I’ve gone rogue this week, definitely am off message. Mustard Bâtons is not the recipe scheduled for today. Forgive me French Friday Foodies, never again, pinkie swear. But, I just arrived for a month’s stay in my Aspen condo, drove through a snowstorm in Utah to get here, and found my kitchen presently ill-equipped for cooking. Dorie’s Bâtons are 5-ingredient hor d’oeuvres with a sublime kick and an easy preparation. Variations, galore. Freeze like champs. I’ll pair Sancerre with these delightful strips of goodness, throw my long-time Aspen friends in the mix and revel in my own “Rocky Mountain High”. Merci, Ms. Greenspan.
Over the week-end I became a DIVA, a role I have been auditioning for and failing miserably at for more than six decades. According to most dictionaries, the word was originally meant to describe a woman of rare, outstanding talent. The Italian word ‘divina’, meaning “divine”, is a derivative of the Latin word diva, meaning “divine one.” So, there you go.
While pleading to not being divine but with visions of Kate, wearing the Queen’s glittery tiara, still in my head, I’m feeling royal. Having just purchased a crown at K-Mart, tacky though it may be, it’s plopped on my head as I pen this Post. Fully registered as Mary, the Tango Diva, (which translates loosely to travel goddess), the moniker fits as awkwardly as my crown. It’s just amazing who you can become on-line these days!
“One certainty, when you travel, is the moment you arrive in a foreign country, the American dollar will fall like a stone“. Erma Bombeck
This nonsense all began after a conversation with my friend, Judy, about traveling alone, without a playmate. Empowered, knowledgeable, and armed with enough hi-tech equipment to wire the world, modern young women are flying solo to faraways in increasingly growing numbers. No furrowed brow or tsk, tsk, tsk, from family or friends, as they grab their backpacks or Tumi satchels, and hit the road.
Traveling alone is not common for my Generation. When I was a young, women rarely travelled to foreign and exotic destinations by themselves. According to a recent AARP report, over 76 million people, Baby Boomers, represent the largest single population growth in US history. Born between 1946 and 1964, about 7,000 are turning 65 daily. Many are women, single, in good physical and financial health, who have caught the travel bug. Despite the obstacles, and there are many, they are applying for passports, exchanging dollars for foreign currency, and dropping the dog at the kennel. If women our age want to be wild, it may be the “blue yonder”, they’re after.
“When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money”. Unknown
Travelling solo is no obstacle to my three friends, Judy, Ardyth and Michelle, who may be more qualified for diva-hood than me. Interestingly, these gals span, age-wise, three generations, being 64, 51 and 70. (Ages are jumbled to protect the friendships!) While none of them throw caution to the wind, they do know how to control it, by thoughtful pre-planning, careful scheduling and painstaking organization. Readers, this is not the time nor are we at the age, to do anything on ‘a wing and a prayer’.
That being said, the manner in which these women travel dovetails nicely into their personalities.
Ardyth is a gutzy woman, brilliant, always pushing the boundaries. No, let me be truthful here. If there’s a border, she is probably on the other side of it. Although she has traveled throughout the world with her family, many of her solo trips have been in her role as a educator. In that capacity, her most challenging have been six month-junkets, on Fulbright Fellowships, in the Ukraine (Spring 2004, just prior to the Orange Revolution) and Latvia (January-July, 2010).
Although just getting to these destinations, armed with six months of apparel, medicines, and technical equipment, would be daunting, finding a secure apartment and navigating a new city safely is even more so. After throwing in university teaching, some by translation; a half-mile, cold Winter walk to the bus stop each morning; and navigating the rigors of a daily routine, you have to wonder if these were borders worth crossing. To Ardyth, the answer is always an enpowering, “jā”.
“I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.”Susan Sontag
Judy, who is well-read, intelligent, thoughtfully low-key but indefatigable, just returned from spending three weeks in her only destination-of-choice, the City of Lights. Having studied French in school and still being tutored privately, Judy and I met in 2007, when we were both enrolled in a 30-day language immersion course at the Institut de Français in Villefranche. I have never known Judy to be somewhere, meet some stranger, and not make a friend-for-life. Luckily for me, four years ago, I was her stranger-in-paradise.
