Notes from Montreal



So....this week was really interesting. It started, well. I'll just start:

We had an investigator who I wrote you about before. She made a lot of big changes in her life in order to join the church - including getting married, stopping smoking, and quitting hard drugs. Needless to say, she's a little high maintenance, but has a super solid testimony and was really excited about her baptism. On Tuesday morning she called to tell us how happy she was to be alive - she wanted to thank us for everything we had done to help her, etc. She also started telling me about a friend who had recently returned from rehab, and wondered what I thought about letting this particular woman back into her life. We talked for awhile, and said we'd see her later that afternoon to have a lesson. Well, as soon as I hung up the phone, my companion and I looked at each other and - for some reason - both said "we have to go, now." So we jumped in the car to see her....But the car wasn't there. 

It was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere in our little garage. And we both died a little inside.

It was horrible.  

Until we remembered that we had left it outside the night before, because we had hoped to visit an investigator later on, but they never ended up getting back to us. 

So we recovered from that shock, found the car, and ran over to our investigator's house [who will heretofore be referred to as Sally]. She was a little surprised, but very happy to see us. I had grabbed some leaves and clear sticky paper as we left the apartment, so we talked about faith while making little maple leaf bookmarks. It was good. And throughout the conversation we got her to decide not to spend time with this ex-addict friend for the moment. 

Which was good. Because about an hour after we left we got a very excited call from Sally. Apparently as soon as we left, the friend came over. She said she had a gift for Sally, and placed a pill in her hand. Sally proceeded to throw the pill on the floor, smash it with her shoe, and tell the friend to leave. The friend wouldn't leave, so Sally called the police, told them the friend had illegal drugs that she had tried to push on Sally. The police arrested the friend and started procedures for a restraining order. It was all very exciting! And Sally told us that she would never have been able to reject the drugs or stand up for herself before meeting us - and that she didn't know what would have happened if we hadn't stopped by that morning. Cool, eh? But...Then she called us the next morning to cancel her baptism. Oh well. Missionary work is kind of hard like that sometimes. 


I'm afraid that's all I have time for today :( I love you all dearly!

An Anniversary and a Warning

Today, I went to see my doctors for a checkup. It has been four years since I was air lifted to Cleveland the first time to get a new pair of lungs. I am so deeply grateful to be alive. I think of the donors who's death gave me life every day and how much I love being on this glorious, complicated sphere of blue and green with so many amazing people. And I also think about what I've had to go through and have had to give up to get to this place in my life.

Since my first and second talks went up on TED, I've received a steady flow of letters, emails and messages from people young and old about their hopes, their fears, their dreams. For the most part, I find these communiques very encouraging and they tend to make me happy. But I am concerned by an alarming trend I see in some people who write me that have chronic illness: people write me looking for approval in dangerous decisions. For this reason, I feel like I have to clarify my message.

1. Listen to your doctors and to the best of your ability, follow their directions.  It is true that when I was diagnosed with PH 9 years ago, one top specialist told me not to sing. But many, many other top doctors told me it was fine and even good for me to do it. There wasn't a single study or medical journal that corroborated the doctor's claims of singing exacerbating symptoms of Pulmonary Arterial Hypertension. Not one. When I became too sick to travel and my doctors told me to stop performing, I did so immediately because I knew they were right. It is important your doctor understands you and your hopes and your dreams. It is also important you understand how those hopes and dreams must be shaped into a new reality.

2. Gosh darnet, I know they are annoying as heck, but taking your medications is a lot less annoying than dying or getting a translpant. Seriously. There are too many people waiting for transplants for doctors to give them to patients who aren't doing their very best to keep themselves healthy now. And transplant is way to complicated to get one before it is absolutely necessary. There are SO may nights I have gone to bed, wishing I still had pulmonary hypertension instead of my transplanted lungs. Please keep whatever you have for as long as humanly possible. This means doing extra work. I did a lot of qigong, I changed my diet, I exercised every single day and I ate substantially less salt than doctors told me I could. Even now, some doctors give their patients more leeway than I give myself with medications. But the single most predictive factor in a transplant's success is patient compliance. The doctor's can't see what you're doing but your body knows. Your kidney's are keenly aware if you are or are not drinking the water you need to keep them healthy and your immune system will know as soon as you start getting loose on time with your meds. Before you have time to react, you'll be in chronic rejection

