Jules Nolan

Dances With Gun Molls

2008-08-09T13:23:00.003-06:00

Sometimes when people travel, weird and unexplainable things happen. These are the stories that are recalled at dinners and cocktail parties. Usually these stories are embellished until they hardly resemble the actual events. I keep a travel journal to combat this creative embellishment, to keep an accurate account of the details. And I swear this really happened.

It was early fall a few years ago and I was craving a little Paris. I wanted the wine, the outdoor cafes and the sexy murmur of French being spoken all around me. I wanted tiny cups of espresso and chilly, rainy evenings amid beautifully dressed people. I needed a proper assiette du fromage (As with all things, this sounds so much better in French, but simply means plate of cheese). And my marriage was screaming for a little romantic booster shot.

Sadly, my banker was advising against unnecessary expenditures, especially travel to France, where my money is worth 30% less than it is worth here. The fromage alone would set me back $30 or so. With Paris out of my reach, I reached for her beautiful little step-sister – Montreal, Canada.

Montreal is an amazing weekend getaway from this part of the world. With nonstop flights from $300 and beautiful hotels at 75% of what we would pay in a US city, it’s a bargain. The city has the best of both worlds. Ancient buildings and charming cafes on cobblestone streets which are just blocks away from contemporary Montreal, with its soaring, sleek hi-rises and neon-chic clubs. But the cincher for me is the food - rich, succulent French cuisine – and wine with every meal.

We ate as the Europeans do, at a snail’s pace, late into the night, in small dimly lit restaurants with the candles twinkling and the silverware clinking against the plates. The musical lilt of hushed French lovers at nearby tables surrounded us. They were professing undying love, or wistfully recalling gut wrenching heartbreak, or discussing orthodontia for all I know. It didn’t matter. It all sounded lovely.

On this night, the hubby and I were at a small martini bar in the Old Town section, having a warm up before our late dinner reservations. Generally we make an effort to meet new people when we travel, and tonight was no exception. We sat at our table, within elbow distance of the table next to us, and began a conversation with a nice young Canadian couple. They left as they were called to their dinner reservation and from a few tables away I heard a voice. “Whaddayouz, Americanz or sumpthin?”

At a table to my right a small, late 40’s, well-dressed man who looked like Joe Pesci (from My Cousin Vinny) was addressing me. “Yes sir we are.” Was my reply. “And you don’t sound so French Canadian your-own-self.” I smirked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yea, I ain’t” he said. “And neither is she” He motioned with glee at a stunning, young woman, approaching. She was gliding toward the table, leading with her protruding hipbones. Her long, blonde hair swung back and forth across her flawlessly made-up face as she glided up to us in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Allo. I ahm Tatiahhnna” she offered. Her Russian accent made her sound exactly like Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons of my youth. She looked bored and serious and far too young to be this man’s date.

“Yea, and I’m Antony. Youz wanna join us?” So Mike and I picked up our apple-tinis and sat with this unusual couple. We established that Antony was a “businessman” who worked in “dvd distribution” and that Tatianna was his “sometimes girlfriend” when he was in town.

“So where youz eatin’ t’night?” Antony wanted to know. We told him the name of the restaurant that was recommended by the hotel and he replied “Awww, that’s crap. That’s for tourists. Youz are comin’ wit us.” We finished our drinks making small talk with Antony as Tatiannia silently smoked long, slender, dark brown cigarettes and scanned the room with a suspicious gaze.

The four of us climbed into Antony’s emerald green Jaguar parked right out in front of the bar. “This is gonna be some real, good Italian food” remarked Antony on the drive to the restaurant. “Youz’ll think your right in &*^%-ing Sicily.” And we sped off into the Montreal night, leaving the quaint cobblestones of Old Town and heading for the flash of Downtown.

We pulled up to the restaurant and Antony let us out of the car as he parked. Mike and I approached the door and were immediately intercepted by the maitre de. This small man sported a black pompadour and a dour, no-nonsense look. He was shaking his head, holding up his hands, his palms forward – the international signal to stop. “I am sorry.” He was saying as he approached. “We have nothing. There is nothing for you here tonight.”

Then the maitre de saw Antony and his demeanor changed instantly. “Oh, Antonio, I didn’t know it was you! It is so good to see you again. And you brought your friends. Mario will be so happy to see you!”

“Yea, geez, I’m sorry Felix. I shoulda called. Therez gonna be 6 or 8. You want we should wait?” asked Antony gushing charm.

“No, no of course, of course, right this way.” Replied Felix, and he showed us to the private bar where we met Antony’s friend, Pauley, another rather homely man, late 40’s, with his date, a stunning young woman from Trinidad in her early 20’s. She was also a “sometimes girlfriend”. I was beginning to feel like I had been plunked down in the middle of an episode of the Sopranos.

After several rounds of Sambucco (an Italian liquor), we were seated at the “A” table in the center of the restaurant. Antony told the waiter to “tell Bruno (the chef) I’m here wit friendz. He knowz what I like.” The meal that followed was unbelievably delicious, with course after course of incredible Italian food. When Mike tried to pay the bill, the waiter waved him away as if he was an annoying housefly.

Then the music started, and it was time for me to give back a little. A pianist was playing Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett favorites, but without a vocalist. Being a bar performer, I couldn’t resist but to take the microphone and croon out a few tunes. The owner then came out to compliment me and Antony for his great taste in new friends. I sang, Mike danced with the “sometime girlfriends” and Antony himself got up and danced around the dining room, waving his cloth napkin and requesting his favorite songs.

Then suddenly the mood of the room changed completely. Antony sat down and began a heated discussion with new arrivals, men that had migrated to our table. I don’t’ know what they were talking about, but almost immediately the other diners in the restaurant began to leave. We were the only guests remaining, and the evening began to take on a seriously anxious tone.

As we retreated into the private bar again for a night-cap, I could see that the “sometimes girlfriends” were also growing quite tense, scanning the room more frequently, and making their way toward the door. It was as this point that I whispered to Mike. “I don’t know where this is going, but it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere good. Let’s 86 this joint.” We hurriedly said that our “car” had come for us and ducked out the front door before there was much time for discussion.

“So, they were mob right?” I asked Mike.
“Had to be.” He replied.

We quickly flagged a cab at the next block and I asked the driver as we turned the corner toward our hotel, “Hey, was that restaurant a mob hangout?”

“I don’t know nothing,” was his reply.

Mike and I exchanged knowing looks.

The next day as Mike and I were enjoying our morning coffee and pain au chocolate, we giggled about the previous night’s shenanigans as we grabbed the morning paper. Splashed across the front page of the Montreal Daily News was a picture of the restaurant we had visited the previous night with the headline “U.S. Mob Boss Gunned Downed in Late Night Confrontation at Local Restaurant.”

I swear this story is true -all of it – except, of course, the last part about the mob hit. That I embellished – but the story is so good that it really deserved a great ending. And it’s a big hit at dinners and cocktail parties.

A quick guest post - my wife rocks!

2008-06-03T15:49:00.003-06:00

Jules doesn't know I'm doing this, and will make me take it down, but I just had to say how cool she is.

She is on the cover of this month's Womens Inc. magazine. She rocks.

Check her out!

