we walked down Frenchman, smiling and happy and schmoopy. At that point, we were wearing gold top hats.

There were lots of blue and purple lights. We did not eat the magical gum from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that turned Violet Beauregard blue. 

This group of kids (and I say “kids” but they were probably in their mid- to late twenties) passed us and one of them said to us, “oh my god! You guys are gorgeous, and looking way too elegant for this scene!” 

We laughed and thanked them and wished them a happy new year. We chatted with them about the party scene and then mentioned that it was late and time for us old folks to think about packing it in for the night.

“No way! You don’t look old at all!”

“That’s very kind of you. I have a daughter who tells me that but I think she’s just being nice.”

One of them said, “I have an older sister who has kids - you’re not that old! You look fantastic for your age!” 

It reminded me of that scene in Clueless when Cher and Dionne are trying to set up their teachers - who are in their thirties - and they see them flirting on a bench and say, “old people can be so sweet!”

One of them had one of those cute instant cameras that takes mini photos, and they asked if they could take our picture.

"Sure, why not?" we said.

Now, remember how I said that our PDA isn't inappropriate? That's not entirely accurate. Occasionally, for example, Greg will let his hand slide down my back to the point that I might have to point out the obvious - that we're out in public and not invisible.

It happened a few times in New Orleans.

"Still not invisible!" I'd remind him.

Anyway, so the kids on Frenchman Street want to photograph us, and one of the guys said he was a photographer and would pose us.

"Cool! We can finally get a well-composed picture of ourselves instead of relying on selfies!"

I was imagining him having us stand at a certain angle and facing a certain way so that the light hit just right, and it would be worthy of a frame and a prominent place on the mantle.

But then he said, "now Wendy, you face the light pole and hold onto it like you're bracing yourself, and Greg, you hold onto her hips and push up against her from behind like you're ---"

"Wait, what??"

"No really, trust me, it'll be great!"

So he took the picture and it is beyond hilarious. I am holding the lamp post and laughing so hard and Greg is behind me with this huge shit-eating grin and I truly wish I could post it here and show it to you.

But alas, I work for a large public school district and enough people in the community - and their attorneys - know me that I have to be careful. And while the picture really isn't dirty or unfit for public consumption, I'm not putting it up on the internet. If you know me well and have my email or phone number, reach out and I'll send it you. It's so funny.

In any event, we were still not invisible, but I didn't even care. I guess we're not such old fuddy-duddies after all.

Happy New Year!

Fire on the mountain

 "I have a treat for us on Tuesday 11/8," he texted about four weeks ago. "We'd need to leave work early. Can you do it?"

I could. Even though he wouldn't tell me what the treat was. 

A couple of weeks later I asked what kind of clothes I would need. The answers ranged from "little black dress" to "something warm, and make sure you have your ice axe and crampons." 

He also sent me this:

I laughed. He knows me well enough to know not to schedule a night of sleeping in the snow. 

The day we were leaving, I asked, "what's the sleeping situation? What should I bring to sleep in? What about toiletries?"

His response was "toothbrush. Kindle. Scratchy wool negligee." 

So unhelpful.  

Finally I threw some winter boots, warm socks, underwear, PJs, and a sweater into my backpack, and hoped for the best. 

We drove west towards the mountains and turned off to Evergreen and got on the road heading up to Squaw Pass (the same road that killed me in the Triple Bypass). After about 12 miles, we turned off to a very rocky road, bumped along for a bit, and parked in a little clearing. He gave me a big backpack that looked to have a sleeping bag in it. I put on my boots and sweater, took the backpack, and we started walking up the mountain path. I still had no idea what we were doing.

After about a mile and a half, I saw the top of a fire tower peeking over the rise. 

"Is that where we're going? Cool!"

He tried to fake me out again by suggesting that we would be camping on the ground below the fire tower. I put on a game face before he finally acknowledged we were going into the tower.

"You're a good sport," he said.

"That'll be on my tombstone. 'She was always reasonable, fair, and a good sport.'"

