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Family Of Five

• Paris, Baby

  28Dec
  Categories: Paris, Travel, photography is amazing Comments: 0

  Hey, Everybody with a capital-E, I am in Paris and it r-o-c-k ROCKS. A photographer’s dream. So beautiful, so stylish, so much amazing food. I have not abandoned you, dear blogworld of mine. I am in Paris, and I am taking pictures.

• Stop Bitchin’ About NaBloPoMo, People

  19Nov
  Categories: London, Travel Comments: 3

  
  And You Say You Have No Time To Write A Proper Email, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

  At least you don’t have to carve something interesting each day into a little piece of stone, right?

  We braved the weather yesterday and took the children to the see the spoils of the realm housed in the British Museum. What everybody says about the British Museum is this: yes, it’s cool and amazing, yada yada, but they should give most of that amazing shit back to the people they stole it from.

  And I get that. I do. And from a moral standpoint, I wholeheartedly agree.

  But it was so cool. I mean, really, really cool.

  Boyish was all about the mummies. “I wanna see the mummies! I wanna see the mummies!”

  “Okay, we’re going upstairs in just a minute.”

  “Right now, Mommy! I want to see how they wrap a man in toilet paper!”

  

  And the mummies were truly amazing. I didn’t photograph the one they had unwrapped; I just didn’t feel right about it. I know I’m not protecting the dead from anything — especially the dead on display naked in a glass case for thousands to walk past daily — but I just couldn’t do it. He was the most interesting one, though. He had hair, and leathered skin, and you could see the wound where his organs were extracted for the embalming. Seeing the tangible remains of something someone did a thousand years ago is a visceral experience — like time-traveling. Bearing witness to the past with your very own eyes.

  I felt privileged to view the mummies, and although I can’t say for sure how I would feel if it were my body laid out in a glass case for all to see; I like to think I wouldn’t mind. I like to think that the benefits of appreciating the culture and science of those who came before us would overshadow any indignity. It’s certainly far more remembrance than most of us can aspire to.

  
  And the objects? It is truly unbelievable to be able to go and see all those amazing things housed in one building. And if the Rosetta Stone were mine? If I had managed to get my hot little hands on that sort of treasure? Well, good luck getting it back from me, is all I’m saying.

• Coming Together: The Plazas of Madrid

  06Nov
  Categories: Family life, Travel Comments: 0

  

  What? Did you think I was through talking about Madrid?

  No, no, I’m not done. I’m still there, actually, in my heart.

  No matter what the time of day or night you find yourself out on the streets of Madrid, you will not be alone. It’s difficult to photograph landmarks in Madrid because in addition to composing the landscape, you have to take into account the timing of all the people passing by. They stroll the alleyways, murmur in the cafes around the perimeter of the plaza, and argue on the monument steps. It is a pleasure to find yourself among them.

  The Spanish are notoriusly late diners — the restaurant scene in Madrid begins around 9:00, is in full swing between 10 and 11:00, and by midnight, everyone’s stumbling out for after-dinner clubbing, drinks or churros y chocolat.

  I can’t speak to the nightlife in terms of clubs — even without three kids in tow that’s not really my thing — but Madrid is a gloriously lively late-night city. Last year, while I was pregnant with Baybish, GoodLooking and I ditched the chickens with Grandma & Grandaddy and took a pre-baby vacation to Spain. Alone. We had some lovely nights there, and one I will not soon forget was the night we strolled Plaza Oriente and took photographs of Palacio Real after midnight. It was a pivotal night in my photographic life, the night I first began to see how I could lost in trying to capture an image. I remember balancing my point-and-shoot Olympus on the back of a bench, trying to keep it still and catch the lights of the Palace behind the rearing stallion (Spain has many rearing stone stallions).

  But this time we had the children with us, so we were drawn to Madrid’s Plazas for different reasons: letting them run around without driving us crazy and bothering everybody else. They:

  played ring-around-the-lamppost in Plaza Mayor,

  

  ran through the “mazes” of Plaza Oriente,

  

  played screaming chase across the plaza inside Palacio Real,

  

  and danced to the drummers in Monumento Alfonso XII.
  
