And Flute

 Region was at Syracuse High School, just a few blocks from Grandma and Grandpa's house.  I was so glad they could come!  We stopped at their house for late-night muffins afterward, which also served as breakfast the next morning.  Thanks, Grandma!

It seems like Golda is always dancing.  She has 10 or 11 dance classes a week, including ballet, dance company, jazz and modern.  But on the side, she does this thing called flute.  She is in the audition band at Davis High, Wind Ensemble.  They had a performance last night at Region, where they were the last band of the night, at 9:30.  They got a standing ovation after their performance, mainly because everyone still left in the audience was from Davis High, mostly students from the other two Davis bands that had performed earlier.  All three Davis bands got Superior ratings and qualified for State.  (This is the second year in a row that all three bands have gone on to State, which is something no other high school in the state has ever done.)

Anyway, the band performance reminded me that Golda also qualified to to to State with her solo and her duet.  HERE IS THE SOLO.  AND HERE IS THE DUET.  She has an amazing accompanist (thank you, Jennifer!) and her friend Alyssa is a talented, hard-working musician who loves the flute.  I was proud of them.  This performance of Golda's solo was at the district level, where we had to change her time to accommodate a callback for a play she auditioned for.  She had to leave ballet early for the new time, (and she was late for ballet because of the duet performance) but at least she made it to the callback.  When she tried out for the play, we assured the director that Golda would work out any conflicts.  What were we thinking??  The very next day, she had a flute lesson, a band concert and modern during her Belle callback time.  Laughable!  The following day, she had solo and ensemble during the dance callback.  She ended up getting a dance part, along with Ruby, Lexie, Ari, Ellison and a bunch of other friends, so we're thrilled.  I just wish the practices were in the middle of the night so they wouldn't conflict with anything.

Why did the girls even try out for the play?  Long story.  Bottom line, it's fun, and they have to have some fun once in awhile, even if it causes an equal and opposite amount of stress!  Golda has a lot on her plate, and I'm proud of her for her stamina, and for staying up until midnight every night to study, taking a brief break for sleep before getting up to study at 5 or 6.  I know I didn't work anything like that hard on homework when I was in high school, and I can't wait to see Golda relax at the beach next week.  (Probably with a history study guide in her hand, but hopefully without dumb chemistry on her mind.)

See?  Fun at the Sadie Hawkins dance with her friend Evyn Conrad, Eliza DeBry and Kyle Hatch.

And work: warming up in the car on the way from ballet to solo and ensemble.  (Incidentally, there is a marquee at the car wash place that says, "Rain doesn't clean your car."  My car window is excellent proof of that!)  I know it seems like kids are overworked these days, but I think the key to everything is to figure out how to derive joy and happiness from work, and I think Golda is gaining excellent experience in that department.

Placido Domingo

No, not Placido Domingo the opera singer.  Placido Domingo, as in "peaceful Sunday," which is what I'm enjoying right now.

Anyway, I can't be a Placido Domingo fan.  I come from a time period and a demographic where you were either for Pavarotti or Domingo, and, much like my family rooted for The U over BYU and Coke over Pepsi, we were die-hard fans of Luciano Pavarotti.  My parents saw him perform in San Francisco, too, which only intensified our devotion.  They waited outside the theater to catch a glimpse of him, and my mom swooned when the larger-than-life Italian impresario emerged.  She shouted to him, "You've changed my life!"

As he got into his limo, he rolled down the window and boomed, "For the better, I hope!"

"For the better, I hope!"  I remember my mom wiping off the kitchen counter or matching socks, muttering that phrase with a secret smile on her face.  Nothing like that ever happened for us with Placido Domingo.  And Luciano was, of course, the better tenor anyway.  And so we had a life-size poster of him hanging above our couch to demonstrate our devotion.  The poster Pavarotti had his arms outstretched and a look of transcendent joy on his face.  I imagined it was because he was about to wrap me, the daughter of his biggest fan, in a big hug.  My dad, over time, became a tiny bit jealous of my mom's operatic flame, to the point that he actually bought a few of Placido Domingo's recordings!  It was strange; as if we had invited LaVell Edwards over for dinner and served Diet Pepsi.  Nevertheless, I became somewhat familiar with Placido's stronger, if less impassioned style.