3. Don't go Wall Street on your life. Living life to the fullest is about more than quarterly earnings or Carpe Diem. Mortality is too precious to place thrills over true happiness and longevity. When I was first diagnosed with a stage four case of PH, all I wanted to do was be with my family in Denver. But the altitude was already having a severely detrimental impact on my health. I went to sea level because I loved them and because they loved me. My mom would rather talk to me on the phone than talk to my grave. There were many times I wanted to go home for holidays, events, graduations, etc. and I chose not to because I knew doing so would put my life at a significantly greater risk. When I finally went home to say goodbye to my father at his funeral, it precipitated my own transplant. I fear I couldn't have forgiven myself had I not gone, but take your life seriously. There are tens and hundreds of thousands of dollars going into keeping you alive, not expediting your joyride to a faster end.

4. Show gratitude to those around you. Often times, whether we like it or not, being sick precipitates a huge amount of additional attention. That attention is almost necessarily be taken from some other worthy subject. So remember to be nice. To say thank you. To show kindness to the people who might be neglected for your sake. In the same breath, don't feel guilty for it. Be grateful that it is there and show that gratitude by taking the best care of yourself you can.

5. Sometimes things go really, really wrong. Regardless of how diligent you are with your meds and instructions, regardless of how many things you are doing right or wrong, sometimes things just happen. When I began to reject my lungs, I had this overwhelming sense of guilt. I shouldn't have kissed that baby. If only I'd been been more careful with my meds. I shouldn't have started performing again. One day shortly after I was married and the sadness of my deteriorating health seemed overwhelming, I was pouring over every action in the three months when the rejection had taken place, trying to understand everything I might have done wrong. Yoni took me by my emaciated shoulders and told me, "Charity, you've gotta stop doing this. It's not helping." He was absolutely right. Sometimes, figuring our what we did wrong is really important so we don't do it again. But sometimes, letting go is even more important.

I am so grateful to report that my appointment went REALLY well. I have been here much longer than I thought was possible 9 years ago and there have been many times when I thought my turn on earth was over. If you or a loved one are going through a serious illness, I want you to know that despite the serious challenges, there is so much wonder to be enjoyed and witnessed. It's worth sticking around. And I hope I can for a very long time to come.

Notes from Montreal








It seems like a looooog time since I've communicated with everyone. I know it's only been a week, but missionary time is just weird. Actually, time seems to pass crazy fast here - and my days are completely filled, all day every day. I'm very happy - for so many reasons both obvious and inexplicable. I used to scoff at the unbridled adoration missionaries and return missionaries felt for their missions and for missionary work more generally, but I get it now. I can't explain it, really - but one of the biggest changes I've experienced since being a missionary is a new and perplexing capacity to love. It's weird. Really. For example, last Thursday, when we were singing off-tune french folk songs at the nursing home, and the darling old Frenchman next to me was serenading me between heavy, bloody coughs into his handkerchief, I almost fainted. Not because it was gross, but because it was so sweet. And I loved him so much, and I wanted to do something to help - but beyond bringing him water and helping him turn the pages, there wasn't much I could offer. 

Ok. Other things: It's cold here already! Despite the autumn chill, we had a huge stake activity outside on Saturday. It was a run - all around the beautiful grounds surrounding the temple and stake center. Soeur Jean-Louis and I were charged with directing traffic, and runners. We cheered "Bravo!" and "Bon travail!" or "Bonne courage!" as the runners passed, but we soon realized that not all the runners were part of the race. And that some people in the race were actually walking. And that some people who were walking were just....walking in the park. But we couldn't tell who was who until after they passed (their numbers were pinned to the back of their shirts). So, we ended up cheering for everyone. And stopping traffic for everyone. And I think we made many people's day. And the trees here are already turning! The activity ended with a huge lunch of corn on the cob and apples picked from various members' trees. It was delightful!

So, we see a lot of people every week. It's great. Some are members, some are investigators, and some are less active members. One less-active member is named Carol. She's exactly like every little old Hungarian lady ever. Except she speaks French. She has rose colored hair, and only a few teeth. But her apartment looks like a doily - and she always greets us wearing a perfectly ironed, bright white cotton nightgown - with matching dainty capelet. It's adorable. We're trying to help her stop smoking (she's been a member forever), and she hasn't smoked since I got here! Carol loooooves missionaries, so she asks us to do things for her -- like pick up groceries. We can't always do it, but when we have time we do. She gives us her credit card and a  list. Well, I am so happy when we can because it means we get to go to a beautiful Canadian grocery store. Oh! It's so pretty. And we're really too poor to shop there. But it just feels like Christmas. And they have so much good bread - and even more Liberté yogurt. It's a dream. And if I didn't love Carol before she introduced me to IGA (which I did), I do now.

In other news (or not really, because I feel like I only ever write about food and feelings), another member gave us a huge bag of perfect pears from their pear trees. They also made us pear juice. It was real good. 

Soeur Tillemann ("Deeek? Deeech? Est-ce que Soeur Tillemann suffit?")

Distractions


They say that "with age comes responsibility," and with my last month (and recent birthday) as evidence, I'm inclined to believe "society" on this one. I'm not going to go into full detail here on what all of these responsibilities are (because though I'm not the most mystically-inclined soul, I do have a weakness for superstition), but I will say that exciting things seem to be in the works! Instead, I'm sharing a roundup of my favorite diversions that have been keeping me me, in spite of the piles of contracts that seem intent of transforming me into a soulless zombie (which, if I'm being honest, is not the worst fate I've ever entertained).


Brilliant ways to elevate your camping game.

I'm always impressed by how comprehensive R29's dress your body guides are.

True stories about love and living.

Five out of Five TD sisters agree, this is the only way to bike.

Speaking of biking, the perfect biker jacket?

Is this cheating?

Crazy beautiful music inspired by Lyme disease?

Dirty politics.

I've been trolling some of my sisters' old recipes recently because I miss them, and their cooking.

Magic made easy or Bipity Bopity Belle



The day is growing old, but a new year is just beginning for the one and only Liberty Belle. Just a few more than a few years back when Liberty and I were still roommates, she was rather upset about the prospect of her birthday. We'd just moved to Baltimore. We didn't know a lot of people and gosh darnit, she was turning 18. Newly wedded Kimber had just moved to New York City with David. Since Kimber was usually the keeper of exciting celebrations, Liberty was pretty sure her chances at an appropriate party were minimal.

Unbeknownst to her, Kimber and I had splurged and bought tickets for a matinee of Wicked. I told Liberty we would go up for the weekend to see Kimber.  We went up, got lost in what I still remember as one of the most spectacular street fairs I've ever been to, made our way to Wicked where we cried off all of our mascara and then we got a call. It was my grandfather. He and my grandmother were in town for a very special event. We needed to be there in an hour. The attire was black tie, and we were to stop at his hotel. He would give us money to buy what we needed. The next hour was spent running from store to store, trying to find evening wear that wasn't absurdly expensive. Libby found a little number that looked like star dust. I ended up in one of my grandmother's skirts with the top I was wearing. We arrived just in time to go through metal detectors, meet a few presidents and the U.N. Secretary General. My grandfather must have realized there weren't enough seats, so he took us to the hotel restaurant, ordered us dinner and told us to have fun.

Meanwhile, there had been a steady stream of girls in tiaras ascending the escalators in the Marriott at Times Square. We got curious and finally decided to investigate. We walked into the ballroom like we owned the place. We found out we were attending the after party of Miss Polish America. The evening culminated in the one and only Liberty Belle leading a conga line of hundreds of American Poles, snaking around tables, onto the stage and into the lobby.

To me, this whole experience encompasses who Liberty Belle is. She gets nervous and emotional, but once you get into things, it is SO much more fun and exciting that you could have ever imagined. She's like a lucky charm: When she's there, wondrous things happen. Unexpected jokes are made, exquisite places are found and the mundane becomes unforgettable.


Happy birthday Liberty. Wishing you  

Three little reasons why I love being a Mom.

You guys, this seriously just happened.

We had some little friends over today, including a darling 2-year-old named Carrie. As I was helping Carrie slip into her sparkly white sandals, Willa looked at me and said, "Mom, I want shoes." Now, Willa is nearly 17-months-old, and she is a Tillemann-Dick, so I was impressed but not flabbergasted with her short but grammatically correct utterance. And, since Willa has NEVER shown the SLIGHTEST interest in bipedal mobility (which, at nearly 17-months, is a bit crazy -- even for a Tillemann-Dick), it's true that I seldom put her in shoes of any sort. So, I told her as much. "Willa," I said, "when you start walking, I'll get you shoes." She looked at me with resignation, and replied with her standard, unenthusiastic "okaaaaaay."

Then, she stood up and took three, very deliberate, steps. Then she did it again.

So I ordered her some shoes.

****

In the car this afternoon, Hettie and I had the following conversation:

H: Mom, is Tom my uncle?
K: Nope. He's Mercina's boyfriend. Maybe they'll get married, and then he'd be your uncle.
H: So, you can just marry who you want to, as long as he's not your uncle or brother or cousin?
K: Well, it's a very important decision, so you have to think about it very carefully. But yes, you get to choose who you marry.
H: So, when I grow up and I'm an astronaut, I can marry Tom? If Mercina doesn't marry him first?
K: Ummmmm...
H: How long is Mercina going to be in Canada?

****

Also, I know it's not really responsible, but I kind of hope Phineas becomes a dancer.


The end.

Notes from Montreal




Darling Yanks!

I'm here! And I've been here for over a week!? Woah. C'est bizarre. I know it's cliché, but I love being a missionary. And I mean really, really love being a missionary. I loved the MTC, but this is a completely different kind of love. Where to begin? Unfortunately there's much more than I have time to recount, but I'll try to give you a little taste.

I spent my first night here was spent in the mission home, with President and Sister Patrick and four of their nine (maybe 8?) children. They were incredibly kind and welcoming. And, though it may sound a little conceited, I know they really love me . We ate dinner with them and spent the next morning being interviewed and eating Sister Patrick's exquisite Belgium waffle creations (pearl sugar is magic!). We sang a hymn with the new missionaries - overlooking the entire city (tourists asked if we were a choir) and headed to meet our trainers. Before we arrived, I had asked one of my MTC companions to guess where we would be serving, or at least which language we would be speaking for our first transfer (she has something of a gift for such things. For example, when we guess about which General Authority was going to come speak to us, she was ALWAYS right. It was a little weird). Aaaanyway, she said she couldn't guess where we'd be serving, but she felt that I would be speaking French only, Soeur Garcia would speak Spanish and she, Souer Terron -- even though she'd rather speak Spanish -- would be serving in English. Well, she was right! I'm in an area called Rive Sud, which, as it's name suggests, is just across the river (to the South) of the island of Montréal. The area is called Longueuil, and I'm serving in the Lemoyne ward. People here speak French. But in my area, they speak mostly real French (not Quebecois!). It looks like a slightly more Germanic, Canadian, French version of the nice parts of Arvada, CO. My companion is super cool. She was a convert - she joined the church maybe 5 years ago? She's originally from Haiti, but she's lived in the US since she was 11. She was called to serve in Spanish, and learned Spanish in the MTC, but has been serving in French for her entire mission. She's a baby trainer (this is her 4th transfer), but she's an awesome missionary. 

The congregation here is really healthy. There are 200+ members in church every Sunday, and they just moved two other sets of missionaries into the ward. So Soeur Jean-Louis (my companion) and I are working with another set of sisters and a set of elders. The members feed us - which is both a blessing and a curse. On my first day in the field, we had a dinner engagement with single lady. She was really kind and served us salad and vegetables, and rice and chicken. Because there was so much other food, I just didn't serve myself chicken and explained (after being asked) that I get sick when I eat meat. She was a little confused, but didn't seem to mind and gave us mille feuille (I have no idea how to spell that) for dessert. The next day was a little trickier. The family who fed us spoke zero English, and dished out our food before we got there. Everything was meat, except for a tiny bit of rice. And there were maybe 6 different kinds of meat. This is a testament to my love of missionary work: I ate chicken. I realized there was no gracious way around it, so I started by eating the fried chicken thing on the side of my plate. It wasn't exactly bad, but a little bit of my soul died in that moment. My companion was looking at me like I was insane,  and as I chewed this thing which had once been a happy little animal, I realized that, even though I had made a Herculean effort to swallow, there was still a lot more meat. And, I tried....but I couldn't really handle it. It. Was. Awful. Not because it was bad food, but because I was eating flesh and because I was starting to feel pretty sick. And then they brought out chocolate cake and Krispy Kreme donuts, and I thought I was going to pass out. But I didn't - I mumbled something about not being used to eating meat and how it was just so delicious -- my trainer was so proud! Except...except I threw up a lot that night. So, here's the thing: I wasn't sure if the whole not eating meat thing was really a medical thing, but it is now, so I told the woman who handles the calendar on Sunday, and she announced it in Relief Society. And the sister who fed us looked so confused and I felt so bad. Oh bother.

