There are moments when you know you are witnessing something special like the antique olive oil press that still functions in Bethlehem, Israel, or the prancing Lipizzaner stallions in Vienna, Austria or the changing of the Guard at the WWII Memorial in “Red Square” Moscow, Russia. Today was one of those moments in Ortisei Italy.
The Val Gardena region of the Italian Alps is home to the most famous wood carving artists in all of Europe and you can’t “swing a cat” (sorry PETA) without hitting a store that has “original wood carvings” displayed in its windows. A large percentage of the carvings are of religious figures such as Jesus on the Cross, Madonna and Child, Padre Pio, the patron saint of Val gardena, St. Elizabeth "Feeding the Beggar", St. Joseph the Carpenter and endless pieces of Roman Catholic and Christian statuary that helps chronicle 2000+ years of religious history.
Since I was a small boy I was taught to observe and respect the artisan. It is so rare indeed that one gets to watch something be transformed from one form, in this case a tree, into something awe-inspiring like a 7ft tall Blessed Mother. You know it’s going to be special the second the door opens to the Stuflesser Shop as the bells clang to alert the staff there is a visitor and the whiff of the fresh linden and pine wood rushes into your nostrils. SC Johnson, the household products company and maker of Glade air fresheners, has been trying to reproduce this magnificent smell for years in its chemistry lab but nothing is capable of replacing the olfactory sensation that is made as a craftsman splits wood with his century old chisels. This isn’t a Stanley tool workshop and nothing in the entire shop says “Made in China” or can be purchased at a Wal-Mart.
The wood carving shop is almost 7 generations young and has been in the same Ferdinand Stuflesser Family since its inception. Our guide today was Filip Stuflesser and his love for the family business and its history was so genuine that even our 9 year old, Pearse, raised an eyebrow when Filip said “That carving is over 100 years old done by carvers with my grandfather.” At home we live in a fast paced and oft quoted “throw away society” but as we look around this wonderful shop the kids see amazing works of art waiting to grace the walls and sacristy of Churches in Armenia, Naples Italy, Florida. There are pictures of Stuflesser’s with past Pope’s and recent Pope’s, Bishop’s and Monsignor’s. The shop walls have Church history literally etched into them.
The boys move from room to room and learn the “process of wood carving.” We see it start from a drawing and then to a soft clay rendering. The customer makes changes and approves it and then a 1:1 drawing is made. As Filip explains the process we see a nearly 7 ft tall and 2 1/2 foot wide Madonna with Child about 65% complete and beside her is yet another Blessed Mother close to completion. The block of wood is assembled, actually glued and then once cured it is hoisted to the carving station. There it sits with the middle wood hewn out and removed to make it lighter and easier to carry and less expensive to ship. It is breath taking.
The boys are snapping their heads back and forth from a bust of Jesus just after the “crowning of thorns” to a set of Angels in various stages of completion that includes Filip's quick lesson on gold leafing. There are a number of works already completed and sitting and waiting to be shipped to new customers or returning works that have to be restored. I gander towards Seamus and Pearse and they look confused, heads cocked to the side, looking at each other and pointing as Jesus lay down next to His Cross with wooden nails sitting on the floor and his right and left arms nestled next to the shipping container across the room, the ultimate human jigsaw puzzle. I suspect the boys will never look at Jesus on the Cross behind the Altar the same after today’s field trip.
Our guide answered many questions from the boys including “What do you do if the chisel slips and you knock off Jesus’ nose or something?” Filip smiled and responded calmly, “What would you do Pearse?” and Pearse said “Glue it back on before my dad sees it!” Filip laughed out loud and said “That’s exactly what we do too.” Eamon wondered “How does someone get a job here?” The response was “It is a small town and we know who has the talent as a wood carver.” He pointed to the 2 men in the shop and said “They are father and son.” It was apropos as the son lifted the big wooden mallet and a huge chisel to slice and knock off large pieces of pine wood while only 4 feet away the father was using a hand chisel that looked like a dental instrument making slight twists and turns to make feathers for the “wings of an angel.” It was poetry in motion.
It is rare that a “field trip” can interest 3 kids that are dramatically different in age but today was a rare moment where the Glavin boys are mesmerized by the talents of the craftsman. It’s not a “fan page” on Facebook or the latest video game, no it was old fashioned respect and appreciation for someone’s ability to make lasting beauty from a tree.
Click here to see the woodcarving video
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
We Are All Italian at Carnival
Each group arrived on Friday in the “City of Canals” on different yet, complex modes of transportation; we arrived on airplanes, buses and trains reminding us of man’s amazing ingenuity. Ann and Pearse arrived extremely late from Egypt via a mad dash across the Roma airport to catch the last plane to Venice. We all laugh when Pearse recounts to the delight of all “Mom actually ran for the first time in Europe, it was funny!” Mary, my sister and Kristen, a 
long time family friend, arrive haggard and a bit tired via Munich, Germany from America, a journey that started 18 hours ago on Thursday. Eamon, Seamus and I arrived on our second train of the day from Verona, home to Romeo and Juliet, after taking the bus and a train from Ortisei, Italy to Balzano.
As we chugged across Italy on the final train, Seamus asked innocently, “Dad when we will know when it’s Venice?” Eamon, smirk intact, looked at him like only a 15 year old could in between winks of sleep and the changing of the I-Pod selection and says “There will be a lot of WATER, you see any WATER yet?” Such is our life this fine morning that started at 5:00 AM with so much anticipation. I look at the train ticket and know we’re behind schedule and try as I might I am still struggling with adding the “42 minutes late” that the Verona to Venezia train was to the platform to what was the expected arrival time of 11:18AM. Let’s see 42 +1118 is….? Where is Ann when I need her? She would have chuckled at me when I was pacing the platform, nervously, in Verona and I asked every Italian guy with a green/blue brimmed cap and a cigarette in his mouth, 2 sure signs they worked for the railroad, “Train to Venezia????” Why did they insist on answering me in Italian, I didn’t ask them in Italian? I think to myself, “When I rule the world some day everyone in bus stations, train stations and airports will speak English!” You heard it here first.
The train makes the next to last stop in Maestro and I know the next stop is Venice. I alert Seamus who sharply elbows a sleeping Eamon and says “Dude, WATER.” Eamon deserved that so I let it pass. It is a mystical Harry Potter like feeling as the only thing between us and the city is a solo bridge with train tracks. It is surreal as the train slows and we can see commerce afloat on water craft of every shape and size below us. The train platform is packed with people and as we hop from the steps of the train with 1 suitcase that holds the clothes, change of underwear and tooth brushes for all 3 of us for the weekend (mom will be appalled). We laugh at the lady with 2 huge suitcases that barely fit through the door as she screams at her husband or boyfriend in a language we didn’t understand but we know it’s not Italian.
The exit from the train station in Venice is one of the most picturesque sights in the world. Most train stations empty you into some corner of a city or right into city center and then there is the mad dash to a loved one waiting in a car or one hustles to the metro, taxi stand or bus station. When you arrive in Venice, almost everyone that emerges from the train station stops, even the locals, and for the briefest of moments one’s heart fills with overwhelming admiration. Your
mind races to absorb and process the image of the “Grand Canal” flowing by the plaza, not a car or bus in sight. It is the stuff of poetry, literature and movie alike and for that very moment you feel like the poet, the writer or the director all in unison. As I look at Eamon and Seamus I can see simple appreciation for “the water” and it is best summed up by both of them “How cool!”
