Martini Rescue Squad

"Ah, Malibu"

Price list at a Cape Cod ice cream parlor...

Wonderful.

I Don’t Like Florence - and Other Fascinating Matters of Perspective, Part II of II

Everyone I know adores the place.  A few couples I know got engaged there.  The whole world falls in love in Florence.

Two of my friends met there as exchange students in college – he is from the Eastern Mediterranean and she is from Southern California.  They dated many years before going back to Florence to take their vows on a hilltop overlooking the city.  They then returned to the States for a reception.

At the party, I remember looking at the pictures from the ceremony and thinking, “Huh.  It looks gorgeous.  Peaceful.  Not the Florence I remember.”

A few weeks ago, I had a similar experience.  A handful of girlfriends and I met for dinner at a neighborhood place.  So much a part of the neighborhood, none of us had been there in years.  We take it for granted. It’s just there.  Like Florence.

Passing through the restaurant, I noticed on the wall they have a framed panoramic picture of the city at dusk.  Or dawn.  Can’t tell.

It looks soft, romantic, majestic...inviting.  Again, that’s not the Florence I remember.

Rewind to June 1997.  My brother Patrick and his surf posse had just graduated from high school.  They all planned to backpack through Europe for a few weeks before returning to their internships or summer jobs in their last pre-college summer.

I had just finished my sophomore year in college – the precise year my delayed adolescent awkward phase smacked me on the backside daily. And hard.  The bruises were visible all over my demeanor.

I had a couple of weeks between the condensed summer term at school and my very serious, grown-up internship.  As opposed to hostessing at the reptile-themed restaurant where I had worked the summer before.  Sweet.

Meanwhile, my grandmother, Big Nance/”The Queen Mum” had caught a travel bug.  She wanted to go!

Where?  Eh.

“…How about Europe?”

Great.

The three female grandchildren who were old enough to travel at the time, including me, and Big Nance convened in the south of France. The boys migrated to meet us as well and after a couple of days, we overnighted by train to Paris.  My love.

After a few days in the City of Lights, the surfers and we parted company for a couple of stops, the first of which was Florence.  Ah, Florence.

Before leaving Paris, one of the granddaughters mentioned “not feeling well” to her stomach.

“Yes, well, we have to get to Florence.”

Several hours and mishaps later, this granddaughter’s stomach malaise was a full-fledged stomach flu.  We all discovered this over lunch at a Florentine café.

This granddaughter went to bed for a few hours while the rest of us resolved to walk around and take advantage of being in one of the world’s most beautiful cities.  To meet the people.  To see the sights, like the Ponte Vecchio.  Right.

It was damn near 90-degrees outside, and we were stuck on that tiny-seeming bridge like ants in an ant farm, trying to claw our way through the mass of people heading the opposite direction, most of whom were fellow Americans, most of whom were generously corporal and most of whom lacked deodorant.  Or enough for that day’s weather.

Everyone was cranky, almost everyone was rude and, at that point, I almost hoped that bridge would snap off of its base and tumble into what I imagined was the cool river below. At least we would get back to the hotel faster that way.

Let’s be very clear about something – I was extremely grateful to be there.  All of us were.  And it was a once-in-a-lifetime blessing to be there together, on that wonderful trip.  We were very, very lucky to have that opportunity.

That was not something of which I lost sight at any point.

But some cities and you don’t click.  Florence and I do not.

The art and architecture are unbelievable – the greater city area has to be one of the highest concentrations of artistic masterpieces in the world.  Even if you did not have any desire to take Art History in school like, ahem, some of us...that place is impressive.

The energy in that city is consuming.  Everyone is there to explore and experience.

Religious pilgrims find themselves overwhelmed by the Duomo, the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.  Shoppers find themselves tempted by the shops carrying the highest fashion brands or the local artisans’ specialties.  Epicureans find themselves challenged to narrow their favorite restaurants down to one “best” place.

Big Nance found herself whirled around the stage by a handsome dancer at a festive restaurant in the historic town square – the Piazza della Signoria, I think.

Everyone gets whisked away there in one way or another.  It does not take anything more than a walk along the river to fall in love with almost anything that bobs up in your consciousness as you coast along in your dreamlike state.  Even though you’re still in Florence.

Maybe I’ll give it another try someday.  Just as maybe we’ll all try to recode some of those places, things and events – create a new, completely subjective mental cataloguing for them –at a time in our lives that is not so crowded, sour-stomached, awkward or...insert the negative adjective that explains your perspective.

Places, things and events that are either important or inconsequential to the rest of our lives.

Like Florence.

I Don’t Like Florence - and Other Fascinating Matters of Perspective, Part I of II

Everyone loves Florence.  The art, the architecture, the Tuscan scenery...That city welcomes up to 20 times as many visitors per year than there are residents.[1]  And I don’t like it.

Don’t mistake me – I love Italy.  I really like most Italians I’ve met.

And the consumer goods or cultural trademarks…Valentino, Alfa Romeo, cappuccino, gelato, spaghetti Bolognese...love, love, love.  If you filled a pool with Chianti Classico or iced Pellegrino, I’d swim in it every day until I was well past pruny.

Italy equals Love.  Florence, not so much.

This, obviously, is completely subjective.  As are many things, both important and inconsequential in relation to the rest of our lives.

But that subjectivity -  the result of how all of our lives up to, during and following certain specific placces, things and events can uniquely encode them in our brains – can take something so simple as a visit to Florence and make the wildest difference in how we understand it.  That is fascinating.

Unlike Florence.

(To be continued next week...)

---

[1]Tourists in Florence.  (2008, June 26).  The Florentine, Issue 82/2008.  Retrieved from: http://www.theflorentine.net/articles/article-view.asp?issuetocId=3313.

 

 

The Queen Mum, Dog Hips and 95 Degrees, Part II of IV

The last thing we needed to confirm before committing to Moe’s hip surgery/our visit to the Queen Mum in the Midwest was the timing.

Haven’t you found at least once or twice, the minute or so after you commit to an ideal strategy, you awaken to everything that successful execution will entail?

...The Queen Mum/Big Nance planned to leave town at the beginning of the second week in July and I could stay with her until then…

...I wanted to spend some quality time with my glorious grandmother – that was part of the reason I chose this surgeon - and she was really the only family member who would have the peaceful space and time for Moe, her crate, me and our schedule...

...Big Nance’s home was an easy shot down the highway from the animal hospital, so this was logistically sound.  I could get to and from the hospital as necessary...

...The airline said they will allow Moe to fly after her surgery, as long as her surgeon signs off on it...

... The lab technician in the surgeon’s office said it would not be in Moe’s best interest to fly until a good week after the surgery - the doctor would want to examine her on day seven and make sure she looked strong and healthy enough to fly.  But flying before then was a bit premature and unsafe...

…I.e. no sign-off, no flying home, until day seven post-operation.  Understood.

All of this meant her surgery would have to be the last week in June.  That way, she would have a full week to recover in the Midwest and achieve the surgeon’s approval to fly, we would have a place to stay, I could visit Big Nance and we could clear out before she had to leave town.  Simple enough in theory.

But what that meant in practice was each step on this plan’s continuum depended on successfully arranging for the steps before it.  There was not a way to navigate around any of this not going – Exactly – according to plan.

And the surgeon was away and would not return until that last week in June.  His surgery slate was full that week.

Hmm…not good.

Perhaps he could work us into his schedule?  Hoping, hoping, hoping...

Yes, the lab technician confirmed, the surgeon would make room in his schedule for Moe, her hips and me.

L-o-v-e love the surgeon, the lab technician and everyone at that animal hospital.

We would fly in on a Tuesday, go in to the see the surgeon for the pre-operation exam on Wednesday and her surgery would be first thing on Thursday.

  If all went well, the surgeon would clear her to fly the following Thursday.  From departure to return, this whole trip would take 10 days.

