I Dream of Foreign Places and Dog-Free Spaces

Someone – I don’t know who – pooped on the welcome mat. I discovered it early one morning while chasing my teenage son to the school bus with a wet mop as he’s not a morning person,

Don't let that face fool you - she's a walking toilet

Don’t let that face fool you – she’s a walking toilet

doesn’t shower enough, and thinks 16-year-old boys shouldn’t have to ride the school bus but, instead, should be driving a smoking hot sports car with booming speakers and teenaged girls taking up every spare inch of space.

But I digress.

As I was saying, someone pooped on the welcome mat, and I’m hoping it was the dog, but in this house with these kids and my particular breed of husband, everyone is a suspect.  Being an optimist, I realized things could be worse.  For one thing, a) it had hardened by the time I found it and b) I hadn’t fertilized the shrubs in a while.  So, finding lemons and making lemonade, I gave the mat a quick flip, tossed the little unwrapped gift under the hopefully hungry yew and called it a morning.  Extra cup of coffee, here I come.

I love that extra cup of coffee because it comes with a quiet house and sleeping pets and time to think.  It’s that blessed in-between time when all is still and it’s not yet time to report to the home office.  It’s my time to sit, to sip and to dream – dream about a cleaner house, thinner thighs, constipated pets and, more often than not, of foreign times in foreign lands with foreign people in a beautiful little space charmingly free of cat hair.

My heart belongs to Venice

My heart belongs to Venice

I’ve found such a place in the form of my dream Go with Oh apartment in that magical place known as Venice, Italy.  When my dreams take me away like a 747 flying high over my rolling Hoosier farmland, I still find it hard to believe such a place does, in fact, exist.  How could this place, this magical watery space, be real?

When I planned my first of hopefully many trips to Venice in the spring of 2012, I spent many a happy idle hour drooling over Go with Oh apartments in Venice.  Did I want to be near the Piazza San Marco?

What wonders wait behind this open window?

What wonders wait behind this open window?

Or was something overlooking the Rialto Bridge more my style? Or perhaps I should consider something half hidden away in the looming shadow of the Santa Maria de Miricoli with her pink laced marble walls and her gleaming dome? Maybe one of the outlying islands would be fun.

Decisions, decisions.

While I could have happily searched for Go with Oh apartments for an eternity, I eventually, found what I was looking for – a lovely two-bedroom, two bath beauty with multiple windows and balconies overlooking the San Severo River, with an actual terrace AND an actual fireplace in the kitchen and a wide entry hall just begging for weary travelers to enter, unwind and toss down their luggage.  Pinch me until I’m pink, I found heaven on earth!!!

My Go with Oh San Severo beauty

My Go with Oh San Severo beauty

It was everything one could dream of.  One bedroom – MY bedroom – featured wooden parquet floors tread by who knows how many Venetian tradesmen.  A wooden desk sat between two windows overlooking the canal and a bridge – an actual Venetian bridge with its graceful arch and bobbing boats for neighbors.  I could easily imagine that desk and that bridge just waiting for me to show up with pen and paper to sit, stare and write.  Venetian glass chandeliers winked overhead.  Within the kitchen stood a wide open door to a terrace featuring who knows what kind of wonderful view outside.

I could sit here and write forever, I think

I could sit here and write forever, I think

I wanted to waltz into that kitchen, open that door and step outside to know –  really know – what was out there.  As long as it wasn’t a pooping puppy, I knew I would be thrilled!

And in real estate they say what matters is location, location, location and my Go with Oh San Severo beauty had that too. While everything in Venice is near the Piazza San Marco and the Rialto Bridge, this one was so tantalizingly close that I imagine I could stand on that balcony and hear the ghostly breath of long dead prisoners coming from the Bridge of Sighs. I imagined I could pick out the domes of St. Mark’s against the one-of-a-kind Venetian skyline and I knew I

I would give four dogs and five teenage tantrums to peak out that door...

I would give four dogs and five teenage tantrums to peak out that door…

would be able to hear the ringing bells of the piazza’s tower.

Sadly, however, like many a beautiful woman, my Go with Oh San Severo love had many suitors and she was unavailable to rent the week I needed her.

First the denial – no, how could that be??? Then, the heartbreak!