The Utah Opera Company was ever-present while I was growing up.  My mom started the Ogden Opera Guild, and hosted many a fundraising event at our house.  Glade Petersen, the opera's founder, sang to audiences in our front yard and our living room.  Despite the education by immersion, I had a complicated relationship with opera.  The music was beautiful, Capitol Theater was exciting, it was thrilling to mingle with the "rich and famous" in the secret Founders' Room" at intermission.  Only later did I realize that most opera singers aren't rich, nor are they even remotely famous.  I certainly couldn't drop the name "Glade Petersen" in hopes of gaining any sort of social cache.  Also, the plots to all operas are ridiculous.  I was sitting next to Nana at one performance when she leaned over to me and whispered (which was strictly verboten, by the way!!), "This is so stupid!"  I was shocked!  It was all I could do not to laugh out loud, realizing that Nana was right.  Nobody falls in love with a factory girl at first sight and then sings about it for twenty minutes, WITH a sword sticking out of his chest, courtesy of another suitor.  And singing arias when you're dying of consumption?  You want to shout, "Shut UP and go to the doctor!"  And yet, when she finally dies, her tiny hands cold as ice, and Rodolfo shouts, "Mimi!  Mimi!", I find tears pouring down my face and a lump in my throat the size of a tenor's ego.

There aren't that many operas in the standard repertoire, and with 3 or 4 a year over 25 years, you get repeats.  By the time my kids were filling some of the seats, my parents and I had started justifying leaving at intermission.  My brothers had long since abandoned the genre.  We finally gave up our fourth-row season tickets, but I still miss it.  I tried to get tickets to Turandot last Friday, but it was sold out.  I got on Youtube to show Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma to the kids, who probably felt like they had dodged a bullet with the opera being sold out.  My family always went on Sunday afternoon, the last show of the run.  Today, as Turandot ends at Capitol Theater, I'll be at church, teaching kids to sing.

Later, though, I'll be at a performance of Bach's St. John Passion at the Cathedral of the Madeleine, which I did score tickets for, holding my kids hostage, appreciating my dad's appreciation for Bach and wondering what it is about the human voice that hold such power over us.

Love Ya, Proud of Ya

It seems like I've read a bunch of articles/blogposts lately that talk about ways NOT to parent, specifically what not to say to your children.  Don't tell them they're smart.  Don't say, "good job!"  Don't use "Have fun!" as your parting words.  Don't tell them to be careful all the time; they might become fearful.  Don't praise them.  Don't compare them to other children.

For heaven's sake, can we all relax just a little bit?  Look, my parents were great.  The best, in fact.  But my dad, I bet he didn't read one single article about what to say or not say to your kids the whole time I was growing up.  He very well could have ruined us!  He tried to teach us about French philosophers.  He'd go around saying, "Ma mere est mort aujourdi-hui..."  He gave us Latin lessons in his wood-paneled library, which we failed miserably.  He bribed me to read Animal Farm and The Metamorphosis in 4th grade.  (stories about animals and bugs, if you ask a 4th grader!)  One day, when I was 8, he told me that there was a big surprise waiting for me on my bed.  When I raced into my room, there was, indeed, a big surprise.  A huge stack of Encyclopedia Britannicas, with bookmarks and highlighted passages, along with an empty legal pad on which I was expected to write a report on Alpha Centauri, the closest star system to our sun.  Surprise!!

Besides all the brilliant lectures, my dad had one thing he said, and he said it all the time:  "Love ya, proud of ya."  And if we were leaving the house or hopping out of his car, he added, "See ya, be careful," and then, always, "Love ya proud of ya."

He said those phrases so much that we kids had a plaque made, back when vinyl lettering was the big thing, to hang over the door in my parents' kitchen.  "See ya!...Be careful!...Love ya!...Proud of ya!"

The thing is, my dad could have been saying anything.  He could have said, "You kids are the best.  You go out there and have fun."  He could have said, "I want you to be the best one in your class today."  Or conversely, "I love you no matter what, even if you fail."  He did say all that stuff, but what he was saying with his personal mantra was, "I see you.  I notice you."  Now we have an acronym for the night-time version of Dad's phrase, which Ari loves to text me every night.  "GNLY POY."  Good night, love ya, proud of ya."  I'm glad my dad chose the words he did.  I knew he was proud of us, and it was embarrassingly obvious that he loved us.  My greatest trial in life as a kid was the worry I carried around with me, like a bag of stolen coins, that one day, my dad would discover that I wasn't actually as great as he thought I was.

