Thrifty, Part 2

The difference between thrift shopping in Colorado and South Carolina is mainly in the type of clothing bargain one finds. While it is easy to snag a Lily Pulitzer dress at the Goodwill near Isle of Palms, in Colorado, it’s all about the outdoors and the cowboy look. So, like the Vikings hopping and sacking one community after another, as the rain set in each afternoon, we ventured to a new thrift store in the Durango area, hungry to lay claim to any hidden treasures we could find. By the end of our exploits, we hit at least seven stores, lugging off a heavy load of gems, including a $22 genuine leather jacket worth about $300 (I am so jealous of Rosa Marie), a(nother) cowboy hat for Hoffa, and my four dollar puffy vest.

After the Jailhouse, we stormed into the United Methodist Thrift store at 3:15 for our second plunder, where pillaging ensued. In half an hour, we seized all kinds of valuable goods from the racks. But we were cut short. I don’t know when stores started closing at 4 o’clock, but this one, probably manned by volunteers who made it very evident they were eager to listen to mountain music that night, were ready to go.

“Customers, please report to the cash register to make your final purchases.”

As they make this announcement, I am in the dressing room, and treat this appeal much like I do Mama’s calls for supper when I have not quite finished up with my work. Don't worry, I'll be there in five minutes.

Literally two minutes later, they are back on the loudspeaker. “The store is closing. Attention, the store is closing. It is time to go.”

Jesus, calm down old retired people. Not sure you could be too much more subtle there. I have one more dress to try on, and I’m probably going to buy it. Chill out a sec!

The dress was a go, and in a chaotic rush to make it out the door without physically receiving the boot, we all piled our findings on the checkout counter, helping  remove clothes from hangers and report price tags - none of which were over five dollars - to be manually entered into the register. All of our clothes were subsequently stuffed to the brim in a white kitchen-size trash bag. The rush worked in my favor, though; despite their meager price, I am not sure my padded spandex biker shorts would have made the purchase cut otherwise.

“How are we going to get all this stuff home?” Cain asked as we hauled our booty down the street.

It was a legitimate question, but I reassured him we would resolve that when the time came.

The spree continued. At one ten by thirteen foot sketchy hole in the wall, it may have been hard to navigate the piles of clutter, but if you found something good, it was practically free.

“Oh heck yes,” Georgia exclaimed as she pulled off an American flag blouse from one of the store’s two racks. “‘Murica forever.”

“Georgia, when are you ever going to where that?” I reprimanded.
“Ummm, basically to anything having to do with our country. Duh. I realized during the World Cup that I own nothing to display my ardent affection for my country.”

When Mama went up to pay for three shirts and a puffy Northface vest, the cashier-less cashier counted the items and said, “That’ll be five dollars. Plus forty cents tax.” He just stuffed the cash in his pocket, and I somehow doubt that forty cents will be submitted to the IRS. But hey, Georgia can now be patriotic, so I’m not complaining.

At Dunn Deal, another store selling more furniture and gear than clothing, I happened upon a pair of clip-in road bike shoes that fit my foot perfectly, and the price seemed right. I brought them over to my sisters for evaluation.

“You know, you should probably get a road bike before you get shoes,” Georgia suggested.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I guess you’re right. It’s just hard when I know I won’t find a deal like that back home…” Plus, I thought, I might as well complete that new biker outfit of mine.

I returned to put them back on the shelf, but the owner intersected my direction. After talking about the shoe brand, its fit, and the hardly worn, fantastic shape they were in, I began to cave.

“If you were my daughter,” he disclosed, “I would be announcing to you that we are spending getting those shoes. Thirty dollars on a pair like that is a steal.” Of course, he had a vested interest in me buying these shoes, but his advice seemed genuine, so I went for it. I really am hoping owning all of the gear, you know, minus the bike, will encourage me to hit the roads more seriously in the future. Or at least a few more spin classes.

After almost entirely disregarding price tags up to this point, our next stop to ReRuns made me gasp, literally. Thrift stores that identify themselves as “high-end second hand stores” are one of my biggest pet peeves, and this was one such boutique. Once that article of clothing is back on the market as “lightly worn,” those stingy store owners need to realize that it no longer matters that that sucker was once marked at $85. It is not anymore, so don’t go off trying to sell it for $40. I might have scoffed a little too loudly. “They don’t make dresses like this anymore,” the stylish and age-appropriately dressed older owner retorted. Yeah, just like you. You’re cramping my steal-a-deal style, grandma.

After a very chilly and under-dressed semester in DC, I have become an advocate for owning the right clothes for the weather. The down coat I splurged for in Italy was one of my wiser purchases, and it kept me toasty for half a year plus a backpacking trip…and then it began to stink. Although I carefully researched proper washing methods for such gear, all that was left after the light tumble dry with tennis balls was a clumpy, featherless heap of nylon and a despondent owner. I already missed its squishy, body-heat trapping attributes, and I longed for another one.

Over the past few years, I have almost entirely converted to consignment stores, where my shopping has become economically frugal, though perhaps quantitatively excessive. In my experience, I have learned that you will likely be disappointed if you go in searching for a particular item. You just have to survey what is available, and let the right clothes and their beautiful prices find you. Still, with every door we entered, I had my eye out for that down coat. Day by day, we began to exhaust the host of thrift stores in Durango. Each time we entered a new shop, I searched for it; I just felt like I was going to find it – somewhere on a rack it would be hidden from the masses, just waiting for me, the destined second owner. But as the week progressed, that fate seemed increasingly less likely.

So I must confess, having been let down by my search for that ten dollar down coat, there is one exception to my stingy sprees. I’m a sucker for outdoor clothing brands. Marmot, SmartWool, Chaco, and so many other overpriced, Made in America, lifetime warranty rugged companies, you’ve got me. I consciously guard against this weakness by only entering REI or Half-Moon Outfitters when I do not have money. I did have money in Durango, though, and I did mosey into one of those local outfitting stores to happen upon the perfect down coat, and by the end of the week, after a thorough investigation of online prices and a daily visit to the same sale rack, I did, of course, crack. It was sixteen times more than the envisioned price tag, but that charcoal black, thirty percent off Patagonia was calling my name. Following a week’s worth of cheapskate shopping, I splurged on something that will not lose its European goose down, and I am glad I did.

