Well, Not All of Us Went to Europe, Did We?
Let’s put some things on the table right now.
Yes, I spent almost three weeks in Europe, two of which was without my husband. For nineteen days I thought of no one except myself and my needs.
Yes, this was very unlike me to blaze ahead in the midst of family chaos (aka The Move) and just make selfish choices. It made me uncomfortable but I did it anyway. Even typing out these first two facts makes my armpits sweat a little.
And yes, this trip might very well have saved me.
Trust me when I say that I could have slept in an RV in a Walmart’s parking lot in Iowa for nineteen days and would have come away feeling more than a modicum refreshed and reinvigorated. But of course, Europe has a certain healing magic that Walmart does not. Here are the HUGE takeaways that I received when I let Italy and France take the wheel:
I was damaged goods. More than I’d realized. Two years of pandemic life, trans mom life, House of Anxiety life, grip-it-and-rip-it life, menopause life, moving life… all of it had put a massive hurt on my ability to feel, connect and care. I thought I was fine, told myself that daily in fact, but I was a smiling tip with an iceberg of pain beneath the surface.
My damage was taking its toll on my family. I’d lost my ability to find fun, to bounce back quickly, to be creative and to relax. More than a few million times my husband or kids would ask me, “What’s wrong?” and I’d honestly reply, “Nothing, why?” because while my body and facial expressions told one story, the rest of me lied and lied. And they knew it.
I (and pandemic life) had trapped me into believing that being around my husband and kids 24/7 was the only happiness that I needed; that feeling comfortable was the best kind of satisfaction. Truth? That 24/7 was chipping away at all of us. And comfortable wasn’t better. It was just easy.
I’d forgotten how to take care of me. In fact, I’d forgotten what I even liked.
I’d forgotten that I had entered into this really interesting transition period of my life that deserved more than a hard sprint through it: kids almost grown and aging into grace. This is a time to really dig into who I am and what I want as the clock runs down. Oh, hey, look at that! I’ve been working on a book about that for six years! Maybe I should take a look at that.
The trip started with me plunging headfirst with reckless abandon into everything that made me happy: wheels of cheese, wheelbarrows of pasta and bread, wine, wine, wine. I stayed up until 2am chatting with girlfriends every night. Wandering carefree through medieval streets, guided by nothing more than a desire for art or food, and with no connection to daily life felt irresponsible and delicious. But it also felt frenetic, desperate. Like I was running from something, or maybe everything. Then the cooking class happened. That and evidence that a cold was chasing me down thankfully gave me pause. The last thing I wanted to do was have a midlife meltdown four days into a Trip of A Lifetime, so I took a timeout. (Seems we learn a thing or two by 51 and accept that going harder might not be the answer. Or we’re simply too tired to do so.)
The rest of the trip was a lesson in balance. I was forced to walk the line between a body that was in disrepair and all the treasures of Tuscany and Paris. I had been lost in the desert for years and now was seated at the most fantastic of cruise ship buffets. But I was badly sunburned, my tongue was swollen and I’d shrunken my stomach to the size of a walnut.
I learned to take down time. For the record the now cancelled television show “The Ghost Whisperer” is as horrible in French and Italian as it is in English. I slowed down my inhalation of gluten, dairy and wine. No way in Hell was I going to pick my way around the celebration dinner in Paris with friends I hadn’t seen in a decade, or miss out on sharing with Brian handmade sage raviolis with truffle cream sauce at the Testacchio Market in Rome for our anniversary. But there were consequences. Rather than pretend they didn’t exist, I learned to acknowledge and adjust for them.
It was in that down time that I found my way back to me. Initially, being solo threw me and I had to force to ground myself. By the time I hit the Musee de Rodin in Paris, I craved it and desperately needed to wander through each room by myself to sit with the splendor. Sadly an embarrassing coughing fit sent me back to the hotel and to bed, and even that was ok.
And I found that I love being the age that I am, even with all the creaks and groans, the heart palpitations and the loss of youthful beauty. The older women of Italy and Paris are institutions. I found myself gawking at them like a lovesick school boy. Beauty after beauty stood beside me on the Metro, sat beside me solo at restaurants. Impeccably dressed. Made up as if they were attending a party, even on a Monday morning. Sometimes accompanied by a dapper man, but always leading and not following. Owning their age, their status, their beauty. And all older than me, some by decades. I watched a reality TV show in Paris that was modeled after “Squid Games” and featured young French people in their 20’s and 30’s. Almost every female had some sort of cosmetic enhancement in their faces. None of the older woman that I loved did.
My trip melted away some of my ice; ice I didn’t even know I was carrying. Ice towards my husband, ice towards my kids and ice towards the world. For sure some of that had to do with me stepping out of the blast radius of the American media zone. It is really lovely not to have horrible imagery and panic-inducing news shouted at you every day. Having none for three weeks is life changing.
I fully recognize that I am privileged. This is a veil that I am in constant reconciliation with and will be for the rest of my life. But I implore each of you to find the time you can to dedicate to restoring yourself. How can we possibly fix a broken world if we are irreparably broken ourselves? But that’s just it. We aren’t unrepairable. We must make the time to sit with the broken and find ways to mend.
By no long stretch am I fully mended. Not even close. But I’m now aware (again: veil) of a good chunk of what lies beneath and how incredible it is to now feel like I can acknowledge and work to adjust. I don’t believe I need another solo mega-trip to Europe (although if someone’s handing them out…) but I’ll make sure I can at least get that RV into a campsite.