Yes, the most crucial things were set; the surgery date, accommodations for Moe and me while there, the airline’s approval to fly. 

Now what?

Ha ha ha.

Several moving parts...

MoeMoe is a 60-pound dog.  Several airlines allow you to fly with a dog weighing 17 pounds or less, as long as you keep them in a travel bag that meets certain specifications and fits under the seat.  Right.  Not Moe.

Of the airlines that will allow larger animals as cargo, none fly directly into the city where we needed to go.  We could change planes anywhere from Dallas-Fort Worth to Dulles in Greater Washington, D.C., but we could not fly straight into our destination city.

I did not want to risk traumatizing Moe during a plane change. Worse yet, I did not want to run any chance the airlines would lose her, i.e. literally misplace her.  It happens.

Thus, the only option that seemed safe was to pick the closest hub city to our destination, arrange for a rental car there and drive the 2.5 hours to our destination city.

With the airline and flight selected, I had to find the travel crate that meets all of the International Air Transport Association’s (IATA) specifications.  This is a bit trickier than it seems – a few manufacturers claim their crates are IATA approved, but IATA does not endorse or lend its name to any specific products.

This meant doing some rather detailed research into various crates, calling the airline, bouncing back and forth for a couple of hours and re-iterating the whole schpiel to at least four people at the airline until, at last, one airline representative confirmed that yes, the crate I just described will be approved.

That was fun.

Fortunately, while on the phone with the last airline rep, I googled something I had seen while on hold for the first 35 minutes in order to ask that last airline rep a question.  To my surprise, the first google hit was not what I wanted, but it was a page advertising an “IATA Kit.”

Yes, as it sounds, this is a box of goodies that you actually need to have in order to be approved to fly – which includes a specific kind of bolt that you must use to assemble the travel crate.

Wouldn’t it be great to get every detail in place, having spent hours on hold with the airline to do so, order the new crate and assemble it only to arrive at the airport and find you cannot fly on your intended travel date, thus cannot arrive in time for the intended surgery date, all because you do not have the special IATA doohickey?

Hmm…not good.

I nearly wept envisioning it.

“Peg,” I asked the fourth airline rep, “I know you approved the crate I just described, but I just found a page selling an IATA Kit with a few extra items it says any airline will require.  Should I buy this as well?”

Yes, Peg agreed I should order the kit.

Breathe.

Now what?

Ha ha ha.

Several moving parts...

Next, I needed to research car rental companies.  I would need a car the whole 10 days I was there so we could pick it up in the hub city, cozy Moe into her crate in order to cruise to our destination city and freely transport her around town as needed for check-ups with the surgeon.

This required another couple of hours on hold with the car rental company until a kind representative assured me the mid-size SUV would be large enough.  And yes, they could arrange to meet me at the airport, even though the website said I would need to shuttle to the off-site car pick-up location.

Eh.  I was not too confident in that assurance.  This is where Saint Matthew, location manager at that rental car company’s office at our hub airport, came into the picture.  We phone tagged each other for a couple of days until at last I reached him with a nice suggestion, i.e. a bribe.

“Matthew, I taking my sweet dog for hip replacement surgery in the Midwest.  We are flying into the airport your office services.  ‘We’ are one 60-pound dog, a four-foot by two-foot, by two-foot crate, two duffle bags and me.  We will not fit on your courtesy shuttle.”

“No, Miss, you will not.”

“And we cannot guarantee we can find a taxi van at the airport that could fit us and not charge a fortune for the quick trip to your office.”

“No, Miss, you can’t.”

Hmm…Not good.

“Right.  But let’s say I offer to treat us both to lunch en route from the airport to your office.  Will you pick us up at the baggage claim in our rental car?”

Matthew agreed, but said lunch was not necessary.

At this point, I had spent hours on hold, developed two new friendships with Peg and Matt, arranged for the plane, the car and the crate.  Now what?

Ha ha ha.

Several moving parts...

“Paige, you really should get Moe a Thundershirt,” my brother Pat suggested.