After shopping almost everyday, our trip came to a close. To solve the predicament Cain addressed from the very beginning, we returned to Dunn Deal to buy a seven dollar suitcase; it is only fitting that our thrifty finds be packed in a reused item. We crammed and kicked and stood on top of our luggage to zip it up, but we successfully returned home with all of our thrift booty, and we made the most of our rainy afternoons. Our wallets are a little emptier, our drawers a little fuller, but I would say that a combination of Caesar’s famous phrase and our family trip Instagram hashtag #ComptonsConquer applies quite well to our thrifty ways. 

We came to Colorado, we saw the sights, we conquered the thrift stores.

And now, if you have made it this far, you may be entertained by a just-shy-of-fifty item inventory of our ridiculous thrift store purchases.

Hoffa

Mud Doc Boots

Hat

Braided belt

Flannel shirt

Nice heavy jacket – barber-esque

Leather Cowboy hat

Baseball cap – 50 cents

Tie – 70 cents

Tassled Loafers

Mama

Gray Shirt

(With the caveat that she doesn’t need USA shirts and joke Jerry jackets.)

She is a minimalist. We could probably take a lesson from her.

Jessica

Patagonia down coat

Patagonia thermal shirt

Brooks long-sleeved running shirt

Yellow V-neck

White long-sleeved shirt

Lucky shirt

Gray dress

Bike shirt, shorts, and shoes

Puffy vest

Heavy pea coat

Colorado t-shirt

Georgia

USA vest

Jerry jacket

USA shirt

Gray striped shirt

Patterned belt

2 white shirts

Black shirt

Baseball cap

Rain boots

Denim shirt

Rosa Marie

Great western rocky mountain brass band festival, 2004 (what?)

Green beaded belt

Leather jacket

Floral dress

Hawaiian shirt

Fancy white going out shirt

Brown Native American Shirt

Blue jean dress

Nike shorts

Cain

Pullover sweater

Vest

2 t-shirts

Canvas Coat

Thrifty, Part 1

When most people travel, it’s common for them to pick up a few souvenirs along the way. Indeed, my two knick-knacks after ten fun days in Durango include a metal Native American bracelet, a new bumper sticker on my Nalgene, and a Colorado state flag patch to add to my collection. Upscale shoppers in Milan or New York may even need an extra bag on the return flight to pack all of their new chic outfits. But we did not spend ten days in one of the world’s great shopping centers. We were in the Four Corners region of the United States, where tourists flock to the many National Parks and Forests, the more adventurous taking part in outdoorsy activities like climbing and mountain biking, the less simply enjoying the area’s geographic diversity, ranging from towering mountains and giant evergreens to barren clay desert and deep canyons.

And we did do a little bit of both of those. Every morning we woke up early, attempting to get out the door at a respectable hour. We are a distracted, dawdling group, though, so our departure usually ended up being around 10 a.m. But eventually we got out, and each day, we checked off an excursion: taking the tourist-obligatory Durgano-Silverton Narrow Gauge railroad train, hitting several hiking trails, horseback riding, exploring ancient 1,600 year-old cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde, soaking in natural hot springs, and bike riding.

And though we did all of those things, we still had to check a whole extra suitcase of garments we picked up during our stay in South Colorado. It weighed in at 28.7 pounds. This is how the thrift store shopping escapade started.

Despite being in a several-year-long drought, we arrived during Colorado’s monsoon season, and the rains came consistently almost every afternoon. Like clockwork, we knocked out an activity in the morning, and then we prepared for the mass of converging clouds ominously darkening before us to empty themselves. They did. And what does a cheap family of six on vacation do in the rain? Plunder Colorado’s abundant thrift stores inundated with expensive outdoor brands of course.

The first time was actually a mistake. Compton family plans almost always go awry, and that is probably because we don’t have too much of a plan to begin with. On the second day of our trip, we decided to go biking. It was mid-morning, and all the bikes had already been checked out for the day. Ohmagoshhhh, I think to myself. I can just forsee this becoming a recurring pattern for the rest of our time here. Okay, regroup.

“Mama, we better go book that train ride,” I urged. “I don’t want to miss it because we didn’t reserve tickets in advance.”

The Silverton Narrow Gauge railway has been running between Durango and Silverton since 1882, and steam engines that are now almost one hundred years old still carry over 160,000 passengers a year. During a round trip seven hour ride, over six tons of coal and ten thousand gallons of water are used every day as the train chug-a-chug-a-choo-choos its way through the San Juan National Forest[1]. Given the monsoons we had already learned to expect, it is ideal to take the train in the morning and bus back. At the station, we asked to book a morning train ride for the next day. Full. Saturday? Sorry. Sunday? Nope. Any time in the next week?!

“I’m sorry,” the cashier dressed in a conductor’s uniform responded. “For six people, it looks like that won’t be possible. You can take the bus now and the train in the afternoon, though.”

Hoffa can be a little impulsive, so without much consulting, he decided that we would go now; the bus departed in an hour.

Now, had we booked these tickets online ahead of time, we would have been able to reserve a morning train and not even worry about the weather. And had we done that, and happened to mysteriously be really on our A game, we may have even checked out the FAQ page, where it reports that “Mountain weather in Colorado is often unpredictable. Wearing layers of clothing that you can remove or add as the temperature changes will add to the enjoyment of your journey.” But, you know, that is a bunch of “if”s that never transpired. So Hoffa and my siblings went back to the house to grab the GoPro, while Mama and I puttered around the downtown shops. Which turned out to be just one more bad idea. When we re-convened for the bus ride, Mama asked where the rain coats were.

“We didn’t pack any coats.”

“David. We are taking an open-window gondola at three o’clock in the afternoon, just in time for the rain to start. We’re going to freeze!”

A Mama reprimand is at the top of Hoffa’s metaphorical “Avoid at All Costs” list. In typical Compton fashion, we boarded the bus transporting us through 14,000 foot mountain views and deep valley gorges completely unprepared. So, upon arriving in Silverton - a small, notoriously lawless town of bandits and prostitutes during the American Gold Rush – what was the first thing we did during our mere three hours in town? We headed straight to the Jailhouse Thrift Store, a dilapidated shack which actually used to be the town jail back in 1883. Thirty minutes of scouring the store and six warm layers later, we were prepared to weather the expected storm in style.

The Jailhouse saved Hoffa from the doghouse, and we walked out with an over-sized silver hip-hop coat with the monogram “Jerry,” an authentic button-up flannel (frockets and all), a tan canvas cargo coat reminiscent of a U.S. army uniform, a heavy pea coat that could keep one insulated through a Chicago winter, and a horizontally patterned knitted wool pullover. While we were at it, we may have also picked up a pair of burnt-sienna rainboots, a ghetto baseball hat, a New Mexico-style beaded belt, and a Lucky brand shirt. While most items were only a few dollars, it took some serious restraint to abstain from buying a $30 pair of climbing shoes, which, though ideally I would like to use, in reality I knew I probably would not. I think we also met the week’s store quota on sales, all benefitting Silverton’s local radio station.