-Mike Nolan
currently helping out with the Butterfly of Life cancer awareness jewelry.

Pictures of Guanajuato with kids

2008-04-09T14:30:00.002-06:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/julenenolan/GuanajuatoMexicoWithKids

Click here for pics of Guanajuato, Mexico with kids.

Lost and Found In Mexico

2008-04-09T13:51:00.002-06:00

The city of Guanajuato, in the mountains of central Mexico is a maze of cobblestone streets that disappear around corners, hidden subterranean tunnels, alleys so narrow that lovers can meet for stolen kisses on opposing balconies. There are no right-angled corners where streets neatly intersect with avenues. Many streets don’t even retain the same name as they wind their way through this city, and sometimes they just terminate into brick walls. In fact, Guanajuato was purposely designed to be a confusing labyrinth, to protect its treasures from invading armies.

It is a nightmare for someone like me who has a special, almost magical talent for getting lost. I cannot possibly over-state this. I am a moron when it comes to finding my way in a new city. And maps don’t help. I swear when I am supposed to go north my first instinct is to look skyward. And so, I have completely given up with standard techniques, and have taken to employing the “Rolling Stones” method of navigation. You know, “you can’t always find what you want……..” and all.

So, finding myself alone with my 3 children (14, 11, and 9) in this city of one million - primarily Spanish speaking - people was enough to give me teeth-grinding dreams for a week. I had arranged for us to attend a language school for three weeks and then take off on our own, traveling around the Colonial Heartland of Mexico. In short, we were doomed.

Founded in 1570, Guanajuato became famous because of its rich gold and silver mines. Today, it is considered the culture capital of Mexico, and is filled with strolling minstrels – college students dressed in black velvet costumes with white tights and matching Elizabethan collars. They meet on Thursday and Friday nights in the Central Garden and lead a group of revelers –anyone is welcome to join- throughout the city singing, telling jokes, and drinking wine carried by a genteel burrow. There are mariachi bands and drama troupes that stroll the streets performing wherever crowds have gathered. Dancers, mimes, painters, musicians, choirs, and actors mill around in the plazas and central garden performing for anyone who happens to pass by. I couldn’t find any of it……………...until I stopped looking.

Frustrated by a day of trying to usher my hot, tired kids to museums and gardens and plazas, I gave up and sat down at an outdoor café to have a cold drink and admit defeat. Within minutes a mariachi band – all silver brocade jackets and gold tassels - began to perform. The cobblestone plaza filled with local couples of all ages dressed in their very best clothing. They took to the center square and began performing slow, beautiful, Latin dances. One couple in particular, they must have been in their 80’s, were an amazing sight. She was dressed in a crimson cotton skirt and blouse with tiny embroidered flowers of cobalt blue. He was in a matching electric blue jacket and pants. Both of them looked weathered and grey from years of life and hard work under the hot sun. And then they began to dance. They gazed into each other’s eyes and moved together in perfect symmetry. They bowed, and dipped, and smiled at each other coyly, like young lovers. The other dancers stopped to watch these two, and at that moment I learned all I needed to know about this city and her people. What they valued, what they enjoyed, what they considered important. It didn’t matter if I found the most righteous museums or fountains or paintings; I was beginning to understand the soul of Guanajuato. Now it was time to learn the language.

We attended Academia Falcon – an international Spanish language school set into the rocky, desert hillside. The classrooms, painted ochre and teal and tangerine, surrounded an outdoor common area where the children met to play “uno, dos, tres, mes amigos” – like hide and seek – and take blindfolded swats at a piñata. After class each day we and gathered with other students to share a chocolate churro and practice our new Spanish phrases. We learned Latin dancing and cooking, and even a few “naughty” words. At one point another student approached me and asked “Is Jack your son? He is HILARIOUS! You should hear how he describes you in conversation class! Do you really get lost that much?”

At the school I was lucky to find traveling companions who met my most important criteria – either being more fluent in Spanish than I, or reasonably able to navigate. Off we set, this rag-tag band of 4 adults and 3 children to explore the Michoacan State of Western Mexico. In October and November, Monarch Butterflies from the Great Lakes Region migrate to this state for their winter hibernation. In the early mornings, the branches of the fir trees in the Monarch reserve droop with the weight of millions of these creatures. By afternoon, the ground is a living carpet of orange, yellow, and black as the butterflies slowly flutter their wings and mill about…………We didn’t actually so much “find” this place – but brochure photos were remarkable!

We visited the city of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan, and a most lovely city. It is Spanish-European in style, with an imposing cathedral and gardens in the center of the city plaza. The outdoor café tables sit under arched verandas where beautifully dressed visitors sip aged tequilas and snack on tapas. Many of the public buildings have stair-well murals that depict the Mexican Revolution……..Yea…I didn’t so much find those either…… but I did have the most amazing experience in the cathedral. It was a hot day, and I walked into the darkened church during mass. I was immediately hit with a familiar scent from my childhood. It was the exact combination of musty paper, incense, lilies, and sweat that I remember from years of attending daily Catholic Mass. I was instantly 9 years old. Before I knew what I was doing I bowed my head, blessed myself, genuflected, and knelt in a pew. I had a wonderful, spiritual moment sitting there alone listening to the Spanish prayer. I found inspiration.

My favorite city, Patzcuro, is situated in the highlands on the lake of the same name. In 1529, a Spanish conquistador named Guzman ruled this region with such unspeakable cruelty toward the natives that the Catholic Church and colonial government sent Bishop Vasco de Quiroga to help. Quiroga developed a utopian community, with an emphasis on education, agriculture, and crafts. All of the villagers were required to contribute equally to the society, and encouraged to develop a craft. As a result, Patzcuro has become a lovely hamlet filled with educated citizens who value arts and social responsibility. You will find beautiful weavings, pottery, blown glass, jewelry, ironwork, and furniture, and a giant lake which makes for an easy point of reference when trying to locate your hotel after a sangria or two.

We learned so much about Mexico, ourselves, and each other during this adventure. I had some of the most amazing family experiences and proud mommy moments. And I us got lost. I us got lost a lot. But here is what I found.

My kids are remarkably self-sufficient, smart, funny, entertaining people.

If necessary, and ONLY then, I can do laundry with just a washboard and ringer

.….And if you try sometimes….you find what you need.

Word Count: 1236

Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
(507) 382 5404

Life Lessons in St. Lucia

2007-05-31T16:55:00.001-06:00

Long about laundry load number sixteen of the pre-trip piper-paying, I wonder. “Is this going to be worth it?” How much fun will this trip have to be to justify the weeks of sock matching and grocery hauling, necessary to leave 3 children for 8 nights. “A lot” I think. “One hell of a holy lot”.

But the moment I round the corner of the MN-5 exit and the Lindberg terminal bursts into view, I am in love. Yes, the obnoxious long lines, the crabby, clueless travelers, the slow, confused, elderly man in front of me in the security line, who stinks of mothballs, garlic and Efferdent, and has to be prompted to remove every single personal item, “And your belt please sir…and your jacket please sir…and your hat please sir…and your phone please sir…and your shoes please sir…” I love them all. Ditto the self-important business man talking into the collar of his expensive shirt, sporting a star trek, blue tooth, headset, and shoving me with his $1400 alligator briefcase as he cuts ahead of me…okay, maybe him I don’t love.