“A what?”

“It’s a thing that wraps around them and basically hugs them to calm them down.  It naturally sedates them.”

“Oh...good idea.”

For 2.5 weeks, I had made sure to spend a few minutes every day explaining to Moe and Traveler, her brother dog, that Moe and I were going to take a special trip to fix her hip.  That Traveler would stay at his favorite kennel.  That I would sent Trav to the kennel with his sister’s blankie and would use Trav’s blankie as the one thing I could enclose in Moe’s crate for the flight.  That we would be apart 10 quick days, and then we would all be together.

Again, Moe and T are non-verbal and I know this.  However, they are very intuitive.

But Pat was right, those talks still would not help her with her anxiety about being in the cargo hold on a plane with strangers.

The Thundershirt, the new crate and the orthopedic dog pillow all arrived a week before our travel date.  This gave us some time for Moe to become familiar with her new outfit, her new abode and her new bed.

The day before we left, she was comfy and calm, Traveler acted a bit clingy – which he does when he knows I am leaving in a couple of days – and I was exhausted.

When the taxi arrived at 4 a.m. on travel day, we were ready.  Sort of.

We got to the airline’s live animal cargo drop-off at 4:30 a.m., right when they opened.  The staff at the airline desk was not exactly as spry as were we.  We’ve all been there.

They were kind, but still somewhat asleep, i.e. not very reassuring.

It took 30 minutes to check in Miss Moe, because the airline rep kept losing my credit card, my paperwork, her LA vet's release form, the “Live Animal” stickers I showed him I had already adhered to her crate and a few other things - but by 5 a.m., we were ready.

“Go ahead, Ma’am,” the rep said, smiling in what seemed like relief that we had checked her in.  “Everything is fine.”

I looked down at sweet Moe, swaddled in her shirt and zip-tied into her crate that was sitting in the middle of the waiting area among the other human passengers checking in their pet.

Hmm…not good, not good, not good.

I said politely, “No, I am going to wait until you move her back to the secured area for loading.”

“Oh!,” he replied with a giggle.  “Of course.  Here we go.” And away rolled Miss Moe.

On the plane, I mentioned to one of the flight attendants, “I am flying with my little girl dog, Moe.  I want to make sure she makes it on the plane before we take off.”

“Of course!,” the flight attendant replied.  “I’ll announce it before we take off.”

I did not find this very comforting either.

A few minutes later, the first flight attendant ended her pre-flight information speech with, “Miss Moe is on board.”  Ahhh.

All of our parts were now moving in the right direction.

The flight was smooth, the drive was easy and the stop at the Wendy’s off the highway was a welcome chance for us to stretch our legs.  We made it to Big Nance’s house with just enough time for me to get her crate and our duffle bags up to the attic bedroom before the evening’s dinner event.

This was going according to plan.

Moe could not sleep too well – she ran up and down the bed intermittently throughout the night.  Thus I did not sleep too well.

Was she uneasy in the new place?  Did she miss Traveler?  Was she scared about the surgery?  Or could she intuit that I felt all of those things and she was reacting to me?

All of those were possible, the latter more likely than others.

The next morning we were both calmer.  A fitful night had tired both of us.

As I finished dressing to take Moe to the hospital, I looked down at her as I asked playfully, “Are you ready for your exam, Miss Moe? Tomorrow’s going to be a big day!"

She was calmly and daintily relaxed on the bed, looking at me intently with her sweet, round eyes.

Several moving parts would finally come to rest in their proper place.  She seemed to know that.  Or she knew that I did.

(To be continued next week...)

 

It Takes a Turtle..., Part I of III

 

 

Catalysts to reawakening the time-tested truths in our lives can come in the most unusual sizes and shapes.  A baby’s laugh can remind us how precious is simple joy.  A puppy’s sneeze can remind us how natural it is to be natural.  And a wandering 5-by-4.5-inch-shell turtle painted fluorescent yellow, turquoise and orange can remind us what it means to be neighbors.