It takes all day and all night to get Team Glavin fully assembled in Venice. Aunt Mary and Kristen wind up 1hr and 15 minutes late from Munich. We work through the challenges of the bus, getting tickets and negotiating the crowd for seats. The airport is flooded with people; can you say that in Venice where the airport is at Sea level? Eamon and Seamus maneuver as the bus driver opens the door and they stake our seats for all of us. Mary and Kristen marvel at their planning and execution as the bus pulls from the curb and our weary American travelers are grateful to have seats as the #5 airport bus is packed with folks from all over the world coming to Venice for its famous “Carnival.” Eamon looks at Kristen and says “We’re pretty good at getting seats after 8 months on trains, planes and buses.” She’s grateful to have such an experienced 15 year old on the trip. His bravado and travel experience is short lived as I send him to look for a water taxi once we land back at the transportation center to take us to the apartments we have rented. He returns to us a bit miffed and embarrassed and says “See that boat, he’s not a taxi?” Seamus says duh “Didn’t you see the Polizia sign painted in Big Blue letters on the side?” Eamon laughs and says “No wonder he looked at me funny and shook his head when I said ‘How much to take us to this address as I handed him the paper.’” We all roared with laughter and it was the beginning of “Carnival” for us. Eamon popped back to the other side of the dock, Seamus yelling to him, “No Polizia, no Guarda, no Securidad this time, okay.” Everyone laughs again when Eamon returns and declares “Success, I’ve located the ‘real’ water taxi.” We boarded the taxis and made our way through the canals of Venice as the portly captain negotiated the narrow waterways. I sat outside and looked inside the cabin of the boat from where the driver sat and it looked like 4 of those bobble head dolls in the back of a car window as everyone’s head was bouncing right and left up and down absorbing all that is so unique to Venice.
Ann and Pearse arrived in Venice so late that the clock turned to Saturday but nothing could dampen their spirits not even the “lost luggage” from Rome. Pearse was filled with stories of the great pyramids, the sphinx, grave robbers and instructions on how to make papyrus. He was so tired and talked so much I think he missed that our apartment required a boat to access! Ann called from the airport and then the bus station and I waited on the “bridge over the canal” by the apartment, like a navy man standing watch, hoping as each boat passed by the apartment that it would be the one to bring home our last 2 family members.
It is the Saturday before Ash Wednesday and we are greeted by amazing sunshine and the sounds of moored boats knocking against their docks as other boats make waves going by. The forest green shutters that keep the noise and sunlight dampened are opened and all that is Venice is 2 stories below us. It is a sensational feeling as I attempt to rouse the team to experience this magical Venetian morning, I am a bit puzzled when my exuberance is met with “That water and those canals will still be there in a couple hours won’t they?” It’s hard to argue that point as they have history on their side. Aunt Mary, an early riser, takes a walk with me and we buy some fresh baked goods and some “American café.” How do you say “To go” in Italian? It is a brief walk but you can hear and see the city coming to life as the merchants slam and roll up the steel door barricades and slide stools and tables to the front of the stores and sidewalks, glasses are clinging as bars are loaded for the days festivities and sweeping commences from shop to shop. It’s like a pre-game ritual for their Super Bowl.
We leave the apartment and make our way, zig zagging from side to side and narrow street to narrow street over canals and beside canals. There isn’t a straight line to San Marco Square but who cares; today isn’t about speed it’s about enjoyment of the moment. Shop keepers have masks of all shapes and sizes in their windows inviting the curious to venture in and lose themselves in the greatest of the Carnival traditions, “The man or woman behind the mask.” You can be anyone you want to be, happy or sad, silly or serious and some masks allow you to be all of those things at once. There are people of all shapes and sizes walking the streets and promenading; they just want to have fun. There’s no prize at the end just the feeling of making oneself anonymous and if you’re lucky you make someone else happy as well. The costumes are magnificent and the kids and adults alike are on a full day’s walk just to “people watch.” There are Victorian costumes and one’s of Henry the VIII and Marie Antoinette, the court jester and the harlequin, there are the most elaborate ensembles and the simplest of masks. You can’t pass a canal bridge without seeing fully dressed adults as if they are waiting on the Universal Studios lot for the cast call to the movie Gone with the Wind or Amadeus. How many times can you say in a day “This is so cool?”
The 7 of us walked from right to left and forwards and at times backwards as we make the way to San Marco Square. With 3 kids you worry about crowds of 300,000+ people but with Saint Mark the Lion staring down from his lofty perch you felt immensely safe. There’s music playing as if Italian weddings are taking place all over the city. The walk along the Grand Canal is joyous and a mix between bumper cars and a stadium entrance for a USC vs. Notre Dame Football game, the face painting is included. A quick look down each canal and you can see the famous gondolier piloting his 11 meter boat around buildings with millimeters to spare. Seamus looks longingly and wonders when the magical phrase will be uttered “Let’s take a gondola ride.” Pearse is mumbling and I think he is praying that we don’t actually have to go to Church at St. Mark’s. Eamon and Kristen are having a staccato type conversation, rapid fire that is befitting their ages. As the hours pass we slowly accumulate masks and capes and hats for the team and before we know it we are outfitted for Carnival. I look at Mary and say “It’s a long way from Darby isn’t it?” Her simple nod of the head is affirmation enough.
The Plaza at St. Mark’s square is filled to capacity with revelers from around the world. You hear Italian, Spanish, German, English and French it is a cacophony that would make the United Nations proud. There’s amazing “floats” and a stage for performances. To be here at this moment is one of life’s amazing gifts as you look on what is sure to be centuries of tradition
dating back as far back as the deMedicci’s, perhaps.
Seamus is itching for a gondola ride and as we approach a bridge with a guy working and selling the crowd he asks “Can we do it now?” I tell him “Go negotiate the best deal you can for 7 of us.” Eamon goes as his wing man and they run back with the deal of the century. I don’t know if it was good deal or a bad deal but the 2 of them were like cats that ate the canary (Sorry if any one is a PETA member). We climb into the rocking gondola and our gondolier leans up and tells Pearse “If I say Polizia you scrunch down, we only allowed 6 in gondola at a time.” Seamus looks at Eamon and says “Hope it’s not the Polizia water taxi you asked to take us to the apartment!” We all laugh hysterically as Ann shoots us a quizzical look. There are only so many memorable “transportation moments” in one’s life your first camel ride and your first gondola ride have to be at the top of the list and Pearse had them both in the same week! We glided from canal to canal like a black water snake as I watched one person or another in our boat lean right or left with the hope that they could aid the man with the huge oar and avoid destroying his century old boat. He ducked and maneuvered under bridges and whistled at cross points so no unsuspecting collisions took place. It was the simplest of transport but you couldn’t help but feel regal as folks from the bridges look pleased to see you glide by and waved to the kids who were smiling from ear to ear.
Monday came to fast and as the water taxi picked up all 7 of us with bags and rolling suitcases in hand we made our way to the train station. As I jumped up the last step and looked over my shoulder I could still feel the poet, the writer and the film maker in my heart as I took one last look at the Grand Canal during Carnival.
Carpe Diem.
long time family friend, arrive haggard and a bit tired via Munich, Germany from America, a journey that started 18 hours ago on Thursday. Eamon, Seamus and I arrived on our second train of the day from Verona, home to Romeo and Juliet, after taking the bus and a train from Ortisei, Italy to Balzano. As we chugged across Italy on the final train, Seamus asked innocently, “Dad when we will know when it’s Venice?” Eamon, smirk intact, looked at him like only a 15 year old could in between winks of sleep and the changing of the I-Pod selection and says “There will be a lot of WATER, you see any WATER yet?” Such is our life this fine morning that started at 5:00 AM with so much anticipation. I look at the train ticket and know we’re behind schedule and try as I might I am still struggling with adding the “42 minutes late” that the Verona to Venezia train was to the platform to what was the expected arrival time of 11:18AM. Let’s see 42 +1118 is….? Where is Ann when I need her? She would have chuckled at me when I was pacing the platform, nervously, in Verona and I asked every Italian guy with a green/blue brimmed cap and a cigarette in his mouth, 2 sure signs they worked for the railroad, “Train to Venezia????” Why did they insist on answering me in Italian, I didn’t ask them in Italian? I think to myself, “When I rule the world some day everyone in bus stations, train stations and airports will speak English!” You heard it here first.