And thus it began – the thrift shopping escapade of the 2014 Durango family adventure. The Colorado thrift store saga continued on. Check in soon to read what ensued.

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[1] http://www.durangotrain.com/faqs#.U-bjpfldWSo

Durango, CO Photo Journal

10 Photos for 10 days of awesome days of family fun (…and dare I say, just a little too much family?) in Durango, Colorado.

Day 1
Chicago Layover Excitement

Day 2

Hitting the ground running on a trail behind our house

 Day 3
Exploring the San Juan Forest on the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad Train

Day 4

Animas River Trail Bike Ride

Day 5

Exploring Cliff Dwellings at Mesa Verde

Day 6

Horse Back Riding at the Rapp Corrall 

Day 7
It was a slow start that morning, but some of us ended up hiking Animas Mountain

Day 8

Did you say natural hot springs?! -- in Pagosa Springs

Day 9

Vallecito Reservoir, where though it looks like we hiked, we actually just got socked in by predictable afternoon showers (We should have left earlier or brought rain coats. We failed on both counts.)

Day 10
On our drive back to Albuquerque, we spent the evening in Santa Fe - the oldest capital in the United States. This is in the courtyard of the art museum, where they provided free entry and Haagen Dazs ice cream that day!

We get a little antsy if we stay in the car too long. Our drive back to the airport was one such occasion.

All in all, Colorado made for a memorable, outdoorsy, and fun family vacation. I'd say the Comptons Conquered Colorado 2014!

Bike Battles

 “Okay, I say we have a nice picnic and then turn the bikes in,” Cain proposed.

It was 11:30 a.m., and we had rented bikes for a half day of exploring the Durango area. Before we left the bike shop, the employee, still attractive despite his tattoo-covered body and earring gauges, came around the counter to suggest a route off of the four by six foot map framed on the wall of Pedal the Peaks, Inc.

“If you go all the way down on East College Drive, take a right onto East Eighth Avenue, and head on for another three blocks, there’s a great trail head on the left. It’ll take you up into the mountains and you’ll see some pretty incredible views.”

Alright, I think. This sounds wayyyy cooler than the Animas River trail. Some real mountain biking! Heck yes.

“Okay, so how much uphill is that going to be?” my mother asks with hesitation.

“Aw, probably a straight thirty or forty minute climb at the beginning,” Mr. Earring Guages responds matter-of-factly.

“Are you out of your mind?!  We are from the lowcountry. We’re not doing that. Tell me more about that paved river trail.”

“Haha, okay. Well we’re right in the center of it, so you can take a right and…”

My heart sinks.

I take back what I said in the last post about coming to terms with the pace of Compton adventures. I still have a long way to go to ever really be content. I know I should be grateful that we’re biking at all. But these are the moments that derail my patience and good-spiritedness – the ones where I am so close to real adventure, literally only a few miles away, and yet, I remain inhibited by the limited abilities and desires of my family. Yesterday was full of such moments, and hour by hour, it’s as if the gas was slowly increased, turning simmering frustrations into a raging boil.

I make some guttural heave of exasperation after Cain’s proposition. “I swear I’m not from this family sometimes.”

“Well I definitely know where I’m from,” he chirps.

“That’s my boy!” Hoffa concurs.

Two hours into the rental, the rest of the family had managed to bike a whopping five miles. Once we started out on the Animas trail, snaking along next to the river, I relinquished the prospect of mountain biking, satisfied with the still-gorgeous panorama views, but I replaced it determined to bike all fourteen miles of the trail at a speedy pace, gliding along the path’s curves and hills. When I got to the first end of the trail, I waited for the others to arrive. After five minutes, no one had come. I decided to kill some time riding around the parking lot and ensuring this was indeed the end. It was, I returned, but still no one arrived. I sighed and began peddling back up the trail.

A couple miles up, I found everyone at the Durango BMX training course. They called me up, and we all tested out the hills. Well this isn’t something you find in Mt. Pleasant. I thought. Not bad. Pretty cool, actually! Honestly, peddling off the ramp for that first round through kind of scared me. But the adrenaline which quickly began pumping through my veins propelled me to try again. With each attempt,  I improved a little, gaining what felt like feet of air but was probably only a few inches on some jumps and getting the hang of the ten small, consecutive rolls in the track.

…Until I didn’t. Round four, halfway through, I ate it. In an instant of wrongly shifted weight, I was flat on the ground, forearms burning, as I sneezed through the dry clay swooshing up into a mini tornado around me. Ow. I cautiously stood up and examined the damage: scratched up knees, raw pink scrapes just under my elbows, and another on my hip bone. 

I dusted off and biked through the course again, both to finish off on a better note and to assure my concerned mother that I was okay.

After the course, there was more fast biking along the trail (now with stinging arms), and more waiting. Then the call-it-a-day picnic proposition, quickly turning to reality. I tried to counter my dismounting family.

“Y’all. It’s not even noon yet.”

“Well, Jessica, you can go bike the rest of the trail. We’ll be sitting right here leisurely enjoying our picnic until you return.”

I know Hoffa was being facetious, but I gladly took up his suggestion. As my family rolled their bikes onto the grassy knoll, I threw my pack down, probably with a tad bit too much force.

“Sounds good. Y’all enjoy your picnic,” I responded bitingly, and then I was off.

I confess, I almost immediately got lost (only someone who inherited Mama’s sense of direction could manage that on a paved six-foot wide path), but I eventually found my way back on the trail, and it felt good to be independent for forty minutes, off exploring by myself, messing up, figuring my mistakes out, and re-discovering a little bit of freedom. And Hoffa was right. They were sitting there – lying, rather – totally content to just chill until I returned.

By the official end of our biking an hour later, I had pretty much progressed to full bi-otch mode. I knew it, but at that point I honestly could not help it either. As Rosa Marie, Cain, and I waited, Mama and Georgia joined us, but no one knew where Hoffa was.

Cain called him to investigate, reporting that he had been enticed by the free iced tea sign and entered a café along the river. You have GOT to be kidding me.

“You know what annoys me?”

“You’re annoying. No one wants to hear the stupid things you complain about anymore” Georgia snapped.