Other things:

My first lesson was actually in English. I taught almost the whole thing, but the guy was definitely high. We dropped him as an investigator - even though he didn't want us to - because he wouldn't read the Book of Mormon. He just liked us. We spend a lot of time doing service here. We  spent a few hours on Friday morning serving at a nursing home. It was weird. And kind of confusing. We went in and rounded up all of the people who wanted to sing - but there were lots of totally crazed residents of the home screaming "Aidez-moi! Madame! Aidez-moi! S'il vous plait! [Help me! Miss! Help me please!]" And I, like anyone with a heart, ran to help. But it was a bad idea. And my comp had to explain that most of the people there were a little off. But between the language barrier and everything else, it was a little confusing. Usually I'm only concerned with listening hard enough to understand what the other person is saying, not trying to discern is they're crazy or not.....Well, we spent the next hours singing hokey french songs with a possessed chorister and a bunch of loony old folks. They were all very sweet, except for the chorister. She taught us to sing everything to the same off-tune melody, but I didn't really know the songs anyway so it was ok. But, then, just as our phone rang, we turned to "Hey Jude". I was so disappointed as I listened from the hall, but then I realized they weren't singing Hey Jude at all. It was some gross bastardization which I never ever want to hear again.

I adore you! Forgive my lack of correspondence. There isn't time to do anything! We're working constantly, not just teaching lessons, but helping members, etc.

Love you toooooo much!!!

The Very Best Of Indian Summer

When I was a kid, my mom used to go down to the Economy Market. It was a small, family owned Greek specialty store in Denver. I liked this for a few reasons. The first was I knew it meant Mom was making Greek food soon and I still haven't met someone who does it better. Secondly, when we went, Mom would usually get me a little honey sesame brittle which remains one of my very favorite candies. Finally, there was the feta. Glistening white and with it's distinctive vomitous smell, there was something about it that I found irresistible. When we had it, the kitchen's major draw wasn't cookies or ice cream; it was that amazing, salty cheese. I would eat it by the chunk. Mom liked it because she thought the name implied it was cheap. In fact, Economia was the family name, so there wasn't really a price cut. But that feta was unforgettable. With that story, I give you two salads for the end of summer that make use of the wonderful, pungent cheese. It's the perfect accouterments for the sweet September harvests that are coming in.  The first is a classic New American mix of old and new world ingredients. The second is a Mediterranean salad I first enjoyed at my grandparents favorite little cafe in Budapest. This one has a twist in presentation. The dishes are fast, beautiful and delicious. Serve them alone or on top of crusty bread as a delicious bruchetta.


Corn Salad

4 ears sweet corn, shucked and raw
1/2 lb fresh tomatoes
1 cup arugula
1/2 cup crumbled feta



Cut fresh corn kernels off of the cob and place in medium sized bowl. Slice tomatoes into bite sized chunks. Toss with corn and Feta. Add arugula and toss. Serve immediately. Should keep for 3 to three days.

Medeterrenian Salad

Watermelon
Honeydew
Cantaloupe
Red Onion
Basil
Feta
Olive Oil
Sea Salt

Slice red onion and soak in warm water. Slice melons and feta in wedges. Alternate mellons and red onions on a plate, allowing one wedge of feta per 3 pieces of melon. Chiffonade basil and sprinkle over salad. Drizzle with olive oil and finish with a pinch of sea salt.

What are your favorite end of summer treats? 

Guess what? Apple Butt.



As requested, lyrics and original video after the jump:


Notes from the Missionary Training Center



Today is my last day in the MTC! Which means - well, it means a lot of things..... I'm really grateful to have survived - and, dare I say, even enjoyed - this first chapter of my mission. As you can imagine, this week has been filled with lots of last minute preparations. I'm not totally packed yet, but I will be soon - whether I like it or not! Apparently fleece lined tights weigh a lot...

Last week Elder Neil Anderson came to speak with us. He talked a lot about the intentional and unintentional impact we make on others' lives. It's always good to remember that we can make a difference in people's lives without knowing. After the talk, on our walk back to the MTC, all of the missionaries were caught in a torrential downpour. It was really, very wet, but missionaries are so cloistered that any deviation from the routine seems like a miracle. And I don't think I've seen missionaries in the MTC as happy as they were during that rainstorm....ever. 

I was a little sick last week, and while I was convalescing in my room, I heard a loud voice in the hall calling my name. It's a little weird because the MTC has an intercom system where any of the main offices can call any of the other buildings, and all you need to do to respond is talk. It's a little eerie, but kind of...neat? Anyway, I didn't have any cash, so Momo called the MTC to tell them that I needed to go to the bank. They gave me a golden pass, asked me to sign something promising not to eat anything, buy anything, or ask anyone else to buy anything for me. After signing away all of those vitally important rights, I was allowed to leave on a brief adventure with my companions. It sounds kind of pathetic, and it wasn't very interesting, but that didn't stop us from enjoying ourselves. 