The train makes the next to last stop in Maestro and I know the next stop is Venice. I alert Seamus who sharply elbows a sleeping Eamon and says “Dude, WATER.” Eamon deserved that so I let it pass. It is a mystical Harry Potter like feeling as the only thing between us and the city is a solo bridge with train tracks. It is surreal as the train slows and we can see commerce afloat on water craft of every shape and size below us. The train platform is packed with people and as we hop from the steps of the train with 1 suitcase that holds the clothes, change of underwear and tooth brushes for all 3 of us for the weekend (mom will be appalled). We laugh at the lady with 2 huge suitcases that barely fit through the door as she screams at her husband or boyfriend in a language we didn’t understand but we know it’s not Italian.
The exit from the train station in Venice is one of the most picturesque sights in the world. Most train stations empty you into some corner of a city or right into city center and then there is the mad dash to a loved one waiting in a car or one hustles to the metro, taxi stand or bus station. When you arrive in Venice, almost everyone that emerges from the train station stops, even the locals, and for the briefest of moments one’s heart fills with overwhelming admiration. Your
mind races to absorb and process the image of the “Grand Canal” flowing by the plaza, not a car or bus in sight. It is the stuff of poetry, literature and movie alike and for that very moment you feel like the poet, the writer or the director all in unison. As I look at Eamon and Seamus I can see simple appreciation for “the water” and it is best summed up by both of them “How cool!”It takes all day and all night to get Team Glavin fully assembled in Venice. Aunt Mary and Kristen wind up 1hr and 15 minutes late from Munich. We work through the challenges of the bus, getting tickets and negotiating the crowd for seats. The airport is flooded with people; can you say that in Venice where the airport is at Sea level? Eamon and Seamus maneuver as the bus driver opens the door and they stake our seats for all of us. Mary and Kristen marvel at their planning and execution as the bus pulls from the curb and our weary American travelers are grateful to have seats as the #5 airport bus is packed with folks from all over the world coming to Venice for its famous “Carnival.” Eamon looks at Kristen and says “We’re pretty good at getting seats after 8 months on trains, planes and buses.” She’s grateful to have such an experienced 15 year old on the trip. His bravado and travel experience is short lived as I send him to look for a water taxi once we land back at the transportation center to take us to the apartments we have rented. He returns to us a bit miffed and embarrassed and says “See that boat, he’s not a taxi?” Seamus says duh “Didn’t you see the Polizia sign painted in Big Blue letters on the side?” Eamon laughs and says “No wonder he looked at me funny and shook his head when I said ‘How much to take us to this address as I handed him the paper.’” We all roared with laughter and it was the beginning of “Carnival” for us. Eamon popped back to the other side of the dock, Seamus yelling to him, “No Polizia, no Guarda, no Securidad this time, okay.” Everyone laughs again when Eamon returns and declares “Success, I’ve located the ‘real’ water taxi.” We boarded the taxis and made our way through the canals of Venice as the portly captain negotiated the narrow waterways. I sat outside and looked inside the cabin of the boat from where the driver sat and it looked like 4 of those bobble head dolls in the back of a car window as everyone’s head was bouncing right and left up and down absorbing all that is so unique to Venice.
Ann and Pearse arrived in Venice so late that the clock turned to Saturday but nothing could dampen their spirits not even the “lost luggage” from Rome. Pearse was filled with stories of the great pyramids, the sphinx, grave robbers and instructions on how to make papyrus. He was so tired and talked so much I think he missed that our apartment required a boat to access! Ann called from the airport and then the bus station and I waited on the “bridge over the canal” by the apartment, like a navy man standing watch, hoping as each boat passed by the apartment that it would be the one to bring home our last 2 family members.
It is the Saturday before Ash Wednesday and we are greeted by amazing sunshine and the sounds of moored boats knocking against their docks as other boats make waves going by. The forest green shutters that keep the noise and sunlight dampened are opened and all that is Venice is 2 stories below us. It is a sensational feeling as I attempt to rouse the team to experience this magical Venetian morning, I am a bit puzzled when my exuberance is met with “That water and those canals will still be there in a couple hours won’t they?” It’s hard to argue that point as they have history on their side. Aunt Mary, an early riser, takes a walk with me and we buy some fresh baked goods and some “American café.” How do you say “To go” in Italian? It is a brief walk but you can hear and see the city coming to life as the merchants slam and roll up the steel door barricades and slide stools and tables to the front of the stores and sidewalks, glasses are clinging as bars are loaded for the days festivities and sweeping commences from shop to shop. It’s like a pre-game ritual for their Super Bowl.
We leave the apartment and make our way, zig zagging from side to side and narrow street to narrow street over canals and beside canals. There isn’t a straight line to San Marco Square but who cares; today isn’t about speed it’s about enjoyment of the moment. Shop keepers have masks of all shapes and sizes in their windows inviting the curious to venture in and lose themselves in the greatest of the Carnival traditions, “The man or woman behind the mask.” You can be anyone you want to be, happy or sad, silly or serious and some masks allow you to be all of those things at once. There are people of all shapes and sizes walking the streets and promenading; they just want to have fun. There’s no prize at the end just the feeling of making oneself anonymous and if you’re lucky you make someone else happy as well. The costumes are magnificent and the kids and adults alike are on a full day’s walk just to “people watch.” There are Victorian costumes and one’s of Henry the VIII and Marie Antoinette, the court jester and the harlequin, there are the most elaborate ensembles and the simplest of masks. You can’t pass a canal bridge without seeing fully dressed adults as if they are waiting on the Universal Studios lot for the cast call to the movie Gone with the Wind or Amadeus. How many times can you say in a day “This is so cool?”
The 7 of us walked from right to left and forwards and at times backwards as we make the way to San Marco Square. With 3 kids you worry about crowds of 300,000+ people but with Saint Mark the Lion staring down from his lofty perch you felt immensely safe. There’s music playing as if Italian weddings are taking place all over the city. The walk along the Grand Canal is joyous and a mix between bumper cars and a stadium entrance for a USC vs. Notre Dame Football game, the face painting is included. A quick look down each canal and you can see the famous gondolier piloting his 11 meter boat around buildings with millimeters to spare. Seamus looks longingly and wonders when the magical phrase will be uttered “Let’s take a gondola ride.” Pearse is mumbling and I think he is praying that we don’t actually have to go to Church at St. Mark’s. Eamon and Kristen are having a staccato type conversation, rapid fire that is befitting their ages. As the hours pass we slowly accumulate masks and capes and hats for the team and before we know it we are outfitted for Carnival. I look at Mary and say “It’s a long way from Darby isn’t it?” Her simple nod of the head is affirmation enough.
The Plaza at St. Mark’s square is filled to capacity with revelers from around the world. You hear Italian, Spanish, German, English and French it is a cacophony that would make the United Nations proud. There’s amazing “floats” and a stage for performances. To be here at this moment is one of life’s amazing gifts as you look on what is sure to be centuries of tradition
dating back as far back as the deMedicci’s, perhaps.Seamus is itching for a gondola ride and as we approach a bridge with a guy working and selling the crowd he asks “Can we do it now?” I tell him “Go negotiate the best deal you can for 7 of us.” Eamon goes as his wing man and they run back with the deal of the century. I don’t know if it was good deal or a bad deal but the 2 of them were like cats that ate the canary (Sorry if any one is a PETA member). We climb into the rocking gondola and our gondolier leans up and tells Pearse “If I say Polizia you scrunch down, we only allowed 6 in gondola at a time.” Seamus looks at Eamon and says “Hope it’s not the Polizia water taxi you asked to take us to the apartment!” We all laugh hysterically as Ann shoots us a quizzical look. There are only so many memorable “transportation moments” in one’s life your first camel ride and your first gondola ride have to be at the top of the list and Pearse had them both in the same week! We glided from canal to canal like a black water snake as I watched one person or another in our boat lean right or left with the hope that they could aid the man with the huge oar and avoid destroying his century old boat. He ducked and maneuvered under bridges and whistled at cross points so no unsuspecting collisions took place. It was the simplest of transport but you couldn’t help but feel regal as folks from the bridges look pleased to see you glide by and waved to the kids who were smiling from ear to ear.