I clenched my fists and sighed. “I understand that. And I even am fully aware of the terrible mood that I’m in.” My voice rose as I gestured to the direction of the trail where I expected my lagging father would mozy along in another five minutes. “But I can’t help but be frustrated when Hoffa does stupid…”

 I sucked in a breath, but I began to giggle, a growing guffaw that does not complement the ability to explain very well. But I could not contain it: my terrible attitude, the meager distance we actually biked, the accident, the fact that my father has no regard for time. The whole thing is so ridiculous, and they all begin to laugh with me. I try to finish, slamming my fist downward onto an invisible table.

“…when Hoffa does stupid-ass things like get a freaking glass of iced tea while we’re supposed to be biking!”

It is not that I was actually outrageously mad yesterday. I can laugh, I can roll with the Compton family mishaps. After Saturday evening Mass, I apologized to everyone for my poor behavior, and they graciously forgave me. Yesterday reminded me how flawed I am and how selfish I can be, but also how I crave a more authentic form of adventure. I needed to get banged up on that bike course. I will be sporting these strawberry scrapes for a while, and I admit it – I am a little proud of them. I feel a teensy bit more B.A. displaying some wounds that testify to getting out and trying something that can cause injury, even if they are only there because I am terribly klutzy.

Most of all, these scrapes are a semi-painful reminder that all is in good time. Those more daring experiences will come. There will be more trips, more adventures, more opportunities to bike thousands of feet higher than Mama will ever be willing to go. But for now, even as I write and feel my raw skin rubbing against my shirt, these scrapes are a reminder to be present. Here, I am with my family, and at least they like to be outside and active. My frustrations do continue – I really want to climb Engineer Mountain, a hike with 2,400 foot elevation gain over a 2.5 mile span, and no one else is too enthusiastic about joining me on that venture. But as long as they are not lounging around the house all day (they have suggested it, and I have declared I will hike Engineer alone if that day comes), I choose to be with the Compton Clan, pursuing the quality time we have together over the next great excursion.

A Scheming Neck

In “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” one of my go-to movies, the Portokalos family obnoxiously clings to their Greek roots while living in America. Toula, the first grown daughter to dare to date an American, struggles to keep the peace with her ultra-traditional, over-protective father. In one scene when Toula is particularly upset with her father’s stubbornness, her mother encourages, “Let me tell you something, Toula. The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.”

Though I (very fortunately!) do not have a family quite as crazy as Toula’s, Mrs. Portokalos’ wisdom holds true.  Even as we grow up, Hoffa is clearly the head of our household; he leads us, generously provides for us, and does not hesitate to discipline when necessary. But, there is also no question who is determining the Comptons’ direction.

You see, my mother is a schemer.

When she and Hoffa got married, they talked about taking a trip around the world. The Comptons are notorious for talking, rather than doing, but about a year later, a 27-year-old Mama confronted him.

“Alright, David, are we taking this trip, or what? Because if not, it’s time to start having a family.”

Hoffa responded with little hesitation. “Uhhhh, I think we’ll take that trip.”

She came home the next day announcing that she had given her two-week’s notice at work, which I think surprised Hoffa a little. The reality that they would soon be strapping on their backpacks began to set in.

So they went. The three-ring binder photo albums Mama meticulously scrapbooked from their four and a half months of travel provided hours of entertainment in my childhood, and the stories my parents share from that trip continue to humor and inspire me. While riding mopeds in Greece, Mama shocked Hoffa by intentionally jumping off as he approached a bend in the road, thinking he surely would have turned by now if he were going to. When virtually everyone speaks a foreign language, English-speaking travelers, different as they may be, begin to stick together. Along the way they connected with a loud New York Yankee and a sensible, witty South African. 

With the Berlin Wall still just recently crumbled, they tramped through and enjoyed inconceivably low prices in Eastern Europe. After they figured out that nodding one’s head in Bulgaria means “no,” and shaking means “yes,” La Crème was a highlight. While most guests were in their formal wear and officers donned their full uniform,  the American dollar in the my parents’ blue jean pockets more than compensated for their grungy backpacker appearances. With a string quartet playing in the background, they dined over a five-course meal, caviar included, for seven dollars. Understandably, they went back the next evening, still wearing the same clothes.

After the return of three very drunk men to the hostel room they were all sharing late one night, Mama got so put out that she abandoned them the next morning and began walking through Budapest’s grand, Soviet-influenced streets alone. Given her shockingly poor sense of direction and having no way to reach her, Hoffa was not sure he would ever see her again. Welp, it was nice being married I guess. She eventually made her way back, because they went on to marvel at the ruins of Ephesus in Turkey, bop through Germany and London, soak up the heavy mist of Zimbabwe’s Victoria Falls, and in South Africa, almost were charged both by an elephant in Kreuger Park and baboons in Capetown. They finished off their last month in the tropics, snorkeling off the Great Reef, enjoying every gratifying lick of fresh blackberry ice cream in New Zealand (they still talk about it today), and settling right in to island life in Fiji and Hawaii.

Obviously, that was the trip of a lifetime, but when the Compton kids were old enough, the tradition was resurrected. Mama’s schemes continued, employing her ability as the “neck” to move the “head” toward destinations all over the world. Using credit card points for the flight and often staying with friends, it was economically feasible to travel together. In 2007, aged 14, 12, 10, and 8, the Compton Clan ventured over to Ireland “to visit our first cousins.” While waiting for a layover at the Newark airport, the accent was already so different that Cain asked, genuinely curious, “What language do they speak here?” Needless to say, the even more distinct Irish accent was a challenge for him to understand. Though it was great visiting family, we only saw them for two days, and we spent three weeks in the United Kingdom… The first week, we stayed at the Sandy Field, the humble extra cottage of some family friends located on the strand of Sligo Bay in Northern Ireland.

The modest table inside only seats three people, so we ate dinner atop a blanket on the grassy knoll everyday. 

After a second week in Killarney, we took a ferry to England and were guests at Dean’s Court, a different friend’s manor inherited generations ago after the Catholic church’s property was divided in the aftermath of the Reformation. Everything about that first trip, from the plane ride to the pubs to driving on the other side of the road, was new and exciting.

Almost every summer since then, Mama has made it a priority to whisk the family away somewhere, instilling a love of travel in each of us and allowing us to spend quality time together in the absence of distractions. As we grow up, these trips are also her plot to keep the family together. So far, it's working.

2008: California (San Francisco, Yosemite)

2009: Return to Sligo County, Ireland

2011, January: Cross Country Skiing in Bend, Oregon with the Hayes Family

2012: British Columbia (Whistler & Vancouver)

(and celebrating Canada Day!)

