Tag Archives: #slice2017

Miss Renda’s House

We all have those places we hold dear to our hearts, that take us back to a simpler time, when our biggest worry was the scraped knee we got when we fell off our bike or the fact that we had to finish our vegetables before we could have dessert. For me, there are only a few places where, despite the years that have passed, I can be taken me right back to that place at a moment’s notice. One such place is Miss Renda’s house.

When I conjure up Miss Renda, images of a spunky, fun-loving, motherly (but in the cool mom kinda way), sweet, yet stern, woman come to mind. Miss Renda looked after me from around the ages of 3 to 7, sometimes all day, sometimes half-day, and sometimes only during the summers. Along with me were her twins, Melissa and Ty, my brother once he was born, and I’m pretty sure another child. When I think back on that time, some things are fuzzy, but other memories are crystal clear, painting this image of a quintessential American childhood.

Her home was warm and inviting, familiar and lived-in. Her house, on a corner lot, provided a huge yard to play in, and its white stone brick exterior, for some reason, didn’t seem to match the inside of the house. The front door, while the entrance my mom used to drop me off and pick me up, wasn’t the entrance we used. We came in and out using the back door, the one by the car port that led into the playroom. The front door was for more formal entries, not casual ones. Isn’t that how it always is? The back or side door, the more familiar one?

In my mind’s eye, I can transport myself back to that place, and while I know I can’t remember all the details (Where was the bathroom again?), I can remember the ones that count. I can remember the wrap-around front yard, where every summer we’d spend hours running through the sprinkler, fighting for our turn on the slip ‘n’ slide, eating popsicles in the heat of the afternoon. You know the ones. The brightly colored liquid in the plastic pouch where, once frozen, you cut the ends off and pushed up to eat. Why were the tiny frozen pieces in the cut off parts so much better than the actual popsicle? I can remember Melissa trying and trying to teach me how to do a cartwheel out there, and me failing every time. I have, to this day, never been able to do a cartwheel. It was in front of Miss Renda’s house, on that stretch of road leading to the dead end, where Melissa and Ty taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels. The pride I felt that day is something every kid should experience.

Her backyard was just as fun! Melissa, Ty, and I would spend countless hours outside, making up games, imagining new worlds, digging in the dirt, playing with leaves and sticks, and collecting locust shells we found stuck to the side of the house. Around the back, there was a swing tied to a big oak tree, and I have this vivid memory of swinging on the swing belting out “Rockin’ Robin.” Later, when we were in elementary school, Melissa, Ty, and I would tease each other with the “Sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G” song on that very swing.

Inside, I can remember the massive playroom, full of toys, and if I recall correctly, a room that was converted to a playroom from something else (garage maybe?). I can remember nap time, our nap mats in the foyer near the front door. Like most kids do, I fought nap time, and I remember Miss Renda’s constant pleas for me to “just go to sleep.” But my strongest memories are in the kitchen and one of the back bedrooms.

The kitchen was the soul of the house. Miss Renda’s U-shaped kitchen, clad in typical 70’s/80’s fashion was yellowish-orange or green. A large dining table sat off to the side, where Miss Renda’s family presumably ate their dinner. But we didn’t eat there. In the middle of her kitchen, Miss Renda had a small kid-sized table and chairs set up for us, where we’d eat our snacks and lunches. My favorite meal Miss Renda ever made was Cherry Soup and Grilled Cheese. I can remember years later my mom telling me the story of cherry soup. My mom and 4-year-old me were grocery shopping when I asked her to buy me cherry soup. Of course, she told me cherry soup doesn’t exist. Insistent, I told her it does- Miss Renda makes it for me!– and I wanted it. Again, she tried to convince me I was making it up, as there is no such thing as cherry soup. After throwing a fit in the store, my mom asked Miss Renda what it was she was feeding me. Where was I getting this nonsense? Miss Renda laughed and told her it was tomato soup and grilled cheese, only we wouldn’t eat it if it was called tomato soup (no kid really likes tomatoes, do they?), so she called it cherry soup, and we loved it. From then on, my mom made me cherry soup, too.