Now, if that was my biggest problem, you can see just how idyllic my childhood was.  Except for the bullies.  Kevin and Ted.  They threw crab apples at me.  They butted in front of me when I was first in line at the bus stop.  They drew a line in the snow every day after school and told me not to cross it, or they would kill me.  I endured a few cold afternoons, shivering on the sidewalk, but I never really mentioned the bullies to my parents.  I don't know why.  I guess I just knew that everything would be OK, because my dad was proud of me.  (And maybe waiting in the snow behind that line was better than reading Encyclopedia Britannica?)

Even with all the new advice out there, my dad still parents with a few chosen words.  Here is a recent exchange:

"Well, you going to keep that pink hair?"
"I don't know.  Maybe.  What do you think?"
"I guess it depends on whether or not you want to be regarded as a freak."
"I might."
"Yeah...that might not be so bad."

What I know, regardless of, or maybe because of, what my dad says, is that it doesn't matter what color my hair is, or what people are saying on Facebook about how to parent, or about anything else.  It doesn't matter what I say to my kids, as long as the meaning is, "Love ya, proud of ya," and as long as I mean it as much as my dad does.

Homeward Bound

 Our last day in Paris started early, at the brasserie across from Notre Dame, sipping drinks at the counter with the men who were preparing to get to work, repairing the city streets or driving trucks.  Then we made sure we stepped on the spot at the very center of the city, for good luck.

 We left our bags in the apartment (it took 5 minutes to pack, since we only brought a couple of outfits) and set out for a full day in Paris, trying to to think about the reality that we would have to leave for the airport by 7:00.  Boo hoo!

 Look at Scott, sneaking "back stage" to be in the pictures!

 Magnolia trees were blooming everywhere.

 What are the strings for?

All these pictures were just part of our master plan, to enjoy the setting wherever we were, and to take our time there.  The only sad part was that our regular patisserie was closed on Mondays.  Oh, the horror!!!!

 We made up for it later, on our way to Luxembourg Gardens.  But first, we went back to the Tuileries to take in the Louvre and environs one last time.  We had time to study the buildings and to notice that each section is vastly different, each Louie having added his own wing to the palace in his own time.  We noticed a lot of things we had never noticed before.  And we snoozed in the green chairs.

I posted this picture on Instagram with the caption,
"So bummed to be leaving Paris."  It was true!!

There is a nice bathroom at the corner of the garden, but you have to pay to use it.  Ruby had the bright idea to go in to the Orangerie Museum instead, since she and Golda could get in for free.  Scott used the pay bathroom, but I also get into the museum for free, not on purpose, but I asked to go in to look for my daughters, they were taking so long, and the docent, a young man with bleached white hair, let me.  I used the restroom and took a quick, illicit peek at the Renoirs before exiting to find the girls outside.  Turns out, the reason they had taken so long was similar to mine:  taking one last peek at some paintings.  I couldn't love these girls more!

Incidentally, I had one of my famous crying moments when I remarked to the girls and Scott how wonderful I thought it was that students could get into all the museums free, and concerts for a reduced price.  I started bawling when I thought about how France wants its young people to be educated and edified by the arts.  So much so that they give all these opportunities to students for free.  All this for free, if you care!  It gets me all choked up.

 Later, as we were eating our paninis and pastries at the Luxembourg gardens, we - or at least I - started to get restless.  We only had a few more hours, and even though we were in this idyllic setting, there were parts of the city that we had left unexplored.  The others were nice enough to indulge me in one last sprint across the city, with two Metro transfers, to see Pere Lachaisse Cemetery, where many famous people are buried.  We didn't have enough time to search for all their graves, but we did follow the other Americans who were holding their phones in front of them, leading them to Jim Morrison's grave.  Unimpressive, but iconic...kinda like the Mona Lisa.  And since we didn't see that this trip, Jim Morrison's grave became our Mona Lisa.  Check that off the list.  (If you go to Pere LAchaisse, get off at the Gambetta Metro stop instead of the Pere Lachaisse stop.  That gets you to the top of the cemetery, and to a much more interesting neighborhood.  When you enter the cemetery, a lot of the famous graves are to your left, along the far perimeter.  Take a picture of the cemetery map to guide you.  It's not easy to find certain graves.)  There are no signs.

