Magical Journeys: Part One

Updating this more-or-less defunct blog requires motivation of some note; my time is stretched too thin to accommodate non-essentials now. Precious (or humorously NON-precious) moments with the kids and noteworthy creative endeavors now get immediate exposure on other, faster social platforms. I miss longer, sustained writing projects, but there rarely seems to be anything worth the time it takes to do them.

There has been one thing worth it recently, however - so I am committed to getting it recorded.

It came about at the suggestion of a friend, Mishael, who early in the summer had gone on a European tour to promote her newly-written book (which by the way has some pretty damn fine illustrations). Her trip was a leap of faith - a whirlwind journey on a shoestring budget with her two daughters in tow. On the phone she glowed and beamed audibly with the fervor of adventure, and I remarked wistfully that I had never been out of North America. She insisted that I should rectify this travesty; take the plunge, see the world, have a second honeymoon.

"I love the idea," I admitted, "but we have three little obstacles."

"I'll take them," she said instantly, with an impulsive confidence I was sure she would regret.

"I...really? Oh, no. You don't know what you're offering." But the possibilities were already blooming in my mind like rare and wild flowers.

"No, it'll be fine," she gushed. "The girls will help out. We have so many fun activities around here. They'll have a wonderful time. You guys have meant so much to me and I want to do this for you."

"I'll consider it," I said. "Just be careful what you ask for. I might go ahead and book something before you come to your senses."

Within a few days I had decided it was a go; furthermore, decided to make it a surprise for the Artist's birthday. I mulled over destination options. He frequently waxes poetic and wistful about Paris, where he has often traveled for work, and desperately wants to take me. But my heart had always, since my teens, wanted to explore the Celtic countries, particularly Wales, thanks to my enduring obsession with Lloyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain. For a while I tried to split the time between the two countries, but it proved so complicated that I scrapped the Paris leg early on. I considered London, and decided to save it for its own trip later. The Artist had already been to Scotland, and I wanted the experience to be a new one for both of us. So...Wales it was, with a brief stint in Ireland since we'd be flying in and out of Dublin, the cheapest of all flight options.

I collected tips from a few experienced traveler friends, and stalked airfare websites. I emailed the Artist's boss to make sure the dates would be available. I told him I was planning a trip to Colorado to visit my parents and he requested the time off. I held my breath when I clicked the "purchase" option on a flight to Dublin, and messaged Mishael in a hyperventilating, heart-pounding moment to release tension. "Flights are booked. This is really happening." She cheered. I took a deep breath. 

I spent weeks neglecting the children while I drowned in travel websites, AirBnB, train routes, bus schedules, Trip Advisor. Could we get around without renting a car? Neither of us drove a standard transmission, which was the only thing available at a reasonable rate. The very word "roundabout" gave me a headache. I decided we'd stick with public transportation, despite warnings from locals that we wouldn't see as much. I didn't want to spend every day driving, nose in maps, hunting for parking spaces. I wanted to get to each destination and then just...be. Soak in the essence of the places. Sink our teeth into them.

It was grueling. I know, now, why travel agents get paid. I filled multiple pages with notes about potential destinations, historical sites, possible accommodations, time frames, trying to figure out if we could be at ferry stations and airports on time if we left this or that place at such-and-such.

There were many times I wanted to throw it all out and just book a tour with some professional group, and I investigated a few. Both their prices and narrow scope turned me off. I didn't want to be subjected to someone else's notion of of what we "should" see. I didn't want to tour the Waterford museum or the slate mine, or learn about Guinness; nor, I suspected, would tour guides take kindly to my dream of leisurely costumed photoshoots at whatever location tickled my fancy. Furthermore, I wanted to interact with real local people - not rub shoulders with a bunch of other tourists and hotel staff.

Back to AirBnB, then. Live like a local.

Out of dozens of options, I finally narrowed down a few accommodations based mainly on their pictures, and whether we could get to them via public transportation. I communicated with their proprietors, checked and re-checked my schedules, and booked our lodgings, with a growing sense of the inevitability and strangeness of what I was doing. I was so far outside my comfort zone I couldn't even see it.

But it was happening.

Two weeks before the Artist's birthday, I suggested a dinner date, and met him after work at Jock's Hangar Bar in Disney Springs. After a drink or two, I handed him his "early" birthday present: a mock travel guide and itinerary:

Let's see if I remember anything of my graphic design education.

The reaction:

Anything would have looked good after the drinks we had, though.

He spent the next week telling everyone at his office, showing off the travel package, laughing at my postscript, and being even more patient than usual. He now understood why suddenly every unexpected expense (and there were several) was causing me so much stress. I slept well for the first time in weeks, simply because I was no longer planning alone.


The time flew by. I packed, and re-packed, squeezing two weeks' worth of clothing and gear into two small carry-on suitcases and two crammed-tight backpacks. We'd be walking a lot, and dragging things on and off buses and trains - I didn't want to be hampered with enormous pieces of luggage.

On August 6th we drove to Atlanta, and spent a night in my in-laws' home there. The kids were excited to be spending a "fun vacation" with another family, but nervous about being away from us for so long. I cuddled with them late into the night and tried to banish thoughts of plane crashes and freak accidents from my mind. We had updated our wills and all beneficiary information before we left - a sobering responsibility, about whose implications I chose not to think.

That night before going to bed, I was sliding out of my hiking boots - a pair of sturdy shoes I'd owned since college, my trusty supports on numerous hikes and camping trips through the Rockies. And this happened:

Good God, really?!

I fumed, wondering where we'd find a sporting goods store with decent boots in my size before leaving the next day, before realizing there were two beautiful and almost-new pair of hiking boots in my mother-in-law's closet. Never have I ever been so grateful that we wear the same shoes size - AND that my in-laws tend to splurge lavishly on high-quality items. L.L. Bean, no less. I called her, got permission, and borrowed both pairs.

Somehow, we slept.

Stay tuned for Part Two, otherwise entitled: