Life in the Slow Lane

I know it. Three weeks, more than 170 hours on a train, 8232 miles to travel, a country to see. As you can imagine, a trip of this magnitude requires quite the planning. Fortunately, my sweet husband is gifted in coordinating logistics. This has allowed me to spend my time agonizing over other critical matters like, "Which train puns can I squeeze into everyday conversation?" or "How many cliche comments can I make about life being the journey and not the destination?" Obviously, I have the more difficult role in this vacation planning. Which reminds me that I should go help pack lunches for our train time. I've just received word that some of the packaging on the snacks we bought may be too voluminous to fit in our wheeled cooler. I have a few ideas I'd like to try as to how to fix that problem.

I am turning this blog into a food blog for just a bit to help out all of my readers who fell in love in Northeastern Brazil. That is... fell in love with tapiocas in Northeastern Brazil. For those of my readers who have not had the gastronomic pleasure of eating a hot tapioca on a crowded street corner, let me first inform you that a tapioca is not a pudding. Nor is a tapioca the pearls you find at the bottom of your boba tea. Imagine an omelet-type food only without eggs. To the uninitiated it may sound weird and not worth the effort of mustering up enough Portuguese to place your order, but you would be wrong. Please don't be offended by that. The other reason I am turning this blog into a food blog for a moment is because my husband, also known to readers as my S.O.S. (Significant Other, Sweetheart) is too excited by his culinary success to bother with sitting down to inform the world about this important breakthrough. S.O.S. has, since he first tasted tapioca goodness on th...

S.O.S. surprised me with a cabinet he made and effectively quadrupled my kitchen counter space. How did we manage a surprise in our home others have called a well equipped closet? All day long we kept the curtain closed leading out to our patio. I was inside wondering in curiosity to the sounds outside of drilling and sawing and the words of a preoccupied man talking to himself. And I returned from a trip to the grocery store, and... WOW! 664 square inches of counter space. I don't know if you have ever had this happen to you... the quadrupling of kitchen counter space in the span of one Saturday, but I tell you it can be a heady thing. It can make you believe that cooking a meal for 25 people is no great problem. (Someone else volunteered to provide the dining room.) Hey, who knows? When my other new counter goes in, maybe S.O.S. and I will open a cooking school!

I met a neighbor in the hallway as I tried to wrestle my laundry basket in the door. Of course, you can see the entire place from the doorway and she helpfully remarked "My husband and I made the choice to not have any furniture so we could move around." Living a simple life we are not.

I look up from my place at the computer to see my husband squatting in front of two stools, carefully separating out egg yokes into a series of bowls perched on the bar stools. Good thing we registered for the mixing bowls with anti-slip bottoms. He asks where he might find a measuring cup, and since I can't readily direct him, he pulls out the stack of paper cups we are using, notes they are nine ounce cups and calculates how full he needs to fill it in order to arrive at the proper measurement. The microwave beeps over by where it is plugged in, smack-dab in front of our only door. At least we still have a box long enough and wide enough to rest it on. Very much longer and we may decide to add wheels to the box. Speaking of resting on boxes, S.O.S. and I have been doing that for some time. 15 uniform boxes set side-by-side makes an excellent bed frame for an air mattress. And when it comes time to add spices, we know where they are by what position they held in the boxes gri...

My dear S.O.S. remarked recently that he has moved more times in the four months of our marriage than ever before in his life. Poor man. But he may prove just as influential on me as I have proved to be on him: we bought a house. Maybe the term "house" is too generous, but it is a domicile we intend on occupying for as long, if not longer, than any place I have previously lived. One of the best things about our little condo is that because of the mirror which fills the largest wall in our home, I can eat a meal sitting next to my sweetie and across from him at the same time . Here is a picture illustrating this (don't you hate it when the photographer gets you with your mouth full?) When we make enough room for a third person to sit on the carpet next to us, maybe you can come over for dinner.

Do you know how many times I have tried to retire the "Nomad" series on my blog? But here I am, at it again. This weekend finds me patriotically packing my things and who knows when I will be able to unpack them? Of course, I've gained quite a few things since I last packed all of my belongings and headed out to who-knows-where. The list of things I have acquired bears a remarkable resemblance to my wedding registries. Toss in a few miscellaneous items of furniture for good measure, the belongings S.O.S. brought to our marriage, and the MEGA-GRILL that suddenly has become the "make-it or break-it" determining factor in what housing situation will work for us... and you can well understand why I had hoped the word "nomad" would not be required. But the time has come to say goodbye to our Cataluna house and I'm back to the life of a nomad. This world is not my home, I'm just a passin' through... but in the mean while, I've got quite the...

I'm spoiled. I haven't had to pay to do my laundry since I graduated from college. (Actually, chances are I didn't do laundry for at least two weeks before I graduated. You know, finals... papers... social obligations...) Even for the first three weeks of married life, when, for the first time in five years I didn't have a washer and dryer down the hall, I got to do my laundry for free thanks to two hospitable friends. And if it weren't for the fact that my dear SOS has a uniform for work and it gets smellier than... well, it gets smelly... I think I might still have avoided a trip to the dreaded laundromat. I mean, one of the first things I demanded of my husband was that he buy more underwear. He didn't even have enough to put off doing laundry for more than a week and a half! (And believe me, I didn't want to suggest the eco-friendly option suggested here .) Not to mention, poor dear, that as soon as we were married I became obsessive about collecting...

Oh, and yes, we did get married. For anyone who hasn't seen the collection of photos yet, there are hundreds over on our facebook pages.