2013: Nosara, Costa Rica

And now, here we are, in the present, just over twenty-four hours into our ten-day 2014 adventure in Durango, Colorado.

We flew into Albuquerque and stopped for lunch at El Pinto, a family-owned restaurant with a 1,000 guest occupancy capacity. The rental car woman (who probably got a kickback) recommended it, and she gave us a coupon for free appetizers, so we checked it out. El Pinto is one of those places that has framed pictures of famous people like Katy Perry and the presidents and Gabriel Iglesias all over the walls. Maybe it is a tourist place, but the ingredients were fresh, and the ambiance authentically southwestern. It also has a full-blown salsa factory in the back, making over 25,000 jars a shift. After trying my first Chile Rileno, I relaxed under the giant pergola laced with ivy, enjoying the gentle breeze and the absolute lack of humidity. 

"Y'all! We're on vacation! Gahh, I love you. I'm so happy to be with you."

I am notorious for these random outbursts of joy. I just have this uncontrollable desire to verbalize the obvious, to declare my affection or gratitude for the abundant goodness around me. They all laugh and roll their eyes. "Oh, Jessica, there you go again."

But it's true. We are so blessed, and though we have all been living under the same roof in Charleston this past summer, it's inevitable that we disperse to our individual daily to-dos at home. Here, the focus is on each other.

"You know, we really have a good time when we're forced to be together," Mama points out.

"Yeah, especially when we put our phones up," I respond. "Now where is my phone?"

The powerful smart device we each keep by our side really is the primary distraction from full-throttle family time. Well, yeah, our various phone apps, and also the Lego Movie. I kid you not. After lunch we stopped by a Red Box, and what do we watch on the four hour road trip to Durango? As we drive blindly by an unfamiliar landscape of distinct mesas bulging out of New Mexico's dry, bushy savanna? The Lego Movie. Yep. And my siblings have been bursting out singing "Everything is awesome!" ever since. The only thing potentially worse than that movie was the number of times we had to roll down the windows due to the rear sides of select culprit siblings. It must have been the Mexican cuisine at lunch, I'm not sure, but some of that gas was downright potent. 

Mama took her scheming to a new, wonderfully frugal level this year. We signed up for Home Exchange, and the people whose house we are residing in are currently staying at ours back in Charleston. From the back porch, just beyond a bit of suburbia, there is an incredible view of a sharp, jagged-top mountain, stretching hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the cowboy hat and boot struttin' locals of downtown Durango. As for altitude, we are adjusting. The single beer that feels like 1.5 beers at this height is a plus, but not compared to the lack of oxygen I am fighting. In the brisk, sixty degree morning weather (sixty degrees!), Georgia, RoRie, and I ran for a bit. Ten minutes in, my body was just fine, but my lungs were not. It was like they had forgotten how to work and little needles were threatening to poke all around them. I would breathe in as much as I could, and the oxygen just would not be enough.

I am not alone, though. Today we also hiked the short but precipitous trail just outside our house, and 59-year-old Hoffa took it like a champ. After we decided that all Compton trips forevermore will be tracked with the hashtag #ComptonsConquer, Hoffa kept brainstorming. As he caught up to us huffing, he announced he had another hashtag idea.

"How about...[deep inhale, heave of breath] #ChildrenPonderParentalProperty...andPerhaps...PursuePatrocide...astheyProceed...TowardthePrecipice."

"Yeah, hashtags don't really work like that, Hof, but good alliteration. We'll try not to kill you on this hike."

It always takes a little while for the Comptons to settle in somewhere. We have failed for seven years straight to do any significant advance research before a trip, so we spend the first day or so checking out the area and lounging around the house. A few years ago, my frustrations over our inability to get going before noon almost ruined my whole experience, but we have found a balance. This morning Mama and I hashed out a list of things we would like to do while we are here to go forth with a bit of purpose.

I doubt we will accomplish everything, but I am already satisfied with our goals, and I bet we will check off over three quarters of the list. While it still takes several more hours than I prefer to rally ourselves out the door, I have since learned to content myself with the rhythm of vacation, slowing down and filling my need for productivity with writing, reading, praying, and running. 

Most of all, I am thankful for this precious time with the people I love the most. Twenty-three years after my parents ventured on their trip around the world, the legend continues. Though the novelty of riding planes may have worn off since 2007, I treasure these trips we share, especially now that their future is hazy. With the uncertainties that accompany post-graduation, the annual Compton family adventure may begin to disintegrate, losing members to full-time jobs and the responsibilities of adulthood. Hopefully we can still keep it going, but for now, I will appreciate these past seven years, and I will enjoy the present. Thank you, Hoffa, the head of our house, for taking five other people around the world on your dime. Thank you, Mama, for being the neck to turn him toward an annual Compton adventure. May Durango be fun and memorable, and may the travel schemes continue!

Cruisin'

(Friday, 4 pm #WiFi Scarcity)

“Where’d you go?” my dad asks when I answer my cell phone. He had seen me on the porch all morning charging through the Epic of Gilgamesh – only the third bullet on a long list of summer reading assignments for English Seminar this coming year. The humidity had run me off, though, and I had retreated to the living room AC.

“I’m on the couch, Hof.” Man, cell phones have made us lazy.

“Well come on back outside for a second. I want to talk about something with you.”

For the purpose of this post, here are some things you should know about my father, who my family and I affectionately refer to as “Hoffa”:

In general, he is not a very thoughtful gift-giver, and he is definitely not a planner. As a businessman, he often runs with his out-of-the-box ideas. He is a natural delegator and prefers for others to do work for him. For instance, if Mama ever goes out of town, rather than cooking dinner, there is a nine in ten chance that we’ll be eating at a restaurant. He may be lazy on occasion, but he is also the king of unpredictable fun. I don’t know of any other father who has surprised his children (and wife) with a dock platform and thirty-foot rope swing! Above all, Hoffa is loving. He greets friends and strangers alike with a tight bear hug that will leave them gasping for air, and humbly goes out of his way to help treat others with kindness.

Since I had reminded Hoffa the previous day that Mama’s birthday would be tomorrow, I figure he is summoning me to help him with some last-minute outlandish birthday scheme. I am interested to see what crazy idea he has concocted, so without argument I close Gilgamesh and return outside.