And then, I returned to my Go with Oh apartment list and found the next love of my life, Ca ‘Elena.  Think what you will, she was no rebound apartment and in September of 2012, I fell in love with her too.  In fact, my heart will always belong to my little Ca ‘Elena.

http://www.oh-venice.com/en/venice-apartments/ref_16176/?arrival=2014-03-23&departure=2014-03-30&zone=VEN&sid=&s_id=s_52667dd1aa381&PRODUCT_TYPE=apartments&adults=2&children=0&babies=0

With that said, I WILL go back to Venice and I WILL take friends and family with me – but not the dog.  And I WILL begin a new love affair with the lovely Go with Oh San Severo beauty.  Until then, I will wash the clothes and pick up after the children and feed hard cheese and bananas to the dog in hopes of avoiding a

I want to awaken in this bedroom to the bells of St. Mark's in the nearby Piazza San Marco

I want to awaken in this bedroom to the bells of St. Mark’s in the nearby Piazza San Marco

repeat offense on the welcome mat.  I will clip my coupons and I will save my pennies and soon – hopefully very soon – I will be making plans and packing bags and sharpening pencils.

Because eventually I will sit at that bedroom desk and I will gaze at that bridge and I will write a line or two about what it means to travel and see the world.  I will make memories and take pictures and I will fall in love again with new spaces and places.  And, eventually, I will go home, but I will take with me a little of that watery, wonderful world that is Venice, Italy.

Here is a link to my future foreign Go with Oh San Severo home away from home.  I’ll share it with you now because I’m a nice person and I know I’m not the only middle-aged mom wrestling with crusty teenagers and pooping pets.

Hanging in a Venetian alley with my good friend, Candy.  May another Go with Oh apartment be in our near future!

Hanging in a Venetian alley with my good friend, Candy. May another Go with Oh apartment be in our near future!

Think of it as my little gift to you – and you’re welcome!

But it does come with a caveat.  While I’m sharing it with you, remember one thing – I’ve got dibs on next September.

http://www.oh-venice.com/en/venice-apartments/ref_15447/?arrival=2014-03-23&departure=2014-03-30&zone=VEN&sid=&s_id=s_52667dd1aa381&PRODUCT_TYPE=apartments&adults=2&children=&babies=

With that said, get to Venice.  Everyone needs a little living, breathing slice of real world fantasy to hold on to.  Now excuse me. I have to go diaper the dog.

Making friends in the Piazza San Marco

Making friends in the Piazza San Marco

Robin Winzenread Fritz

Warm Murano Memories to Melt a Cold Winter’s Night

My Venus di Milo impression

The days are short and the cold is hard.  Winter is coming to Indiana.  And for now, I’m fine with that, for the upcoming holidays always seem more festive and child like when the promise of snow lingers in the air.

But when the Thanksgiving turkey is a delicious memory and the torn Christmas wrapping paper is sitting on the curb with the other trash, the charms of winter will begin to fade and with it my enthusiasm for snow, cold and ice.

When that time finally does come, however, I’ll be prepared for I have my built-in memories stored in my collective conscious and that of my travel buddies of a blessedly sunny and warm day strolling the glowing streets of Murano, Italy.  Plus, if I close my eyes just so and raise my face up toward my dining room ceiling fan with the lights a blazing, I can almost pretend I’m basking in that magical Italian light.

Murano is a miniature Venetian feast for the eyes.  Go there.  See it.  Linger.  You’ll never be the same.

A view from the vaporetto to Murano.  We got off at the stop for the Museo Vetrario (the glass museum) on the Fondamenta Giustinian, but it was tempting to stay on aboard for a longer ride.

Lingering on the Fondamenta Giustinian, enjoying the boat parking on the San Donato canal.  Bellisimo!  Or however the heck you spell that….

Murano’s Basilica dei Santi Maria e Donato along side the San Donato canal.  Could the sky possibly be any bluer?

It was home to my Venus di Milo impression.  It took a crowbar to pry me out of my niche.

Shopping for mosaic tile – so many beautiful colors!  I picked out several  blue and green glass tiles that reminded me of the Venetian laguna.  My buddy Candy is going to make me a piece of jewelry with them.  How wonderful is that!

We stumbled upon this lovely hidden courtyard and, naturally, there was laundry on the line.  When I came home, I hugged my clothesline.  Now, I appreciate it even more.  Can you believe some American neighborhoods actually BAN clotheslines in their covenants? 

This is Murano’s version of the little red wagon.