Sometime in the 80’s, Nintendo came out with their original gaming system and classic games of Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt. Miss Renda was the only person I knew who had it, which made her the coolest person I knew. I remember it was located in one of the back bedrooms, hooked up to a large, encased-in-wood TV set. We were allowed to play it sparingly, which made it all the more appealing. I can remember sitting on the edge of the bed, taking turns with Melissa and Ty, as we learned to navigate this entirely new technology. Shooting the ducks, we got way too close to the TV, our barrels nearly hitting the glass. Maneuvering little Mario through the mazes of Super Mario Bros. took skill and timing. It was vital to move the controller when you were making him jump. We swapped tricks and helped one another avoid pitfalls by shouting out our advice. I didn’t convince my parents to buy me a Nintendo until much later, when Super Nintendo came out. I still wish I had that first Nintendo system.

As much as my memories are attached to the physical place of Miss Renda’s house, the real memories are my experiences within that place. Miss Renda was such an influential person in my life, and I’ll never forget the care, love, and attention she gave us. I wouldn’t want to change this part of my childhood in any way, and I wish that everyone could have their own Miss Renda.

img_3659

A sketch of Miss Renda’s house I made in my writer’s notebook

Drowning in Slices

Swimming in a sea of slices

circling, swirling, so many to choose from

unable to settle on just one

drowning, quite literally, in slices

 

Do I write about my trip to the movies this weekend

to see Beauty and the Beast?

Acutely aware of how un-handicap accessible

the theater was

precariously hobbling

stairs upon stairs

but oh, so worth it

 

Or what about the twins,

who are finally breaking free of

their shells?

Come play with me!

Constructing a teetering tower,

laughter flowing, as the blocks cascade down

Our private glances,

telling each other stories,

words not needed

 

How about the thrill of a new book?

Settling in to read, yet

unable to keep my eyes open

Zzzzzzzzzzz…

(In case you didn’t know,

Zzzzzz means sleep!

according to J.J.,

my dormant EAL student,

who just today made a connection

between our letter of the week and

Goodnight, Goodnight Construction Site)

 

Or do I tell you of the (mostly) unsuccessful attempts

to reheat last night’s leftover lasagna

in a small pot on a hot plate

while standing on one foot?

Oh the joys of not having

a microwave, or oven for that matter

 

Or better yet,

I could pine my notebook

teeming with stories not yet written

sifting through the ideas

until I found the perfect one

 

Drowning in slices,

this poem will have to do.

 

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h

My Life in Numbers

Several of my fellow slicers have written their own ‘life in numbers’ posts this month, which is a list of facts about them, corresponding to the numbers 1-10. I enjoy these posts, as they give an insight into the author. Here’s mine, but as the rule-breaker I am, mine doesn’t follow the 1-10 format. Instead, it’s a list of number-based facts using any numbers I deem necessary. But I’m not an animal…they are listed in numerical order. 🙂

1- I have 1 brother, Andrew, who’s just shy of four years younger than me. We are quite different, starting from our heights. He’s a full foot taller than me! We have different careers, different tastes in food, I live abroad while he lives where we grew up, he’s married with kids and I’m single, and the list of differences goes on. Despite our differences, I love my bubba and look forward to seeing him whenever I’m back home.

IMG_5785

2- I’m an aunt to 2 adorable kiddos, Randi and Logan, who are some of my favorite people on this earth. They make me smile and laugh whenever I’m with them. I think about them all the time. And they are so full of personality! I love them soooooo much!!

4- I’ve broken 4 bones in my lifetime. Two fingers, one on each hand, and both arms simultaneously. Yes, that really happened. I earned the nickname “Monkey Girl” during my eighth grade thanks to my accident on the monkey bars. As a middle schooler, naturally, I was mortified. As an adult, it’s a funny memory.

5- So far, I’ve lived in 5 countries (soon to be 6). USA for my first 29 years, Australia for 6 months, China for 5 years, Albania for a year and a half, and Thailand for the past 2+ months.

7- I’ve been slicing as part of the Slice of Life community for the past 7 years, and it’s been so instrumental in my development as a writer. I cannot thank all the co-authors enough for this opportunity, and all the slicers over the years who have encouraged me as a writer!

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h

9- In order to feel fully rested, I need 9 hours of sleep each night. I usually don’t get this much, but I strive for at least 8 hours of good sleep.

