I have driven past the turn off to Canyonlands National Park several times in my life. It’s only ten miles or so north of Moab, after all, but we’ve just never managed to actually take the turn. I didn’t even really know what the draw might be—it doesn’t really seem to have a theme, like Bryce (those gorgeous hoodoos) or Arches (the arches) does. And it seemed confusing and enormous, with two entrances that each seemed like their own destination. But when we planned our impromptu southern Utah getaway, I had to choose: work all day and then drive to Moab, or drive early to Moab and go somewhere? (There are lots of places near Moab I also haven’t gone to.)

I decided to use the vacation time and finally visit Canyonlands.

Throughout the day, I found myself thinking about Yosemite. The landscape is nothing similar, of course, but I remember so clearly, when we first arrived and then hiked to * dome, how different the spirit of the mountains felt. In a sense, a mountain is a mountain: there are trees and steep uphills and lovely downhills, places where the sun is scorching and other spots that are shady refuges. But each mountain has its own spirit; the Sierra Nevada range feels entirely different than the Wasatch.

What I realized in Canyonlands is that each desert place also has its own spirit. It isn’t really about theme so much as that tug each one has, the color of the light and the dryness in the air and the shape of the vista.

Canyonland is quite a vista.

But it is a little bit confusing. And of course, only having been there for one day (and not even an entire day), I don’t know many of its secrets. But here is how I made sense of it and chose the hikes we did:

You can’t see both sections of the park in one day. Well, technically you COULD enter both sections (you can’t drive within the park to each section), but you really can’t experience both of them in a day, unless all you want to do is drive a lot and then look. Both sides have paved roads and long dirt roads that require 4-wheel drive. Make your choice based on what you want to do.

The Islands in the Sky side (40 minutes north of Moab) has a combination of long and short hikes.

The Needles side (90 minutes south of Moab) has mostly long hikes.

We went to the Islands in the Sky side because that entrance was on our way to Moab and because I thought we might have the time or energy to also go to Dead Horse State Park at the end of the day. Once we got into the park (Canyonlands is one of the few national parks that only charges $10 to get in, although the park ranger told us that will go up in the fall), this is what we did:

Stop at the Visitor’s Center. It’s a small one and we just bought a fridge magnet (the souvenir we collect wherever we go), but if you walk across the road, you get your first taste of what Canyonlands feels like.

You can see the Shafer Trail Road from this overlook. If you know me at all, you know exactly what I said when I saw that. (“I want to run on that road!”) This is where I started to get an idea of how starkly beautiful Canyonlands is—what its spirit feels like. We climbed around on some of the boulders here, and it was the second-busiest place we visited in the park. (Don’t be fooled though…by busy I mean “the least-busy national park I’ve ever been to.”)

After admiring this view, we got back into the van to drive to our next spot. Not five minutes past the visitor’s center, we spotted a coyote! I have never seen one in the wild so this was thrilling to me. It crossed the road, so we stopped to let it go and then admired it until it vanished into the bushes.

Hike to Mesa Arch. This is a small hike, about a half-mile loop right to the top of Mesa Arch. It is an easy trail that kids could do. This was the busiest place we
stopped at in Canyonlands and I confess: I was wishing the crowds would go away. It was harder to enjoy with all the shouting, laughing, and selfie-taking. Still, I am glad we did it because it was a beautiful spot. You can walk right to the edge of the canyon here, and look out across the carved desert.

Stop at the Green River Overlook. Just past the Mesa Arch trailhead parking lot, three roads converge. Go right onto Upheaval Dome Road, then take the first left for the Green River overlook. There’s no hiking here, it’s only an overlook, but it is worth stopping to see. You can see many prominent landmarks from this point, and there are some signs explaining what you’re looking at. Read the signs and admire the view—it’s beautiful!

Hike Whale Rock. Just a bit past the Green River overlook is the trailhead for Whale Rock. I wish I had taken a picture of this rock formation, because it does look like a whale, right from the trailhead parking lot. This is a 1 mile round-trip
hike on a good desert trail: some sandy spots, some boulders, and then a climb up the slickrock following cairns. The top of the rock is rounded but wide enough to walk on comfortably. I sat on the top and drank some water and stretched and was entirely content! My guidebook said there were hand rails to help you get to the top, but we didn’t see them. They weren’t really necessary as the scramble wasn’t a steep slope at all.

Hike to the Upheaval Dome Second Overlook. The trailhead for this hike is at the end of the road you’ve been driving on. There are two overlooks into Upheaval Dome, which is a dramatic crater with white cliffs rising from the bottom. It’s not much of a hike to the first overlook, and it’s crowded, so we
went to the second overlook. I loved this hike and am so glad we did it. Once we got away from the main trail, we saw two other groups, and they both turned around before making it to the overlook. I love having a trail to myself! It had
sandy, boulders, cairns, steps carved into slickrock, a dry wash, and an amazing view at the end. I keep thinking about this spot and wanting to go back, down into the crater. It was beautiful and wild and a little bit menacing. This trail is about .85 miles one way if you stop at each overlook, for a round trip of 1.7 miles.
(I think this might be my favorite photo from Canyonlands)

Hike to Ruins on Aztec Butte. This trail takes you to three different ruins. If you take both spurs, the total distance is about 2.5 miles. From the trailhead (same road that Whale Rock trailhead is on, just further south), the trail goes through a sandy meadow. There were a few wildflowers left when we were there, wilted but still pretty, and it was filled with that smell of hot pinyon pine that is what desert smells like for me. (Such a different piney smell than a Christmas tree!) After you’ve gone around the meadow, the trail forks; each trail is an out-and-back to a different ruin and both are worth seeing. The left fork takes you to this grainary:

The right fork takes you to Aztec Butte. It is a scramble to get up to the top. I’m not afraid of heights but I am, I’ve figured out, afraid of steep angles. (Meaning, I can stand on the edge of a cliff and feel exhilarated, but if I have to hike up or (especially!) down a steep slope, I’m terrified.) We had totally underestimated how hot, exposed, and long this hike wasand didn’t bring any water with us. There was a couple a little bit in front of us, and they heard us talking and gave us one of their water bottles. It was, to quote the woman, “hot as water straight from the kettle,” but it still revived our flagging muscles! At the top of the butte, you can walk straight up to this ruin:

The couple, who was from England, and Kendell and I talked for a little bit. They were very friendly and admiring of our country. It’s always interesting to me how many people from other countries visit our national parks. It made me a little bit ashamed of myself when the woman said “you must come here all the time” and I had to confess I’d actually never been there.

There is another ruin on Aztec Butte, but I didn’t find out about it until I got home! The images online make me think I missed the best one. It’s built into a cliff with an arch, and to get to it, you find the cairn on the north side of the butte, and then drop down to a small ledge on the side of the butte. I’m mad at myself for missing this!

The round-trip if you see both ruins is about two miles. Take water! There isn’t any shade, and the scramble to the top of the butte will take it out of your legs. I did take some time to sit by myself near the ruins, imagining what it would be like to live and try to survive in such a place.

Hike to the Grand View Point Overlook. This is all the way at the end of the main Island in the Sky road. If you only take one hike in Canyonlands, it should be this one. The trail goes right along the edge of the mesa. Right to the edge as
in, if you tripped you’d fall in. It was beautiful. Part of the trail was stone steps, some of it wandered through bushes, some went across bare stone. From the parking lot, it is a one-mile hike to the overlook, almost entirely flat, and the views are simply breathtaking. This was where I finally understood exactly why
people come to Canyonlands.  In fact, I feel a little bit haunted by it and want to go back—I want to hike some trails that go down off the mesa. I want to hike the Syncline trail into Upheaval Dome’s ragged canyon, see the Zeus, Moses, and
Aphrodite formations (quite a hike unless we came in the truck, which I don’t want to do), and get myself into the river—Green or Colorado hold different but equal draws for me.

By the end of the day, we’d hiked nearly eight miles, which isn’t a ton of distance for us, but enough to make us tired. It was, in fact, the perfect way to introduce ourselves to Canyonlands. I hope I can go back soon.

When we were in Disneyland last month, we rode the Little Mermaid ride. (It wasn’t there the last time we went, so this was new for us.) It’s one of those classic Disney ride through scenes of the movie, with songs from the soundtrack playing. And it took me about ten seconds inside the ride before I found myself in tears.

See, The Little Mermaid was Haley’s favorite movie for several years. When she was still a blonde, curly-haired, precocious cherub:

It was the first movie she saw in a movie theater, the summer she was two when they re-released it for a few months. She had a Little Mermaid bike and a Little Mermaid backpack and a Little Mermaid coloring book. Her fourth birthday party was Little Mermaid-themed. And for about 18 months, she watched it almost every day.

I don’t think I’ve watched The Little Mermaid in 14 or 15 years, but being surrounded by the movie—the songs and the characters—in that ride at Disneyland brought me right back to how it felt being that mom, when Haley was three and Jake was a baby, and I was going to school but still thought of myself as a stay-at-home mom. Before I learned so much of what my adult life has taught me. Those were happy, sweet days.

One afternoon when she was almost three, Haley finished her movie and paused the VCR on the credits. Then she sighed and said, “Oh, Mom. It’s just so…romantic.” I looked at her expression and her body language and all of the yearning in her sweet, young face, and I decided we’d need less Little Mermaid in our lives.

Because really, when you stop to think about it, it’s a horrible story. Put it into human, non-magical-fish terms: a girl is unhappy in the family and place where she grew up, so she searches out somewhere new to live, based on “falling in love” with a boy she’s seen once. The cost for this relocation is her voice. Her voice. And she’s got to convince this boy to fall in love with her, after changing nearly everything about herself.

It creates such false ideas of what love is about. How can anyone fall in love with Ariel when she doesn't know who she is? They are only falling in love with their idea of her. I looked at Haley and I wanted her to never be like Ariel. I didn’t want her to ever give up her voice. I want her to one day be loved for exactly who she is. I wanted her to always use her voice and to not feel silenced or stifled. I want her to learn to love someone, after sharing experiences and friendship and meals together, to take the time to not only trust her heart but to understand something of herself before she becomes someone’s wife.

But I’ve also always been bothered by Ariel’s determined need to be somewhere other. Unhappy in the place she was created in and adapted for, she has to change so much of herself to be adapted for the new place she thinks is where she belongs. Part of me thinks, OK, this is good. It is good that if we don’t feel happy with the circumstances we are raised in, there are always other options. But it also makes me terribly sad—to make such drastic changes to find happiness.

I realized, in the process of writing this very blog post, that Haley feels a little bit like Ariel to me, right now in her life. Not the voice part—she has her voice and she is not giving it up for anything. But the other part, the feeling like maybe the place and the way she was raised might not be the place she fits. I keep reminding myself that this is good, and that she is figuring out her path, and that my idea of happiness (like King Triton’s) might not be her idea of happiness. And I do want her to grow into a happy adult life.

But I am also so deeply sad about this. I had always tried, as a mom, to create a family inside of which my children felt loved. I wanted my home to feel like home to them. I didn't want them to be miserable and yearning for the day they could leave to find their real home. And maybe I set myself up for disappointment by my very expectations—they can’t simultaneously leave to find themselves and always be tugged back home. Her job right now is finding her way, and mine is to cheer her going.