Peering inside the door of a working glass factory.  That chandelier puts my dining room ceiling fan to shame.

View of a side canal.  See that large red awning in the middle distance?  That’s where I enjoyed a wonderful lunch with great friends and an amazing view.

My lunch time view – I could get use to this!

Great bridge, don’t you think? 

Candy and I have a moment

Chasing that Italian light

Mosaic Mary – isn’t she gorgeous?  She lights up the place too.

See that ochre yellow building in the center with the single room at the top left center?  I could live there and paint and be happy for years, I do believe.

The lighthouse at the tip of Murano.  I would have loved to have climbed this for the view but, sadly, it was closed.  Maybe next time.

I fell in love with these contrasting colors, the soft buff of the building against the bright red of the boat.  So lovely.

So many memorable views.  I hope to capture some of these on canvas during the cold winter months in Indiana, but they’ll never come close to what I see in my mind’s eye.  But won’t it be fun to try!

 

These pictures don’t even come close to really capturing it.  To really get a sense of what this light “feels” like, you have to smell the salty ocean air and feel the warmth of the sun radiating on your back.  Then, you’ll know that Italian light.  But savor it.  It’s far to fleeting….

 

 

For the Love of Traveling Companions and Italian Punctuation

I have grown to love the sight of the words “Ca’ Elena” in my inbox.  Just the sight of that ending apostrophe sends shivers up my corn-fed, middle-aged spine.  There aren’t a great many words in the English language with that funny little punctuation mark at the end of them.  Sure, contractions like “can’t” and “won’t” and “don’t” and “shouldn’t” are dripping with them in an oh-so-negative fashion.  But put it on the very end of a word like ca’ and the exotic implications drip with the promise of foreign adventure on a grand scale.

Call me crazy, but I need more ending apostrophes in my life, and I don’t mean the plural possessive kind.

Enter Open House Spain.  As September draws near, it draws ever so closer with it my Venetian dream which is about to come true in spectacular fashion.  Mid month I will set off on my lovely adventure thanks to Open House Spain’s

The living room of fair Ca' Elena

The living room of fair Ca’ Elena

“Go With Oh” international travel blog writing competition.  As a runner up, I have been awarded the use of an apartment in Venice and thus begins my relationship with that Italian beauty, Ca’ Elena. 

For Ca’ Elena – which Google Translate claims in English is Ca’ Elena – is the delightful name of my home-away-from-home in the far eastern regions of the Cannaregio District, and it appears in the subject line of every email I get from Michele, the apartment manager, who I like to think of as my Italian match maker extraordinaire.  Even when I read her emails they carry an Italian accent.  I bet if I print them out they’ll smell like cheese.

The master bedroom where I may, on occassion, sleep.

The master bedroom where I may, on occassion, sleep.

Set in a quiet local neighborhood, Ca’ Elena is perched at dead end of Corte Paludo, a narrow street which runs east to west between two canals and which, no doubt, has never seen a car or truck in it’s life.  From what I can see from Google Earth, Ca’ Elena is a delightfully squatty building with a dusky red tiled roof, and sports a wide southern facing balcony between brick red walls to the west and ochre yellow walls to the east and which overlooks a small courtyard – begging the question, is that OUR balcony perhaps?

Oh, pinch me now, fair Ca’ Elena, pinch me now!

A quiet canal

Ca’ Elena’s caretaker, Michele, has graciously emailed me on several occasions regarding such necessities as what vaporetto to take from Marco Polo Airport and when and where to meet so she can walk us to the apartment.  While Venice is a maze in which I intend to very quickly get lost, doing so with luggage in tow is not on the bucket list.  And so Michele graciously emails me and I do cartwheels and my mind wanders off to the Bridge of Sighs and I make plans to cook pasta for dinner and every word I utter ends in “o” and I find myself ordering vividly colored sundresses on ModCloth while asking the children to bring me a gelato.

Words don't do justice

Words don’t do justice

And, as Ca’ Elena comes with not one bedroom but two, just joining me in my dream will be my bestie art buddies, Candy and Preston, because dreams are nothing without characters – and, trust me, Candy and Preston are characters – because characters come with stories and plot lines and emotions and opinions and visions that are the proverbial salt and pepper which season any experience worth having.