What followed exceeded my expectations (a low bar, considering I had no idea what to expect at all). The fire tower is a historic structure maintained by the U.S. Forest Service and they now rent it out to the public. Reservations get booked up months in advance. Greg had been going on the website with the intention of booking something for next year, but then saw that someone had cancelled and there was an opening for November 8. Election night. With a full moon. I was thrilled.

This is what it looked like inside. It was delightful. And the views were insane.

Looking east as the sun sets

We watched the sun set behind the mountains and the moon rise over Denver. We listened to music and drank bourbon and ate onion crackers with stinky cheese and prosciutto. He taught me to play cribbage, which has random, confusing rules. We looked at the stars and the planets (Jupiter was particularly bright). We talked and laughed.

We celebrated being off the grid and off our phones on election night, meaning that if our democracy as we know it was going to be destroyed, we could at least have a last romantic night of blissful ignorance. 

"Like Schrödinger's election!" I said. 

The only wrinkle was the wind. It was blowing extraordinarily hard, whistling fiercely and rattling the windows and keeping me awake. But in the morning, the colors of the sky were gorgeous, and it was worth it.  

And later, when we made it down the mountain and had cell service again, we discovered that the cat was still alive and our democracy would survive. All in all, another perfect night when I didn't want to be anywhere but where I was. 

School's out for summer

I got home from work last week and found Zeke chilling on the couch eating popcorn and watching TV. 

"Heeeeey Wowie," he said, using his pet name for me. 

"Heeeeey Zekey," I responded. "What did you get up to today?"

"I went to the park with some of my friends. We did some skating."

"Nice. Bratwurst dogs and salad OK for dinner?"

"Sure, sounds good."

"Josie? You home?" I yelled up the stairs.

"Hi Mumsie!"

"Good day?"

"Good day!"

Our days are good right now. 

Because my kids attend school (most of the time without an argument) and I work for a school district handling the student matters, summer is a mellow time for all of us. The day after the last day of school, my workload drops off dramatically. June and early July are deader than disco. The teachers and staff are off contract for the summer, the administrators take vacation, and things slow. way down. It's lovely.

For my kids, they are at an age when they can hang out with their friends and fend for themselves, but aren't quite old enough for summer jobs. And after a year that was stressful for a number of reasons, Jason and I decided that with the exception of some overnight camp for Josie and an amazing three week bike ride for Zeke (Portland to the Golden Gate Bridge), they could have an unstructured summer to chill out. 

So for all of us, we're relaxed and happy. We have things to look forward to. Colorado in the summer is amazing. We can have beach days on the lake with the paddleboards. We can go hiking in the mountains. We can go to any of the myriad festivals popping up around the city. I've got two Dead & Company shows next week, and then Greg and I are going on an Alaska cruise in which we have to get dressed up so that we can have dinner with Captain Stubing. Then in late July, we go to the Outer Banks.

In one respect, however, I will not be chilling out. Because I have decided that I'm going to try to ride the Triple Bypass after all. 

When I busted up my knee and particularly when I had my surgery, my assumption was that there was absolutely no way I would be able to do it. The early stages of rehab were painful and difficult. The swelling took a long time to go down. My hamstring ached where they took the graft. 

But then I started getting stronger, and from there, the progress was dramatic. 

The surgery was a little over two months ago. As soon as I was able to, I started a weight lifting program and was doing rides on the Peloton. I started small - 5 and 10 minute rides with almost no resistance. I increased the time and the resistance as I felt stronger and more comfortable. When the PT said I could work out of the saddle, I did that. 

Three weeks ago, I had my 6-week follow up with my surgeon, He said that everything looked great and that I could do as much on the bike and with weights as I could tolerate. 

"Can I ride on my real bike outside?"

"Not yet. Give it another month or so. The ligament is still weak. If you fall or somebody hits you, if you have to stick a leg out to catch yourself, it could be really bad. But inside, go for it. The rule is, if it doesn't hurt, you can do it."

Which got me thinking. 

On the Peloton, I can do power zone rides and climb rides and HIIT training. There are rides that mimic mountain climbs from stages of the Tour du France. There is a 5 hour series of climb rides based on going up Mt. Haleakala in Hawai'i. I can do short rides and long rides, and I can string rides together to get used to being in the saddle for long periods of time. Off the bike, I can lift weights to increase my strength and stability on the bike. 

"The Triple Bypass is on August 20," I thought. "I have 12 weeks. Why not train inside until I can train outside?"

The only thing missing would be getting in some rides at altitude - the Bypass is all above 7,000 feet, with the mountain passes over 11,000 feet. But if I can start riding outside by early July, I'll have enough time to do some long rides in the mountains.  

Why not?

I couldn't think of a reason. So I put together a training schedule and got to work. 

The day after we get back from the cruise, I have another PT appointment. My hope is that I will get the go-ahead to start training outside. And then I will be on my way. 

I'm nervous and excited about it the same time. Which is one of my favorite feelings. Let's fucking go. 

How to soothe a preteen girl

It's threatening to show itself...

My sweet daughter has had a rough year. She's been dealing with some really heavy shit that has been extraordinarily stressful and anxiety-producing. She has also been forced to talk about it with people other than me, which she absolutely hates. This is a girl who is extremely private and it has been excruciating for her. 

It has also affected school for her. It piled on. So school has been a trigger as well. 

Last week she became free from that process. We are also rapidly approaching the end of the school year. 

For some, this might have brought on a sense of relief. A feeling that you can finally relax and exhale.

For Josie, it has not been that. Instead, all of the tension and anxiety and trauma that she has been holding in for a year have come flooding out. Tears and feelings of despondency. It has been heartbreaking to watch.

Last night she seemed to be doing ok and then when I mentioned going to school, she broke down. The thought of going to school today overwhelmed her. We lay down on my bed and wrapped my arms around her while she cried.

"All of my friends are coming up to me and trying to comfort me, which is nice. But they keep trying to get me to talk about it, and I don't want to."

"Then you don't have to. Just say, 'I appreciate that you've been thinking about me, but I really don't want to talk about it.' That's all. There's nothing else to say. Nobody can make you talk."

She nodded but was still crying on my shoulder. I hugged her and let her cry.

"What can I do for you, honey? How can I help you feel better?"

She shrugged. 

Then the cat jumped on the bed and went into a downward dog position (downward cat?), with his paws stretched in front of him and his ass up in the air. It made me chuckle.

"Shall we ask Scooby if he would show us his butthole?" I asked. "Would that make you feel better?"

She started to laugh a little bit.

"Maybe if we ask really nicely."

She giggled some more. 

"I think we should ask him. I bet he'd be willing. You could use it. Buttholes are always funny," I continued. "I think they should be identified as a treatment for depression."

"Take two cat buttholes and call me in the morning," she said.

"Absolutely."

She started laughing really hard. 

"See? It's working already!"

"They should put it in the medical books."

"Here's what we're going to do," I said. "I'm going to take a bunch of pictures of Scooby's butthole. And then at random times during the day tomorrow, I'm going to text one to you. And it will keep you from feeling too down."

We continued that way for a while, laughing and joking around. She calmed down and smiled and went to bed. 

When I woke up this morning, the cat was walking around. I managed to take a few pictures of his butt even though he wouldn't sit still. 

I dropped Josie at school this morning and said, "be ready. They're coming."

She laughed and said, "bye mumsie. I love you."

"I love you too. And so does Scooby's butt."

And all was right with her world, at least for a little while. 

Feliz año nuevo!

For our last night in Mexico - New Year's Eve - I did my research. 

Greg had initially suggested that we drive from Guanajuato City to the pyramids at Teotihuacan, spend the night there, and then go to the airport the next day. 

There were a number of reasons why that plan would have ended up being a bad choice. 