11- In my lifetime, I have lived in 11 different houses or apartments. This may not seem like very many, but considering that I lived in the same house until I was 22 years old, I think it’s quite a few places. One of these places was a townhouse I owned from age 26 to 29, my first and only place I’ve ever owned.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

My first home I owned 🙂

13- I’m currently in my 13th year of education, and in those years I’ve taught Grade 3, Grade 4, and Preschool, been a literacy coach and a part-time PYP Coordinator, and served as an elementary principal at two schools.

19- Not counting babysitting when I was younger, I started working at the age of 16 as a skating Sonic carhop, and over the past nearly twenty years, I have worked at 19 different places. Reading that you probably think I can’t hold a job, since it averages to about one per year, but most of these jobs were part-time and held simultaneously. With the exception of one job at age 17, my stint as a nanny in Sydney, and my summers as a camp director, all of my jobs were held for at least a year, the longest being 5 years.

22- I have 22 cousins, including their spouses and children, who I now consider my cousins. I love seeing many of them at our annual Kesler family reunions. Can’t wait to see them again this summer! 🙂

img_0358

35- So far, I have visited 35 countries, including the ones I’ve lived in. Check out my Where I’ve Wandered page to see where I’ve traveled across the globe. While 35 may seem like a lot, it just seems like a drop in the bucket to me. There’s so much more I want to see!

43- Last year, I read 43 books. I’m hoping to read more this year though! 🙂

9,156- I’m currently living 9,156 miles away from home in Bryan, Texas. No wonder I’m tired traveling to and from!

 

 

Thai Names

Don’t you just hate when everyone has your name? In a sea of Johns or Jennifers, you become defined by your last initial. Well, no more! I have a solution for you! For all of you expectant parents out there, here are some quirky and unique names for you to choose from, courtesy of Thailand!

There’s Einstein and Atom, Mafia and Boss,

Sibling pairs like Versailles and Venice, Violin and Piano,

Classics such as Cheese and Milk, Bike and Book, or

Stand-outs like PlanktonBouquet, Touch, and Titi,

You can be Famous, the Best, a Bonus, or just Wow Wow!

You can be a Party or you can be Mild, cold as Ice or a Saint,

Then there’s First and Third, or simply Nine.

You can be a Proud Captain or you can be a Fluke.

Or you can be the most polite kid around and be Thankyou.

Whatever you choose, know that you hang the Sun over the Earth!

***********************************************************************

Living in Thailand has its idiosyncrasies, as every place does. I embrace its vibrancy and quirkiness. One of the things that I find so different than other places I’ve lived, so uniquely Thai, is the names people have. I’m not talking about their names in Thai, most of which consist of 23 letters and are unpronounceable to me. What I’m referring to are the English names they choose for their children. Some may say they’re unusual, others may say they’re weird. I’m going to go with quirky.

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h

Perks

Every country has its perks, the things that make life just a little sweeter. America has tons of perks…being able to go to one grocery store and find everything you could possibly want (and more!), endless restaurant choices, family who lives in the same country, no language barrier, TARGET!, and the list goes on.

Living in Thailand has afforded me some pretty great perks. The cost of living cheap, especially when compared to the US, and markets, restaurants, and transportation are inexpensive. One of my favorite perks, however, is the low cost of luxuries like massages, facials, blow outs, nails, etc. In the US, I never got a facial, rarely got a massage, only got a blow out when I got a haircut, and splurged on my nails. Here, I can have all of these things without breaking the bank. A massage sets me back about 6 bucks for an hour (I know…I feel like I’m robbing them), a facial is $15, gel nails are $15-20 (a little pricey in my opinion), and a blow out is about 5 bucks.

After school today, Julie and I headed to her favorite facial place, a little hole in the wall that you would never find on your own in a million years, but was recommended to her by a Thai friend. Through a long hallway, we walk past some pretty interesting smells from the various vendors selling their wares until we reach our destination. A modest shop run by one woman, it’s definitely not the spa experience you would get in the States, but we aren’t paying top dollar either, so we embrace it.