Prior to her solo Paris trips, Judy spends hours, even days, on her computer, scrolling through rental apartment after apartment, pouring over Sites. Although, she always nestles into an apartment in a 17th Century building on the Île Saint-Louis, this gal knows what’s available in every arrondisement! Unlike me, Judy doesn’t attack a destination, she strolls through it. For example, when I was recently in Madrid, I spent a day in the Prado and “knocked-off” the Top 100 Paintings in six hours. Armed with a list, I dashed, I saw and I conquered. Pride in my accomplishment has now succombed to the embarrassment of attaining my goal. Judy prefers a more intimate approach, with a casualness that belies her growth and keen sense of understanding this complex city.
“Most travel is best of all in the anticipation or the remembering; the reality has more to do with losing your luggage”. Regina Nadelson
Everyone needs an over-achiever in her life, and, for me, that’s my friend, Michelle, who is not only a lawyer and judge but also a professionally-trained Chef. When I spend an evening with her, it always makes me want to ‘pick up my game.‘ She’s smart, fun, ambitious, and about to embark on a week-long intensive travel/food writing seminar in Italy. Why not? If three jobs aren’t enough, let’s aim for another! Although traveling alone, she’s been in constant e-mail contact with other classmates and has already made plans for sharing cars, rooms and costs. Michelle is going to be my first Guest Blogger and will be writing about her solo traveling experiences on her return. We’ll wait for her own observations.
If you wish to be a Tango Diva, are thinking about a solo journey, or are just curious about traveling alone, go to Google and go crazy. There are an amazing number of good Sites to explore. If you want to be a Diva, in your own eyes, start first at “Tango Diva, An Online Travel Magazine & Social Network for Women Travelers & Solo Travel.” http://tangodiva.com/
“When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable.” Clifton Fadiman
Two weeks ago I discovered I can still be awe-struck and rendered speechless. Really, I’m a bit embarrassed about this. While driving down to the Las Vegas Strip, at the worst possible time on a Friday afternoon, my initial thoughts waggled between, “I’m so excited! I’m so excited!” and “Mary, act your age.” I gave into the excited-waggle because I was going to meet one of my American heroes. I’d had a crush on this guy for more than 40 years.
To be truthful, his credentials are not sterling. He’s been arrested more than 40 times. His parents were poor, struggling to raise 10 children, but scrambled to put together his college money. How did he show his graditude? As a freshman, he ditched classes and let assignments slide, to focus on extra-curricular activities.
He’s had his skull fractured, been beaten silly, physically attacked numerous times and never even defended himself. No wonder that, as a kid, he was refused a card at his county library.
Yeah, he’s quite a man. HIs name is John Lewis and I was finally going to shake his hand.
In his book, “Why Courage Matters”, Arizona Senator John McCain (who I also still consider an American hero), wrote, “I’ve seen courage in action on many occasions. I can’t say I’ve seen anyone possess more of it, and use it for any better purpose and to any greater effect, than John Lewis.”
On that Friday afternoon, I was one of 500 guests invited to the Mirage by Vegas PBS/MGM Resorts to preview Freedom Riders, an award-winning “American Experience” documentary which premiers May 16 on your local PBS station. And, one of those original Riders, John Lewis, was joining us.
The Mirage, a casino-resort recognized more for its erupting volcano, white tigers and slot machines, seemed a surreal setting. We were there to see a film about a 6-month journey of non-violent activism that arguably was the impetus that finally galvanized this country into civll rights legislation. What is even more surreal is that many young Americans, it seems, have not heard of these Riders nor understand their contribution. That’s a shame.
Lewis, now a Congressman representing Georgia, was one of those 13 original Freedom Riders. At the time, a 21-year-old freshman at a Nashville theological seminary, he volunteered, along with others, to buy a ticket, board a Greyhound and ride from Washington D.C. to New Orleans. Easy enough, a bunch of young college kids, on a joyride, taking a break, sitting, eating and laughing together. Not so extraordinary by today’s standards, but remember, this was 1961 and some of Congressman Lewis’ friends were white. They were headed for the Deep South and those tickets reeked of Trouble.
Trouble first surfaced in Rock Hill, South Carolina, where the Congressman was the first Rider assaulted. Although their activism was non-violent, their reception in southern cities was not. In a six-month period more than 400 Americans, black and white, risked life and limb to deliberately violate the laws of Jim Crow. Some were killed. The documentary relates this story, better than I.