I love you all so crazy much. I'm sorry this isn't more interesting. I was kind of out of it for the last part of the week and am still having a hard time remembering exactly what happened......

Je vous aime!!!!

Home on the Range

Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day

Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day

How often at night when the heavens are bright
I see the light of those flickering stars
Have I laid there amazed and asked as I gazed
If their glory exceeds that of love












Beauty Hurts or What To Do When Your Face Become Furry Like A Little Rodent



One of the side effects of an old medication led to my face becoming furry like a baby rodent. It was kind of awful. It was too big of a task for plucking and I was worried about my skin if my whole face was waxed. I'd heard of threading: a less painful South East Asian import. It was supposedly better for your skin and many women used it on their entire face.

Threading salons were all over New York. So one day after a meeting, I happened upon one. The price was right. It looked clean and tidy, so I decided to go. There were a few girls there getting their brows done. As the Indian girl with incredible hair and brows rolled her thread up and down her client's face, it seemed almost hypnotic. The client's eyes were closed and they both appeared to be in a zen-like state of hairlessness. I was excited.  I lay my head back, ready for this amazing, transcendent excavation of face fur. A young woman with thick, black hair began to wind a white thread, twisting it between her fingers a half dozen times. She approached my face and began to roll the miniature rope across my cheeck. I screamed. Loud. Back and forth the little threads went, ripping my baby hairs out, 10 or 12 at a time.

I've had my freaking chest cut open twice but this was certainly some of the most pain I have ever been subjected to. And I was doing it voluntarily.

I felt entirely deceived. Those girls who made it look so effortless -- dare I say -- meditative. How dare they!? It was a violation of a common bond of sisterhood. They should have warned me. They owed it to me. This must be against the law, I thought. Outlawed by some international convention or treaties having to do with cruel and unusual punishment. I think I asked if it was.

The next thirty minutes seemed like hours -- days, ever. I screamed, squirmed and yelped in pain. The other women who worked in the salon gathered around. I think they found my cries for help rather entertaining. Clients would come in and out, giggling and giving me sympathetic glances. What can I say? I've never been particularly good at keeping my feelings in.  When I was finally done, my face looked like I had had a chemical peel or something. -- I was pretty sure the top few layers of skin had been removed. But my cheeks were smooth as a naked baby's bottom.

I'm going back to New York for Rosh Hashanna and while I no longer need the full face, I might just get threaded tomorrow. If you need it, it is true: it does work very well. It is supposedly better for your skin. It hurts like the Devil. And it makes me wonder, what goshawful painful routines do men engage in to stay beautiful? On that note, have a beautiful, hairless new year this Rosh Hashana. 

Aprovechar el Dia!

The other night, Dave and I were sitting up late, reflecting on how Summer had slipped through our fingers. Dave's crazy work schedule meant a lot of travel but not a single day of real family vacation.  The next day, my hardworking husband got word that his two main client contacts were going on vacation themselves as soon as Dave's group delivered their next report. It seemed like a sign, and within an hour we'd booked tickets and made plans for the whole family to spend two weeks road tripping through the Yucatan Peninsula. We spent the next week or so wondering how on earth we'd been so crazy, and I'll admit I felt more than my normal sense of pre-trip excitement when we hugged Charity goodbye at the airport. Now that we're here, we're feeling pretty happy about our fit of rash spontaneity.

Here's the thing about growing up in Northwest Denver, and then visiting Mexico for the very first time at age 33: it feels an awful lot like home. Home, plus idyllic beaches, Mayan ruins, Spanish Colonial charm, wild flamingos and the best ceviche of my life. I'm a little bit in love. 

We took the slow ferry to Isla Mujeres


I don't always love the beach, but this was pretty much perfect.

Hettie loves boat rides.
Especially this fast little boat we took to the lagoon at Rio Logartos
Where we saw SO many wild flamingos!
The kids liked this baby Chihuahua maybe even more than the wildlife. Her name is Mia.
Willa likes to linger over breakfast.
One of seven Colonial churches in Valladolid

Chichen Itza really is awesome.
Our hotel near the ruins was kind of amazing. Jackie O. and Princess Grace stayed here back in the 60's, and I kept expecting them to show up in the corridor. They never did, (but there was a peacock)...
One of many golden facades at Izamal.