I cannot say how hard it is to let her go.

And I can’t keep myself from thinking about Ariel. After all the initial rush and flutter of falling in love and marriage. After blistered feet and torn toenails and bunions. After really living—does she ever miss it? The swimming? The power in her tail and the freedom of her old life?

That is why it is so hard to see your kids moving away. Because there is so much joy to be had—but also so much heartache. I want Haley—want all my kids—to choose wisely. To never know the lingering bitterness of opportunities missed because of bad choices. To not be swayed by what only seems magical or pretty or enticing or fun, but is really dangerous or destructive or just not the right place to be. I want them to find real happiness, built on them each discovering and then sharing who they really are.

And they have to find it for themselves.

When the Little Mermaid ride was finished, Kaleb looked at me, confused. “Why you crying, Mom?” he asked. (He knows by now, almost ten years into his life, that his mom is a crier, and that the best thing to do is just to ask.) I couldn’t truly explain it to him because I didn’t quite understand it myself, yet. Memory and nostalgia—looking back—mixed with anticipation and fear—looking forward. It’s just that I so want their futures, the ones they are starting to discover, to be good ones, and there are so many ways for them to end up in something that’s almost good. Or nearly happy. Or even downright bad, hard, or disappointing. I want them to not be tricked by the world’s idea of sigh…so romantic. I want them to end up somewhere real, somewhere that is truly good, with their voices intact.

I'm just not sure I've done the right things to help them do that.

(Every year, I have topics that I totally meant to blog about, but then time passes and I don't, and then it feels like too much time has passed​, so then I don't blog about them. Even though they were important. So I made up an acronym and this year, I'm going to finish out December with some DBAY posts for 2014, so I get everything together at least in the year when it belongs.)

Today I've spent a ton of time processing many of my Yosemite photos, for a Christmas project.

As I've revisited those images, I've been amazed at how they've reminded me of how those few days felt, specifically the mountains' spirit. The atmosphere is different there, in the Sierra Nevada, and that made it both like coming home (because mountains are my favorite place to be) and discovering something nearly-entirely new.

I loved that feeling.

Our trip to Yosemite felt to me like it was sort of magical. Too good to be true, really. (I was almost afraid to go home, because I worried that everything would completely fall apart after such a perfectly-timed experience.) Just winning the lottery spot for the Half Dome hike was amazing, because seriously: I never win anything. I enter contests and raffles just to make sure someone else wins. I almost didn’t even put my name in for the lottery, on the day I decided to do it which was the very last day you could enter, but there was something in me that said I needed to take that trip this summer. So I registered—and got in.

But the good luck didn’t stop there. First off was the traffic on the drive. Many people had warned us that the route I had planned—State Route 6—was problematic because if there was any construction, the traffic would back up for miles. But aside from one tiny little delay (like…maybe three minutes) right when we got off the Interstate, there was zero construction and, in fact, that road was one of the highlights of the trip for me. (Hopefully it will be another DBAY post.)

I had reserved us some tents at Curry Village, but when we went to register, the guy at the desk upgraded us to a cabin. No, seriously: I haven’t ever been upgraded to anything, ever, not even once, and as I was worried about the tent (I don’t do well in tents at all), this really was like magic. The cabin was pretty small, and it had double sized beds instead of queens, but who cares. It had four solid walls, carpet, a toilet, and a shower. So perfect.

I still don’t entirely understand why, but Yosemite in the summer of 2014 was a trip I needed to take.

But despite all of this planet-aligning magic, all did not go entirely smooth. Because the day before we left, I started getting sick: a sore throat. And I decided that I just didn’t care. I was just going to ignore my cold and go anyway. And the ignore-the-cold tactic worked pretty well. I drank a lot of water during our drive to keep my cells hydrated, and loaded up on the vitamin C, and just kept thinking positive, healing thoughts. When I woke up on the morning of our Half Dome hike*, I didn’t feel 100% my normal, energetic self. But it wasn’t too bad—until we were about half way down. When we got off the wooded slope that is behind Half Dome, just as we entered the Little Yosemite Valley, those healing, positive energies just vanished and I started feeling fairly tired. It was hot, and my burning throat was doing that thing where even though you’re swallowing water it feels like the liquid doesn’t touch it, and I was starting to have that all-over body ache, and my voice started going out. But of course I had no choice but to continue hiking!

The Little Yosemite Valley is the flattest part of the entire trail, and the Merced River runs right next to the trail. One of the guide books I’d read insisted I must stop and wade in the river. So, while Kendell and Jeff were talking to a trail guide, Lenna and I took off our hiking boots and waded into the water. I was expecting it to be fairly tepid, as the current was barely moving, but it was cold. Part of me wanted to just dive in, but I also know how grumpy wet clothes make me, so I just went in to the very bottoms of my shorts. Lenna was dying for the bathroom, which was about a mile down the trail, so she left. I confess: I was so glad I was alone for a few minutes. I stayed as long as I could in the water, just taking in the beauty. There is walking next to water…but there is also being in the water, and stepping into the river was a way of fully immersing myself in the Yosemite experience, even if I didn’t get entirely wet.

It was one of my favorite moments of my life.

Not too long later, Kendell came and found me. I waded over to a rock near the bank and took my shirt off. Then I sat on that stone, in just my sports bra, and used my shirt to dry my feet. Kendell handed me my socks and then my boots, one at a time, and then I stood up on the rock, already dry—but completely, entirely refreshed. My tired feet were made deliriously happy by their cold soak. It renewed my flagging energy and let some of the healing thoughts flow back in—at least until we reached the bridge over Nevada Fall, when my fever hit me. (The last three miles down the John Muir trail were pretty brutal for me.)