But I do adore the delicious anticipation as the seatbelt glides across my lap and I hear that satisfying click. And I always, oddly, feel a trifle gratified if I need to cinch it in just a tad – that means I am thinner than the last occupant. I poke the earbuds in my ears and Springsteen wails “Baby We Were Born to Run”.

“Yes Bruce. Yes we were.”

The plane starts its jerky rumblings down the runway. It relaxes me so much that I often fall asleep just then. While nervous flyers are white-knuckling their armrests and jamming their heels into the floor all around me, I am off in dreamland, head lolling, probably drooling, pleased with my good fortune. But this time, awake, I turn and catch my reflection in the window, and I am changed. I am a woman on a trip. That’s what travel does for me.

And this trip was to be better than most. My husband and I were off on a second honeymoon of sorts (though I contend that 3 nights of watching my husband fish in northern Wisconsin does not qualify as a first honeymoon). We were off to St. Lucia – an island deep in the Caribbean West Indies. This island is said to be for lovers – very popular with the honeymoon set. I had heard it offered lots of adventure, diving, sailing, jungle treks and great food. They were right on all accounts.

St. Lucia has a romantic, if violent history. It is called “The Helen of the Caribbean” for its great beauty and desirability. In fact, it is so beautiful that the powerful rulers of France and England each saw fit to allow their soldiers to die in battle over her, not once but seven times. But it was a battle of a different sort in which I found myself embroiled. It was a battle of intuition and trust.

On a dive boat we met Stuart, a Canadian man traveling alone. He seemed a rather nice guy – and the fact that he said “a boot” when he meant “about” made me giggle. Perfect traveling companion. He was also interested in finding a private charter sail around the island.

“But” I asked “Aren’t there catamarans that do group sails much cheaper?”

“Oh sure” he answered. “They have those eh? - 150 sweaty drunks, jammed elbow to knee on top of each other trying to get to the buffet first. And speakers the size of refrigerators that blast rap music and scare the dolphins halfway to Cuba. Here comes one now. Look at that tall bloke peeing off the starboard. Isn’t that charming? And what’s it called? The S.S. Hepatitis?”

But that meant we had to find someone who would do a private charter. To travel like this you need to be either astoundingly rich, or willing to trust people you don’t know. I am not rich and so I must trust. “See that fellow over there with the blue toque? (Toque=stocking cap in Canadian) That’s Robert. He’s supposed to be the one to hook us up”. I saw that he was referring to a very shaggy looking island boy, whose dreads were gathered up in a blue stocking cap. “Oh dear” said mid-western sensibilities.

Robert met us on the beach under a palm tree. “You like-a my office mon?” He smiled gesturing toward the sand. “Friends are callin’ me Doctor Feel-Good.” Now either he was a licensed Doctor of mind-body holistic medicine, practicing on the beach for the connection it offers to the earth, or he was a drug dealer. Everyone knew Robert, greeted him by name, and he assured us that he would be able to hook us up with anything we wanted.

“Well Robert, we want a sailboat, a nice one. And a captain, also nice, to sail around the island tomorrow. What would that cost?” Stuart asked.

“You are my friends, and for you - good deal” Robert replied. We agreed on a price and made plans to meet the next morning.

That night I awoke with worrying dreams. What did I really know about this guy? Sure he had water-taxied Stuart around for a few nights – had looked after him at the local festival, but what was I doing? Was I being naïve, irresponsible? Or was this feeling of uncertainty a racist response to a person who looked different than me? In the creaky, rusty hours of the night, my paranoid fantasies had me believing horrible things about this young man, and alternately about myself.

The next day was cloudy and rainy – an ominous sign if you believe in such things. Robert and his pal Frederic arrived right on time to pick us up in the water taxi. Robert assured us that the weather at the south end of the island would be better. I looked at him with uncertainty on my face as he held out his hand to help me into the boat. “Do you trust me?” He asked. And at that moment, for better or worse, I did.

This story ends well, with a beautiful day of sailing, another glimpse of the S.S. Hepatitis as it passed to our port side, with too much noise and too many people, confirming the wisdom of our decision .But it also ends with a lesson in trust. A lesson for both Dr. Feel Good and me.

We had just started our sail – beautiful weather, beautiful boat, when I realized that my formerly predictable feminine cycle was betraying me, and arriving a full two weeks early. I had nothing in the way of feminine products. NOTHING. There was nothing on the boat, and we had sailed out of the only populated area for miles We were hours from anything but a tiny village with no stores. But I could see women there on the beach and I know where there were women there are feminine products.

I had my husband ask the captain to find a mooring here, and ferry us into the beach for a little while. The captain said that while we could moor here there was no reason to go to the beach. “There is nothing here to do. No snorkeling, no restaurant, no stores. I have a much better place up ahead in one or two hours.”

But my husband insisted. Suspiciously the captain moored the boat and ferried us in the dingy. We walked the beach for awhile trying not to look so conspicuous. I went from one group of women to another asking for a “favor”. Finally a very bohemian-looking young woman nodded. She had the “stuff” I needed, and we ducked behind a palm tree to make the exchange. She didn’t want to take money, but I insisted knowing that supplies like these, in places like this are neither inexpensive nor easy to come by. She had saved me!

My husband told the captain that we were ready to go back to the boat. I noticed a distinct chill coming from both Robert and the Captain. I wondered if they were embarrassed to have to deal so blatantly with a woman’s issue and I began to get indignant. I was ready to show these men a little American Feminism. I asked, “Is there some problem?”

“Yes” Robert said. “That stuff is not legal here on the island and is not legal on the boat. The captain is afraid he will have big trouble from this and be fired from his job.”

“What is not legal?” I asked incredulous.

“What you bought from that girl” Robert said.

“You mean these?” I replied and opened my hand to reveal half a dozen tampons.

Robert’s eyes grew wide. He covered his face with both hands and doubled over with laughter and embarrassment “No,” he said “No, not that.”

In the end both Robert and I learned a little something about trust, about making assumptions, and about what all women really want at one time or another. Who knows, maybe Dr. Feel-Good carries them himself now.

A Bit Wonky Then Isn't It?

2007-05-31T16:51:00.000-06:00

Another Christmas season is here and I can’t help but feel that I should be somewhere else. What is it about the holidays that set me to fantasizing about an island? This year my hubby tried to talk his sister into moving the family Christmas to an island. Her reply was a sharp-tongued “I hate islands”

“Come again?” I replied. “You hate islands? Really. And how do you feel about peninsulas? Might you detest a sound? Abhor a Strait? Loathe a bight? Well that’s it! It’ll have to be an isthmus – an isthmus for Christmas!”
.
She was not amused – but mostly because I don’t know what an isthmus actually is, and she didn’t think that I should be using words of which I don’t know the meaning. I assured her that would eliminate most of my vocabulary and that so long as it’s funny, I don’t really have to understand a word I say, thank you very kindly.

All of this got me thinking about islands in general and Australia in particular, because it is both an island and continent. So maybe she wouldn’t be able to hate Australia. And, if she did, Australia could hate her right back, but everyone would be so polite about it she would never even notice.