Monday came to fast and as the water taxi picked up all 7 of us with bags and rolling suitcases in hand we made our way to the train station. As I jumped up the last step and looked over my shoulder I could still feel the poet, the writer and the film maker in my heart as I took one last look at the Grand Canal during Carnival.
Carpe Diem.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
She Still Has That Hounds Tooth Suit Coat
As our friendly Cuban barber made the final pass with his glistening stainless steel straight edge, I was happy he wasn’t a Sweeny Todd fan but then again some guys in the shop said "marriage is a death sentence itself." All the books said “Don’t get a haircut” on THE DAY but they didn’t say anything about the fresh shave from a professional. As he leans the chair back and wraps the hot towel on my 26 year old face I am transported to a world just a couple years back and 
remembering “the moment.” It still makes my heart flutter and my body go warm when I think about it today which I am sure is the best of all signs.
She sat across the crowded Irish Center that was filled well beyond capacity that night; but, I am certain the Philadelphia Fire Marshal named Doherty or McLaughlin, or something like that, wouldn’t visit and make a stink on a night dubbed the Donegal Ball, would he? It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving and this Irish Dance is a tradition as important to the Donegal immigrants as the crowning of this year’s Queen. Our squad of Glavin’s and McGinley’s arrived reasonably early, in typical Irish fashion with 15-18 cousins who said “yes” to the rallying cry “Let’s Go to the Donegal Ball.” Naturally we had a few “under age” but we’re seasoned at getting by bouncers checking ID’s; one generation teaches the next how to slip thru the door. To this very day I still know my oldest brothers social security number and birth date by heart, even his zodiac sign for the specially trained doorman! BTW, his name is Michael, big surprise, and his zodiac sign is “Scorpio” if you must know!
We were at a table at one end of the hall, close to the band. Most of the older folks are seated at the other end of the hall away from the band, choosing to “visit” the dance floor instead of "spilling" on to it like us. You can mark the ages and generations in the Irish Hall by table designations, 20’s next to the loud speakers and dance floor, 40’s about halfway down so they can chat, gossip and pass judgment (a special Irish talent), 60’s close to the door, pocketbooks in hand, for the “early exit” and 70’s and 80’s smattered about the hall with their hands over their ears screaming “Padraig or Bridgid, the music is too loud!” I always find this interesting since I can usually hear them complaining above the music, go figure! Our table is filling with bodies and Budweiser’s and the laughs come as fast as the “reels and the jigs.”
Everyone appreciates a young group of girls and boys doing the traditional Irish dances and the courtesy afforded these dancers is as reverent as in any Church; talk about DNA mapping.
It doesn’t take long to survey a room, especially in your middle 20’s. What did Goose say to Maverick in the movie Top Gun, “A target rich environment.” There were beautiful girls everywhere and music, beers and laughs with family made for one heck of a fun start to the evening. I often ask myself “What is it about the look across a room and the ability to know?” She was dressed in a jet black skirt, slightly above the knee, a white, dare I say puritan blouse, and a black and white hounds tooth checked jacket. I saw her when the crowds separated as one song caused the floor to empty and the next caused it to fill. It was a change from "fast" dance music to a melodious Irish waltz which had the back of the room coming to the dance floor and the "non waltzing" 20’s and 30’s headed to the bar. There she was the picture post card of the "beautiful Irish woman" and unbeknownst to me, my future wife.
It only took a few more Budweiser’s and a song that I knew wouldn’t make me look like a fool on the dance floor for me to get the courage to ask for a dance. I remember the feeling of the heart pounding, the chest a bit inflated under my argyle sweater, no Abercrombie and Fitch in those days, and the adrenaline of hope. I’d already declared that “I am going to ask her to dance” to the team assembled at the table and I knew rejection would make for a long long walk back to the table. I learned later that Ann was flanked by her mom and dad and she was, gasp, the designated driver. That information would have probably altered my approach, if not stopped it in its tracks, as I was hoping she’d had a few drinks over the course of the evening as well. I am a much more handsome man if the girl’s had a few gin and tonics! Most who know me today, know that I took the “pledge”, which is Irish for “On the wagon,” but I can tell you today that more than a few beers on this late November evening provided just enough liquid courage to chart a magnificent new course in my life. FYI, you won’t see that on any AA brochures.
I am convinced that had I lived in Greece, the Oracle of Delphi would have predicted, “You’ll meet your future wife tonight,” and I didn’t even have to sacrifice a dove or a ram. It was fate and PETA was happy. The conversation was easy, the attraction stronger by the minute, and the watchful eye of the parents less intimidating by the second. Ann, ever the smart one, shielded me from the watchful eye of her Galway dad. What started as a night of family fun ended with an exchange of phone numbers, a peck on the cheek and the seeds for the start of a another Irish generation planted. Ann moved to Washington DC and lived with her sister Mary and brother-in –law John and I was working in DC selling drugs…no no pharmaceuticals. Like I said, it was fate. I remember the first date, walking up to the door of the Olney, MD house, thinking “Nice pad”, as John Kane opened the door and welcomed me to his home. I am pretty sure I heard him sigh a familiar sigh like the one from my roommate in college; the name Maurice conjures so many
images. Ann and I headed to Bethesda for Italian food, even though deep down I wanted a steak, and we talked as if we’d known each other for years. Ann says she knew that night; I was a bit more recalcitrant. I probably knew too but I’m nothing if not a bit slower on the uptake in this relationship.
The Wedding Day was announced for February 2, 1991, Groundhogs Day if you must laugh; most folks wondered “Why in such cold weather?” If you must know, college spring breaks and college lacrosse schedules made for a challenging calendar and for a guy madly in love, sooner was certainly better than later. An Irish guy can only take so much guilt. So the magical day arrived, the weather so beautiful it proved that prayers of Irish mom’s can be heard in PA and DE. I waited patiently at the Altar with my freshly shaved face and my 2 week old haircut as the doors to the St. Catherine’s vestibule opened and I flashed back to that dimly lit Irish hall in Philadelphia and thought “Where’s the Fire Marshall when you need him?” Just kidding!!!!
As we cemented our vow “To love and to honor…” this very day 19 years ago I am overwhelmed at the commitment we made to each other, even today. We have experienced so much together. There are things I won’t ever forget like the day she said “I’m pregnant…all 3 times,” the magical difference of the night the tears rolled down her face, pregnant with Eamon, and said “Maurice, I’m scared!” and the day she leaned over the upstairs railing at Weldin Ridge, expecting 180 people for our annual Christmas party Dec 16th, and said “Maurice, we need to go to the hospital, its time.” Our youngest, Pearse, was born a few hours later, a millennium baby. My brothers and sisters managed the night’s party and not suprisingly most of them were at that fateful Irish Dance not so many November’s ago. The look of “no shit Sherlock” on Ann's face when I announced “I want to quit my job and start a company” and shortly there after the look on her dad’s face when he said “Is he out of his mind?” The day we moved the business out of the house on Ruby Drive into the first commercially leased building because Eamon was coming home from the hospital. The day Ann announced that she was done working at Booz, Alan and Hamilton. We picked schools and changed and rebuilt homes; we made business decisions and established life goals together. So many memories like the day we both agreed to leave everything and travel Europe for a year with our 3 boys. We listened carefully to successfully married couples like our parents and heeded their advice when they said “Enjoy marriage and life together, it goes so fast.” Oh how true, is it Groundhogs Day….again?
Before I close, to those guys that said “Marriage is a death sentence” I say to you “oh contraire” marriage is Ponce de Leon’s spiritual “Fountain of Youth.” To my bride, the mother of our children and my best friend I say, today, the simplest of words again “I Do”, and “I love you.” Now where’s the priest that says “You may now kiss the bride?” He can even say it in “Italian” if he wants: "Lei potrebbe baciare ora la sposa!