So let me introduce you to my sea-salt seasoning, Preston who comes with a black leather hat worn on all occasions and who likes his bourbon from the top shelf.  As a fellow Hoosier, he lives in the country where he and his brother, Alan, run a cooperative garden, raise free range chickens and sell organic eggs in between making art and smelling like men.

Preston at a student art show he organized for our local art guild

While Candy and I are artists of the tamer persuasions – paint, pastels, pencils, etc. – Preston, like any real man, is drawn to flame and fire and smoke.  As a child, he was drawn to pyrotechnics and once diverted a band of Blue Angels flying overhead who – while headed to a local air show – streaked over his house just moments after he set off a rather aggressive bottle rocket.  Fortunately for Preston, no charges were pressed.

A skillful glass artist, Preston has his sights set on Murano and, knowing him as I do, he will have talked his way to a working forge before we can say Dale Chihuly.  For Preston is a talker – which is why the charges were never pressed – and a natural story teller, and I can’t wait to watch him work his verbal magic in a city home to a foreign tongue.  Somehow, I know, he’ll make himself understood.  And won’t that be fun to watch?

Whereas Preston is our sea salt, Candy is my spicy cracked pepper with a taste for margaritas.  In a city of bland, Candy is a colorful bell tower, ringing out

Candy with her painting “Lady in Red”

with a deep laugh that gets me every time.  Hanging with Candy is instant cardio for the abs and I have the six-pack to prove it, though it’s hiding under an extra layer of fat to keep me warm.

Where I am short, Candy is tall, elegant, commanding.  While I sit in a home office working away while surrounded by cats, Candy is the executive director of a local museum and gets to do such exciting things as curate exhibits and plan art shows for her galleries and represent the museum on every non-profit board and city function one can think of.  When Candy speaks, people listen.  And when Candy jokes, I snort Malibu rum and Coke out my nose.

I’m planning my Venetian wardrobe carefully because I know walking in Candy’s shadow, I will have to work hard to keep up and be noticed.  She has a dressmaker’s dummy and doilies, and she’s not afraid to use them.  For the local pioneer fair which she organizes, Candy shows up looking like the love child of Daniel Boone and Sacajawea.  It says a lot that my 17-year-old daughter, Jackie, wants to BE like Candy.  Yeah, she’s that good.

So, it goes without saying that a good time will be had by all.  For how can it not when I will be joined by two creative talkers who find the humor in

Candy’s CEO parking space which Preston & I firebombed with marshmallow peeps…. it’s a long story… and involves liquor …

everything?  Whether we’re getting lost in the Dorsduoro or puzzling over an Italian menu or trying out a Turkish toilet, I will be assured of one thing – we will be living the dream together and making memories for a lifetime.  Let the games begin….

By Robin Winzenread Fritz

To start your own love affair with Ca’ Elena, check out the following link to Oh-Venice and their many beautiful apartments.  Good luck pulling yourself away from apartment shopping and getting back to work:

http://www.oh-venice.com/en/venice-apartments/ref_16176/

Follow this link for more information about “Go with Oh” and to read other winning entries:

http://www.gowithoh.com/blogger-competition/?utm_source=Social%2BMedia&utm_medium=twitter&utm_content=competition&utm_campaign=SherryOtt

Me ready for an adventure

Yes, I Got Crabs in Florida…..

I’m a newbie diver still wet behind the ears and not in a good way.  As a landlocked Hoosier, it was always on my to-do list to get certified, but actually making it happen kept falling by the wayside as college, tedious desk jobs, mortgages and children with poopy diapers interfered with those grand plans.  And it didn’t help that I see more corn than coral on any given day.  Plus, as a

Key Largo

Key Largo

Midwestern middle-aged mother, it seemed almost selfish to want to take up a new hobby that would take me hundreds of miles away from my children.

But then they became teenagers and, guess what?  I got over it.

It’s not that I was unaware just how thrilling diving could be all those years.  My brother Andy was a rescue diver with the Indiana State Police, and he regaled us with amazing tales of floating in near complete darkness at the bottom of a Hoosier reservoir only to have a large catfish run headfirst into his chest, momentarily dislodging his regulator.  And my brother-in-law Steve – a highly experienced master diver – had wonderful stories to share about his exploits in the ocean, from hiding behind a large fan coral while watching a huge barracuda at night

Me on my way to meet my little friend

Me on my way to meet my little friend

to getting seriously crapped on by a whale shark off the coast of Mexico.  It was, he said, as if a dump truck had unloaded a giant pile of dirt on him all at once and it became for me a bucket list item.  