  [audio http://texasgurl.fileave.com/mto-alfonso-drums.mp3]
  It was a fantastically easy way to enjoy the city and its people. The afternoon we spent at Mto. Alfonso we each struck up conversations with different people around us. The chickens kicked the futbol with a kid about Boyish’s age, while GoodLooking talked premier league man-talk with the boy’s father. There were old ladies feeding cats and pigeons, and I talked for a long time to a painter named Julian. The sun shone off the white pavement until it didn’t anymore, and so we packed up the buggy and began the long walk back to our hotel. The kids were exhausted and we kept thinking the Metro would be faster, but instead we just kept walking; walking, watching the people, marveling at the lights, totally under the spell of the magical streets of Madrid.

  

  Tags: madrid, palacio real, parque buen retiro, photography, plaza mayor, plaza mto. alfonso, plaza oriente, spain 2007, Travel

• Making Memories At Estadio Santiago Bernabeu

  29Oct
  Categories: Family life, Motherhood, Travel Comments: 0

  

  Gooool-azo! [audio http://texasgurl.fileave.com/bernabeu-goalbest.mp3]

  On Wednesday, Real Madrid was playing at their home stadium, the Bernabeu (burn-uh-bau), versus Olympiakos. Good-Looking was hot to go there from the time we planned the trip, checking Real Madrid’s website early on on the off-chance they were playing at home during the week we would be there. When he found out they were, he was beside himself to go.

  The original plan was to ditch at least two of the chickens with Grandma for the evening, but her broken arm put a hitch in that giddy-up, fa’shizzle. She loves him so she actually suggested that she would go through with the babysitting for him, but I said no, no way would I leave her with a broken arm and my two rowdy eldest while I went out on the town. But throughout the day leading up to the game GoodLooking kept pushing, looking for a way to go. I said he could go by himself, but he wanted me to come. And of course I wanted to see it, but I wasn’t inclined to drag the whole family out to god-knows-where on the Metro, for an evening wedged in cramped seats among a bunch of screaming sports maniacs.

  

  And all day long we saw them: the Olympiakos fans in their red scarves and jackets, lining the streets, drinking coffee, milling around the plazas.

  Poor GoodLooking.

  See, I love this man, much as he annoys me sometimes. And I understood what this meant to him. About 10 years ago, he went to Camp Nou and saw F.C. Barcelona, Real Madrid’s arch rivals, play in their home stadium and he pretty much has not stopped talking about it since. He dragged me to Camp Neu for the tour last year when we came to Spain, and it was clear that although I could let him go to the Bernabeu alone, he wanted me there, and the only way I could be there was if the whole fam damily came along.

  So we went. I strapped Baybish on my back, bundled everybody up and headed out into the night. When we came up out of the Metro the stadium was glowing above us, the crowd was roaring and people were running to get inside. We were late, but Real Madrid won and we saw FOUR goals. And as I sat there, surrounded by my family, wrestling Baybish in my lap, my husband grinning and giggling, I thought: this right here will last me a good long while.

  

  Tags: bernabeu, Family life, family love, madrid, making memories, Motherhood, Travel

• I Hope You Waited Until The 2nd Day

  28Oct
  Categories: Travel Comments: 0

  

  To wish you were me. Because the day we arrived? Not so good.

  On that day, my mother-in-law tripped on a stairway in the Metro on our way to the hotel, and BROKE HER ARM. So you know, three kids, four roller bags, a stroller, and one lovely grandmother with a broken arm. Metro Security, paramedics, an ambulance, the whole shebang. My good-looking husband is fluent, so he went with his mother, and I took the rest of the gang the rest of the way to the hotel.

  After my sister-in-law inspected the rooms, we decided on two triples at the end of the hallway with doors right next to each other. We set our things down in one of the rooms and headed out to get food. As I hung my coat in the wardrobe she asked me, “Are you unpacking?” or something like that, and I said no, I was just putting things away until we were all back together and we could see where Good-Looking’s mother and her broken arm wanted to be.