“Mama has been working hard at Old South,” he says very seriously as I sit back down in the Adirondack chair next to him. “She needs to fly somewhere with cool weather for a couple days and relax.” For most people, this idea would almost be too ridiculous to believe. I just keep listening. This is such a typical Hoffa move, making up forgetfulness with extravagance. “I was thinking you could take her for her birthday. Look up some direct flights out of Charleston for tomorrow.” Now there was a curveball even I wasn’t expecting. There are perks to living at home for the summer and working for one’s father.

After a few searches, excitement building with each click, I reply, “Well, there’s Boston, Chicago, New York City...Selfishly, I’d choose Chicago.” Within minutes Hoffa has me recite the flight number and begins dialing United Airlines.

But look at those flight prices! I think. Chicago isn’t even that much cooler. And then we have to figure out a place to stay and check out the Chicago sights and walk around everywhere. It would be a lot like my weekend jaunts back in Italy – full of exploration and highly educational, but flat-out exhausting. Hoffa has good intentions, but a last-minute trip to a hectic city is not what Mama needed, especially at such a high price tag.

“Wait, Hoffa! Don’t call yet.”

I’m really not sure what made me even check. Maybe it was the daydreaming I had been doing of a potential spring break getaway this coming year. I did not know anyone who has been a passenger lately; the last time we partook in this gluttonously fun festival was a decade ago. I, like many Charlestonians, had become blind to the giant red, white, and blue eyesore of a smokestack fin sticking out over the harbor. For whatever reason, though, I find myself searching for upcoming departures.

“What about a cruise?!”

Bingo. In two days, the Carnival Fantasy would be embarking on a five-day sail to the Bahamas. The Bahamas! Now that sounded like a relaxing vacation. What’s more, it was a third of the price of a plane ticket. I share this information with Hoffa.

“Huh. Well that actually sounds pretty good,” he says. “But FIVE days?! I don’t know if I can handle everything around here that long.” Oh, brother. He needed a taste of Mama’s life.

Rather than booking the cruise online then and there, Hoffa had to ensure that we get the best price available. He contacts Cameron from Carnival Cruise line inquiring on any last minute deals with the persuasiveness that only Hoffa can muster. Cameron gives us the same price that I found online. Exasperated, Hoffa retorts that we already know about this price. We’re calling him for a deal.

“Are you working with a travel agent?”

“No, man! We’re using the Big I, the Internet! This is last minute, ship’s leaving either way. We don’t have to go, but shouldn’t the law of supply and demand work in our favor?”

“Uhhh, I think that’s already a pretty discounted price, sir. I can check with my manager and call you back.”

“Yeah, you do that. We’re countin’ on you, now, Cameron.  Call me back.”

Oh, Hoffa.

***

Georgia: “WHAT THE HECK?! If anyone needs a vacation, it’s me.”

Rosa Marie: “I could come back from Girls’ State early!”

Cain: “That’s so unfair! Why wasn’t I invited?”

Mama: “Wow. I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Y’all certainly are creative. What fun!”

These are the immediate responses to the announcement over dinner that Mama and I would shortly be cruising to the Bahamas. Cameron can’t provide a lower rate, but Hoffa decides to book it anyway.  It is unfair, and if I were in my siblings’ shoes, I would have had the same reaction. But, as it was, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

I’d like to take a moment and set the record straight. I am not a huge advocate of cruises. I appreciate the boost their devoted passengers provide to the Charleston tourist industry (and thus, the Compton family income.) I understand that they are incredibly convenient and more economically feasible than alternative modes of travel. But cruising has got to be one of the most superficial forms of “travel” around. Rather than diving into a different culture and meeting locals, you immerse yourself even deeper into a bounty of American consumerism. Upon port of call, some 2,000 homogenous sunburnt Caucasians barge onto a pristine coastal town for five hours, pushing the tacky-ometer to disgustingly high levels. I think my beef is that it’s so easy. It takes all the fun out of the difficulties of adventure and travel – no navigation, no research, no work at all. Cruises are also terrible – TERRIBLE – for the environment. The fact that Carnival even has an environmental policy that is “committed to pollution prevention” I find quite comical. There are unusually high numbers of of grossly obese people exposing too much cellulite. Yet somehow, there is still an even greater amount of food waste. That kills me, especially when most of the waiters clearing our plates of leftovers are from countries plagued by extreme poverty. If all they know of America is from their service on deck, I cringe to think of what their impression of our country is.

And yet, despite my reservations, Mama and I have now been onboard 24 hours, and I am so grateful to be here. This isn’t travel, and that’s okay. Chicago would not have been rejuvenating. This is vacation, and the momentum from our busy lives is slowing down. In his spontaneity and generosity, this is the best kind of birthday present Hoffa could have given Mama. She desperately needs to catch up on sleep and to be served copious supplies of delicious food. As I write, my mother has now slept a solid three hours in the middle of the afternoon. She really is one of the most selfless people I know, but even she must make time for herself. No one deserves a few days of R&R more than her.

As for me, I don’t need a recuperation vacation. I had the flexibility to go and be Mama’s companion though, and this trip is exciting nonetheless. I’m not a very good relaxer, but it is nice to have several straight days of free time to read, write, and meet new people. Plus, with three other siblings, I never anticipated an opportunity to enjoy extended time just with my mom. I can already tell this time together will be a memory both of us treasure for the rest of our lives.

Even though Mama slept right through our plan to enjoy a cocktail by the pool this afternoon, I have a toast. Cheers to one of the most deserving mothers around. Cheers to a loving Hoffa, to good conversation, no preparation, and lots of relaxation. And, reluctance aside, cheers to cruising!

The (best) detriment to my focus

The good news: I'm starting to crank some important work out.
The bad news: Hoffa stepped on my laptop last weekend (seriously?!), I had to send it off to the Dell Elves, and now I'm working from the desktop office computer.

Which means that my sisters have me pinned. They can push, know how to push, and do push just the right buttons to drive me crazy.

It also means that rather than the "Jessica is working and CANNOT be disturbed" Post-It note on the office door serving its purpose at all, it only provides an opportune medium to be vandalized...

The sisters barge in.

“Guess what-ey?!” Rosa Marie exclaims.

"Don’t say what-ey."

Preceded by a signature RoRie giggle, she responds, "I just say stuff like that to get on your nerves."

Inevitably, I roll my eyes.

"Jessica, you know what time it is?" asks Georgia, rhetorically, of course. "Time for a DANCE PARTY!!" She enters with the stereo system on her shoulders like a retro boom box, and max volume of "Turn Down for What"  begins blasting in the once-so-still office.

I could be annoyed. I could yell and scream and be the big sister bi-otch and tell them to go away. I have before, but it's not an effective tactic. It's a lot easier (and more fun) to go along with them. I sigh and shrug off my professional grown-up girl demeanor.