You see, Australians are seriously polite people. I spent a month traveling around with my family, and in all of my conversations with Aussies, I was never able to get anyone to assert that they hated anything. Really. Not even Americans.

My perception was that Australians were a loud and boastful people who couldn’t wait to voice their opinion about any topic. In fact, I was a little afraid that I would spend much of the month defending Americans and discussing our country’s foreign policy. I envisioned café conversations where I would have to explain that, not being a close personal friend of our president, I don’t have much in the way of influence over him, other than to cast my vote every 4 years, which they seem to ignore anyway.

But I found the Aussies to be quite the opposite of that crass, rough stereo-type. They were witty and refined. In fact, I never heard a naughty word – not even in a bar! Granted their naughty words are different from ours, but I even found that to be rather charming. Bugger? Bloody? Please. I’ll take those any day over most pop music lyrics in the US. Don’t get me wrong, they were not particularly demure, but they gave their opinions in an amiable, if somewhat confusing way.

“Yanks? Quite lovely aren’t they?”
“Yes, rather a bright bunch really ”
“Indeed! Friendly, charming.”
“They’ll be the end of us all then – won’t they?”

What? This was BRILLIANT! They took you off-guard with the complimentary dialogue, got you nodding along in pleasant agreement, and then WHAM! That last line – what they really thought – and you smiling, nodding like a complete dolt. I loved it!

Then I got to thinking. What if they were just doing this for me? What if this was some careful way they had of handling Americans – or any foreigners for that matter. So, I began to listen more closely. I overheard lunch conversations at nearby tables.

“Well wasn’t that a gorgeous steak?”
“Yes, just brilliant”
“Really very well done and nicely trimmed”
“Yes enjoyably prepared wasn’t it?”
“Bit rancid really.”

I eavesdropped on dinner conversations.

“Did you notice the waitress?
“Yes just lovely wasn’t she?”
“Indeed! So thoughtful and attentive...”
“Quite brilliant, a spot-on charmer...”
“Dressed a bit of a tramp”

And I listened in on friendly neighborhood chats.

“The new neighborhood is quite charming isn’t it?”
“Too right – it’s a beaut.”
“Splendidly close to the harbor.”
“Yes, quite convenient.”
“Bit chockers with thugs and rapists really”

And WHAM! Just like that. I fell in love. I fell in love with Australians and their country, their charming phrases and koalas and platypus’. I fell in love with this island continent and I was determined that miss “I hate islands” sister-in-law would love it as well.

Truly though, I’m being too hard on her. She is a very bright woman…well accomplished… speaks 3 languages…lives quite an exciting life in Switzerland.

Bit of a loon really.

Skimming My Way Through The Black Hole Drop

2006-12-06T20:09:00.000-06:00

jules@julesnolan.com

“Just sit back, put your feet in front of you and all of your weight on your backside”. Those were my instructions. Now, this not a position with which I am unfamiliar. Rico, our well-muscled, handsome guide was essentially telling me to sit down, kick back and relax. Funny how this time those words made every nerve in my body scream “No! Stop! Fake a stroke!”

I was deep in the mainland jungles of Belize, trussed up in a jumble of rappelling equipment. The harness, a series of 4 inch wide straps, was pulled tightly across my stomach, the tops of my legs and mid thigh. This is not a flattering look for a 40ish woman, ample of rump and portly of thigh. I looked like a pink, sweaty pork roast.

Precariously hovering on the edge of a cliff, I began to weigh my options: Temporary, fear induced paralysis? Sudden onset coma? How might I get out of having to do this? I began to tremble impressively and my once-steady breathing deteriorated into short staccato gasps. “Just relax.” Rico was saying. “You’ll be fine.” And then I did it. I took the first few shuffles backwards off a cliff into a 300ft. deep sinkhole called The Black Hole Drop.

“Why?” You might ask. Do I do this for the adrenaline? Do I do this for the adventure? No. Mostly, I do this because when it comes to reading brochures, information packets and instructions, I’m a shameless skimmer.

“It’s called the Black Something Cave I think.” My husband offered absently. “It’s a hike through the jungle and then a rappel down some rock or something – sounds fun. Here’s the brochure.” And the photos were lovely. Fresh-looking, twenty something hikers marveled as they gazed up hundreds of feet at the jungle flora. They looked as if they were thinking “I can’t believe my good fortune at being in this magical place with such outrageously attractive, freshly showered companions!”

And true to the photos, we did gaze up and marvel at the wonders of the Belizean jungle – for about the first 15 minutes. The remaining hour of the “hike” was more like something out of Survivor. You see, in order to rappel down 300 feet, you must first climb up 300 feet.

I also was not aware that I would be sporting a backpack which held 8 lbs of rappelling equipment and 3 liters of water. The temperature in the jungle was somewhere near “caution – steam room – avoid if prone to fainting” and this hike quickly turned into a climb on hands and knees, over slippery boulders. This was patently outside of my physical endurance ability, and I began to whine. “How much longer? Are we almost there? What stinks? Oh….never mind…it’s me.”

Occasionally, when I was unable to reach the next foot hold, our guide would helpfully boost me. “Here, let me help” he’d offer, and then hoist my bottom end with his shoulder – causing him to emit a low pained-sounding “Oooofff”. This was not pictured in the brochure! My pride was completely gone.

We stopped to rest every once in awhile and Rico would tell us about the jungle. Mostly, he told about all of the things that could kill, maim, or otherwise make you rather cranky. There are 6 varieties of wild cats, including the jaguar, ocelot and puma that would, I imagine, be happy to eat your face. There are 2 types of deadly snakes, the coral snake and the fer-de-lance. While an encounter with either would ruin your day, the fer-de-lance is the deadliest reptile in Central and South America, and is responsible for more deaths than any other reptile in all of the Americas.

There are scorpions, tarantulas, fire ants, and bees that could inadvertently be stepped on or grasped while searching for a hand hold, and there is a type of bamboo thorn so sharp that it can shred right through the sole of your hiking boot into the tender flesh of your instep. Think it’s hard to hike through the jungle? Try crawling on your knees as gangrene sets in on your thorn-speared foot. Again, not pictured in the brochure.

But that’s not all! There are at least 9 types of plants that can equally interfere with your happiness. Oleander, Poisonwood, Give and Take, Basket Tie Tie, and Dumbcane trees can cause symptoms including dizziness, swelling, convulsions, vomiting, suffocation, and death. Really. “So you’re telling me that even if I could deftly escape the advances of a venomous fer-de-lance snake by quickly climbing a tree, I could be done in by the tree’s sap? That first my hands, lips, and forearms would inflate to Popeye-like dimensions and then I would suffer fits of dizziness, vomiting, convulsions and eventually suffocate? Really – from tree sap?” Rico nodded. Well then.

Part of me suspected that Rico shared these details to keep us motivated to push forward despite being exhausted. Nobody wanted to linger seated on a tree stump with that kind of information swirling around in their head. And, I suspect he was trying to prepare us for the most terrifying moment of all – blindly walking backwards off of a 300 foot cliff.

We had finally reached our destination. The vistas were stunning. As far as I could see was lush, untouched rainforest with mist rising from the ground. I looked down at the canopy of the trees and the imagined the jungle floor 300 feet below. Then it occurred to me. I didn’t have to rappel down this cliff. Sure, I could get out of the jungle the way I came in…on foot.

