Full House

Sometimes my heart has a mind of its own.

After five wonderful days in London, I helped my teenage daughter pack her bags. We took the Tube to Victoria Station, and then the Gatwick Express to the airport. I went up to the British Air desk with her to check-in (as an unofficial "unaccompanied minor" — in other words, she didn't need an escort or a humiliating placard hanging round her neck — she couldn't use the kiosk). We found the departures line, which turned round a corner toward security. 

And that was it. 

In a moment, she was out of sight and I retraced our steps back into the city. Alone.

So, in my head on that long ride, I played out all that we had done and all that my daughter was about to experience. She was going to Barcelona to stay with the family of a delightful girl we hosted last summer. Her ten days would include riding at an elegant Spanish dressage center, touring one of the most beautiful cities in the world, trying new foods, learning about a new culture, making new friends. I knew (in my head) that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I also knew (in my head) that my daughter was so fortunate, so blessed to be able to do such incredible things.

But, in my heart ... ? Well, that's a different story.

Of course, I don't want to keep her from these adventures. My hopes and plans revolve around her becoming a confident, independent adult. It's not like I'm going to lock her up and shield her from the world. (It would make me rather like the mother in Carrie, wouldn't it? And we all know how that turned out.)

This wasn't our first parting either, just a slightly more exotic one. When she was only six weeks old, I went back to work, leaving her for ten whole hours each day with a nanny (who, thank goodness, was wonderful and quickly became part of our family). Throughout her early years, I frequently went away on business, assuaging my guilt by buying her unnecessary tchotchkes at airport gift shops all around the country.

The first year she went to sleepaway camp, I cried the entire way home from Connecticut (two-plus hours of tears; my husband was very understanding). Really, it was pure torture. Three weeks with no contact except letters and postcards. It was a horse riding camp and she adored it. I counted the days until her return. She went again the next summer, and to a different camp the next. I got braver.

Many of my friends are empty-nesters now. They tell me to enjoy it. To relax, go out, get to know my husband again. I try. Without my daughter, I revisited some of my favorite parts of London: Kensington Gardens, for instance, and Portobello Road. I did all the things I wanted to do. But, there was an emptiness in my chest. A sort of hunger behind my solar plexus. And, when we returned to the States without her, everything was a little lonelier than I remembered. For the next week, I threw myself back into work (not difficult after ten days off and 450 emails). I tidied up her room. The time passed slowly. But, it passed.

Last night, I stood in Terminal E, outside customs at Logan Airport. I knew her flight had arrived, but the process is notoriously long. So, I brought recent copies of The New Yorker and Vogue. Still, it was hard to concentrate. 

And, suddenly, she was back. 

She was back with a million stories to tell — and quite willing, happy even, to be hugged in public.

I know I'm going to have to start steeling myself. These partings will only increase in length and frequency. And, college is looming. It's still two years away, of course, but at this stage, I know that two years will fly by. It isn't nearly enough time. I know this in my head.

And in my heart.

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The Peace Train

I love to travel, although I have neither the time nor the financial resources to do it as much as I'd like. I've always believed that all you have to do is open yourself to new places and people and experiences, and wondrous things will happen.

My daughter — whether she realizes it or not — is very fortunate. Last week marked her second trip to the U.K. (I didn't make it there until I was 28, the same year I learned to drive. Oh, but that's a different story.) She's been to Mexico, Canada, St. Croix, Bermuda, the Bahamas, England and now France. Paris to be specific.

On this trip, we happened upon several bigger than life (or, at least, bigger than us) moments. We were simply in the right place at the right time.


For example, on our first day in London, a bit bleary-eyed, we went to Waterloo to meet an old friend for lunch. It was a typical train station: fast food carts, ticket kiosks, mechanical arrival and departure boards. All of a sudden, we looked around and thought "Toto, we're not in the U.S. anymore." Amongst the business commuters and average citizens waiting for trains, there were dozens and eventually hundreds of men in morning coats and top hats, accompanied by women in fancy dresses and matching fascinators (those frilly, floral little headbands that drew so much attention at Kate and William's wedding last year). We passed more than one gentlemen with an elaborate rosette on his lapel, reading "Royal Enclosure." 


Turns out, they were catching the train to Ascot. How cool is that? As Americans, all we could say was, "Whoa."


A few days later, we were walking along Whitehall, having toured Parliament with our friends, and arrived just as they were starting the ceremonial Changing of the Horse Guards. We hadn't planned it that way (in fact, we were running an hour or so late on our self-guided walking tour). My daughter was, needless to say, in horse heaven. 


And, after much bat mitzvah celebration and a whirlwind of touristy sites, we caught the Eurostar to Paris. It's incredible how quick and convenient it is. In half the time it takes to travel to New York from Boston, we went from London's St. Pancras Station to Paris' Gare du Nord. With comfortable seats, great scenery (except, of course, when you're actually under the channel), and delicious snacks.


When we arrived, there was a media frenzy waiting for our train. (Of course, we were disappointed that the paparazzi were following us. Um, just kidding.) It turned out, as we read the "Welcome ..." banners that were lined up side by side with the TV crews, we weren't the only ones who had taken the Eurostar that morning. We had been traveling with Aung San Suu Kyi, the Burmese opposition leader, former long-time prisoner and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. Although we were eager to get to our hotel, we stopped to watch as the diminutive political powerhouse was greeted by the crowd.


Later, we stumbled into Cathedrals just as choirs of nuns began to sing, walked by Shakespeare & Co. on the left bank during a standing-room-only book reading, enjoyed countless buskers on the metro and in cafes. Even watched a model being primped for a photo shoot at Place de la Concord.


While all of these added to the Parisian ambience, I think that traveling with Madame Suu Kyi made the greatest impression. It gave me an opportunity to explain some pretty important concepts to my daughter. Like prisoners of conscience, house arrest, human rights and non-violent demonstration. Quite the bonus on top of our exceedingly pleasant train ride, n'est-ce pas?


And, for me, the incident and our subsequent conversations underscored what is perhaps the most important benefit of travel with children. If more people had the chance to visit other places and absorb other cultures, I really believe there would be greater understanding and a greater motivation for peaceful coexistence. 


It's a pretty powerful way to help our kids realize that the world isn't "us and them," it's just "us."