Within minutes all three of us are droppin’ it to the floor and attempting to twerk in our XL pajama shirts. Hoffa would have a cow.

"This is what it would be like if the three of us owned this house," Georgia proclaims. "Hashtag awesomeness."

Following our ten minute dance sesh, RoRie doesn't miss a beat. "Hashtag it’s time for you to come snuggle." As I begin to physically force her out of the office, she turns the tables on me and tries to push me into my bedroom right by the office. "Pleeeeeease."

She doesn't win, but these are the kinds of distractions with which I have dealt all summer - and all my life. Though they may occasionally keep me from my work, they also keep me from being too serious and boring. My sisters ensure that life stays fun, and, I confess, I'm glad to call them mine.

Summer Growing Pains

This morning, I decided I wasn’t going to work until I had done all the things I wanted to do. I went for a run, I had an extended quiet time with Jesus, I read chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird and A Reason for God. And now, in an eerily empty, calmingly still house, I am writing. Finally. Ideally, I would do all of this every morning before my day really began rolling. Alas, it’s already far past noontime, and I am learning that it just isn’t realistic for a day-to-day regimen.

I’m always excited to return to Charleston, and more importantly, to return to the people I love the most - the Compton Clan. While most people find authentic friendships and discover their identity in college, I struggled to replicate at Roanoke something I already knew intimately in high school. When Roanoke was hard, I used to crave time back at home. I needed it to replenish me and to assure me that I had real roots and community. But when I packed my belongings in D.C. over a month ago, it was the least eager I’ve been to come home.

What?! Jessica, the girl who obnoxiously talks about “the best city in the world” didn’t want to go back? I know, I know. It wasn’t because my love for home had lessened. It’s just that I have had so many enriching experiences – traveling, working in a professional environment, not living in a dorm room or depending on a meal plan. Somewhere in this past year, I grew up. I think like an adult, I work (kind of) like an adult, I interact with other adults…I am an adult, and that’s a good thing. But I am currently living in the house of my childhood, and after a year of independence and freedom, not responsible for anyone else’s schedule or needs other than my own, living with my family has been a rockier adjustment than I anticipated.

It’s still a cheery, bustling mad house here at 964 Tall Pine Road, but I, in the egotism and amnesia produced by years away at college, had forgotten what that was like. My tactic to make a daily list and knock it out bullet by bullet has proved frustratingly unproductive. Focus is unattainable and distractions are incessant; despite the numerous rooms in this house, there is no quiet abode. My stuff is never where I put it, hurricanes destroy anything I clean, and I feel like I can’t get a lick of personal undertakings accomplished.

What happened to the regular blogger? The disciplined student? The task oriented worker?

She gave herself up for her family. It took a few weeks, but I have re-learned family life. I needed to return to Barney’s preschool lessons of sharing and sibling kindness. I was no longer living amongst the polite formalities of platonic, respectful roommates. I am with my family - not just any relatively normal American family, but the Comptons, whose sharing policies are borderline socialist.  My clothes, my hair brush, my face wash and purse and even underwear are no longer mine at all! I go shopping in Georgia and Rosa Marie’s closet, and they check out mine.  Cain drives the Jeep, and I am without a car. Hoffa will mow the lawn at Sugah Cain for hours, leaving Mama with...pretty much everything else. So much for personal schedules; I must let go and move with the natural ebb and flow of Compton life. I am stretching, rediscovering the flexibility I must practice in a large family.

Last semester I learned what life as a young, single professional is like. The day is full, but it's not too complicated, and you're aware of all that must be done. Now I am experiencing a different kind of "internship" altogether. Ultimately, I am my mother’s apprentice. I am learning how to juggle a full work week, my own interests and to-do’s, and the needs of five other autonomous individuals. Some days I work at Old South, other days I help Mama with house projects. No day is ever the same, and you can't prepare for the left field curve balls. Motherhood, even when all of the chickadees are pretty much grown up, is damn hard. Mama is the most giving, sacrificial person I know, and I am trying to emulate her. In some ways, I am doing alright.

But I’m 21, and I can’t break my self-centeredness. Aside from things that must be done - the Fulbright and Rotary scholarship applications linger, English Seminar summer reading is rather lengthy, and I haven’t even begun the TEFL online class I plan on taking– there are still things I really want to do this summer for my personal development and enjoyment. Train for a half marathon, pleasure read, swing dance, rock climb, serve, hang out with friends…

What has perturbed me the most is my inability to sit down and write. At the end of the IJM internship, we did a values seminar and took a ten question speed quiz in efforts to reveal our most immediate values. Two of my answers stood out to me:

1. You are covered on the front of a magazine. What does the title say?

Travel Writing Teacher Covers 6 Continents

2. If you had two extra hours every day, what would you do with those 14 hours a week?

Write.

How is it that this summer, with oodles more margin in my schedule, I have only written two blog posts? I like writing, it's evidently a value I esteem and want to do, and I’ll only become better with practice. I have so many stories to share; writing about backpacking consumed my thoughts on the trail, yet have you heard about my trip? I so often want to apologize for my inconsistency to you, readers, but really I should apologize to myself. I think the reason I haven't written more is that writing, real writing - descriptive, riveting, polished – is hard. It is a craft that requires discipline and concentration and rather significant chunks of time. I have prioritized my family, work, and friends over it, which are significantly easier to allocate time to.

Today has been so rejuvenating, and it has reminded me of the importance of taking time for oneself. Myers-Briggs once reported that I am half extrovert, half introvert, and I have been doing myself a disservice lately by neglecting the time I need by myself. Boundaries must be established. I’m still not certain how or where to redraw them, but time rations will be changing. Despite my "family first" mentality, these interests of mine deserve a high priority, too. Somewhere in the stretching, between the demands of home life and the discoveries and adventures of young adulthood, I will find what fits.

This is what a 90-year-old Southern grandma sounds like...

My grandmother, Mary Ellen Cain Compton, is a force to be reckoned with. Nicknamed "Sugah Cain" in her early years because she was so sweet, she is more commonly known simply as "Sug" now. She grew up in Sumter, South Carolina; raised five children in Summerville; and after being widowed over thirty years ago, found retirement community at the Presbyterian Home. She is Southern as Southern gets, and as she climbs into her nineties, an increased love for wine and an irrational, yet pleasant and endlessly entertaining humor has replaced the strict manners and stubbornness she was infamous for in her earlier years.

Kizzy, one of her fantastic round-the-clock caretakers, passed along one such incident.