Carpe Diem.
remembering “the moment.” It still makes my heart flutter and my body go warm when I think about it today which I am sure is the best of all signs.She sat across the crowded Irish Center that was filled well beyond capacity that night; but, I am certain the Philadelphia Fire Marshal named Doherty or McLaughlin, or something like that, wouldn’t visit and make a stink on a night dubbed the Donegal Ball, would he? It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving and this Irish Dance is a tradition as important to the Donegal immigrants as the crowning of this year’s Queen. Our squad of Glavin’s and McGinley’s arrived reasonably early, in typical Irish fashion with 15-18 cousins who said “yes” to the rallying cry “Let’s Go to the Donegal Ball.” Naturally we had a few “under age” but we’re seasoned at getting by bouncers checking ID’s; one generation teaches the next how to slip thru the door. To this very day I still know my oldest brothers social security number and birth date by heart, even his zodiac sign for the specially trained doorman! BTW, his name is Michael, big surprise, and his zodiac sign is “Scorpio” if you must know!
We were at a table at one end of the hall, close to the band. Most of the older folks are seated at the other end of the hall away from the band, choosing to “visit” the dance floor instead of "spilling" on to it like us. You can mark the ages and generations in the Irish Hall by table designations, 20’s next to the loud speakers and dance floor, 40’s about halfway down so they can chat, gossip and pass judgment (a special Irish talent), 60’s close to the door, pocketbooks in hand, for the “early exit” and 70’s and 80’s smattered about the hall with their hands over their ears screaming “Padraig or Bridgid, the music is too loud!” I always find this interesting since I can usually hear them complaining above the music, go figure! Our table is filling with bodies and Budweiser’s and the laughs come as fast as the “reels and the jigs.”
Everyone appreciates a young group of girls and boys doing the traditional Irish dances and the courtesy afforded these dancers is as reverent as in any Church; talk about DNA mapping.It doesn’t take long to survey a room, especially in your middle 20’s. What did Goose say to Maverick in the movie Top Gun, “A target rich environment.” There were beautiful girls everywhere and music, beers and laughs with family made for one heck of a fun start to the evening. I often ask myself “What is it about the look across a room and the ability to know?” She was dressed in a jet black skirt, slightly above the knee, a white, dare I say puritan blouse, and a black and white hounds tooth checked jacket. I saw her when the crowds separated as one song caused the floor to empty and the next caused it to fill. It was a change from "fast" dance music to a melodious Irish waltz which had the back of the room coming to the dance floor and the "non waltzing" 20’s and 30’s headed to the bar. There she was the picture post card of the "beautiful Irish woman" and unbeknownst to me, my future wife.
It only took a few more Budweiser’s and a song that I knew wouldn’t make me look like a fool on the dance floor for me to get the courage to ask for a dance. I remember the feeling of the heart pounding, the chest a bit inflated under my argyle sweater, no Abercrombie and Fitch in those days, and the adrenaline of hope. I’d already declared that “I am going to ask her to dance” to the team assembled at the table and I knew rejection would make for a long long walk back to the table. I learned later that Ann was flanked by her mom and dad and she was, gasp, the designated driver. That information would have probably altered my approach, if not stopped it in its tracks, as I was hoping she’d had a few drinks over the course of the evening as well. I am a much more handsome man if the girl’s had a few gin and tonics! Most who know me today, know that I took the “pledge”, which is Irish for “On the wagon,” but I can tell you today that more than a few beers on this late November evening provided just enough liquid courage to chart a magnificent new course in my life. FYI, you won’t see that on any AA brochures.
I am convinced that had I lived in Greece, the Oracle of Delphi would have predicted, “You’ll meet your future wife tonight,” and I didn’t even have to sacrifice a dove or a ram. It was fate and PETA was happy. The conversation was easy, the attraction stronger by the minute, and the watchful eye of the parents less intimidating by the second. Ann, ever the smart one, shielded me from the watchful eye of her Galway dad. What started as a night of family fun ended with an exchange of phone numbers, a peck on the cheek and the seeds for the start of a another Irish generation planted. Ann moved to Washington DC and lived with her sister Mary and brother-in –law John and I was working in DC selling drugs…no no pharmaceuticals. Like I said, it was fate. I remember the first date, walking up to the door of the Olney, MD house, thinking “Nice pad”, as John Kane opened the door and welcomed me to his home. I am pretty sure I heard him sigh a familiar sigh like the one from my roommate in college; the name Maurice conjures so many
images. Ann and I headed to Bethesda for Italian food, even though deep down I wanted a steak, and we talked as if we’d known each other for years. Ann says she knew that night; I was a bit more recalcitrant. I probably knew too but I’m nothing if not a bit slower on the uptake in this relationship.The Wedding Day was announced for February 2, 1991, Groundhogs Day if you must laugh; most folks wondered “Why in such cold weather?” If you must know, college spring breaks and college lacrosse schedules made for a challenging calendar and for a guy madly in love, sooner was certainly better than later. An Irish guy can only take so much guilt. So the magical day arrived, the weather so beautiful it proved that prayers of Irish mom’s can be heard in PA and DE. I waited patiently at the Altar with my freshly shaved face and my 2 week old haircut as the doors to the St. Catherine’s vestibule opened and I flashed back to that dimly lit Irish hall in Philadelphia and thought “Where’s the Fire Marshall when you need him?” Just kidding!!!!
As we cemented our vow “To love and to honor…” this very day 19 years ago I am overwhelmed at the commitment we made to each other, even today. We have experienced so much together. There are things I won’t ever forget like the day she said “I’m pregnant…all 3 times,” the magical difference of the night the tears rolled down her face, pregnant with Eamon, and said “Maurice, I’m scared!” and the day she leaned over the upstairs railing at Weldin Ridge, expecting 180 people for our annual Christmas party Dec 16th, and said “Maurice, we need to go to the hospital, its time.” Our youngest, Pearse, was born a few hours later, a millennium baby. My brothers and sisters managed the night’s party and not suprisingly most of them were at that fateful Irish Dance not so many November’s ago. The look of “no shit Sherlock” on Ann's face when I announced “I want to quit my job and start a company” and shortly there after the look on her dad’s face when he said “Is he out of his mind?” The day we moved the business out of the house on Ruby Drive into the first commercially leased building because Eamon was coming home from the hospital. The day Ann announced that she was done working at Booz, Alan and Hamilton. We picked schools and changed and rebuilt homes; we made business decisions and established life goals together. So many memories like the day we both agreed to leave everything and travel Europe for a year with our 3 boys. We listened carefully to successfully married couples like our parents and heeded their advice when they said “Enjoy marriage and life together, it goes so fast.” Oh how true, is it Groundhogs Day….again?
Before I close, to those guys that said “Marriage is a death sentence” I say to you “oh contraire” marriage is Ponce de Leon’s spiritual “Fountain of Youth.” To my bride, the mother of our children and my best friend I say, today, the simplest of words again “I Do”, and “I love you.” Now where’s the priest that says “You may now kiss the bride?” He can even say it in “Italian” if he wants: "Lei potrebbe baciare ora la sposa!
Carpe Diem.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Go Speed Racer Go
The calm brisk Sunday morning was pierced by the latching and snapping of the white and gray alpine racing boots. It’s 7:45 AM and the jitters are already evident in the body language and terse responses to the series of questions I pose. I recall from my past that “Game Day” brought an intensity that is hard for some to understand and I also recall that many teammates had different ways to get mentally prepared. Additionally, team sports are a totally different preparation than individual sports like wrestling, boxing or running a race which require a comfort level with being on the island with overwhelming effort the only way back to the land of civilization. It is the unknown that Eamon is faced with today and that makes it both special and frankly unnerving. Today, his locker room will be a 25 minute ride in a Carolina Blue gondola, irksome to a Duke dad, but some things one simply can’t control. He’s had 4 practices and his coach is the old fashion type, if you can be old fashioned at 30 years of age. When Eamon queries “What do I do?” he simply looks at him and says in broken English with a Godfather like Italian accent, “Go down the hill faster than the other guys and try not to fall.” A bright toothy grin splits his wind burned olive skinned face. Eamon gives him that American teenager look but dare not say what he’s thinking “Are you freakin kiddin me?”