With someone already in the midst of her facial, we have to wait. I decide to hobble down a few stalls to a woman who does hair to get a hair wash and blow out. The thing I love about hair washes here is that you get a really nice head massage while she washes your hair. Lately, showering poses its challenges, so not having to wash my own hair is a plus! After my wash, she blow dries it straight, making me realize just how long my hair really is. 🙂


It was finally time for my facial! Laying back, I close my eyes while she does her magic. She follows a regiment of massaging various soaps and mild exfoliators onto my face in circular, upward motions, sponging my face clean between each different cleaner.


My favorite part, mainly because I find it so interesting, is when she uses a flat piece of wood (I think? It might be bone…who knows?) to try and smooth out my wrinkles. She uses it to massage my face, in upward motions of course, to eliminate the creases. Another thing she does is try to help define my cheekbones by using the tool to go around my cheekbones a few times. I don’t actually think this in any way smoothes or eliminates my wrinkles, but the fact that she believes it does makes me love it. Lastly, she massages a really nice cream into my skin, which leaves me with a slight glow.

There are some definite perks to living in Thailand! Kinda loving these two today. 🙂

 

I Wish You More…

Amy Krouse Rosenthal, the writer whose format I borrowed for I Wish You More, passed away this week at the age of 51. Gone way too soon. Her light and love shone through in her life, and I admired her so much. As one of my favorite children’s books (and memoir) authors, I shared many of her books with kids and teachers over the years. Her death has hit me hard, and in honor of her, I give you this poem. AKR, this is for you! I wish you more love and happiness than pain.

img_0634

I wish you more stamps than pages.

I wish you more tries than give-ups.

I wish you more what now’s than what if’s.

I wish you more quality than quantity.

I wish you more spicy than mild.

I wish you more books than shelves.

I wish you more oh yeahs! than oh nos!

I wish you more yummy than yucky.

I wish you more happy endings than cliffhangers.

I wish you more calm waters than crashing waves.

I wish you more bright than dull.

I wish you more grey than black and white.

I wish you more friends than followers.

I wish you more adventure than aversion.

I wish you more sunny than stormy.

I wish you more questions than answers.

I wish all of this for you,

because you are everything I could wish for…

and more.

Saint, my pint-sized protector

From the moment he first saw me in the wheelchair, my ankle bandaged up, he was my protector. My little Saint.

I wheeled over to the edge of the playground where my class was happily playing. I’ve missed their smiling faces, their hugs, their sense of wonder. Catching their attention, they rushed over, all with the same question, “What happened?” All, that is, except Saint. With indignation in his voice, he points to my ankle, and asks, “Who this?” His face said it all. Being his teacher, I knew “Who this?” really meant “Who did this?”. Saint, my little three-year-old protector, wanted to know who did this to me. What happened wasn’t as important as who hurt me. Such sweetness wrapped up in such a tiny person.

Since returning to school, wheelchair-bound, my class has been curious, asking me what happened one too many times, learning to respect my boundaries (“no touching my foot please”), and wondering why I can’t do the things I normally can. The novelty for some has worn off, and preschool as they know it is back to normal. But not for Saint, whose sweet gestures bring a smile to my face and warmth to my heart.

Everyday, at random times, he comes over to me, smiles, and pats me on my arm or my leg or my shoulder, reassuring me that he cares and is worried about me. Knowing that I keep my ice packs in the freezer, he will bring me one at random, making sure I take care of my foot. He watches me, too. When the pain and swelling get to be too much, I prop my leg up on the table, an attempt to reduce the swelling that occurs from keeping it down all day. He questions, wondering what I’m doing, why I’m resting.

Yesterday during interest areas, I was wheeling around, snapping photos of students busily cooking hamburgers and salad with the playdoh, making melodies on the xylophone, or building a tower out of blocks, wondering how high they can make it until it topples over, sending them into fits of laughter, when something caught my eye.

The dramatic play area, by far the students’ most sought-after center, is too small for my wheelchair to fit, so I watch from afar, an outsider not a part of their fantasy. What I saw was Saint sitting in a chair, his leg up on the table. Lali was tending to him, bringing him a glass of water. Zooming in, I snap a picture before I ask, “Saint, what are you doing?”

With a forlorn look on his face, he responds, “My leg is hurt.”

“It is? I’m sorry. Is Lali helping you?”

Nodding, he says yes. A smile crosses Lali’s face, as she continues to care for her hurt friend. Knowing that I’d removed all the doctor stuff last week, I asked, “Would you like an ice pack?” Of course he would!