Sug:     Call my mom so I can tell her goodnight.
Kizzy:  Ms Sug, your mother is in Heaven.
Sug:     Myyyyy mom is not in Heaven. She's in Sumter. You don't know what you're talking about.
Kizzy:  Ms Sug, you are 90 years old, so it would be impossible for your mom to be alive...So if you are 90,            how old would that make your mom?
Sug:    94. Now get out of my blessed room.

Oh, my dear grandmother. As long as you're on her good side, you can't help but love her.

Summer 2013

Two years ago was the best summer of my life. 2011 will always be the summer. I graduated from high school and had the world by its tail. I was looking forward to the new circumstances of college. All of June I interned at Camp St. Christopher. Sure, I mopped kitchen floors and filled up water coolers, but I was also a part of an incredible camp staff and grew a lot in my relationship with God. Weekends consisted of swing dancing, grillouts at Oakland, and City Church.  Native Charlestonians a year older than me, those who had previously been mere acquaintances, returned from their first year of college, and deep friendships were kindled between us. That summer I gained an appreciation for who I am and where I am from.

But this summer. Dang. What a summer. It was totally different, but it, too, was very sweet. Forever sealed in my memory as the Family Summer. I am bound to a  special clan – the Compton Clan – and I never feel quite as whole as when I am back with them. You probably don’t even know exactly what this past summer looked like for me because I blogged about 20% as often as I wanted to. (Sorry). But I was living, and sometimes it’s hard to slow down enough to devote the necessary time to truly share all that has happened. So, just as I did at the end of April, let me give you a small recap of the highlights.

Love

I chose to come home this summer because I knew it very well could be the last summer at home with all of my siblings. Gosh I love them. I didn’t end up doing anything too intentional, but just being, living together. Eating dinner, going to church, exercising, watching movies. It was just really special. Most college students are itching to leave after a few weeks, but that never happened. I have loved snuggling with RoRie and being available to go to breakfast with Hoffa or run errands with Mama.

Travel

Cambodia – I wrote. A lot. My faith was challenged. A lot. I experienced the culturaeof Southeast Asia, and I loved it. Sitting on an ancient temple watching thousands of Buddhist monks parade by. Listening to Vuttah’s laugh. Meeting the most polite, genuine people. Playing with the cutest kids on earth. Witnessing dirt poverty and passing by real brothels.  Long, bouncy bus rides. Red clay roads. Unreal tropical beaches. Dry rice patties. Five extra pounds of steamed white rice and Blue Pumpkin Icecream. That is what I remember.

Costa Rica – Walking. Lots and lots and lots of walking. Adventurous excursions. Chill time. Unreal sunsets. Green on green foliage. Early sunsets and earlier sunrises. Ten hours of alarm clockless sleep. Getting creative in the kitchen. Casados. Mojitos. Expensive grocery stores. Real conversations with my siblings. Strangers becoming friends. Family Bible studies. Finding God on a mountain. The kindest people on earth. That is what I remember.

Cove Creek Camping – Every summer we move half of our possessions to a valley in the Pisgah Forest for four days and partake in some serious upscale camping. This summer, we outdid ourselves with a new Taj Mahal of tent canopies.

As I walked about ten feet behind, a passerthru’s kid pointed to our site and proclaimed, “Mom, that’s not real camping!”

“No,” I piped up, “but it sure is comfortable!”

Hiking. Skinny Dip Falls was my favorite this year. Always hiking. But also feeling like an actual grownup. And realizing all of the other kids are teenagers. Investing in relationships more than hiking. Hanging out in the lower meadow. Laughing at (and also being kind of concerned about) at my navigationally challenged sisters who turned a 45 minute trip from Ashville into a seven hour tour of the state. Frigidly floating down an icey river on an overcast day. (That was my awesome idea.) Fellowshipping in the truest sense of the word. That is what I remember.

Work

Waitressing – “Hey y’all! Welcome to Taco Mamacita. My name is Jessica, and I’ll be serving you this evening. Can I get you started with something to drink?

“Would you like an appetizer? Guacamole, Queso, Chips and Salsa?”

“ We have three types of salsa – red, verde, and mango.”

“Escabeche is pickled onion.”

“Chorizo is Mexican sausage. They’re kind of like bacon bits.”

“No, we don’t have normal beef tacos. Or quesadillas. Unless you want to spend $12.99.”

“I recommend the Mexican Street Corn. It is an ear of corn with chipotle cream sauce and parmesan cheese.”

“Yes, it’s spicy.”

“Y’all enjoy.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll have the manager fix that right away.”

“Can I get that out of your way?”

“How about some dessert? We have King of Pops!”

“Thanks for coming y’all! It was a pleasure serving you.”

These lines are an engrained part of my memory taking up a little too much space. I learned a lot and worked hard in a way I have not before. Shifts turned into weeks of work on work, all blending together. I messed up a whole lot, and then I just messed up occasionally. I improved, and I didn’t get fired. I have a new appreciation for the people that serve me when I go out to eat. I know how to tip 20% in my head now. I made and saved some money. I learned a new management style. I hung out with people I wouldn’t have otherwise, and I think I got to bless some of them, too. I wanted one summer to waitress, I got it, and now it’s out of my system. I’ll remember my waitress schpeel forever.

House – I also got to help Mama a lot with different odd jobs at home. We cleaned out the garage and the office at Old South. Filing and counting, a lil’ bit of Point of Sale stuff at the barn. I went grocery shopping for her at Trader Joe’s sometimes. Occasionally, I made dinner. It was so fun to spend time with her and help this saint out in whatever ways I could. I love her a lot, and I like to make her life easier.

IJM Application – I blame this application on my absence from the blogging world. But yes, it is done. I have applied to be an intern at International Justice Mission in the Spring, and you know what? It might just happen. I don’t want to get my hopes too high, but I’ve made it through the initial application, the survey questionnaire (it rolled onto the 9th page people), and a phone interview. I had pretty low expectations to begin with, but the more I invested in each step of the process, the more I really want to work here. So we shall see.

So here I am, sitting at gate A26 in the Philadelphia airport listening to old potbellied Italian men speaking their native tongue.  It’s impossible to smear the smile of excitement off my giddy, squinty-eyed face. The day has finally arrived; I am going to study in Italy. Hopefully, I’ll do a lot more than study. I am going to drink Italian wine and walk Italian roads and speak Italian. I’ll meet new friends and find a Nonna and dance. I will go on some of the best adventures of my life yet. I hope you’ll follow them.

Arrivaderci!