Some things in sports are universal and alpine snowboard racing is no different. There are kids and overprotective parents everywhere on the steep slope, all with different regimens to get them ready. There are boys and girls, woman and men; some with slick expensive suits with shin guards and others like Eamon with an Alpine look that says “beginner” but a freestyle confidence that says “ever jumped 30 feet in the air off a ramp?” We don’t understand the language they speak but you can pick out the leaders fairly quickly and you can see the kids that talk a good game but once in the start house their mouths are faster than their boards. Kids are the same the world over.
Eamon slides over to us as we make our way to the varying vantage points to watch the race, Ann with camera in hand and the lens that can spot a mountain ram on the next peak. He is still unsure of his racing spot but he is proud to flash us his bib that reads #100. I chuckle thinking if that was a Math grade I’d be elated. In this case he’ll be one of the last from the start house. As racer after racer leaves the gate Eamon has a look like he’s the 100th guy waiting to be executed. The quick turns from side to side by kids 5 years younger than him make his anxiety level rise and to make it a bit worse for our teenage boy the first series of competent slalom participants are girls.
The course is a tight steep series of blue and red right triangles positioned so the hypotenuse is to the board side turn side of each gate. Racer after racer scoots by us with varying degrees of success and anxious parents can be seen bobbing and weaving as they mimic the motion of their child coming down the mountain at breakneck speed. The exhilaration can be felt from the start line to the finish line as each racer swooshes by us. Seamus and Pearse look up the hill and ask about 99 times “Is that Eamon?” and “Is Eamon going?” His distinctive plaid, ripped pants (seriously, they’re actually ripped) and brown sweat shirt appear in the start house
with the small metal timing bar imperceptible at his shin bones. Like in the Spielberg movie ET, my heart and mind are in synch with Eamon’s anxiety as he leans back to thrust himself thru the gate for the mad unknown dash down the extraordinarily steep slope. His slick red/green alpine board is ripping thru the snow and ice but I am too far down the slope to hear the crunching and carving that the change of weight brings. His arms rotate quickly from side to side and in the last few days he’s taught me that “speed comes from the hips.” He navigates the first 8-9 gates and I am thrilled to see such a great 1st run and then suddenly a huge cloud of snow like a grenade exploded under his board and the brown bullet is ricocheting off the course. “What happened?” “What will he do?” are the 2 questions that pop into my mind. These are the moments that define sports. Eamon’s arms are flailing as he inches his way uphill slightly, chopping the snow like his alpine board is a clever to get around that precarious blue gate and he begins his descent again. I know he’s bummed and the energy is clearly drained from him but I am so proud. It is in the correction of the failure that great strength is derived. As he slides by me, I scream to him knowing from experience that he can’t hear me but it makes me feel better. I can see his frustration but he can’t sense my pride. He makes the final gate a
nd dashes to the finish, just out of my line of sight after the last change in terrain, his time 118.4.
I strap into my board and make my way to the finish line. Eamon is disappointed, sad and self-deprecating. It will take time for today’s personal victory to set in and I am reminded of the many many days and contests that didn’t result in the victory. It will be hours if not days until Eamon understands that today he took a giant step towards excellence. A week ago he was an American boy enjoying time in the Italian Alps snowboarding with his brothers. Today, he strapped into an Alpine board, couldn’t understand the gate instructions shouted at him in Italian and leapt from the start house with courage and a desire to succeed with his best effort; him against the mountain and the clock. With the Italian Alps rocketing by like a dream sequence he leaned and carved, and although the result wasn’t for the podium today the memory will be as strong as the effort of my oldest son. Although no one could understand me, I was excited to say “He’s my son!”
Some things in sports are universal and alpine snowboard racing is no different. There are kids and overprotective parents everywhere on the steep slope, all with different regimens to get them ready. There are boys and girls, woman and men; some with slick expensive suits with shin guards and others like Eamon with an Alpine look that says “beginner” but a freestyle confidence that says “ever jumped 30 feet in the air off a ramp?” We don’t understand the language they speak but you can pick out the leaders fairly quickly and you can see the kids that talk a good game but once in the start house their mouths are faster than their boards. Kids are the same the world over.
Eamon slides over to us as we make our way to the varying vantage points to watch the race, Ann with camera in hand and the lens that can spot a mountain ram on the next peak. He is still unsure of his racing spot but he is proud to flash us his bib that reads #100. I chuckle thinking if that was a Math grade I’d be elated. In this case he’ll be one of the last from the start house. As racer after racer leaves the gate Eamon has a look like he’s the 100th guy waiting to be executed. The quick turns from side to side by kids 5 years younger than him make his anxiety level rise and to make it a bit worse for our teenage boy the first series of competent slalom participants are girls.
The course is a tight steep series of blue and red right triangles positioned so the hypotenuse is to the board side turn side of each gate. Racer after racer scoots by us with varying degrees of success and anxious parents can be seen bobbing and weaving as they mimic the motion of their child coming down the mountain at breakneck speed. The exhilaration can be felt from the start line to the finish line as each racer swooshes by us. Seamus and Pearse look up the hill and ask about 99 times “Is that Eamon?” and “Is Eamon going?” His distinctive plaid, ripped pants (seriously, they’re actually ripped) and brown sweat shirt appear in the start house
with the small metal timing bar imperceptible at his shin bones. Like in the Spielberg movie ET, my heart and mind are in synch with Eamon’s anxiety as he leans back to thrust himself thru the gate for the mad unknown dash down the extraordinarily steep slope. His slick red/green alpine board is ripping thru the snow and ice but I am too far down the slope to hear the crunching and carving that the change of weight brings. His arms rotate quickly from side to side and in the last few days he’s taught me that “speed comes from the hips.” He navigates the first 8-9 gates and I am thrilled to see such a great 1st run and then suddenly a huge cloud of snow like a grenade exploded under his board and the brown bullet is ricocheting off the course. “What happened?” “What will he do?” are the 2 questions that pop into my mind. These are the moments that define sports. Eamon’s arms are flailing as he inches his way uphill slightly, chopping the snow like his alpine board is a clever to get around that precarious blue gate and he begins his descent again. I know he’s bummed and the energy is clearly drained from him but I am so proud. It is in the correction of the failure that great strength is derived. As he slides by me, I scream to him knowing from experience that he can’t hear me but it makes me feel better. I can see his frustration but he can’t sense my pride. He makes the final gate a
nd dashes to the finish, just out of my line of sight after the last change in terrain, his time 118.4.I strap into my board and make my way to the finish line. Eamon is disappointed, sad and self-deprecating. It will take time for today’s personal victory to set in and I am reminded of the many many days and contests that didn’t result in the victory. It will be hours if not days until Eamon understands that today he took a giant step towards excellence. A week ago he was an American boy enjoying time in the Italian Alps snowboarding with his brothers. Today, he strapped into an Alpine board, couldn’t understand the gate instructions shouted at him in Italian and leapt from the start house with courage and a desire to succeed with his best effort; him against the mountain and the clock. With the Italian Alps rocketing by like a dream sequence he leaned and carved, and although the result wasn’t for the podium today the memory will be as strong as the effort of my oldest son. Although no one could understand me, I was excited to say “He’s my son!”
Sunday, January 10, 2010
What I Thought was Awesome and What I Thought Was Different About Switzerland By Pearse
What was different :
There was only one snowboard shop in Grindelwald.
The bus schedule was messed up.
Our house was on a hill.
The language is German. Schneerose, our chalet name, means snow flower in German.
What I thought that was awesome about Switzerland :
What I thought that was awesome about Switzerland :
Long trails for snowboarding! Woohoo!
Bussalp was the really really fun SLEDGING trail!
Good food (because made by mom). It was awesome that we could find the food.
Backdoor, the snowboarding shop, got all our stuff except my boots (the boots that I wore the whole time we ended up buying them because I was so used to them)
We had Internet the whole time!
We had a unforgettable Christmas and Christmas Eve if you saw the video.