Not in the conventionally defined dwelling proximity, shared postal code or mutual subjugation to the same, sometimes obscure neighborhood CC&R’s.  Those factors can render some unpleasant, but powerful shared identity features.

But the things that evoke what it means to actually care about each other, look out for each other and, for no self-enriching reason, to go out of our way to help - those are very few and rare.

It’s rained this last week all over the greater metropolitan area.  It’s rained hard.  On my peculiar little street, it’s pretty crucial to be attentive and conservative with your driving style – especially on a slippery night like a few that we have had lately.

This street, though very unusual in its shape and topography, is not that unusual for this town; a charming Plantation-style home sits right next to a neo-industrial modish home, which sits next to a Spanish-style house.

This is a cheerful spot – during the holidays, almost every home displays a wreath or menorah or some form of seasonal reminder.  The night before trash collection, everyone gradually wheels their trash and recycling bins to the corner and make space for the bins belonging to neighbors who have not yet wheeled theirs down.

People are very nice here, but not many of us actually ever engage.  Not any more than a few cursory politesses, such as “On your right,” as we run by, or a sheepish apology if our pet growls at a neighbor’s pet as they pass.  And that’s when a small, fluorescent-painted turtle crawled into all of our lives.

A few weeks ago, I had a very important work-related morning meeting half-way across town.  The weather was very pleasant, so I put my dogs in their small but adequate run to enjoy the space and sun glow while I was gone.

As I pulled up my peculiar little street, I could hear my dogs excitedly greeting me, as they often do.

“Hi, Guys – I’ll be right there,” I flatly assured them as I dropped my keys and gently shifted out of my work pumps and into my old, mud-proof Keds for the walk back to the yard.

“Sh, sh, sh,” I entreated them, as I walked closer.  Usually, that is when they calm down other than a symbolic half-bark or two to assert they still mean business.

Instead, they persisted in barking.  Aggressively.  As if they were angry or frightened, either of which evokes a plenty intimidating sound.

“Guys, calm down!,” I insisted.  “I’m right here!”

But they continued barking, with their bodies coiled back as if prepared to spring at an imaginary attacker in self-defense.

“What the…Oh, my god!,” I shouted, as I looked down at my dog’s sight line focus and noticed a small, brightly–painted turtle no more than one foot from the dog gate and crawling straight toward their dog run as if on a holy pilgrimage.

After disposing of their horror from seeing this mobile, colorful semi-gloss creature headed their way, their demeanor had quickly changed to an “Ooh…candy!” enthusiasm.

“Where did you come from?,” I asked my new little friend as I picked him up to save him from his imminent repurposing to turtle pie.

“Seriously, Paige, no one is going to answer!,” I realized.

"Hang on, puppies,” I pleaded with my dogs.  “I’ve got to figure this one out.”

They were not happy to see me pluck their psychedelic-colored sweet from its self-propelled path to their mouths and walk slowly, contemplatively, back into the kitchen holding it in my hands.

"Contain him…Fine, but where?” I thought, as my brain breezed through every disaster scenario that could unfold if I let him crawl free-style as I called my neighbors.

He could very easily crawl under or onto my similarly colored couch, a hand-me-down from Big Nance, my grandmother, and camped out for the heck of it.  He would not be easy to find in that upholstery.  Or what if he started nibbling on some power cords plugged into the wall…

“My baskets!  Yes!,” I thought, as I rushed over to the small cubbies under the bench in my breakfast nook.  I grabbed the biggest one, a kidney bean-shaped wicker basket with sides too tall for him to scale and escape, and delicately placed him inside.

"This will work,” I thought.  “He can breathe, he can crawl up the sides just far enough to pan the area and realize he’s not in any danger, but he cannot crawl away.”

"Phew,” I exhaled, as I realized I had no clue how to find the household where he belongs.

My peculiar little street is one mile long, give or take.  It t-bones at either end with some busy cross-streets.  Not streets it’s easy for anyone to traverse without serious risk – even if running quite fast.  You would definitely not be likely to make it at a turtle’s pace.  Or size.