  Little did I know.

  After we ate some tapas up the street, I took the children to Plaza Mayor to run off some energy and wait for news from the hospital. GoodLooking and Grandma showed up not too long afterwards, and after they had some food and a few cocktails on the Plaza, GoodLooking and his sister went off to the pharmacy to fill Grandma’s prescriptions. I took her back to the hotel, where she took one room and I took the other. I unpacked a few things and got the chickens in their pjs.

  When GoodLooking and his sister returned, all hell broke loose. Because she wanted the other room. Wanted us–I think–to switch rooms right then, but Boyish was already asleep. So, she marched GoodLooking down to the desk to translate for her so she could move rooms. When that didn’t work, she proceeded to storm around the room they had, slamming windows and generally behaving like I had spit in her shoes or something. I honestly didn’t know what to make of it. I kept thinking I must have missed something, because the logic of her absolute fury over the whole thing was lost on me.

  

  The next day, we offered to change rooms. She refused and spent most of the morning trying to ignore me. She and her brother had a bit of a throw-down over it, and after that she softened up a bit. We put the whole thing (mostly) behind us for the rest of the trip. But we spent our days apart and met for dinner — which worked, since she wanted to eat at Burger King and shop for t-shirts, while I wanted local food and more traditional sightseeing.

  All in all a rather rotten start to what actually turned out to be a lovely trip. Which truly, I will tell you about, tomorrow.

  Tags: madrid, spain 2007, Travel

• Today I Am Going Here

  23Oct
  Categories: Travel Comments: 0

  

  And as my little yellow hotel in the barrio off Plaza Mayor doesn’t have wireless, you won’t be hearing from me until Friday. But on Friday I will return with photographs and stories for you. In the meantime, please feel free to wish you were me.

   

• More Translations, or: English ≠ American

  22Sep
  Categories: London, Travel Comments: 0

  

  In England, think is just as often a noun as a verb. You don’t talk about it, or think about it, you “have a chat,” or “have a think.” Seriously. I’ve been told twice this week to “have a think,” and I sort of like the sound of it. Sounds more tangible than “thinking about.”

  For instance, when trying to get a haircut I was told at noon that they could fit me in that day, at 3:00. “Let me have a chat with my husband,” I said, “and I’ll call you back.”

  Earlier in the week I was told that there was space for Boyish to come to nursery for the morning session, and also space for him to come during the afternoon session, but um, no space at dinner (English for “lunch”). Could I perhaps trek up the hill and down again, with the four year-old, feed him, and then bring him back up the hill to school 45 minutes later?

  Oo, let me have a think on that. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

  See? I’m speaking English. You might not understand me if you’re from “the States,” as we say around here, but then again, you people need a bit of training in proper use of the language. From the founders. So, here goes, (again).

  The sidewalk is the pavement, and

  A guy is a bloke. An anonymous guy is John Doe to you, but Joe Bloggs over here.

  There is no Jane.

  If you want Sprite or 7-up, order lemonade; and if you want actual lemonade—well, too damn bad—no one seems to have any idea what it is.

  Your pants are not pants, they’re trousers. And if you have them altered, don’t ask for a cuff when it’s turn-up you want. Turn-ups look smart with your hideous London shoes (see above).

  Or you could wear your trousers with trainers (otherwise known as sneakers), which wouldn’t be smart. But then again you wouldn’t have to change shoes if you wanted to play crouchettes after work.

  Wait—I mean squash. Which is also juice. If you want to eat yellow crook-neck or zucchini squash, you must ask for crouchettes. That’s French.

  Which is English for squash.

  Tags: culture shock, London, Translations

• Photogenic Germany

  11Aug
  Categories: Germany, Travel Comments: 0

  

  Germany is so beautiful, so photogenic, so—well, it’s what everybody says about Germany, so I’ll go on and confirm it—so sparkling clean. It really is. And even the dirty bits are rather lovely in a gritty sort of way, as you can see from the graffiti-ridden underground walkway above. Notice there’s not even a gum-wrapper on the floor, and it looks as if someone might’ve just mopped it.