When Lewis was boarding that bus, I was still in high school, more concerned about a prom date than who drank at my water fountain. That all changed when, following graduation, I left my rural Iowa community, all white, to attend Florida State University, all white, in Tallahassee. (To FSU’s credit, a sculpture,”Integration”, was dedicated in 2004, paying tribute to the first African American students who integrated the university in the late-Sixties.)
Those were turbulent times at universities and FSU was no exception. What is most seared to my soul, however, are visions of Bloody Sunday, March 7,1965, 600 people crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, enroute to Montgomery. That attempt and the accompanying widely-televised brutality to stop it, packed a wallop to this nation’s innards. (Remember, we were not yet accustomed to brutality televised into our living rooms.) Lewis, who got his skull fractured and still has the scars to prove it, gently asked this country how President Johnson could send troops to Vietnam and the Congo but not to Selma to protect people who “just want to vote.”
We heard him. Two weeks later, 300 marchers successfully crossed that same Selma bridge, with the crowd swelling to 25,000 by the time they ended their 50-mile walk to Montgomery. The Voting Rights Act was debated, passed and signed by President Lyndon Johnson on August 6, 1965.
John Lewis, who was just getting started, was already, to my mind, a brave man of heroic proportions.
After graduating from college and securing a good job with the Florida Department of Education, I had a front-row seat to integrating Florida public schools. Although I wish I could tell you I was effective, I was not. The task was difficult, hurtful, and frustrating. During this time, my husband was earning a doctorate in Black History, the Reconstruction Period, so I was always at the movement’s periphery, wide-eyed, supportive, but cautious. Although he and I later went our separate ways, we remained committed to raising our two daughters to be color-blind. I like to hope that was a worthwhile contribution to the Movement.
At the Mirage, I sat next to a young woman whose Grandfather, she proudly related “had marched with John Lewis in Jackson, Mississippi.” Throughout the film, during each incident or encounter, she kept repeating softly, “That’s right. That’s right.” She knew her history. I urge you and your friends to remember it also and watch this important documentary on your local PBS station next week.
While this is not a perfect nation by any means, we have made tremendous and commendable strides in being better. Columnist George Will just wrote a fine Birthday column entitled, “Considering what it means to be 70 years old” in which he writes,
“To be 70 is to have seen the nation put away the almost casual cruelty of racial segregation. And to have seen, in the emancipation — not too strong a term — of women, and in many other improvements, how this uniquely self-transforming nation decided to declare unthinkable many practices that not long ago were performed unthinkingly.”
Previewing “Freedom Riders” in the presence of John Lewis, is one of the great moments of my Life. I shook his hand. And, yes, I saw those Selma scars.
Since moving to Nevada six years ago, I roll out of bed at 5 am daily to exercise for an hour at my local athletic club. Those first few years and still totally responsible for my husband’s care, I could sweat, breathe heavily, and send my heart racing, before he ever opened his eyes. Not my choice, this work-out regime, but my physician told me to handle my stress or die. She got my full attention, as does my alarm clock, which gets abusively throttled each morning.
Later, after acquiring care-assistance as well as being a glutton for punishment, I continued, enjoying the social structure created around this daily regiment. These early risers, still in their 30s, 40s, and early 50s, have become my friends. I like them.
Three of these mornings, I attend a Spinning Class. For those of you who are not familiar with this maniacal activity, an explanation is necessary. Spinning is indoor cycling, with strings attached. You control resistance on a stationary bike to make the pedaling as easy or as difficult as you choose. I, of course, would choose “easy” but here’s the catch, there is also a leader, an instructor-of-sorts, who is a masochist and controls the ride. He makes Lance Armstrong look like the Dalai Lama. Besides guiding you through the workout phases, warm-up, steady uptempo cadences, sprints, climbs, and cool-downs, he’s yelling things like “Challenge Yourself”, “Breathe” and “Finish Strong.”
Oh, yes, there is also a mix of music blasting at high volume which, supposedly, energizes the atmosphere. “Lady Gaga”. “50 Cent”. “Death Cab for Cutie”. Who ever heard of these people? The lights are always low-to-completely-off, and, of course, it’s still pitch-black outside. Do you have the picture? There are usually ten to fifteen riders, in a circle, pedaling like hell to ear-splitting tunes. Whew. It gets pretty stinky. At the end of the “Ride”, Linda, riding next to me and the Chief Deputy Attorney General for Nevada, yells “Great Ride, Dom, Thanks”. I glare at her but say nothing. I’m no dummy.