But that isn’t this story. This story is the one about the day I stood in the Merced River in the Sierra Nevada. It’s the story about how happiness finds you in unexpected ways. It is, really, about what happiness itself is, those numinous moments when things larger than yourself bring you to a place you couldn’t have imagined and then give you exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

I wanted to go running in Rome.

For me, running on a vacation is part of what makes the vacation awesome. It isn’t even really about the exercise itself, but about presence. About moving through an entirely different landscape than my usual one. Running in a place makes the place feel more a part of me, and I wanted that in Rome. I wanted to have that in my life’s oeuvre, even if it wasn’t a very long run, wanted the experience of running past all of those old buildings and along the cobbled streets.

Our hotel was close to the Termini train station and the Piazza della Reupubblica; the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore was just down the street, so that was the route I wanted to take.

It was our first full day there, and I woke up refreshed, early enough to get a few miles in, so I talked Becky into putting on her running shoes and coming with me. We hustled down the stairs and walked out of our hotel to find a very cloudy Rome. A very cloudy and then very wet Rome, as the rain that had fallen in the night started falling again. We didn’t make it very far—just to the corner behind the basilica, and then we talked ourselves out of running in the rain.

I wish we hadn’t.

I wish we’d just kept running, made our loop, and rushed through breakfast. I wish I had those thirty minutes so I could always think I went running in Rome.

I think we thought we’d have another chance. But our days were so full of walking that the rest of the mornings, it felt impossible to get up early enough for a run. Really, the only running I did in Italy was when I sprinted from the Tower of Pisa to our meeting place. (I was two minutes early.)

Running in Rome is one of the reasons I want to go back to Italy.

When my mom first started talking about taking a trip to Rome, about two years ago, it seemed so far-fetched as to be impossible. Normal people like us didn’t just go to Italy. Plus…Italy? My fantasy trip to Europe was all about England and Ireland. I don’t know that I’d ever really even thought about going to Italy.

But, a year ago, I went to Italy.

And now I understand why people want to go there. It is a magical place, really, a magic I didn’t know existed. The air feels different there, the light, the smells. Maybe that can be said about all foreign places and I’m just illustrating how few times I have really traveled. Probably when I make it to the British Isles I’ll fall in love with its air and light and smells, too, but in a different way. Italy’s magic, I think, is only found in Italy. It’s all the history, of course, time tingling just underneath your feet. It’s the very real possibility of great food around every corner. It is nuns walking down the street in their habits and athletic shoes, the whizz of all those little cars, and a magnificent church where ever you find yourself.

It is the way art imbibes everything.

In Rome, I ate a pizza intended to feed three people all by myself. Tomatoes, rocket salad (what the Italians call arugula), cheese and spices. Simple, but so delicious I don’t regret it for a second. 

In Rome I ate a grapefruit gelato, walked to the Pantheon, and then ate a rose gelato (it tasted very delicate, sweet, and pink): two gelatos in less than an hour.

In Orvietto, I ate the best salami and cheese I had ever had, until I had some in  San Gimignano, and now I can’t decide which one was more delicious.

At a Tuscan vineyard, I tasted the strongest, most startling olive oil I have ever experienced and that moment—the bite of flavor on my tongue and my utter surprise that such a culinary pleasure existed in the world—is etched onto my food memories.

I will forever be trying to replicate it with inferior olive oils.

But it isn’t just the food. It’s the beauty of the landscape, too. All those mountains and fields and then the cities springing out. It’s all the ties to books and stories and myths. It is everything I found in a country I didn’t know I wanted to visit.

Now I’ve been once, I desperately want to go again. To go running in Rome—more than once (past the colosseum, and along the Tiber under the sycamores, and on the streets of Vatican City), and also in Sienna and maybe a very-early route through Venice. To do the things I couldn’t the first time, to do some of the same things again. To have entirely different reactions and unplanned experiences. I threw one coin with my right hand over my left shoulder into the Trevi fountain, which should ensure my return. I might never make it back…but I hope I do.

(click HERE to read more about my trip to Italy.)

Last October, I went to Italy on a guided tour. This was one of my mom’s dreams, to go to Italy together with her daughters, and she got it all organized for us. I’ve never traveled like this before—the itinerary, transportation, and accommodations all planned by someone else, and everyone in the larger group a complete stranger. I think I’d do it again, but there are a few things I wish I would’ve known from the very first day of the trip. Here are my tips for traveling with a group on a guided tour (along with some of my favorite photos from Italy):

1. Get a travel guidebook of your own. That sort of sounds counterintuitive…why would you need to read and learn about a place where you’ll have someone guiding and teaching you? We had some really excellent tour guides on my trip. (I can’t think about Rome without hearing our Rome guide’s beautiful voice saying “Roma” and “andiamo!”) But when you already know some of the history,
geography, politics, art, and architecture of the places you’re going, your response to the area will be so much more complex and complete. In the places I hadn’t read about (namely, Orvietto and San Gimgiano) I felt like I didn’t know what to focus on because I didn’t know what I could do there. My experience was much richer in, say, Florence and Siena, where I’d read about the basilicas, towers, history, and famous people. Sometimes the tour guide will repeat something you’ve learned, but then you can just nod your head in your shared wisdom. Plus, a guidebook will give you some ideas for where to eat, which is handy when you don’t have an international data plan on your smart phone.