I had my birthday at Switzerland
That's all… For now tatta
By Pearse
Friday, January 8, 2010
It’s not a Sprint it’s a Marathon: 6 Months and Counting
It is an almost impossible task to synthesize the experience of 6 months abroad in Europe with one’s family. My journal is grouped into a weekly collection of some 300+ pages of travel stories, personal musings and experiences. I have read and reread the journal while on planes or trains or waiting in the hotel lobby for Team Glavin to make its grand entrance before we launch a search for a dinner that “everyone can eat” which, by the way, is “PIZZA” the world over. I read and reread in an effort to remember the weeks that have gone by so quickly. There are days when I feel like we just started and there are days when I hope it would end tomorrow. The former feeling is much more the norm than the later.
The travel books are filled with “see this and go there” which we did and continue to do. You know you’ve traveled a bit when you look for certain types of travel books because they have better “pull out maps” than the others! Sometimes the book is “dead on the money” and sometimes I am convinced the author is a “shut in” in Poughkeepsie, NY and never came anywhere near Krakow, Poland or St. Petersburg, Russia. We learned that “4 stars hotels” means something different in every country you visit and the Amadeus Hotel in Berlin got 4 Stars on the Marilyn Chambers rating system where you could get “lucky” but rooms were rented by the hour if you know what I mean.
So how does someone sitting at home in the United States get a sense of what it’s like to be on this magical journey? I am not too sure but I thought I’d share some thoughts and experiences with the expressed goal of giving folks a glimpse into the world that is Team Glavin, a mom and dad, 2 teenagers and a young boy you all know named Pearse.
As the flight touched down in Vienna, Austria the magical mood was like a full gas tank on the RV. You’re not sure how many kilometers it will last but your grateful for the strong, fresh start. We built a list before we left America of things “we gotta do” and we kept that list handy in order to make plans. We did simple stuff like see an Opera in the Vienna Stat Operahaus and watched the Vienna Boy’s Choir live in the concert hall. We went to see the Brandenburg Gate and the
spot where the Berlin Wall once stood and saw a 200m world record demolished in the Berlin Olympic stadium, a stone’s throw from Jesse Owens Street. The “to do” list is long but it gives you some framework and in years to come you know the kids will says “I’ve been there” when Ryan Seacrest says “Here’s how they celebrate New Year’s in the Kremlin” or this is “Mass in St. Catherine’s in Bethlehem where Christianity commenced” which, by the way, we watched on CNN while in Grindelwald, Switzerland. The “places we’ve been and things we’ve done” will act like markers on a treasure map of this amazing 6 month journey. How can the kids or the parents forget the rush hour metro ride in Moscow, Russia or the ferry ride across the Baltic Sea from Gdansk, Poland, home of the solidarity movement, to Stockholm, Sweden home to Nobel Prizes?
There are 1000’s of pictures taken by Ann as a visual chronicle of the journey. When they say a picture is worth a 1000 words a few hours on her Kodak gallery is like a glimpse into the not so private Glavin museum, open for 6 months. It’s not DaVinci’s “Last Supper” in Milan or the Goya’s “Colossus” from the Predo in Madrid. It won’t be studied by millions of college kids in Art History class or by art enthusiasts but it is surely a visual record of the soul of the adventure. There are funny moments captured like the restaurant salesman in Istanbul, Turkey or Colleen’s “hair raising” wind on the hydrofoil from Bratislava to Vienna. You’ll see the precious folded hands of the first Communicant, Pearse, in Capernaum, Israel and the mud from the Dead Sea smeared all over Eamon and Seamus. There’s snap shots of quiet moments captured like the awe of the Cathedral in Toledo and the Duomo in Milan and the setting sun on the Sea of Galilee. There are funny faces on trains, planes and trams and even a few where the kids are actually sitting still. The kids still laugh and say “Not another Church or Castle?” but I’ll bet they will recall theses different places in years to come and a smile will crease their lips as the picture of the cannon ball, bigger than Pearse, in Salzburg Austria will remind them that castles were fortifications first and torture for generations of traveling children later.
So, “What’s it like to travel with 3 kids for 6 months 24 hours a day 7 days a week?” is a question oft posed by stranger, friend and family alike. It’s kind of like opening “Pandora’s Box” and finding out that someone introduced amphetamines into the “box” just before you opened it. No 2 days are alike and the mix of teenager angst, insecurity in a foreign culture and insatiable curiosity makes for amazing days and unforgettable moments. We cherish the days where everyone is well rested and say a silent prayer more frequently than we care to admit, that no one will say anything to interrupt the “karma” train when all is well. The kids are grizzled veterans of the European train system and marvel at the “public transportation system” as it is a way of life in all of the major cities. They make their way through airport security like traveling salesman on a Monday morning in any American city, fast and streamlined. As expected the biggest challenge is keeping them fed, separating the tired from the rested and locating doctors and dentists when needed. It is one of life’s simple pleasures to watch Eamon make a video come to life and see “what he sees” as the most important parts of a city just visited. Seamus, we’ve learned, is funny in every country in Europe and “ginger haired” Pearse would fetch a pretty good price in Istanbul if you were still allowed to sell kids. Trust me there are days when I think that law should be revisited if not overturned!!! In a nut shell, our kids are the catalyst to the most memorable vacation experience known to man.
Finally, I say to you, for it all to work you must “love your wife” and she must “love her husband.” There are amazingly long days punctuated by the stints of overwhelming boredom. It is these moments that pose the greatest of challenges. Perhaps it is something in the human genome, I don’t know, but it is these moments that bring about the greatest test of compatibility. We’ve learned that a nice cold walk or a fine glass of wine is a much better antidote than the answer to the incessant question “What do you want to do?” followed by the reply “I don’t know,” “What do you want to do?” We joke that I am the human pack mule and Ann is the human GPS but in the end we’ve learned that we need each other more today than when we left in July and that is the greatest gift we’ve received on this wonderful adventure.
So I leave you with this thought, while there is truly evil in the world, as we saw in the concentration camps of Auschwitz, there is so much beauty and so much in which to delight. Our 5 has become 1 and that is the truest development of this fine and extraordinary sojourn.
The travel books are filled with “see this and go there” which we did and continue to do. You know you’ve traveled a bit when you look for certain types of travel books because they have better “pull out maps” than the others! Sometimes the book is “dead on the money” and sometimes I am convinced the author is a “shut in” in Poughkeepsie, NY and never came anywhere near Krakow, Poland or St. Petersburg, Russia. We learned that “4 stars hotels” means something different in every country you visit and the Amadeus Hotel in Berlin got 4 Stars on the Marilyn Chambers rating system where you could get “lucky” but rooms were rented by the hour if you know what I mean.
So how does someone sitting at home in the United States get a sense of what it’s like to be on this magical journey? I am not too sure but I thought I’d share some thoughts and experiences with the expressed goal of giving folks a glimpse into the world that is Team Glavin, a mom and dad, 2 teenagers and a young boy you all know named Pearse.
As the flight touched down in Vienna, Austria the magical mood was like a full gas tank on the RV. You’re not sure how many kilometers it will last but your grateful for the strong, fresh start. We built a list before we left America of things “we gotta do” and we kept that list handy in order to make plans. We did simple stuff like see an Opera in the Vienna Stat Operahaus and watched the Vienna Boy’s Choir live in the concert hall. We went to see the Brandenburg Gate and the
spot where the Berlin Wall once stood and saw a 200m world record demolished in the Berlin Olympic stadium, a stone’s throw from Jesse Owens Street. The “to do” list is long but it gives you some framework and in years to come you know the kids will says “I’ve been there” when Ryan Seacrest says “Here’s how they celebrate New Year’s in the Kremlin” or this is “Mass in St. Catherine’s in Bethlehem where Christianity commenced” which, by the way, we watched on CNN while in Grindelwald, Switzerland. The “places we’ve been and things we’ve done” will act like markers on a treasure map of this amazing 6 month journey. How can the kids or the parents forget the rush hour metro ride in Moscow, Russia or the ferry ride across the Baltic Sea from Gdansk, Poland, home of the solidarity movement, to Stockholm, Sweden home to Nobel Prizes?There are 1000’s of pictures taken by Ann as a visual chronicle of the journey. When they say a picture is worth a 1000 words a few hours on her Kodak gallery is like a glimpse into the not so private Glavin museum, open for 6 months. It’s not DaVinci’s “Last Supper” in Milan or the Goya’s “Colossus” from the Predo in Madrid. It won’t be studied by millions of college kids in Art History class or by art enthusiasts but it is surely a visual record of the soul of the adventure. There are funny moments captured like the restaurant salesman in Istanbul, Turkey or Colleen’s “hair raising” wind on the hydrofoil from Bratislava to Vienna. You’ll see the precious folded hands of the first Communicant, Pearse, in Capernaum, Israel and the mud from the Dead Sea smeared all over Eamon and Seamus. There’s snap shots of quiet moments captured like the awe of the Cathedral in Toledo and the Duomo in Milan and the setting sun on the Sea of Galilee. There are funny faces on trains, planes and trams and even a few where the kids are actually sitting still. The kids still laugh and say “Not another Church or Castle?” but I’ll bet they will recall theses different places in years to come and a smile will crease their lips as the picture of the cannon ball, bigger than Pearse, in Salzburg Austria will remind them that castles were fortifications first and torture for generations of traveling children later.