Lali came over and I handed her a no-longer-cold ice pack. She went back over and wrapped his leg. Later, his leg still on the table, another student tries to help him, using a pizza cutter as a tool. Grinning, I think, maybe I should return the doctor stuff to dramatic play.

I go about my business of tending to the other students in the class, but about ten minutes later, I look over at the dramatic play area again. There is Saint, his leg still propped up with his ice pack, sitting alone. His heart is so tender and loving, and he is just trying to make sense of his little world.

IMG_3515

Not Just a Routine Check-up

“You know, I didn’t cry the last time I had my wounds cleaned,” I bragged to Dr. Narong, my no-nonsense doctor who thinks crying is unnecessary.

“You didn’t? Good for you! Are you going to cry today?”

“I hope not.”

He undresses my wounds and begins his assessment. I’m now nine days post-accident. “Your arm is almost completely healed. I’ll just clean it, but we don’t need to wrap it anymore,” he tells me.

One good report. Let’s hope there’s two more where that came from.

Inspecting my largest wound, the gnarly road rash on my ankle, he reports, “Your ankle is healing well. It won’t be too long before it scabs over and we don’t have to cover it. There’s just this one spot that’s not so good. Let me clean it,” he says as he begins scrubbing my ankle with a cotton swab doused in Betadine.

Flinching, letting out some grunts, and unsuccessfully keeping my right leg still, I hear him ask, “Are you gonna cry?”

Determined, I grit my teeth. “No.”

“Good. There’s no reason to cry.” He finishes scrubbing and cleaning the rest of my wound, and dresses it with foam and waterproof tape.

Another good report. One more to go.

Taking a closer look at my toes, I hear, “Hmmm…this isn’t good. I’m worried about your second toe. That black spot is really bad.”

You mean that same spot I’ve been worried about since the accident? The one I’ve been told was no big deal up to this point?

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

“There’s a lot of dead tissue on top, so the wound can’t really heal, and we don’t know what’s under there since we can’t see. There are some spots on your other toes, but not as bad as your second toe.”

How did my toes get such deep wounds when I was wearing tennis shoes? What would it look like if I had worn my sandals like I originally wanted to that morning? I don’t think I wanna know.

“OK, so what does that mean?” I ask, worry creeping into my voice.

“Well, it means that if we don’t treat it, your toes will have really bad scarring, and most likely you won’t be able to move that toe since the scar would be on the joint.”

“What do you mean by treat it?”

“I’ll give you a local anesthetic and scrape out all the dead tissue from your toe. Then it can heal properly.”

Tears sting my eyes. “Do you mean the spray they used on me in the ER?” Flashbacks to that day send a shiver through me.

“No, we’ll inject a local anesthetic into your toe, and you won’t feel a thing.”

“With a needle?” I say, my voice quivering.

“Yes, with a needle.”

Alone and worried, I think about whether or not I should do it. I know I should do it, but I hate needles, and I hate pain. And I know it’s going to hurt. A lot. Silent tears fall as I try to decide.

Less than a minute later, with a bit of impatience in his voice, he asks, “So what are you going to do? Are we doing it?”

“Do we have to do it today?”

“No, but if we wait, it may get worse.”

Man, I wish my mom or dad was here. Heck, I wish anyone was here with me. They could hold my hand, reassure me, and tell me what to do. But they’re not. I have to do this alone.

“Can I call someone?” I ask.

“Sure.”

Looking at the time, I realize I can’t call my family. It’s the middle of the night. I call the next best person, my best friend Shaggers. She immediately picks up. She already knows where I am, since I had been texting her updates and photos of my injuries.

“Shannon, I’m scared,” I barely get out.

“What’s going on?”

I explain the situation, through tears and shallow breaths. “Should I do it?”

“If he says you should do it, then yes, you should. It’s good they’re being so thorough and wanting to get rid of all the dead stuff.”

“But they’re going to use a needle. It’s going to hurt.”

She reassures me that while yes, the needle will hurt, I won’t feel a thing after that, and they’ll make it all better by removing the bad parts.

Turning to Dr. Narong, through blurry eyes, I tell him I’ll do it.