2. Take advantage of having a guide. Stick close to him/her and listen. Ask questions too. These are people who thoroughly and intimately know the cities you’re only visiting. The knowledge and details they share with you are, quite frankly, part of what you paid for. Wandering through an unknown city is much more fun when you learn about what you’re looking at, rather than only looking at it. Plus you’ll have more little tidbits to share when you get home. (And, speaking of paying for the guides…remember that you’ll need to tip them when they’re finished. I didn’t know this and I would’ve got more cash if I had.)

3. Make friends! This is the best thing about traveling with people you don’t know: you get to meet other people. I loved talking to and getting to know other people in our group. We were all pretty different in lifestyles, careers, families, and time of life. It didn’t matter because we found different things in common. If you are traveling with people you know (like I was with my mom and two sisters), it’s easy to be sort of clique-y and stick just to that group. But your experience will be much more fun if you try to make friends with everyone. Go to all of the group activities, especially the meals. Sit by someone new every time you eat as a
 group, or in the bus. Ask people what they are reading or listening to. Ask to look at their pictures or what they thought about a place. I enjoyed this so much that I found myself striking up conversations with other strangers as well, like the father and daughter from Ireland who we chatted with at a restaurant in Rome. (This isn’t normally a strength of my introverted personality.) Talking to them (and listening to their accent) was one of my favorite moments.

4. Be patient with people. Everyone has different travel styles and expectations. This is not a bad thing, but sometimes it can be a challenge. Maybe you’re expecting lots of time to linger in gift stores because that’s your thing. But someone else’s thing is more time in the actual museum (or whatever). You can work around this by talking to people, letting them know what you are hoping to do, and perhaps most importantly, remembering you’re not the only one on the trip. Also remember that you can only move as quickly as the slowest person in your group. If you are a fast walker, use your extra time for lingering in the doorways of shops, admiring perspectives you’d otherwise miss, or taking pictures. If you are a slow walker, don’t feel guilty or worried about it. You’re just giving the faster people chances to get more intimate with the place you’re in.

5. Expect that you'll start to rub on each other. If you were traveling with twenty or 25 people you knew and loved, this would still be true, so when it’s people you don’t know very well? It happens. There will be someone who bugs you. That's OK, because you're likely bugging someone else. Decide not to be a victim of annoyance by doing your best to overlook the actions of someone else who is rubbing you the wrong way; assume the best about everyone. By the third day, I was acutely and painfully aware of which person I was bugging. By the fifth day I decided I didn’t care if I was bugging him because I had paid for my trip, too, and I wasn’t going to let his annoyance ruin it. The best way to deal with someone who’s bothering you? Take advantage of any and all free time. Which brings us to tip number 6.

6. Take advantage of any and all free time. This is another reason for the first tip. If you have some basic knowledge of the city, a map (already in the guidebook!), and an idea of what you want to see, you’ll be much more productive with your free time. I, for example, did not read up on Bologna before we got there, so with the free time we had, we saw the main basilica and not much else. But when we were in Rome and had an entire afternoon to ourselves, my sister Becky and I saw the Castel Sant’Angelo, the Spanish Steps, and several other landmarks. We walked next to the Tiber river; we revisited the places we’d felt rushed in before, like the Pantheon and Trevi Fountain; we found
the metro and figured out how to ride it back to our hotel. (That was one of my favorite afternoons.) We knew we wanted to do all of those things because we’d both read a guidebook or two. Don’t be afraid to let yourself get a little bit lost. You’ll discover things you love that you couldn’t find any other way, and people are friendly in Italy. Even if you’re really lost, someone will help you find your way back. (Just keep watching your watch if you have to be back at a certain time!)

7. Thoroughly understand what is happening each day. Don't assume anything! Ever since I first saw the itinerary for our trip, I was anticipating the moment we would walk through the duomo in Siena. One of my friends had told me how much she loved it, especially the interior, and I couldn’t wait to see and feel what she told me about. While we were in Siena, however, we toured the Basilica of San Domenico instead. This was a beautiful, simple church, with the head (literally) of St. Catherine enshrined in one of its naves. I enjoyed learning about it. But then we just walked right past the Siena duomo! We saw the outside but it wasn’t in the plan to go inside of it.
If I had understood the plan for the rest of the day, I would have known that I did have enough time to see the cathedral on my own if I skipped out on part of the tour. (There is no rule that says you have to stay with the group the entire time.) Sticking with the tour most of the time is probably the best idea, but if there is something you must absolutely see, and it’s not on the itinerary but there is time for you to see it on your own, I say be brave and go for it. But this can only happen if you understand what is happening each day. Ask questions! 

8. Be on time. Nothing annoys group members as much as having to wait for someone. I know this for two reasons—I waited for late people, and I was late myself. Twice, in fact. The first time happened when we were walking back to the bus, but as I was with more members of the group than just myself, I wasn’t worried. (People still thought I was late.) The second time I was late really was unforgiveable. It happened when we were leaving in the morning, on one of the days we were changing hotels, and it took Becky and I longer to pack than we thought. I’m still embarrassed that it happened. Especially pay attention to the meeting time when you have free time or if you are breaking away from the group. It helps everything run more smoothly and it’s probably nice not to embarrass yourself.

9. Be open to unexpected and spontaneous experiences. One of my favorite moments happened in Rome. Becky and I were in the lobby one night, sort of late, and we noticed there was a bunch of people from our tour group hanging out in the bar. So we joined them. Again: introvert here. My heart was pounding at first, and I didn’t do an excellent job at mingling. But I managed it. And actually had fun! Another spontaneous moment happened in our hotel near Venice. A few minutes before we were supposed to meet at the bus in the morning, some of the group members ended up in the lobby together. There was a piano, and one of the members (a skilled, professional pianist) played a song for us. It was amazing and beautiful and wonderful. I have a theory that if your heart and mind are open—not too devoted to schedules or personal fears or anything else—then life will bring you these unexpected moments. Watch out for them, and then grab them when you have the chance!