To be fair, I admit to being in love with Dominick, my instructor, and I am positive that he loves me back. While he is clearly heading to the base camp of Mt. Everest during each class, I take a detour and contentedly pedal to Pahrump. And, when he bellows out, “It’s Your Ride,” I know he’s talking directly to me.
The Spinning Class this morning brought forth the topic of this essay: EGOS. I believe our egos, meaning those of women of my generation, need some buffing up. Although questioning whether many of us in our late 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, even have egos, I’ve been told that we do. What I know for sure is that the young women who did make it to base camp this morning, then rushing home to feed kids, shoving a husband out-the-door before showering and dashing off to work themselves, have very healthy ones.
Linda’s ego is totally intact and strong as she not only juggles her personal and family life but handles Nevada’s legal entanglements as well. While Adriana’s ego may have been bruised and battered as she and her husband have built a blockbuster of a business over the past decade, I’ve heard her husband, Bobby, say numerous times that without her running the numbers, there would be no business. (I’ve always loved him for knowing – and, saying – that.) The same for Susan, a wife, mother and Comptroller for Enterprise-Rent-a-Car in Nevada. Joelle, her ponytail flying as she ramps up the resistance on her flywheel, is a young banker, a mortgage lender for Wells Fargo, who exudes self-confidence and poise.
What I see in these young women and many like them, and, I could be their Mother, is a little something extra special, being so solid within themselves, that I arguably don’t see in me nor many of the women of my generation.
Bravo to our men, our counterparts and peers in age, who have pedaled into their later and for some, retirement, years, with their egos intact and healthy. Some of those egos, amazingly, have even grown larger. Would those guys want to share or give up an ounce or two?
First, just because this Blog is focused on women in their 50’s and 60’s who are single by choice, divorce or death, does not mean there will ever be male-bashing. Absolutely not. I like men. I adored my Father, still brag about my Brother, married more than one, love my son-in-law and was mentored by another. Some of my best friends are male. During the past seven years, several have selflessly joined my unpaid Board of Directors, providing good advice and counsel. One, in particular, helped me steady my sinking financial ship. (Thanks, Lloyd.) And, in every single Presidential election, I have always voted for the man!
All I’m saying here is that perhaps a portion of our generation of males’ egos could rub off on us.
To be truthful, all women have egos, it’s part of being human. But, as Paige, my psychologist friend, explained, “I think what you’re talking about is that we are more socialized and conditioned to speak in a manner of the deficit model, otherwise you’re not accepted or, at the very least, are marginalized. Women are more aware and introspective. Also,” she continues, “the cultural socialization of females as being seen through relationships is highly exaggerated in Western culture, whereas men are socialized to recognition, validation through their actions, outward successes, jobs, possessions, and accomplishments.”
So, as Paige suggests, it’s not that men received the Ego-Gene and we did not, it’s just that men don’t have the cultural resistance built in that women do. Ahhhhhhhhh. The truth may be, to some extent, that our generation of women, in roles as mothers, teachers, mentors, and bosses, were less inclined to raise, socialize, and condition our girls to be anything other than themselves. No boundaries. No restrictions. No Stop Signs.
If that premise has validity, and, I’m going with it, then hooray for us and three cheers for the generations following us. With just ten days until Mother’s Day, I may just pop the cork and start celebrating early.
We all have a Yin & Yang about us, don’t we? So it goes, in my family, with this essay devoted to the two Y-genes of my daughter, Melissa, who is still maneuvering through her 40’s, and is a writer, wife, and mother. Melissa’s Yang is that she says Yes to everything she’s asked to do. Her Yin is that she cannot say No.
She seems, however, to have successfully stretched 24 hours into 28-1/2. How do I know this? In a recent four-day period, counting up all her commitments and deadlines, plus 7-hours for sleep each night, I calculated she needed at least 114 hours from lift-off to completion rather than the Sun-to-Moon’s four-day expectation of 96.