A visitor who very much wished it was breakfast for three.

This was our view the next morning: breakfast for two on a private balcony overlooking the harbor.

My post count has been way down in recent months. I thought since pictures are worth a thousand words, if I stuck a few photos in here, I might almost get back to where I should be. This is the view from our doorway at dusk one of the evenings we were on Catalina.

And I say that will all humility. We've been registering for home items, SOS and I. And sometime during the course of "is it permissible to register for things like cheese cloth and bathroom soap" it was suggested that maybe we really ought to register for at least SOME tools, as every household needs a hammer and the like. So yesterday found us in Sears with a scanner and aisle upon aisle of tools. Of course, they all look the same to me (except for the new brand that comes with lime green accessories) but SOS actually knew that each tool has a different purpose... and he knew the purpose!! And since he knew what each tool is for, I let him decide what to scan. Along about the third "theetbabeep" of the scanner, I began to revisit the question of what exactly wedding guests would and would not be willing to count as "necessary for starting a home." And then I had a brilliant stroke of epiphany: If not a single item was purchased off this list, I woul...

I'm getting married to an amazing guy.

This week marks three years since the first of my siblings got married. I am one of five, and the only one not yet "hitched". As anyone knows, coming at the end always creates a great deal of expectation to maintain traditions, but I always was the really rebellious one (just ask my sister about the only time she thinks I ever got into trouble). So speaking of traditions, let me share with those of you who are not aware, some of the numbers involved with the four marriages that have already occurred among my siblings: #1) Two wedding ceremonies, two receptions, two languages #2) Three ceremonies, four receptions/after parties, two languages #3) One ceremony, three receptions, two languages #4) Two ceremonies, two receptions, two languages Folks, I plan to do what has never been done before. Yes, dear readers after a total of 8 ceremonies and 11 receptions with significant usage of multiple languages, I plan to break the mold! Who knows whether it is actually possible?!? But ...

And I quote: "She has no empire and has kissed no frogs. She is not royalty and holds no court. And yet, on this, the most memorable of days, she lives in a palace, where ladies in waiting carry out her every wish and attend to her makeup and hair while chefs of world-renown prepare a celebratory feast, fit for a king and queen, but made just for her. So it's easy to see why she cannot shake the feeling that today, she is a princess." And that, my friends, is the secret to the $7,000 dresses and the $3,000 cake ("It makes me believe that the cake really is a window into the soul of a wedding"). However, there is no way that I am about to part with that kind of money (even if I had it) in order to feel like a princess for a day. No, I've found a man who plans to treat me like a princess for a life-time, and friends, that's priceless.

Yesterday SOS came an hour before I got off work to play his violin in the chapel. I usually try to stay extra alert when he is there just in case there is someone who is not happy about the surround sound. But no sooner had I gotten back to my desk than the receptionist called and asked if I could talk to a lady who was crying. So I took the call. And with the sounds of magnificent hymns seeping into the arid hallways and walkways, I listened to the heart of a woman whose husband is dying. I made my way to the end of the conversation and hung up, once again becoming aware of my environment. My cubicle mate commented "I am so amazed at your ability to concentrate. The two of us were..." I interrupted, "Oh, no! Are you having trouble concentrating with the music?" "No, no... the music is wonderful... it is just the romantic bonds we can see and feel between you up here and your fiance down in the chapel... it's hard to concentrate!" The other gushed...

I spent $200 at Amazon.com for a flower press. That wasn't my intention, of course. I planned to read the books, base discussions on the books, maybe even dare myself to write in the books. But there is that old, annoying song it never felt right to sing in my family because of the number of teachers: "No more school, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks." No more school. No more school. It doesn't get any easier to say. But sometimes learning important things in school drastically changes your life. And Tuesday's homework assignment was particularly instructive and so I withdrew from classes on Wednesday. And now I have a $200 flower press. Yes, I will try to return as much of it as I can. And maybe, after I whittle down the pile of books faithfully preserving the petals that escaped a life of potpourri , I will be reminded that Life in the Slowlane is really the best sort of life to be living.

The day SOS asked me to marry him, he was very careful to get permission from my supervisor for me not to return to work after my lunch break. Because SOS knew that after the emotion and excitement of the events surrounding "the question" I would not be up for returning to work and the military style drilling I would endure. And so after the romantic picnic that was only interrupted a handful of times by the docents who had first applauded us when we stepped out from the rose arbor where we had tried to gain some semblance of privacy from the doting senior citizens who had shadowed both our moves in the minutes leading up to the proposal, SOS promised all the surprises were over and I could return home, change out of my work clothes and heels and we would go find a park not populated by nosy docents. But then, as I unlocked the front door, SOS squeaked "Um... so I forgot about the last 'big' thing." I dutifully promised that I would not be overwhelmed by w...

Eight months ago a cousin of mine scooted next to me at a family party and scolded "Don't you know it's a bad idea to let the family know your boyfriend plays an instrument before you've decided this thing is for real ?" I probably should have known better. Relationships come and go, but music... Three months ago, SOS found time to come play in the itty-bitty chapel at work, where the acoustics make even the worst vocal rendition of "Amazing Grace" sound amazing and the best musician can transport people in every corner of the building into the finest of concert halls. My boss came striding towards my desk and informed me "I'm sorry, you no longer have any say in the matter. You must marry that man just so he will come play here more often." This sentiment was repeated by various others of my co-workers, as they frequently asked when our next date night was so that he could drop by and give a concert, "tell him we miss him" o...