10. Get the email addresses of the people in your tour group. Especially the ones you'd like to swap pictures with. I still would like to do this! If you are taking pictures, you’re far less likely to be in your pictures. But you’re probably in other people’s pictures (just like you’ll have some great photos of the other tour group members). Figure out a way to share them. The group I traveled with did not do this, but I still would like to see some of their pictures.

And, I know I wrote that this is a top ten list, but here’s a very important bonus tip:

Go to the bathroom every chance you get. Seriously. Italians must have the world's largest bladders, I don't know. But there are very few bathrooms. So prepare yourself. Keep a Euro or two in your pocket (yes, you have to pay for many of them) and whenever anyone finds a bathroom, use it. If you find a bathroom, tell everyone else about it. This doesn't seem like a tip that fits with traveling with a group, but I promise: you'll annoy people if all you talk about is how badly you have to pee. And it's hard to be social and outgoing when you’re uncomfortable like that. 

Have you ever traveled with a group? What suggestions do you have?

(Read more about my moments in Italy:

First church in Rome

In the Accademia

Florence)

When you go to Rome, you are supposed to throw a coin with your right hand over your left shoulder into the Trevi fountain if you want to return to Rome.
 I tossed a Euro and made the wish, and while I loved Rome and hope to go back there again, the city I most want to revisit is Florence.

Since we went to Italy on a guide tour, the itinerary was already planned. We didn't stay in Florence, but drove there from Montecatini. Once we arrived, we met up with a tour guide who walked us through the city.

Everywhere you look in Florence, there is a small,beautiful detail

The famous Odeon theater. We didn't catch a flick.

Even the doors are beautiful!

We stopped at the Florence Cathedral (the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiori) and the Baptistery,

(I found this image of Santa Maria by doing a Google image search! Alas, not mine!)

but since we were there on a Sunday we couldn't actually go inside the buildings. (People were going to church there.) After taking some photos and getting us each a copy of a city map, the tour guide showed us more of Florence. She pointed out monuments, buildings, museums, and bridges with historical importance, giving us an idea of the city's layout, and then led us to the Accademia, where I had my moment with the slaves. 

Then we had some free time.

Most of the people in the group decided to go to the leather market. I was sorely tempted to join them, as I had visions of finding a belt for Nathan (belts being one of his favorite things, ever since he was little) and a gorgeous Italian leather backpack for myself. But Becky and I had other ideas. We had someone show us where we would all meet up (as well as the location of the leather market, just in case we had time), the San Lorenzo basilica, and then we were off on our own adventure.

We wanted to climb the 414 stairs in Giotto's Campanile.

Having already earned our title as the "straggler sisters" (a story in its own right), we didn't want to be late to the meeting place. So we hustled. We stopped at a little restaurant on a side street, where we scarfed a delicious pizza and a thoroughly disappointing cannola. (One of my wishes for my trip to Italy that wasn't realized: eating some delicious and amazing cannoli.) Then, as we walked to the Campanile following our handy map, one of the street vendors stopped Becky to tell her she'd dropped something. When we looked behind us and saw nothing he said, "You dropped my heart, beautiful lady." This was her third Italian admirer, but alas, we did not have time for her to be wooed.

But it did make us laugh all the way to the Piazza del Duomo.

Giotto's Campanile is the free-standing bell tower of Florence Cathedral. It is absolutely breathtaking even before you start climbing the stairs. (I cannot believe I didn’t take one photo of the tower itself.) Dark pink, white, and green marble in geometric patterns, hexagonal relief panels depicting biblical scenes and scholarly ideas, rows of lozenges, niches, and statues. Like the cathedral, it was designed to look like a painting. Very ornate, of course, but so beautiful. The top three levels are each built larger than the lower one, so that when you look up at the tower, the effects of perspective cannot be seen. It took 25 years to build the tower; during part of that time no work was completed because of the Black Plague.

Oh how I wish I could hear the history stories those old stones could tell!

Becky and I laughed, talked, and breathed fairly heavily going up those stairs. It's a sort of a spiral staircase, sometimes curving but mostly turning sharply, very narrow and steep, with a low ceiling.

When I took this photo from one of the stair landings I thought I was being creative. I've since seen about a million interpretations of it.

As we climbed, I thought about the people in the past who would've done this as part of their lives. The people who rang the bells, or priests I suppose. The stairs are worn smooth from people's feet, but the high reaches of the walls are dusty. It is like breathing in history.

 At the top, we wandered around.

(The tiles on top of the tower. I prefer to think that white stuff is patina, not bird poop. Please do not disabuse me of this notion. Thank you.)

There was a procession of some sort, winding its way through the narrow streets.

The view is fairly amazing, all of those Tuscan rooftops and narrow streets, the birthplace of the Renaissance spread out below you.  

I really, really wish I would've taken more pictures. I wish I would've handed my camera over to a stranger for a photo of me and Becky on top of the tower. I wish I would've crouched down at the bottom of the tower and photographed it that way. I wish I would've taken more pictures on top. I have some pictures—but not enough, and that is an exact reflection of my frustrated feeling that day. I tend to get impatient with photography when I am in a bad mood. 

I was in Florence...and I was in a bad mood. How dumb of me. But it felt like being given an entire box of chocolates and then having time to eat half of one. I wanted the whole box! I wanted to have time to see all of Florence. So it's not that I was grumpy. Just highly frustrated.