There are approximately seven or eight cul-de-sacs stemming off of this street and each has three to 10-houses on it.  Many families the whole length of the street have small children.  Families who might let their children paint their turtle.

"Oh, God, where could you belong?,” I asked him, exasperated, as collapsed my chin onto the palms of my hands with my elbows planted on the counter next to the basket.  I looked at him at eyelevel, hoping he’d channel some wisdom my way.  Nope.

"Let’s be realistic,” I rationalized with myself.   “He could not have gone that far.”

My place is right near where two cul-de-sacs that extend off the street almost adjoin; the one on the left contours to the right and the one on the right contours to the left, forming an odd-shaped loop with the houses on the street.  That means close to a dozen houses’ back yards abut each other within a very small area.

"And, frankly,” I thought, “it’s probably wisest to focus on just those houses between the t-bone at the end of the street closest to here and the furthest cul-de-sac  down of the two that almost adjoin.”

Seemed rational.

"Now what?  Call a couple of neighbors first…Whose number do I have?!,” I asked myself incredulously.

"Hmm….Sherry.  I have her number.   But he’s not hers.”

Sherry is a single woman who owns her own prestigious homeopathy clinic on the Westside.  She’s quite conservative and always dressed to the nines in gorgeous suits.  I know she has a son my age, but no grandchildren.  Not someone who would paint a turtle.

"But that great artist couple, Donna and Geno, right?  Of course!  They have smallish children they let paint that wall in their kitchen – it would absolutely make sense that they would allow their kids to paint their turtle with a harmless water-color, or something like that.

Ahh…relief permeated every sinew in my body as I realized how that is really the only thing that makes sense.  I called.  Voicemail.

"Hello, Donna and Geno, this is your neighbor, Paige.  I came home a short time ago and found a brightly painted turtle in my yard, crawling head-long for my dog run.  He’s fine now and I think he might be yours.  Please call me as soon as you get this and I’ll get him back to you right away.  My number is….Thank you."

Whew.  That felt so sensible, so obvious.

“But then again, there are about 50 homes on this street and the cul-de-sacs, and a number of them have small children," I reminded myself.

It would really stink if any of them were to be sad or scared simply because one neighbor did not exert the effort to do the obvious.

"Right,” I thought.  “I’ve got the time and a couple more hours of sunlight…OK, little guy, let’s go,” I proclaimed.

I offered my dogs a simple, not overly regretful apology, grabbed a tea towel to throw over the basket, and left with my keys and mobile phone ringer at full volume.

"Iggy – you’re name is Iggy for now – don’t worry,” I said, as I gently stroked his shell under the tea towel as we started up the street, hoping he’d somehow understand I was not going to hurt him.

"We’re going to stop in on our neighbors to see if anyone is missing you and can accurately describe your colors.  We’re going to find your family as soon as we can.”

 

(To be continued next week...)

Hell is...

Hell is being the only single person at a Valentine’s Weekend destination wedding on an island full of married people.

Let’s review the situational specifics:

• It’s a destination wedding, meaning you cannot go home and get into your bubble bath and robe after the DJ plays Donna Summers’ Last Dance – or call your other friends who were not at the wedding to meet you elsewhere for last call.

• It’s on an island that is five miles long and half a mile wide, meaning you can’t go so far on your day excursion that your rental car mysteriously breaks down just one county beyond where the tow truck can retrieve you in time for the festivities.  Walking from one side of the island to the other would not take more than 90 minutes.

• You are the only single person, meaning everyone else who is even remotely twenty-or-thirty-enough years old for a wedding weekend spark is either married or in a relationship.

• It’s Valentine’s Day weekend, meaning…right.  Shit.

Even if your parents left you a voicemail singing “Happy Valentine’s Day to you” to the tune of the Happy Birthday song, you would not know it until you got back to your home airport a few days later.

These were the thoughts that floated through my mind, and in that order, as I packed my little suitcase for my friends’ wedding weekend in the tropics last year.

It started with a small contraction in my abdomen, then migrated up to a full-body, ridiculous guffaw.  “This was going to be fun!,” I laughed.

I knew it would be a fun weekend.  The bride and groom are perfect for each other.  Half the guests were the bride’s family and friends from New Jersey and I did not yet know any of them.  It would be great to finally meet the people of whom we West Coasters had heard.

The groom’s half were his family and all of the people who would have been at our buddy Bryan’s backyard parties in Southern California, circa 1994.   People I’ve known and loved for most of life.  Plus husbands/ wives/significant others.

There we all were, all 85 of us, on an island that is five miles long and one thousand miles off the coast of possibility.  This is the kind of situation that provides the clarity that is tough to replicate.

If you slow down and listen, you get an oddly privileged view into all kinds of relationships, including the one you have with yourself and with that bizarre little thing called expectation.

How often do you go out of town and pack a lot of expectation?  You may have a detailed itinerary, thus your expectations are based on things going according to plan.

Your expectation is your support structure for your whole trip and even if you spontaneously deviate from it, you can take comfort in the idea that this intangible schedule exists somewhere in the atmosphere and you can return to it when you please.  You can feel like the expectation gods are happy to have you back on the schedule.

You may just be leaving town on a whim, thus you have very little specific expectation – other than doing things on a whim.  In a way, that can be a comforting expectation as well.

This trip was the middle ground.  I knew everyone was flying in on Thursday from New Jersey, California and a few places in between.  The rehearsal dinner was to be on Friday, the wedding on Saturday and on Sunday, we would all fly home.  Other than that, and being the only single adult who would attend, I knew nothing.

Upon arrival at the sleek, open and breezy resort island a mile or so off the mainland coast, anything I had that was close to expectation evaporated.  I also quickly realized my error – there were four single adults at the wedding; three women and one man.

That first night however, one of the women and the only man connected leaving on the whole island…yes, two single women.  Cassie and me.  Cassie is one of the bride’s best friends from college.

For all intents usually associated with Valentine’s Day, destination weddings and tropical islands, we were each mutually exclusively the only single adult on the whole island.  We resolved that first night we would be each other’s evil twin for the weekend.  We used the word “evil” more to amuse ourselves than anything.  It was for laughs, not intention.

That Friday morning, all of us trickled down by the pool and I noticed the most interesting patterns in how we all scattered to different lounger clusters.  Who talked to whom, what they discussed, what were everyone’s priorities, about what were they bragging, worrying, laughing…I got to spend the day migrating between them.

This is when I mostly quieted my mind, though not my mouth, and let the day happen.  It was breathtaking.

In some moments, I was flashing back to the sidelines at our little league soccer games, to high school proms, 21^st birthday parties and weddings.

In others, I envisioned 10-20 years in the future, imagining how our lives will look then.  Imagining how everything I saw at the pool will shake out down the line.

Cassie was one of eight beautiful, clever and fun women at the wedding with whom the bride had gone to high school or college in New Jersey.  None of their husbands/boyfriends could make it, so they took the weekend to catch-up with each other.  By dinner on Friday, they had adopted me as an honorary Jersey Girl.

By sunset the next evening, the bride and groom had said “I do” on the beach.  By 1 a.m.-ish, most people had taken a bow after their dance performance art and gone back to their rooms.  By the next afternoon, almost everyone was back at the airport, headed to wherever we call home.

It was an incredible weekend.

A few weeks ago, some 16 months after the wedding, the bride and groom and I made dinner plans to meet a very special little lady.  Their gorgeous, sweet and peaceful baby girl.

We met in their home and as they gathered the baby bag and stroller, I took a minute to look at their photos on the wall – their courtship, the wedding, the Jersey Girls, the groom’s and my high school friends – and one forceful reality blew through me.  Time does not ever stop.

If we cannot feel comfortable moving forward without thinking we know how everything will or should pan out, our expectation becomes baggage.  And even destination weddings on tropical islands can seem like hell.