Just then I felt a slight brushing along my right side and heard a plop by my feet. I looked down as a huge, black scorpion scurried away under some leaves. Giant scorpions falling from the sky? I think I’ll go first.

And as I took those first terrifying steps backward off the cliff I looked, wide eyed, at my husband of 20 years. “Honey” I asked. “Did you read the brochure?”

For more about this or any of my adventures, please see my website at www.julesnolan.com

Changes in Attitudes

2006-11-06T19:50:00.001-06:00

As a four year old I had no words for it, but I knew that something big was happening. It was a hot summer evening and I felt weird – some odd combo platter of emotion…dread…excitement…fear? I couldn’t tell. But I knew that my six brothers and sisters were thrilled, and that my mom, though she was smiling, was feeling something else, something much more sinister.

Around 6pm my dad burst through the door with a puffed up chest and a mischievous smile. “Pack up the kids Doris” he bellowed, “We’re going on vacation.” It was a Friday in late August, commission check time for feed salesman in small town Southern Minnesota, and it had been a good week. My brothers and sisters were jumping and hollering. “Whoo Hoo! Vacation! I get Mom’s lap.” “Hugh-ungh you got it last time.” My mother got this odd look on her face – something between fear and homicidal mania.

You see vacation to our family was not some rustic, cozy cabin in the north woods on a lake – or even roughing in a tent with a camp stove. Our vacation home was an old abandoned farmhouse in the middle of a cricket-infested field in southern Minnesota. It had no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no bedding, no dishes – and my mother was to pack up seven children, supplies, equipment, and food at 6 pm on a Friday night so that we could arrive before dark. How she went 55 years without smothering that man in his sleep I will never understand.

Packing the car was an exercise in advanced geometry and triangulation. Nine people, food, sheets, towels, supplies, and Poncho – the nervous, incontinent, motion sick terrier were all to fit into the midnight-blue Buick Roadmaster. We were lap-sitters, the lot of us, four in the front and five in the back. As the baby of the family, I got to ride in back window of the sedan along with Poncho, and it was my job to yell “CAR” whenever I saw one approaching or trying to pass.

What would turn out to be our very last visit to the abandoned shack began just as all the others had, with frenzy and excitement and undeniable dread. And now it was nighttime – dark as pitch. I was curled up with my sister on an army surplus cot built for one. We were a tangle of clammy arms and legs, sweaty brows and musty old blankets, waging a sleep-war for the only pillow. It was a hushed symphony of cricket chirps and sleep murmurs. Then everything changed.

At first I could only hear the huffing. This was not the rhythmic familiarity of my dad’s snoring. No, whatever was breathing like that was definitely not human and it smelled horribly of musk and mold and decay. Satan’s perfume. I heard my mother’s voice.

“Ellis” she whisper-screamed “there is a BEAR in here!”
“Just go back to sleep. It’ll leave” my dad replied.
“GET IT OUT OF HERE!” She was no longer whispering.
“How in hell am I supposed to do that? I don’t have a gun.” He said.
“WELL THEN CHASE IT OUT!”
“You want me to chase a bear?”
“I WANT YOU TO CHASE A BEAR!”

Muttering curses like Yosemite Sam, my dad hurled himself out of the bed and made all the noise a 5 foot 4 inch, 145 lb man could make. He shouted and flailed and banged on whatever was near him, completely blind in the darkness. My nine year-old brother Jimmy took an inadvertent cuff to the ear and howled out in pain. This started a chain reaction of screaming and falling to the floor from seven children and a very small, very frightened terrier.

The commotion died down when Mom lit the gas lantern and we looked around the cabin. No bear, no boogeyman, just that unholy, lingering odor.
The door was standing wide open and we held our breath as Dad bravely advanced on the door, and beyond it, the wild, ferocious animal that had nearly massacred his family.

There at the bottom of the steps sat a very confused, very hairy golden retriever, panting and huffing with his head tilted a little to one side. “Well there’s you bear Doris, there’s your damn bear.” My father shook his head, quenched the light, and went back to sleep.

Fast forward 35 or so years and I am in a lovely hotel with my husband and three kids. We have a pool, a beach, a kitchen and air conditioning. “C’mon you guys, this will be an adventure.” I coaxed. I had met a man named Christian who was building a resort on one of the undeveloped outer cayes in Belize. His resort wasn’t open for guests yet, but would be very soon. He was looking for someone to market the resort in the US, and I, being a travel agent who was already marketing a hotel on another caye, I was a natural choice. He offered free accommodations for the weekend.

We packed a boat with provisions and took the two hour ride to Long Caye Resort. As we docked the boat and unloaded, I noticed that my husband had this strange look on his face. He didn’t seem nearly as excited for this adventure as I was. “Jeez” I thought. “Where’s your sense of fun?”

The cloud of mosquitoes descended on us almost immediately. I’d never seen anything like it. They were as thick as fog, buzzing and biting like the frenzied vampires they are. At once they were in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth and ears. Choking and swatting, we jumped into the ocean to escape.

“Careful of the stinging jellyfish ma’am.” Christian, our host announced. “They’re everywhere.” We snatched the kids out of the water and put on long sleeves and pants, hats and bandanas. Trouble is, it was about 106º and humid. Everyone was miserable, sweating and itching like crazy. “Quick – inside the hotel” I offered.

Christian showed us to our rooms – a 10x10 box with no cross ventilation, no screens on the only window and gaping holes in the unfinished roof. It did have a ceiling fan, and I was hoping that after the sun set the mosquitoes would abate and the breeze of the fan would keep us cool.

“You have electricity right?” My husband accused.
“Yes, of course.” Replied Christian.

And he did. Except, he forgot to mention that the generator was turned off every night around 10 pm - turning the 10x10 hot box of a room into a sweltering, buggy oven. We passed that hideous night taking turns trying to cool off in the shower down the hall – fully clothed.

The next morning we were up and out of there before our host was even awake. I was appropriately contrite about my mis-adventure. However, on the way back I asked my husband if we could stop at another island just a little further south. I had heard about a resort that some American had built and then abandoned. Apparently he had been in trouble with the law and had to flee country. “We should stop and take a look.” I said. “I guess it’s brand new and just sitting there empty for anyone to use. We could stay the night. It would be an adventure!” He just looked down and shook his head.

How that man has gone 22 years without smothering me in my sleep I will never understand.

Never Eat The Tourists

2006-10-07T16:58:00.000-06:00

jules@julesnolan.com

At 90 feet below the surface of the water, my air tank should last another 25 minutes. Providing I don’t hyperventilate, freak out or pass out, I will be ok. But given the circumstances that was beginning to seem impossible. “If I don’t follow my buddy out of this tunnel, the dive master will surely come in after me. Just do what you’re supposed to do and don’t panic”. - That is what I kept telling myself.

Scuba divers are trained to assess the facts of the situation when they are frightened and calmly talk to themselves through all options. I knew that I had plenty of air and plenty of time. Still, I found myself beginning to breathe more rapidly and that little fluttering feeling in my chest was moving up towards my throat, constricting my airway – the first sign of panic.

I was diving in Belize, Central America, home to the second longest barrier reef in the world. The underwater life is amazing with schools of electric blue tangs, giant queen angelfish shimmering as they appear to change from green to blue to yellow. The corals are alive and healthy and sway with purple sea fans, florescent blue and yellow tube sponges and enormous orangey brain coral. But the real attractions at this particular dive sight are the really big creatures. A 600 lb. jewfish, speckled brown and black and white, hovered just a few feet away. Giant spotted eagle rays glided past, looking like cast extras straight out of Star Wars.

Then, suddenly, there were the sharks. Three nurse sharks ranging from five to nine feet in length were swimming menacingly near. Now, I’m sure they hadn’t intended to menace, but when you have the reputation for being a killing machine, sport assorted jagged scars from life-threatening battles and have the cold dead eyes of a thug; it’s pretty hard to seem cuddly.

Everett, my Belizean friend and dive master had attracted the sharks with sardines and they were following him through one of my favorite swim-through tunnels. It was about 15 feet long and four feet in diameter. Daylight was streaming from melon-sized holes in the ceiling of the tunnel, casting little light inside. It was shadowy and spooky and filled with creatures. “Yikes,” I thought, “I’m glad those sharks aren’t following me.”

I entered the tunnel, remembering to adjust my kicking to shorter strokes. It is very easy to stir up the sand in a tunnel making it impossible to see. Once vertigo sets in you can easily become confused and lose your way. The diver in front of me was flopping around like a boated marlin, silting up the tunnel. He had just turned the corner, out of my field of vision and I found myself in a very narrow spot. My air hose kept snagging on the tunnel walls, threatening to be pulled from my mouth and with every inhale my tank hit the ceiling. I needed to let all the air out of my lungs, cross my arms and maneuver myself through a turn. “Relax,” I thought, “You’ve, done this before.”

Suddenly, three sharks appeared in front of me. They were swimming quickly toward me, with a bold swish of their tails. I startled. “Oh no, sharks can smell fear can’t they? Or is that blood? Did I scrape my skin banging around on this coral alerting them to a tasty human snack trapped inside?”

“Yum” they must be thinking, “I love the soft puffy ones!”

Now, I know that nurse sharks are not aggressive. They don’t have jagged exposed teeth like the “jaws” we know from the movies. But, they do have teeth and at no time do they stop being sharks. I waited, dangling on the edge of panic, for them to pass. But they didn’t pass. In fact, they all came to rest directly beneath me. They just stopped swimming, and lay on top of each other, occasionally jockeying for position like 6th graders in the lunch line.

I tried again, but I couldn’t move forward. My tank was still hitting the ceiling, and with these three sharks almost touching me, I couldn’t drop any lower. I was going to have to encourage them to swim away without scaring them. Nurse sharks won’t attack, but they will defend themselves if they are frightened.

I decided to give the nearest shark; let’s call him “Herbert the Killer”, a little poke. I tapped him with my index finger, much like you might tap a stranger to call their attention to the fact that they are sitting on your coat. “Um, excuse me Herbie, but one of us has gills and it’s not me.” I sent him telepathic messages to “Move it along cowboy.”

Herb was unimpressed. He simply whooshed his tail and shook his head as if to say – “Hey, I’m not the one playing it fast and loose with my oxygen supply buttercup.” I poked him again, this time with a little more insistence – nothing, not even a bored eye-rolling dismissive snort.

I was beginning to move into full-fledged panic. I checked my air gauge again, plenty of air, depth 90 feet. I can’t move forward, I can’t turn around. What should I do? And so I screamed. Now, I’m not much of a screamer, I don’t rely on that skill much in my regular life on the surface. I was expecting it to have thunderous effects, calling out the nearest coast guard personnel, shocking the sharks into a cowardly retreat.

But underwater, a scream sounds like nothing more than whistling-gurgle. The shark seemed to cock his eyebrow and impatiently drum his fins on the sand. I realized that my courageous roar was not frightening at all. It was pathetic.

I was panting now. Bubbles were spewing out of my regulator like champagne from the bottles of drunken party revelers on New Years Eve. I could barely see. And then, when the bubbles cleared, I saw the sharks begin to swim away. Not afraid, not fleeing, more just bored “moving along”. Holy Cow I’m going to live to tell this story!

I got to leave that tunnel feeling a bit of a tough guy. I had tangled with some sharks and come out victorious. I had wrestled with my own fear and panic, and mostly didn’t do anything overly stupid. In the end I did what I should have as a diver (except for the poking – NEVER poke a shark). And the sharks did what they should have as sharks -NEVER eat the tourists.

Look Before You Leap

2006-09-06T20:43:00.000-06:00

Jules@JulesNolan.com

Sometimes it is critically important NOT to look before you leap. The danger, of course, is losing your nerve, and missing the experience. That is how I found myself plummeting 30 feet off a cliff, into a pool at the base of a waterfall, while my male adventure companions thoughtfully contemplated the distance.

My husband and I were both facing major career changes. He had left his job in broadcasting, and I was looking to enter the workforce again after 10 years of raising kids. We had decided to take 2 months of our retirement early, to travel around New Zealand, home-schooling our children, having adventures, leaping.

The natural beauty of New Zealand is astounding! It is exactly as if God had taken all of his greatest works, combined them into an area about the size of Colorado, and then plunked them down, on the underside of the world. There are miles of deserted beaches, soaring craggy mountains, ice blue glaciers and lakes, impossible waterfalls, fjords, rivers, hot springs, geysers. New Zealand is also the adventure capital of the world. Boasting the original bungee jump, zorbing, and a host of other ways to violently hurt yourself in all this splendor.

It was a bright, beautiful Tuesday in February, and we were to go canyoning. As it was explained to me, canyoning meant climbing up a small mountain, and descending through a dozen or so waterfalls. Sometimes you rappelled with ropes and harness, sometimes you slid, waterslide style, on your backside, and sometimes you jumped into the pool at the bottom of the falls. Occasionally, but hopefully most infrequently, you fell to your death.

Our guide, Mick, of Wanaka Canyoning Expeditions, helped us suit up. Wearing only swimming suits, tennis shoes, and a backpack, we began our ascent. Now, I am no athlete. In fact, my 3 children (bless their hearts) had EACH left me with an additional 10lbs – a memento if you will – of the time they spent in my body. I was closer in age to 50 than to 20, and our previous 4 weeks traveling had involved championship bouts of eating.

At first the climb seemed no more challenging than a stroll up a hill with a slight incline. “No problem” I thought, “but tomorrow, I will definitely start an exercise program.” The path began to change from “rapid breathing steep” to “scrambling on hands and feet, face like a tomato, gulping and gasping steep”. I was pouring sweat and seriously falling behind.

The other members of my party, my husband and 3 younger men, were much more fit, and beginning to look back at me awkwardly, with concern.I found some comfort in and silently cursing my husband – (i.e. naughty word, very naughty word, extremely naughty word,) – you get the picture. Suddenly, I found myself gaining on one of the men. A youngish, handsome-ish, gentleman, turned as I approached. He motioned for me to pass him on the narrow trail. “Are you tired?” I asked – he certainly didn’t look it. He glanced at his shoes, embarrassed. “No… …um……I’m a doctor”.