Once we stood on the top of the tower, and admired the view, we climbed back down, and set off to find the Ponte Vecchio.
This is a bridge that crosses the Arno River, and was the only bridge not destroyed by the Germans when they retreated from Florence during World War II. Florentine bridges used to all have those buildings on top—they were places for shopping and gathering. Only the Ponte Vecchio still has them. They used to be butcher shops, but now they are little shops where you can buy jewelry and souvenirs. 

By this time,  we were seriously racing to beat the clock. We crossed the Arno on the Santa Trinita bridge.

This is a bridge that was destroyed during the war. On each of its entrances, it has two statues, and they were destroyed as well. Each of the four statues depicts one of the seasons. After the war, the bridge was rebuilt and the statues pieced back together (their parts mostly lying in the river until they were restored). I wanted to stop and admire each statue, but since we didn’t have much time, I settled for photographing each of them. The light was bad and I was hurrying so even that “settling” was disappointing as the pictures aren’t great.
(I had to convert them all to black and white. Otherwise they were too awful to look at.)

The best photo I took of the statues was this one, which is the back of the summer statue:

It is so moving to me—the clear lines of where it was pieced back together are evocative of my Mary figurine and what it still means to me. 

After crossing the bridge, we speed-walked down a small side street to get to the Ponte Vecchio. This is one of my most vivid memories of Florence, for some reason, the small shops with their lighted windows and food, the heavy grey skies, the hustle of the crowds, the slight scent of the river. We turned a corner and there it was, the Ponte Vecchio. I wanted to stop and linger but we had like eight minutes to get to San Lorenzo. I crossed the Ponte Vecchio—but I didn't get to linger or really experience it.

We started to sprint. And then the weirdest thing happened—I slowed down. You have to know this about me: I am seriously a fast walker. But for some reason, I just could not walk fast. Or at least not as fast as Becky was walking. My feet were hot and my ankle was throbbing (I had my brace on) and I felt like I was walking through mud.
As I got slower I got more and more frustrated. What was wrong with me?

We passed the leather market and I looked at my watch, but there was definitely no time to shop, so my perfect Italian leather backpack and Nathan’s favorite belt stayed in Italy. We kept walking and we made it to San Lorenzo with three minutes to spare—and no one was there to see the Straggler Sisters' early arrival! Or, at least, no one from our group. All that hurried rushing only to discover we could have lingered for just a bit.

San Lorenzo is one of the oldest churches in Florence. It’s surrounded by an enormous square of crumbling stone steps. I sat down on the stairs of the church and I took off my boots so I could get rid of my ankle brace. I actively did not take any photos. Even though I want one now, so much, even just of my boots on the steps. Of that ancient church and my Eeyore self. I'm pretty sure Becky sat ten feet away from me, because she didn't want to be inundated by the waves of frustration rolling off of me. There we were in Florence, with a ridiciulously small amount of time to actually see much, and I finally realized why I had been walking so slow: I needed to pee. SO BADLY.

One thing about Italy: they don't really do bathrooms. Probably if you know all of the secrets, you know where the bathrooms are. But in that square, I couldn't find one. And I was in serious pain. I walked (slowly) around the square, hoping to find a bathroom. I didn't dare ask anyone "dove e il bagno?" because there was no way I could understand their quick responses. So I looked (in vain) through the belts a small merchant was selling. I saw no leather backpacks. Becky stood watch for me as the tour group members started trickling back, and then I just gave up. I sat down right there, on the steps of a church that seemed beautiful in such a simple, striking way, in a remarkable city full of history, architecture, art, and beauty, and I felt such a combination of annoyance, frustration, and desire for more that it was like I was sitting in a black puddle.

I might as well have just gone ahead and peed my pants.

And then I had my Florence Moment.

A nun, walking toward the church but from a different angle from where I was sitting, changed directions. She walked right over to me, patted my shoulder, and touched my forehead with the thumb of her other hand. She said something in Italian, squeezed my shoulder, and walked into the church.

My puddle evaporated.

I don't know what she said. Maybe it was "you're acting like a giant baby right now." Maybe it was “Yes, you didn’t get to see everything you wanted, but you are here, right now, in Italy. Cheer up.” Maybe it was “there’s a bathroom around that corner.”

But to me it was a blessing. A benediction of sorts. I thought about the feeling I had had while in St. Peter’s Cathedral, standing in front of the statue of St. Peter, which has a foot that, if you touch it, is supposed to give you a blessing. The foot is worn thin from so many centuries of touch, and it made me think about how powerful touch is, how it connects us and yes, blesses us. How we give a small portion of ourself in that touch, too. Being touched on the shoulder by the nun was the same feeling, only better because this was real.

My frustration drained away.

Eventually, everyone from the tour group arrived. In fact, I think they all thought I was the late one holding everyone up. I wasn’t late though. I was sitting on the ancient steps in front of an ancient church, thinking about how moments with God are not limited to time in churches or temples. They are not narrowed by religious denomination or gender or nationality. They are a thing you can find anywhere, even when you have blocked yourself into a black emotional corner.

The spirit is everywhere if you watch for it. Or maybe you sometimes have to sit still enough in your darkness for the light to find you, but it will.

I won’t say everything was magically better. I still had tons of walking left with my stupid aching bladder holding me back. (Our tour guide finally stopped at a bathroom in a tiny alleyway and I have never been so grateful to hand over money to pee.)
I still wanted to shop and explore. Not getting to examine statues in the Loggia di Lanzia in the Piazza della Signoria (Perseus with the Head of Medusa, The Rape of the Sabine Women, the Medici lions…) felt like ripping my heart out.
Walking past the Uffizi without going in—the Uffizi where Bottecelli’s “Birth of Venus” is hanging?—was physically painful.