In short, I knew it was cool.

So in the summer of 2006, fresh off the heels of turning 40, earning an MBA and still reeling from burying my brother Andy after he lost his life in the line of duty some years before, I decided it was time to make the adventure happen.  What better way to celebrate his life and my hard work than with an open water diver certification?

Still, getting certified in Indiana is rather lame as adventures go.  Diving in Indiana involves check out dives in relatively tame gravel quarries with nary a current or wave to be seen or felt.  The greatest challenge is braving the thermacline cold and the greatest danger is that of getting hooked by an overanxious angler who thinks those funny bubbles popping on the surface are from a record breaking snapper turtle. 

So when I actually set off on my first ocean dive, I was feeling like a fish out of water.  Sure, I knew I was in good hands.  And I knew it would be a

Dive buddies Karen and Scuba Steve chatting with Captain Marvel

Dive buddies Karen and Scuba Steve chatting with Captain Marvel

challenging, liberating experience that I would remember for the rest of my life.  And I was grinning from ear to ear despite the nerves.  But, little did I realize just HOW memorable an experience it would turn out to be.

On a dive adventure scale, I was in the kiddie pool.  We were in the Florida Keys, diving at Snapper Ledge off Key Largo in relatively shallow waters early one morning.  The seas were glassy calm, the ocean pee-water warm, the weather stunning, the visibility something you would write home about, and any current was non-existent.  It was, to say the least, perfect.

We had chartered a trip with Blue Water Divers on a boat captained by a man named, I kid you not, Captain Marvel.  All told there were only five of us on the boat, leaving no chance for anyone to be left behind in a cattle call

Karen & Captain Marvel's trusty sidekick, Brent

Karen & Captain Marvel’s trusty sidekick, Brent

situation.  My brother-in-law Steve and our friend, Karen – both experienced divers, were along for the ride.  And Captain Marvel had a trusty sidekick named Brent who would lead the way.

As we snapped on to the buoy, I told myself I was ready, even if walking in scuba gear on a gently bobbing dive boat reminded me more of my 21st birthday than I cared to admit.  I swayed and swerved and finally made it aft where I took a deep breath, held my mask and regulator as I was taught in class, put one foot in front of the other and, with my heart thumping, jumped in.

You’ve heard it all before, heck, YOU’VE no doubt experienced it – that sense of entering another world, where you’re weightless and all around you is color and light.  I was captivated!  All hint of nervousness vanished as we sank slowly downward through the brilliant blue water.  We explored and swam and

My idea of a commute

My idea of a commute

looked.  A spotted ray undulated across the sandy floor and massive conchs slowly crept along, headed who knows where.  Jaw fish played hide and seek with Steve’s finger and fish in every possible color floated by.  I actually found myself looking outward in hopes of spying a dolphin or a turtle or, heck, even a SHARK, for heaven’s sake in the distance. 

I pretended I was a mermaid.  I forgot about bills and arthritic knees and a living room carpet back home which now looked more like an African leopard skin thanks to all of the spots and stains brought on by pets and children and husbands who don’t wipe their feet.  It was the closest I’ve come to feeling like a young child again stepping off the school bus at the beginning of summer and nothing stretches out before you but freedom waiting on the horizon.  Actually, it was even better than that, now that I think about it.  It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before.

Sighting a huge school of yellow snapper I motioned to Steve that I was going to float into the midst and as he watched, I made my way among the school, slowly, surely, cautiously entering their world.  Within moments I was in a bubble of beauties who hovered just at arm’s length away, staring at me with big black eyes.  They watched me, I watched them and it was heaven.

Heading out to sea

Heading out to sea

Except in heaven water doesn’t suddenly entered your ear – as it did mine which, I will admit, is not an unusual occurrence 25 feet down.  But we’ll come back to that….

I thought little of it at the time and continued the dive, working on my buoyancy, avoiding the precious coral and keeping pace with Steve and Karen.  The dive ended all too soon and before I knew it, we were back on the boat talking a hundred miles an hour, reliving every minute of it.  But the adventure still wasn’t over for as Steve stripped off his dive gear we noticed several tiny little crabs no bigger than my pinky nail on his wetsuit.  Astonished, we carefully collected the little creatures, marveled at their size and gently released them back into the ocean. 