Ah, that’s it then. These men were afraid that I was about to go into cardiac failure and they would have to carry my lifeless, ample body back down the mountain. They had likely had a conversation to this effect, and this young doctor had been elected to watch me for signs of impending catastrophy. Nice. Humiliation, frustration, and physical exhaustion is a powerful cocktail. I rallied all my strength and finally reached the top.

Still burning with embarrassment, I donned my wetsuit, raingear, and helmet as the rest of the party peaked over the edge of the cliff to survey the first drop. Mick, captain of understatement and confusing New Zealand-style English, said “I thought we’d have a bit of a jump off here, who’s the toppers?”

“I’ll go first” I heard a voice offer – barely aware that it was my own. The men turned; stunned to see this roundish, red-faced, middle-aged woman of outstandingly inadequate fitness, committing to a jump she hadn’t even seen. They thought I was kidding of course, or maybe hoped so.

“All right then” said Mick. “Go ahead and have a go. Just remember to point your toes and tuck your elbows. Oh, and try to give that bunch of rocks on the left a bit of a miss” And so I leapt.

Here is where I am supposed to tell you that it was the most exhilarating, freeing, exciting experience of my life. But it wasn’t. Mostly it was terrifying and nauseating. My stomach felt every inch of that 30 foot free-fall. I had sufficient time to scream, inhale, scream. It was a LONG way down.

But the memory of it; looking up 30 feet at the astonished faces of my companions, these 3 young, fit, men; seeing their fear and embarrassment as they tried muster the courage to take the jump themselves; …….that was life changing.

For more photos of our family trip to New Zealand, visit www.nolanonline.com

A Run For the Islands

2005-08-05T20:15:00.001-06:00

My girlfriend has an extremely difficult task scheduled for this season; a full round of holiday entertaining followed by aging. I recommend that she muddle through the holidays as best she could, and then face this birthday sensibly, as I always have, with sand under her toes and a rum drink in her hand. And so, we are off to Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, to bid farewell to her 30s, strewn across the bow of some sailing vessel - while young men from the islands dash about making sure we are enjoying ourselves. This is not some “Stella’s Groove” trip, but rather two old friends facing the tough times together, weathering the storms of life, with a medicinal dose of steel drum music.

For my birthday of the same magnitude we went to Curacao. It was the fall of last year and I was in a bit of a funk. My favorite pair of jeans, which had comfortably welcomed my backside without complaint for more than a year, had suddenly become disloyal. They were hinting that one of us had better lay off the camembert and chardonnay. What a terrible betrayal right before my 40th birthday. I phoned Suz. “Suz, I’ve got trouble. It’s the pants…….and the birthday……and the new puppy that is coming for Christmas……I don’t think I can take it.”

“Don’t worry honey,” she replied. “There are flip-flops and lobster tails in your immediate future.” And with that we were off to the Caribbean.

The island of Curacao is the “C” of the ABC islands. Located in the Netherlands (Dutch?) Antilles, Curacao is the little-known sister to Aruba and Bonaire. It is a dry, hilly island filled with culture and history and surrounded by amazing coral reefs. The capital city, Willemstad, is lovely with its colorful Dutch architecture. Shop fronts in the sunwashed tropical colors of limes, tangerines and lemonade, line the canal that slices through the city. (or if you want to talk about two parts, are these districts? are there names for the two halves?). Legend has it that Curacao's first governor suffered from migraine headaches that were aggravated by the glare of the bright white houses. He ordered that all residents paint their houses in pastels, resulting in the colorful, quaint city that stands today.

There is a wonderful open-air market where fishermen gather at 4 am to sell their catch, and produce stands offer exotic fruits and vegetables from all over the Caribbean, as well as South America, India and China. We arrived around 10, when most of the fish had been sold and the rest was starting to smell suspicious. This was a carnival for the senses; the heady aromas of ripening mango and pineapple mixed with the spicy odors of cinnamon and peppers, cardamom and cloves. The vendors were fun and generous. They playfully encouraged us to try a taste of this, take a bite of that. I tried lychee fruit for the first time. The sweet, grape-like fruit from southern China burst with juice and dribbled all over my chin. A charming young salesman convinced us to try the boiled peanuts. These delicacies taste exactly as they look - like peanut M&Ms that had been relieved of their chocolate coating by the juicy tongue of a two-year old.

The market also held bizarre and disturbing offerings. A platter, three feet long, proffered pig snouts and ears; skinned rabbits hung from hooks in the ceiling; hand-woven baskets displayed a selection of severed chicken feet. In one section we saw dozens of tables holding bottles filled with every color liquid. When I asked what they were for, each vendor’s reply was the same: A wink, followed by the offer (promise) of “a potion to make your man strong… and interested in love.” (only ever use three ellipses dots ... ) I wondered what the problem must be with the men’s “strength and interest” that so much space was devoted to that issue. Later in the day I met a man named Ecco. He told me that every day of the week, from 4 am until 4 pm, he would sit at this bazaar and shoo the flies off of the platter of severed pig’s heads. Then in the evenings he would butcher the animals for the next day. Enough said –after a day like that I understand the lack of interest.

Our next adventure was taken directly from my personal “100 Things To Do Before I Die” list. I wanted to attend an authentic island “jump up.” During pre-Carnival season (when exactly, month, season?), the local people need to raise money to create the elaborate costumes worn during parades. One way they do this is to hold music festivals or “jump-ups,” which, it turns out, are fund-raisers unlike any I’d ever seen. Several times during the month, thousands of people – primarily native islanders - gather along a parade route and dance down the street for miles behind giant flatbed trucks playing loud music. We bought tee-shirts (essentially our ticket to the event) from a local bartender, and parked ourselves (or, took up our places) by the side of the road somewhere in the middle of the island. (The locals?) began to gather and wait for the flatbeds to pass by. As we understood it when you heard the music you liked best you were to “jump up” and join the crowd behind that band. It was a way of voting for the band -- The truck that had the most followers at the end of the route was the winner and would be featured as the best of Carnival that year.

We waited, somewhat conspicuously, being the only tourists I could see in a sea of local faces. Though we were wearing the same tee-shirts as everyone else, we looked completely different in them. The local women had altered their shirts into halters and dresses and strapless tops. They had re-designed and decorated these regular tee-shirts to some form-fitting sexy frock suitable for a night out at a dance club. Some had hand-sewn sequins all over them. Some had totally discarded the top half of the shirt and were holding it in place with only marabou spaghetti straps and ample bosoms. Women passed by swaying and gyrating down the street in 8 inch heels (and tight shorts?! swaying skirts?), feeling the rhythms like I had never seen. We looked at each other, with our neatly tucked tees, khaki shorts, and shiny, white Reeboks. Suzi shrugged, I shook my head, and we jumped in.

It wasn’t long before we were a sweaty, un-tucked mess, laughing our heads off and trying to follow the dance instructions chanted by the crowd “To da leff, to da leff, to da leff…” The young local girls were struck by the hilarious sight of these two gringas who couldn’t swivel their hips and move forward at the same time. One cluster of pre-teen girls pointed at us and doubled over with laughter. They shimmied up next to us barking instructions. “Like dis ma’am. No, like dis! You gotta move yo bahk side.” We kept up as long as we could, a respectable four miles, and then jumped out. The party, however, showed no sign of waning, and went on for six miles and eight hours. We watched much of it with our "bahk sides" seated in nice stable chairs at a table with cold drinks. .