 I have never seen inside of a crypt.  It was interesting and spooky, complete with cobwebs and neglected altars.

 One last chocolate chaud at Une Dimanche a Paris, this time without getting locked in the bathroom!

 One last crepe at Mich Sandwich, which rhymes in French, by the way.  Meesh Sandweesh!

 We felt like we were pushing it time-wise to get to the airport, but we had plenty of time.  Our cabbie for the ride to Orly was from Cote d'Ivoire (Ivory Coast).  When we aid we were from Utah, he asked if we were Mormon.  Then he said, "That's OK!  In Cote d'Ivoire, we like to have four wives!"  Oh geez, when will our ancient polygamist past be forgotten!?  But our guy was serious in his acceptance of us, and told us that Christians, Muslims and those who practice animism, live in harmony in Ivory Coast.  He invited us to drive there with him from France next year.  He said he and his buddies send their wives (one each, because they can't afford more!) and children home to Ivory Coast by plane, then they drive together to save money on airfare.  He said, if they are very strong, they can make the drive in a week, southwest through Spain, across the Strait of Gibraltar, and around the western edge of Africa to their homeland for a much-anticipated and all-too-rare visit home.  Then they come back to France, where they speak the language because of French colonialism in their homeland, to earn a living by long hours in cabs or, for the less established, selling Eiffel Tower keychains to fortunates like myself.  His main goal, of course, was to make sure his children are educated and in a position to enjoy an easier life than his.

Man, I wish we could take him up on that road trip offer!

 So after a brief flight, we found ourselves back at the Generator Hostel in Copenhagen, for a solid night's sleep before the next, very long leg of the trip.  Our room was so comfortable!  We slept in until 8.  We walked with our bags to the canal, where we turned our faces to the sun, which had been elusive last week during our time in Copenhagen.  He sat along the canal trying to absorb the wonderful thought, "I am in Copenhagen.  I am here in Copenhagen."  Then we reluctantly went to the airport.

With an 11-hour flight ahead of us, and no food service on that flight, we made sure to grab something to eat.  In our time in Denmark, we hadn't tried the ubiquitous hot dogs that are available everywhere, so that's what I got.  It was good, if pedestrian.  The buns are like wonder bread.  The Danes do not do bread like the French, that's for sure!  But the hot dog was wrapped in bacon and topped with mayo and fried onions, so who cares about the bun!

 Going home is sad.

 Really sad.

 The flight was comfortable, but I didn't sleep as much as I should have.  We got to Los Angeles at 5:00 in the afternoon, with no choice but to drive home.  We saw the drive as part of the adventure, and were excited to be on our way home to our precious kids.  The first couple of hours were grueling, though, because I was super-sleepy.  Scott, there was no way he could drive.  He would have fallen asleep instantly.  I kept myself awake fine in the L. A. traffic, but once things slowed down, I had to pull over for a mini-nap twice.  I feared we would never make it home, with all the 15-minute breaks!  After we stopped at In-n-Out burger in Barstow, where I slept in the car, I felt more confident.  Scott stayed awake quite a bit to entertain me, while the girls slept.  The drive ended up only taking 11 hours, which is pretty good, all things considered.   Our mantra was that the drive was totally worth the cheap tickets, and it was!  I was fine for most of the way.  I'm just ultra careful about driving drowsy.  Too much is at stake to take chances.  I'm vigilant.

We pulled in the driveway at 7:10 AM, and Golda bolted inside to take a shower.  We woke up the kids, who were so happy to see us, and turned right around to take Golda to school at 7:30.  Ruby had seminary at 8, Scott left for work, I got the other kids to school, and real life swooped in with a vengeance.  But you know what?  I was happy about it.  We were lucky to have gone on this trip, and we were even luckier to come home safely, to find that everything at home was fine.  Our prayers were answered, that we would all be safely together again, so I didn't actually have a thing to complain about.  Since we hardly took any clothes on the trip, the laundry was done by 9, and it was time to play with those angelic little babies I had missed so much.

Jetlag, whatever.  People who get to travel don't get to complain.  Wednesday, our forst day back, was a day of celebration and reflection.  It was a good day!