  The symmetry of the landscape just begs to be photographed, everywhere I’ve been. Even the pavement is pleasing to the eye:
  

  We are here to for our dear friend Ingo’s mother’s 60th birthday bash, and we have been hanging out at her lovely (photogenic) home, eating like kings and queens and trying to keep our chickens from destroying the furniture. They set a magnificent table with creamy noodle-y food and local wines, and there is been coffee and dessert after every meal. My kids think they’ve died and gone to heaven. These are some shots I took in her house:
  

  

  

  I speak about three words in German (I might be up to 10 or 15 by now), so spending time with a German family in their home has been sort of like being a toddler again. I can’t understand anything anyone is actually saying, so I have to glean all the meaning in every conversation around me by paying close attention to tone and context. It’s interesting because occasions that bring far-flung families close together—even happy occasions like a birthday celebrations—are fraught with complex dynamics and little tensions that are hard to read, even if you speak the language.

  So, today is the day of the party where the 150 close friends and family are gathering at local restaurant. Tomorrow is yet another, smaller party at the house, and Monday Ingo and Marsha head back to Los Angeles and we are taking a quick trip up the Rhine to see some more tidy villages and hopefully some castles. Germany is supposed to be riddled with castles, but I haven’t seen one yet.

  Oh, and it rains a lot in Germany, which I didn’t know. I don’t mind the rain, though, intermittent rain makes good light for photographs. And you can buy goofy umbrellas with ears on them.

  

  And today the sun is shining.

  Tags: Travel

• Hot, Sweet & Sticky

  14Jul
  Categories: New Orleans, Travel Comments: 0

  
  Jackson Square at Night, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

  New Orleans, where the wind blows warm and the air is so thick it has texture. The heat clings to you like something alive, coating your skin with a filmy sweat and settling, heavy and damp, in the fabric of your clothes. Where building interiors are so cold your glasses fog up when you step into the street, savoring that warmth–delicious only in those first moments after the doors close behind you, and where you consider carrying a sweater to wear inside.

  Where cold water down your back sends not the slightest tingle down your spine, and where each day you understand a bit more why the city is known for drunken revelry, crimes of passion, and steamy sex.

  The heat intensifies your emotions and blunts your rationality—you are pissed off, put out, horny as hell—you are acutely aware of every sensation in your body. Every little thing takes on a bloated significance, until you feel you might do anything, anything, to take your mind off this fucking heat.
  

  Tags: New Orleans, Travel

• It’s A “Special” Place

  14Jul
  Categories: New Orleans, Travel Comments: 0

  Things are a bit different in New Orleans, and I was reminded of that immediately upon arriving in town.

  We had driven until 3am the night before, then crashed at a Comfort Inn outside Lafayette before continuing on the next morning. Ollie woke up at 7:30; so we all woke up at 7:30. I was working on less than 5 hours of sleep; the continental breakfast at the Chez’ Comfort had been absolutely inedible, and by the time we hit New Orleans it was almost noon and I hadn’t had even a drop of caffeine in any form.

  I wanted to hold out for PJ’s, New Orleans signature local coffee shop, but I spotted a Starbucks just in time for us to cross three lanes of traffic and pull into the parking lot next door. I jogged in and at the counter, I ordered my standard:

  “Grande percent one-pump vanilla latte, please.”

  A blank stare. “Grande what?”

  “Percent. Latte. With one pump of vanilla.”

  She squinted at me, and pronounced the syllables as if she were trying out a word in Farsi, “Per-cent?”

  I took a deep breath, and tried again. “Um, lowfat?”

  “You meant TWO percent?”

  “Right.”

  Please note that even though I had spent at least 10 of the last 15 hours in a car with three children and a cat, with no caffeine and with very little sleep, I did not say to her, “Please just give me my fucking coffee, you Moronic Bitch, before I rip your head off and eat it.” I tried to smile because, see, this is how it goes here.

  I am back in New Orleans.

  Tags: New Orleans, Travel