I turned into a 40 year-old woman on that island; a 40 year-old woman who looks at birthdays less like aging, and more like making progress. And I think on this next trip the locals will be surprised to see just how well I have learned to move my bahk side

Leadership Class

2005-05-01T20:17:00.000-06:00

Today I went to my leadership class. This is a program designed by the Mankato Chamber of Commerce to discuss important community issues and identify future community leaders. I, however was chosen to attend based solely on my talent for choosing the right bar for happy hour immediately after the class.

At today’s session we were treated to a discussion by a panel of city officials informing us about local government finances. It was obvious that this panel of 3 men were experts because the had titles like “Executive VP of City Administration” and “Wendell”. In addition, 2 of them were snazzy dressers, and the third kept looking wise and thoughtful. “Wendell” pressed the index fingers of his folded hands against his pursed lips, nodded slightly, and gazed heavenward for nearly 3 hours.

The panel handed out well-stapled packets of information showing impressive pie, chart, and bar graphs. Some of the pie charts were divided in to as many as 15 pieces. It was then that I knew I was dealing with professionals.

The students of the Leadership Class indicated their deep interest in the subject by asking informed and well-reasoned questions of each other like “Where are we having lunch?”

I did learn some very impressive statistics and ratios however, like 41.04 % and 5/8ths. Also, I was very surprised to learn that $143.00 per city resident is the appropriate amount of money to have in the city’s reserve fund. More than that and the tax payers will think you are not spending their tax dollars appropriately. Less than that and the city falls into the danger of losing it’s bond rating.

As far as I can tell, this is similar to what happens to you, the average person, when you put on your best shirt and go into the bank to ask for a loan to help cover personal expenses. If the bank official guffaws at you shooting small, moist pieces his breakfast muffin all over your new shirt, you have lost your bond rating.

But here is what I don’t understand. I know from personal experience that even when you have stopped paying your Capitol One Visa Platinum No Hassle Card bill for 6 months (because, frankly, those were not well-reasoned purchases and it would do best if everyone could just forget about that whole unfortunate retail episode) they continue to send you pre-approved applications for a new Capitol One Visa Platinum No Hassle Card.

So why does Wendell have to spend so many pensive facial gestures, and pie graphs trying to figure out the budget? Why doesn’t he just forget about it until he has bond rating trouble and then apply for a Capitol One Visa Platinum No Hassle Card?

I bet he could even go into a bank and ask for a loan. They’d give it to him too. He’s a former member of the Mankato Leadership Class, wise, thoughtful, and a snazzy dresser.

Mothers Warn Your Daughters

2005-02-16T20:58:00.000-06:00

Jules@JulesNolan.com

It feels like spring today and I’m so relived. I have had a pretty bad case of the itchy, nasty Februaries – and it is threatening to last until June. I’m not sure what brought it on; this has been a mild winter by Minnesota standards. But my pants are tight and I’m mad about it.

You see, my husband and I tried that vile program – South Beach Diet. No sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine. Sounds like prison camp to me. No Sugar??!!?? I LOVE sugar! The only thing that I don’t love about sugar is that there is no fat in it. Well, it worked. My husband lost 17 pounds and I lost my sense of humor and my desire to get out of bed in the morning.

But this experience did get me thinking about expectations. How we expect our bodies to look, how we expect our children to behave, how we expect our lives to turn out. And I decided it was time to speak out against a pox on society so heinous that it threatens to destroy an entire generation of women. I’m talking, of course, about scrap booking.

Now I realize that many of you not only participate in, but love this activity. I know you say you do it for the social outlet. But tell me this. Why do women have to “produce” something during their social time? Men don’t. I have an idea. I’ll “produce” a pitcher of margaritas and you “produce” a story about how your kid spilled an entire 5lb bag of sugar on the couch!

You see, scenarios like this are so much more true to my parenting experience than the shiny, happy baby at bath time surrounded by rubber ducky stickers and grosgrain ribbon.

How about a page dedicated to the day my mother-in-law came over to watch my tiny newborn while I took my 2 year old to the park. There I was in my size 18 maternity pants. My hair was unwashed, and my lower lip was sporting a festive, bright-red, cold sore. I was looking, feeling, and frankly, smelling like the devil’s breakfast. Suddenly I heard a baby cry and my milk let down in great streams which drenched the front of my cotton shirt. Two giant, perfectly circular wet spots, the size of salad plates adorned my breasts. I got up to go to the car for tissue, mortified, head hanging down, and I physically collided with……… (Get ready to choose your theme stickers here) MY HIGHSCHOOL BOYFRIEND!! Now, the last time I’d seen him had been about 10 years earlier. As I recall I’d been wearing a pair of size 6 “Daisy Duke” cutoffs and a tube top. My hair was perfectly feathered, and my lips were shining with Dr. Pepper flavored lip smacker. If only I could have a photo of us at that moment….this young man gazing for the first time at his high-school sweetheart and what had become of her…….the look of horror on his face as he recognized me, then the relief as he must have thought to himself “there but for the grace of God….”

Or, what about the morning my husband left for work in his gorgeous suit and freshly polished shoes – looking and smelling like a male model? Off he was, to his tidy little office, facing a day of adult conversations, coffee breaks, and business lunches. And I was contemplating another day of caring for 3 preschool aged children and 2 giant, hairy dogs. I lunged after him yelling “For God’s Sake Don’t Leave Me Here!” He neatly spun, faked a left, hurtled to the right, and made it through the door unfettered. Furious and frustrated, I stomped off to the basement laundry room and poured the entire contents of my coffee mug onto his favorite shirt. I ground the coffee into the fabric with a desperate, maniacal, Mexican Hat Dance, screaming “I want my life back!” What about a page dedicated to that experience? Or, better still, how about a candid photo of the look on his face days later? Opening his trunk he found a wadded, smelly, ball of fabric. He frowned, and furrowed and recoiled in disgust. Then the hint of shock and confusion as he recognized the shirt and could not figure out what might have happened to it. Do you suppose they make background paper with little smoking guns?

My point is that our daughters will someday be raising their own children, and if they look at these keepsakes they are bound to have unrealistic expectations. My mother – thank God – told me the truth. If I’d have had one of these perfect scrapbooks to compare with my experiences as a young mother, I am afraid I would have contemplated spending the afternoon taking a long toke off the tailpipe of my car.

Child raising is hard and messy and unbelievably frustrating. It is also the richest, most glorious and rewarding thing I have ever done. But the pressure to do it while capturing, recording, and theme-coordinating the events is too much. I know extremely accomplished women who are outstanding mothers and loving companions who have confessed to me their “terrible” secrets. They are afraid to go to scrap booking parties because they are 4 years behind in their picture organizing!

I’m serious here – I think that this activity has the potential to undermine the confidence of not only this generation of women, but generations to come! Or……come to think of it……maybe this really is just an innocent hobby….maybe I just need a cookie or a slice of bread……maybe I need to burn this South Beach Diet book.