But I had more of a peaceful heart (even if it was ripped out of my chest) and a lift to my feet. I tried to savor whatever I had left of Florence—walking past the city hall,
at least seeing those statues, listening to the tour guide talk about Santa Croce, a Christian church designed by a Jewish architect who included a Star of David. (This is where Michelangelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli are buried.)

I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to Florence. There wasn’t a fountain to throw a coin into along with a wish. But it’s there, on the top of my list: revisit Florence. See all the churches. Go to the Uffizi. See more of the Accademia than just the Slaves and David. Walk slowly along the Arno, cross all the bridges, shop at the leather market.

Find my Italian leather backpack.

But even if I don’t ever go back, the nun’s blessing (for that is how I will think of it) centered me enough that I could remember how lucky I was to be in Italy.

I meant to get up early and start working in the yard before I got ready for work. It is a disaster! Morning glory and ivy everywhere, choking out everything. Plus I need to go to the nursery.

Instead I slept until 8:45 and then ate some chocolate and putzed around. I did put some fresh bandaids on my Ragnar blisters. And clean out my email box.

I'm so productive!

In an effort to actually do something, here is a June recap.

All of my kids were out of school by the beginning of June. Kaleb and I went on a few walks in the first week of June, in the morning. That was lovely and I'd like to start it up again! Jake started working four days a week. He also started driving more, as he got his license in May. Cue a few arguments over the you-can't-drive-with-friends-for-six-months law. (I am a stickler as I think anything that helps them be more safe while they're driving is a good thing. If I look right at it, I am TERRIFIED every single time one of my kids gets behind the wheel. It's a sort of underlying ribbon of terror I don't know how to cut away.) Nathan had basketball camp and Kaleb had soccer camp.

The day before we left for Mexico, Haley drove home. We did a lot of Utah-County-type errands that she can't do in Logan and made sure we were ready.

(At one of our favorite restaurants in San Jose del Cabo)

One of my favorite things about our trip was speaking Spanish together. She is getting a minor in Spanish and is really getting good at it! I'm surprised at how much I can remember from my high school and college Spanish classes...I could understand more if people would speak more slowly! But she understands them. I liked sharing words and phrases with her.

The day that we flew home (June 17) there was a snow storm. Not in the valleys...but in the mountains. This does happen every once in awhile, but it's still a strange sight seeing fresh snow in June. 

The. Best. Thing. Ever. for June, especially for Jake, is that after months of looking for just the right one (when your husband is picky and a little OCD and really likes things to be clean and well-cared for and as dent- and-scratch-free as possible, plus has PTSD from buying one used car and then having its engine die three weeks later, it takes a while to find just the right one), we finally found just the right one. Car, that is:

(This is right after we bought the car. I sent this picture to Jake to give him the good news!)

It is pretty much exactly what we were looking for, a Prism with less than 100,000 miles on it. The fact that it is the model with cruise control AND a lock button (you still have to roll down the windows with a handle though), AND it is in awesome condition….well. Everyone is pretty happy.

(Except yeah: we still are having the you-can’t-drive-your-friends-around-yet argument.)

Anyway.

Jake’s other cool thing for June was that he got to go to Florida. His Parli team (a HOSA thing) won the state competition, so he got to go to the National competition. They finished in the top ten (I still haven’t heard exactly which place) out of 45 teams. Plus he got to go to Universal Studios and Disneyworld. (He likes Disneyland better…less humidity!) He brought me back a chocolate frog! I am so proud of him for finding something he likes to do, being involved, and having some success.

Another fun June thing: Nathan sprained his ankle playing basketball in our neighbor’s yard. I’ve never seen an ankle swell like his did: the big swelling on the joint, of course, but then another lump of swelling on the muscle right underneath it. So he had two lumps of swelling, with a divet in between. He was on crutches for a few days, but now he’s walking again and trying to work out the swelling. He was brave…it was a pretty ugly sprain. (No break though. We had it x-rayed just in case.)

His ankle sprain gave me some SERIOUS sympathy ankle pains. I’m not joking. As soon as I saw his injury, my ankle started throbbing and aching and twinging. Not good right before a long relay race!

Ragnar was the last weekend of June (usually it’s the third weekend), and I was afraid it would be hot. But it rained the day before (and also the morning of the race, but since I was in van 2 I didn’t see it) and there were still clouds. I didn’t start my first run until about 4:00, and as soon as I got around the first curve and just onto the base of the mountain, it was cool. (Not chilly…but not unbearably hot.) One of my favorite Ragnar moments this year came at the top of the first long (3+ mile) uphill section of my first leg. You come around a curve and then you’re at the top, and you can look both down into the green, glistening valley and up at towering, craggy peaks (I think it is Mt. Ogden). 

It’s like a psychic payoff for all those hard uphill steps, running down into that beautiful valley in view of the cliffs. When I came around the curve, there was a gust of wind (cooled me right off!) and, for about three or four minutes, a light spattering of rain. Just enough to take all of my discomfort away. It was perfect!

Yesterday was the last day of June, and I loved it! All of the projects and stuff that kept me busy all month were over. I cleaned off my scrapbooking table (somehow between everything I managed to make about 10 layouts this month; you can see some here and here) and then I deep-cleaned the kitchen. Nathan and Kaleb hung out with me, talking and helping. Then I went outside and started working on the wild jungle my yard’s become.

You know…the yard I won’t get to today. I wonder if I could call in “my yard needs help” today?

I don’t think I have that kind of time off.

How was your June?