Shags tells me she’s proud of me and asks, “Would you like me to stay on the phone with you to distract you from the needle?”

I crumble. Through sobs, I say, “Yes, I would like that.” This is why she’s my best friend. She’s always there for me through the tough times. She begins talking about some topics she might slice about tonight and asks me about my slice. I tell her an adorable story about what one of my kids did in school today. I might slice about that. We talk about a few other things…her sister’s new baby, Marlowe kicking her crib when she should be napping.

The doctor and nurse prepare my foot. Dr. Narong tells me he’s ready to begin. Fear sets in, and I start to cry. Shaggers reassures me that I’m brave, I’m going to be okay. The needle goes in. AHHHHHHHHH!!! Screaming, crying, and thrashing about, the nurse holding my leg still. Shannon is still there, telling me the worst is over. Then, a few seconds later, a second needle in my other toe. AHHHHHHHHHHH!!! More screaming, more crying, and more thrashing about.

What the hell? Why did I have two injections?

Confused, Shannon asks me what happened. I tell her about the second needle…at least I think I do.

“There’s no reason to cry,” Dr. Narong says.

Like hell there isn’t! You’ve just injected me two times with anesthesia when I was told I would have one, and now you’re about to scrape my toe. Yeah, I have a bloody reason to cry!

Dr. Narong then starts scraping my second toe. I can feel it, but not feel it, if you know what I mean. I’m still crying and struggling to breathe through my nose. Shannon’s still on the phone, talking to me, trying to distract me from the pain. I can’t really recall what she’s saying, but I appreciate that she’s there.

Unexpectedly, I scream out in pain again, a guttural scream that comes from deep within me, but this time it’s not from an injection. It’s from the fact that my doctor is scraping the wound on my big toe without anesthesia. Shags wonders what’s happening. Dr. Narong tells me there’s no reason to cry. I tell Dr. Narong I don’t like him anymore. Petty, yes, but I’m not in my right mind at the moment.

The next few minutes are a whirlwind of pain. My fourth toe gets the same treatment as my big toe. I question his wisdom. A few more scrapes, and he’s done.

“All done. It already looks so much better. Have a look,” Dr. Narong cheerily says to me.

“No thanks.”

“No really, look at it,” he pushes.

Sitting up, I look down at my mangled toes, bleeding uncontrollably at the moment. Yeah, that’s heaps better.

Still tearful, I thank Shannon for being there for me. And I apologize for screaming in her ear. She laughs, and says she only wishes she could have been here to hold my hand. Me, too, Shags, me, too.

***********************************************************************

As I sit here, back home in my apartment, tears streaming down my face as I relive the experience, the pain coming on strong as the anesthesia wears off, I’m a mess of emotions. I’m in pain and disheartened that I have another setback, especially after such a positive day yesterday, and I’m grateful that I have a friend like Shannon who loves me through the hard stuff. I really don’t know what I’d do without her, and despite living in different countries for the past 5 years, we talk nearly every day and she knows me even better than I know myself. Shannon is my person. I love her.

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h

 

 

Everything, Everything

Today was day three of returning to work since the accident. Days one and two resulted in me leaving with an incredibly swollen foot and in intense pain, resulting in me crawling into bed to hoist my enlarged foot, wrapped in an ice pack, onto a mountain of pillows, while I took meds to stave off the pain. This weekend wasn’t much different. Other than my doctor’s visit and dinner with a friend on Saturday, I was either on the couch or in the bed, elevating my foot, wincing with pain whenever I hobbled around my tiny apartment on my crutches. Today, day three, was different. I was able to last for longer periods of time on my crutches, although I primarily used the wheelchair when I was in class, as it’s infinitely easier.

I had to leave at 1:00pm today to go pick up my work permit, and when I left I noticed my foot was swollen, but less than it was the other days. In the car, I asked how long it would take for us to get to the immigration office. One hour. Ugh…I should have brought my book. Oh, wait! I have the book Elissa gave me!

Earlier this morning, Elissa handed me a book she’d finished this weekend, saying she thought I’d like it. It’s a YA novel called Everything, Everything. Apparently they’re making it into a movie (Don’t they always?). I took it, but since I’m in the middle of another book, I wasn’t sure when I’d get to it. A two-hour round-trip ride downtown was the perfect time to dive into it. I was instantly sucked into the story. The fast-paced storyline and suspense kept me hooked.