We returned to our rented condo, ate a quick lunch and relaxed by the pool.  As I lay on the deck chair cooking in the sun, I relieved the dive, all the while shaking my head from time to time, trying in vain to get the water to drain from my right ear.  I tried lying on my right side, hoping gravity would take over and I plunged my pinky nail in to give my ear a good shake.  I tossed my head hard to my right shoulder time and time again, but no luck.  I could actually feel the water sloshing in my ear and occasionally a hint of static set my ear drum pounding, but the water persisted so I tried to ignore it and took a nap in the sun.

Five hours after our dive, we showered dressed and headed out to dinner, looking forward to a well-cooked meal at a local Thai restaurant down the

Back at the condo - hanging out with my little friend

Back at the condo – hanging out with my little friend

road, ready for a seafood feast.  Climbing out of the car, I gave my head one more good toss and finally felt the water move to the edge of my ear.  Finally, I thought. Relief was just around the corner.

I raised my pinky nail to my ear, eager to help the water on its way out, only to encounter something hard.  Disturbingly hard.  Sticking out of my ear.  With a start, I reacted, flicked it with my nail and watched as a tiny object fell to the ground, landing near my shoe.  Bending over to see what it was, I looked in shock.

For lying dead on the ground, no bigger than my pinky nail was a tiny, little crab glistening in the evening sun and coated with a shiny new layer of ear wax.

The three of us stared in disbelief.  I knew when I entered the ocean that I was voluntarily plugging myself back into the food chain, but I hadn’t expected anything to take up lodging too.  At this point, I half expected an obnoxious yellow sponge dressed in red shorts to come bounding out of the other ear.

I scooped the little creature up and put it in my eyeglasses case to show the children.  I had hoped to cover him in resin and make a necklace out of him, but alas, it was not to be.  For while my ear may have been a decent port in a

Scuba Steve & Karen enjoying a post-dive beverage

Scuba Steve & Karen enjoying a post-dive beverage

storm – the storm being a swirling bubble of yellow snapper I realize now – my glasses case proved to be otherwise.  He dried up over the next three days, leaving only a miniscule pile of crabby dusty in his wake.

I’ve had other fun dives since and a challenging one too invovling a roiling ocean near Key Largo that included vomiting into my regulator while staring up at the Christ of the Abyss , but nothing else has crawled in and come along for the ride – at least not that I know of.  More adventures await and I say, bring ‘em on, even the crabs.

The moral of this story?  Even when diving the tamest of locales in the best of conditions surrounded by experienced divers, the act of diving itself will always be a memorable adventure that you just won’t have on land.

– by Robin “The Crusty Crab” Fritz

I want to ‘Go with Oh’ to Paris

It was the lime green pleather jumpsuit with a hot-pink plastic zipper down the front that told the tale.  This was no ordinary Parisan woman strolling past my table at 6 a.m. as I dipped my croissant in coffee near the Gare de l ’Est rail station.  Rather, this vibrantly clad neon woman was a “poole,” a street walker, a hooker, a whore, a what have you – she was a prostitute, don’t you know – and as a 16-year-old virginal Midwestern Catholic school girl freshly flown in as a foreign exchange student in 1980, I was thrilled! 

Surrounded by Indiana cornfields, we don’t get a lot of polyester-clad prostitutes strolling past the breakfast table fresh from stimulating the economy.  It’s a somewhat tamer atmosphere.  Given the lack of adventure, I often find myself wanting more.  And that, my friends, is why I travel.

It’s been 32 years since I last set foot in Paris and my bucket list for adventure has grown.  In that time, I’ve managed to wet my way down the ice toboggan at the winter festival in Quebec City, catch a tiny crab with my inner ear while diving off Key Largo, and chase big city rats for a photo op in Central Park, but now it’s time to go back to the grande dame that is Paris, pen in hand, and cross off a few items.  The lime green jumpsuit I imagine is long since gone, though I doubt it’s deteriorated much in the landfill, and as for the hooker – well, who knows?  But the city is still there as are the croissants and the coffee and the people, and when I do get back, here’s what I hope to accomplish:

1)   Eat my way through a moveable feast.