And, while I hear that sometimes, just occasionally, this makes her a little grouchy, her family thrives and she’s the Princess, if not always the Queen. Never one to mettle, knowing that it’s not my business, and having tossed out “running yourself ragged” and “too much on your plate” much too often, I’ve learned to just hold on tight, allowing some of her energy, creativity, and passion to filter into my life.
Her latest over-commitment was substitute teaching for several days at her girls’ school. Besides the regular course of study, she also helped direct a school-wide talent show and baked bread. Yes, her class actually baked bread for the entire school. That exercise whirled somewhere around the curriculum of mathematics, following orders, patience, and butter.
Quite honestly, her forté, writing, is what her students is not. She miraculously has them scribbling down everything from poems to newspaper articles, which were actually published with bylines in the school newspaper. (Don’t even ask if she helped with its launching.)
One day she pulled down a map of the United States, told her kids to write down five places they would like to visit, and, then, a paragraph each, explaining, Why. Their answers were varied, their reasons, interesting, New York City/Statue of Liberty; Washington D.C./Lincoln’s Memorial, of course. But their overwhelming desires were to visit our “outdoors”, from the Badlands and Four Corners to Mt. McKinley and the Grand Canyon.
Which got me to thinking about the wanderlust of my generation……. this is dream-fulfillment time, folks, time to drag out that folder brimming with foreign travel clippings, and, make reservations. If not now, when? Already tucked away in my drawer, carefully considered, are my 7 for-sures and my 2 probably-nots.
1.the Galapagos;
2.the Concentration Camps of central Europe;
3.any unexplored areas of France;
4.an African Safari;
5.Berlin;
6.Petra, located in Jordan, south of the Dead Sea;
7.a cruise through the Panama Canal Lock System; and, the probably nots,
8.the Roman Antiquities in Libya;
9.Easter Island’s Moai.
But, Melissa’s class enticed me to come back home, to think locally. At this point in our lives, have we forgotten there’s no place like home, isn’t it where the heart is? Are there still some gems here for me to discover and enjoy. Think about it. Haven’t I already got this country covered?
In a word, No.
With a nod to those students, now tucked away in my drawer, carefully considered, are my see-America-first 6 for-sures, no probably-nots, with more to follow:
1.the Presidential Libraries – These are one of our country’s underrated, uncrowned glories. Beginning with Herbert Hoover’s library in West Branch, Iowa (which I have visited along with Eisenhower’s in Abilene, Kansas), there are now 12.
2.Glacier National Park
3.the Everglades
4.Civil War battlefields trip/tour
5.Birding the Great Texas Coastal Birding Trail
6.San Antonio
God Bless America.
“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
– Innocents Abroad, Mark Twain
Photo: I recently enjoyed late afternoon at the magnificent South Rim of the Grand Canyon, arguably this country’s greatest natural wonder. Flying overhead, at the time, were nine California Condors, each one a wonder of the feather variety.
Over the week-end, while appearing on CNN’s “State of the Union”, Donald Trump, a potential presidential candidate in his own mind, remarked that he was a better businessman than former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney, the leading GOP hopeful.
“I have a much, much bigger net worth,” he said, with modesty, “I mean my net worth is many, many, many times Mitt Romney.”
Following that program I remembered these two quotes and thought they were worth sharing.
“Never confuse your net worth with your self-worth.”
“The balance in your life is more important than the balance in your checking account.”
I’ve gone rogue this week, definitely am off message. Mustard Bâtons is not the recipe scheduled for today. Forgive me French Friday Foodies, never again, pinkie swear. But, I just arrived for a month’s stay in my Aspen condo, drove through a snowstorm in Utah to get here, and found my kitchen presently ill-equipped for cooking. Dorie’s Bâtons are 5-ingredient hor d’oeuvres with a sublime kick and an easy preparation. Variations, galore. Freeze like champs. I’ll pair Sancerre with these delightful strips of goodness, throw my long-time Aspen friends in the mix and revel in my own “Rocky Mountain High”. Merci, Ms. Greenspan.
Since moving to Nevada six years ago, I roll out of bed at 5 am daily to exercise for an hour at my local athletic club. Those first few years and still totally responsible for my husband’s care, I could sweat, breathe heavily, and send my heart racing, before he ever opened his eyes. Not my choice, this work-out regime, but my physician told me to handle my stress or die. She got my full attention, as does my alarm clock, which gets abusively throttled each morning.