The pyramids are an hour from the airport, and while our flight left at 9:30 in the morning - not too too horrible - we had to return the rental car (which we had slightly damaged). We also needed to get there early enough to deal with COVID checks (which it turned out I had, despite having tested negative the day before) and all of the bullshit that international flights entail. It would have made for a stressful morning.

Plus, New Year's Eve! Fun! Party! I doubted that there was going to be much going on out by the pyramids. But according to all of the articles and blog posts I found, there was fun to be had in Mexico City.

For example, Newyearsevelive.net posited the question, "where do you head for on new years eve to find the biggest party to welcome 2022?" They answered their own question thusly:

In Mexico City there's only one answer, and that's the enormous street party on the famous Zocalo, the main square right in the heart of the city.

The party area spreads out right across the central area, with roads closed from Palacio de Bellas Artes to Paseo de la Reforma Boulevard.

The party itself gets underway earlier in the day and contains everything you would expect to find at a Mexican street party, live music from popular bands, dancing, colourful costumes, a plentiful supply of food and of course the huge fireworks display at midnight.

It sounded very promising. 

So I booked us a room in a cool hotel half a block off the Zocalo. We drove from Guanajuato, saw the pyramids at Teotihuacan (which we weren't able to climb because of COVID), drove to the airport to return the car, and then took an Uber into town. We showered and put on our party clothes and headed out to the Zocalo. 

No one was there. 

Well, maybe there were 100 or so people milling around. But you have to understand that the Zocalo is absolutely enormous. A vast square surrounded by big, imposing old colonial buildings - it holds over  100,000 people. So 100 or so people is nothing. It's like some ants scurrying around a tennis court. 

It was clear that preparations had been underway. There were amusement park rides set up and evidence that a party was going to happen. But the centro was dark and blocked off. It was almost eerie. 

Not exactly the scene we were expecting

Had the party been planned but canceled at the last minute because of COVID?* Where were the people? Where were the bands? Where were the "colourful costumes" and the "plentiful supply of food?"

We were disappointed and confused. We were also hungry.

We decided to look for something to eat. Greg would be on his phone and find something promising, but we would head over there and it would be shuttered. This happened a couple of times. Then we just started meandering down different streets, and I am not exaggerating when I tell you that nothing was open except for a KFC and maybe a Starbucks. We were in the heart of downtown on New Year's Eve in one of the major cities of the world, and every single restaurant was closed and boarded up. 

"What is going on?" I wailed. "This is one of the biggest party nights of the year! Don't people want to make money?"

It was completely baffling.

We were walking down a street and it sounded like there was a party on the upper floor of a building we passed. A guy in front of the building saw us looking up at where the noise was and said, "are you interested in going to the event?" 

Our hunger and our desire to participate in something festive won out over our suspicion that we might end up lying in a bathtub with missing kidneys, so we went in a back door and up some stairs to a big room blasting music that made a bass-heavy oontz-oontz sound. It was sparsely populated and felt dingy. We paid our 80 pesos (about $4) to get in, found seats by the window and away from the speakers, and ordered what turned out to be aggressively mediocre hamburgers and aggressively weak margaritas.

Not only was the food shitty, but it was served on plates covered with plastic so the dishes wouldn't get dirty. In an act of rebellion, we removed the plastic and smeared ketchup all over the plates, because we're mature like that. 

"This is ridiculous," Greg said.

"Is this really what our night is going to be like? I can't stay here," I said. 

More phone research told us that one of the super tall buildings nearby had a swanky party in their rooftop restaurant, so we headed that way to see if we could get in. At the entrance, we met a security guard who told us it was sold out. 

"Where is everyone?" I asked. "Why are all of the restaurants and bars closed?"

"Because it's New Year's," he said. "People stay home on New Year's."

I wasn't inclined to argue this patently absurd assertion, so we left and took a stroll in the Alameda Central, a huge, lovely public park right next to the Palacio de Bellas Artes. The Palacio is stunning. The park was quiet and peaceful, with a canopy of trees overhead.

After admiring a Diego Rivera mural on the far side of the park, we started to walk back towards the Zocalo. When we saw a Hilton hotel, we figured that at the very least, we could get a drink at the bar. It was worth a shot.

Inside, it looked encouraging. There were some people were hanging out and watching college football. We walked up to the bar and tried to order drinks, only to be told that they had closed 3 minutes before. 

Of course. I mean, it was 9:33 on New Year's Eve. What possible reason would they have to be open? 

"What the actual fuck," we muttered.

"Is there another restaurant in the hotel that might be open?" I asked the bartender.

"You can try the restaurant upstairs," he shrugged.

So we took the elevator upstairs. The floor was dark and empty and quiet, and naturally, the restaurant was closed. But I heard music and party sounds coming from the floor above. We decided to investigate. 

The closest way up was an escalator that had been turned off. We stumbled up it in the dark, sliding around barricades at the top, and found ourselves at the end of a floor. At the other end was a party! Yay!

What we had discovered was the Hilton's official New Year's Eve party - the big cheesy kind you buy tickets to because you can't think of anything else to do. There was a band and a huge buffet and assigned tables and drinks. It seemed like nirvana.

We loitered out in the hall, watching people have their pictures taken next to oversized inflated bottles of champagne or whatever. Finally, Greg and I looked at each other, decided that "act like you belong" was our strategy, and marched in with confidence.  

We stood for a while at the side of the room checking out the scene.  Men in sports coats, women looking like they were dressed either for the prom or as a mother-of-the-bride. There was a woman singing covers and working the crowd like a lounge act. It was exactly what you would expect.

We weren't going to sit at somebody's table - that would have been weird. We were trying to figure out what to do when a waiter-looking dude approached us. 

"Can I help you?" he asked. "Can I show you to your table?"

"Oh, we just wanted to stand up here so we could hear the singer," I said. I looked at Greg and he nodded at me encouragingly.

We're going to be so busted, I thought to myself.

But then the guy said, "can I at least get you a drink?"

"Um, yes! That would be great!"

A waiter walked by with a tray of tequila shots.

"Could we have some tequila?" I asked.

"Of course!"

So we each had a tequila shot. They were delicious and much-needed, if perhaps not the greatest combination with the questionable food we had eaten earlier. We hung out for a little bit and decided that we shouldn't stay too much longer, but that at least one more free drink was in order. 

Act like you belong.

I walked over to a bar stand with a bunch of shots set out.

"¿Podemos tener alguna, por favor?" I asked the bartender.

"Claro," the bartender responded. 

I grabbed two, and we each did another tequila shot. Feeling warm and loose, fortified with decent liquor, we decided to venture out to see what other mischief we could get into. 

 One of the more random things we encountered as we made our way through the streets

After strolling down the street and people-watching for a bit, we found another party, this time with a crowd and salsa music. The restaurant was full of people drinking and dancing. The music was hopping. We stayed and had some fun. I danced around as Greg sat on his bar stool, and we laughed and talked about our trip. 

Then a band gathered on the stage - they had some horns, so we figured maybe it was a mariachi band. We were excited - mariachi music can be really fun and wonderful. 

But it turned out that they were, in Greg's words, the loudest and crappiest Mexican high school marching band ever. So loud. So unpleasant. 

"When they headed onto the stage, they had so much promise," he sighed. I could only laugh. 

It was 11:30 at that point, so we decided to go back to the Zocalo and finish the night there. 

A little crowd had gathered near a countdown clock. At midnight, everyone smooched and wished each other a happy new year.

We kissed and smiled at each other. It was a beautiful night and we were a little tipsy. We agreed that on reflection, and in spite of all the craziness - because of it, actually - it had been a great and unforgettable night. 

Or at the very least, it made for a great story. 

*It turned out that's exactly what happened. The mayor of Mexico City had decided at the last minute to cancel everything, which surprised us because the COVID protocols in Mexico were strict and everybody followed them, even outside.