As clichéd as Hemingway’s Paris may sound to the well heeled and better traveled than I, it’s still my go-to dream when the laundry’s piled high and my teenagers’ socks smell like runny French cheese.  Having devoured that book more than once, it’s time to walk in Ernie and Hadley’s footsteps no matter how many decades separate us.  Much like them, I desire a decent meal at a good café on the Place St.-Michel when a bitter wind blows the rain sodden leaves from the trees in Place de la Contrescarpe.  And I too will wile away a windy day wrapped in the musty warmth of the Shakespeare and Company bookstore where I’m sure I can find a less tattered version of this Hemingway classic.

2)   Strike the mountain pose at sunrise in the Square Jean XXIII

They say yoga is a great stress reliever, but when I strike a pose my husband sticks a frying pan in my outstretched arms and balances a package of bacon on my head.  Not so in the Square Jean XXIII – it’s refreshingly oven free.  Butting up against the flying buttresses of Notre-Dame (perfect inspiration for a day of downward-facing-dog) this peaceful oasis alongside the river offers up gardens, trees, immense manicured walkways and a gurgling fountain, all within the shadow of this classic cathedral.  Accessed by St.Stephen’s door within Notre Dame, it is a sea of sunrise calm and a great way to kick off a day filled with plans of completing item No. 3.

 3)   Partake in a mini communion marathon at church after church after church…

As Catholics go, I’m far from devote, but exploring unknown churches – the more cathedral like the better – leaves me drooling like an old priest over a new alter boy.  Everything about ancient cathedrals leaves me breathless – from the smell of burning beeswax and incense, to the smooth feel of the well worn stone floors underfoot, to the broken multi-colored light streaming through brittle stained glass – it’s sigh inducing on so many levels.  And in Paris, one can trip over an ancient church like a Starbucks in Seattle– they’re everywhere – which necessitates a plan.

For me, it’s not enough to just visit these timeless treasures.  No, my desire is to become a part of their active history and ancient ritual by taking in a quick half-hour mass with communion to follow in as many churches as I can stumble into before the communion wine sinks me like the Titanic.  Thus distant is a factor, leading me to start off with the queen of all churches – Notre Dame (hence the a.m. yoga session) – followed by her adorable kid sister, Sainte-Chapelle of the glowing Rose window fame.  After a hearty chug of communion wine, it’s time to sprint four blocks northeast to the hulking queen that is St.-Eustache where I can recover in her quiet Gothic beauty before hailing a cab to the Latin Quarter where St.-Severin will treat me to one of the finest examples of medieval architecture in the city.

And if four masses and communion don’t get me off the hook for that priest joke, perhaps I can cage absolution with a quickie confession at St.-Paul-St.-Louis, built in 1641 for Cardinal Richeleu.  On second thought, maybe not.

4)   Burn a hole in my Batobus pass

Given my family’s Navy roots and sailing background, I can’t visit any water-wealthy locale and not set foot on a boat.  Fortunately, Paris accommodates in that regard with its hop on, hop off Batobus, the floating equivalent of a city bus which navigates the Seine hitting all of its high points, both Left Bank and Right.  Boats run on a generous schedule with departures happening every 17 to 35 minutes – the difference, I imagine, being a function of traveling upstream or down and whether any bodies are floating by – one of the seedy habitual uses of the river by pissed off Parisians since ancient times.

5)   Channel my inner gypsy at Bistrot d’ Eustache

Much as I love exploring churches and riding on boats, they pale in comparison to my first real love – eating good food – and in Paris, one can eat some seriously good food.  But who doesn’t appreciate dinner and a show, especially when that show includes local musicians playing some seriously hot gypsy jazz?  Get there early on a Thursday night when this tiny little handkerchief of a restaurant features live musicians, chain yourself to a table, order up the house specialty and prepare to be entertained.

And next – wait, what?  We’re limited to five?  But how can one limit a city like Paris to a bucket list of five?  Who doesn’t also want to discover some unknown starving artist?  Or snag an invite to an autumn house party on Ile St. Louis?  Or swing by No. 51 Rue de Montmorency and see if Nicholas Flamel left behind any useful anti-aging tips?

Well, five it is, and it’s a start and from there more items for the list will most definitely come.  Because a bucket list is never EVER really finished, is it?  Much like a grocery list, there’s always one more item to add.

So, what’s on yours?

Go with OhFor more information on Go with Oh or for a chance to win four fantastic prizes through their Facebook contest, check out their link at:

http://www.gowithoh.com/

by Robin Fritz