After the immigration visit, I visited the massage parlor next to my apartment building, where they helped work out the kinks and knots that have taken up residence in my back and shoulders. From there, I walked home on my crutches…without getting winded! My foot was swollen, of course, but I wasn’t in pain. Nevertheless, I propped it up and continued to read more of my new book.

My stomach started grumbling around 5:30, and rather than ordering in again, I decided to venture out in a taxi to one of my favorite restaurants. Gingerly, I walked up the steps and across the uneven footpath. My dinner companion was none other than my new book. Between bites, I turned page after page, unable to stop. After dinner, I was surprisingly still not in pain, so I headed to Starbucks to get my favorite iced tea and continue reading. I ended up finishing my book! It’s been a long time since I’ve read a book in a day, and I loved the uninterrupted reading time.

Back at home now, I’ve elevated and iced my foot to reduce the incredible swelling, but I have to say there is minimal pain. I can even wiggle my toes and ankle a bit without it hurting, and there’s a hint of itchiness, which according to the doctor and my dad, means the road rash is starting to heal. Yay for small victories! I go back for another check-up tomorrow, so we’ll see how gnarly it looks under there. I’m hoping to see less red and more scabby bits. 🙂


Side Note: Everything, Everything reminded me of The Fault in Our Stars, and while I liked it, I would say The Fault in Our Stars is still much better. However, if you are into YA literature and looking for a quick, engaging read, I suggest this one.

Can I just go back now?

Paris is on my mind. I feel compelled to go back, and sooner rather than later. I think it’s a combination of creating my Year in Photos slice, which had lots of Paris pictures, and reading a fellow slicer‘s posts about life in France. Instead of working on my reports, which are due tonight, I’ve been researching all the best foods to eat while in Paris and using Skyscanner.com to look up ticket prices to CDG. Oh man…I’m jonesing for some Paris time!

img_7741

Paris was never really on my radar prior to my trip last year. I thought it could never live up to the hype. That it was highly overrated. A tourist trap of the extreme. Boy, was I wrong! Despite only being in Paris for 3.5 days, not to mention the fact that it was cold and rainy most of the time, I fell in love with the city of love. ❤

IMG_0672

It has all of my favorite things I look for in a place to visit. It’s a foodie’s haven, with more food to possibly try than time in which to do it. Full of culture, there are jaw-dropping historical monuments to visit (Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur to name a few), as well as museums with world-renowned artwork. My all-time favorite museum is The Lourve. I could meander its maze of hallways for days and never tire. There’s something indescribable about that place. And it’s charm…Paris has charm for days! Every corner you turn is just so damn picturesque that you can’t stand it.

IMG_7771

I’ve been thinking of a few things I’d love to do on my return trip to Paris, a Paris bucket list if you will.

  • Walk up the Eiffel Tower. Last time I took the elevator, but I think I’d like to walk up next time.
  • Eat a picnic lunch of a crusty baguette, good cheese, luxurious butter, olives, roasted veggies, grapes, and macarons from Laduree for dessert in Champ de Mars, the park in front of the Eiffel Tower.
  • Have breakfast at Angelina’s at least once, but knowing me, I’d go there a couple of times. It’s just one of those iconic places you can’t miss.
  • Spend some time alone sitting at a small, quaint cafe, preferably overlooking the Seine, at an outdoor table with a large mug of warm tea, a buttery, flaky croissant, and my writer’s notebook, just observing the city pass by, jotting down ideas, observations, and musings.
  • Eat my way through this gastronomical city, mapping out my days’ activities based on where I want to eat. I want to have a plan so I can get in all the yummy foods I’ve read about, but I’ll also leave room for spontaneity, as I know hidden gems will pop up that I just have to try!
  • Get to The Lourve early, wandering my way through at my own slow pace, savoring the magic of this place. My writer’s notebook in tow, I just know I’ll stop and sit a while in front of one of my favorite pieces of art and write.
  • Take more photos, focusing in on the little details of this beautiful, charming city.
  • Get lost. I love getting lost in a new city…you never know what you’ll find!

With that…who wants to take a trip to Paris with me? 🙂

IMG_0610