So, “What’s it like to travel with 3 kids for 6 months 24 hours a day 7 days a week?” is a question oft posed by stranger, friend and family alike. It’s kind of like opening “Pandora’s Box” and finding out that someone introduced amphetamines into the “box” just before you opened it. No 2 days are alike and the mix of teenager angst, insecurity in a foreign culture and insatiable curiosity makes for amazing days and unforgettable moments. We cherish the days where everyone is well rested and say a silent prayer more frequently than we care to admit, that no one will say anything to interrupt the “karma” train when all is well. The kids are grizzled veterans of the European train system and marvel at the “public transportation system” as it is a way of life in all of the major cities. They make their way through airport security like traveling salesman on a Monday morning in any American city, fast and streamlined. As expected the biggest challenge is keeping them fed, separating the tired from the rested and locating doctors and dentists when needed. It is one of life’s simple pleasures to watch Eamon make a video come to life and see “what he sees” as the most important parts of a city just visited. Seamus, we’ve learned, is funny in every country in Europe and “ginger haired” Pearse would fetch a pretty good price in Istanbul if you were still allowed to sell kids. Trust me there are days when I think that law should be revisited if not overturned!!! In a nut shell, our kids are the catalyst to the most memorable vacation experience known to man.
Finally, I say to you, for it all to work you must “love your wife” and she must “love her husband.” There are amazingly long days punctuated by the stints of overwhelming boredom. It is these moments that pose the greatest of challenges. Perhaps it is something in the human genome, I don’t know, but it is these moments that bring about the greatest test of compatibility. We’ve learned that a nice cold walk or a fine glass of wine is a much better antidote than the answer to the incessant question “What do you want to do?” followed by the reply “I don’t know,” “What do you want to do?” We joke that I am the human pack mule and Ann is the human GPS but in the end we’ve learned that we need each other more today than when we left in July and that is the greatest gift we’ve received on this wonderful adventure.
So I leave you with this thought, while there is truly evil in the world, as we saw in the concentration camps of Auschwitz, there is so much beauty and so much in which to delight. Our 5 has become 1 and that is the truest development of this fine and extraordinary sojourn.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Grays on Trays or Old People Snowboarding
You could hear the snickering, sense the loss of independence and see the eyes rolling in all the kids when I announce “I’m going to learn how to snowboard while we’re in Europe!” Ann’s immediate reaction is a quick check of the life insurance policy and the healthcare power of attorney. Talk about a real vote of confidence for the hubby. Hey at least my midlife crisis doesn’t involve a convertible sports car, fantasy baseball camp in Florida or a blonde bimbo named Bunny, so I got that going for me.
The first trip into the “board shop” is like a walk into a mix of psychedelic Jimmy Hendrix meets SpongeBob Square Pants. The music is loud the clothes are louder and the “sales clerks say “Dude” and “like” so much I have trouble piecing together a sentence. The ages of the 2 sales clerks added together don’t equal mine. Naturally, the first question from the “board dude” is “Like, do you free ride or freestyle?” Sensing a moment to blend in with the herd I say “Like, maybe both!” He says “Well then you’ll need a board with some sick flex and a tight camber.” One look at Eamon and I know he’s thinking “Please don’t say anything stupid.” I am reminded at that moment of Mark Twain’s quotation “At 14 I couldn’t believe how dumb my dad was and at 21 I couldn’t believe how much he learned in 7 years.” The questions continued to be confusing “How many centimeters do you want for your board, shoe size 41 or 43 cm?” and my favorite “Are you regular or goofy?” I always sucked at the metric system; darn it I should have paid more attention to my 5th grade teacher Miss Yezzi. And as far as the last question, definitely “goofy” ask anyone who knows me.
I leave the snowboard shop called “Backdoor”, honest you can’t make this stuff up, with a 159cm board, rental boots and a “let’s make it happen attitude.” The gondola ride is beautiful and I am observing Eamon and Seamus as they make adjustments to their rental equipment and test boards and talk about stuff that is as foreign to me as the German the guys working the Gondola speak. What in the world is “switch riding?”As the gondola ride surpasses its 25th minute straight up the mountain I am thinking, “Maurice, you need your head examined.” Here’s to hoping it is still attached by the time I get to the bottom of the hill.
After the gondola ride there is a short walk to the next lift called, Oberjoch, which takes you to the peak. Now the fun begins. Up til now you walked in your snowboard boots. The first heartbeat raising challenge is to “strap in.” You can hear the commitment you’re making with each spine tingling sound of the ratcheting of the plastic strap as it tightens on your toe and around your ankles. One boot secured and now the fun begins as you inch your way to the lift on your flat epoxy clad wooden board with “sick” graphics. My board brand and model is called the Solomon “Answer” and I chuckle at the irony as Solomon was the wise man from the Bible and honestly I feel like the dope from Edgmont.
Getting “on” the lift is much easier than getting “off” the lift. I’ve been snow boarding a few times but not in Switzerland and certainly not above the tree lines. I know what I need to do and as we raise the bar, heart pounding and sweat dripping, I take comfort in knowing that the 3 person pile up that is sure to happen at the bottom of the lift will be all Glavin’s. Seamus and Eamon made the courageous decision of taking the first ride with their midlife crisis dad and some folks, especially my kids, just like to be close to the accident so they can see all the blood and guts. It won’t be “Call of Duty 4” blood and guts but it could be close. I think I see a bit of joy in their faces at dad’s unsure demeanor and less than perfect balance. What’s the saying “Payback’s are a B----!”
The moment of truth is upon me, as I “strap in” the left foot making a total commitment to myself and the mountain. Hoisting myself up proves more than difficult probably the result of too may pastries in Vienna. I get my first lesson in snowboarding as Seamus demonstrates the “roll and pop up.” Was that my shoulder cracking? And did he say “Just pop up?” The last time I just “popped up” there was an insect with 8 legs and a bed sheets involved. Did I know that “roll and pop up” was going to be the order of the day? Pearse is strapped in next to me and he seems much more confident and I quip to myself “He doesn’t have
as far to fall.” He’s already had a lesson and he looks the part of the “little dude” and is already a fan favorite with folks all over the mountain.
“The first 20-50 feet are always the hardest,” that’s what I keep saying to myself. I am not sure what to take from all the people clearing away from me as quickly as they can other than they sense that the Red Coated freight train obviously has breaking problems. The look of terror on my face and the flailing arms might be another sure sign that anything in a 50 ft x 30 path is in serious jeopardy of becoming a Volvo Crash Dummy! As I make it to the first plateau I am relieved and grateful that all appendages are still attached and I’m not too concerned that snow grooming machine was following me rectifying most of my divots and replacing the snow that is now located in every hole in my jacket, pants, helmet, and body orifice created by God! Only 3 more plateaus to go and one is after the change from beginner trail to a “medium trail” and I wonder "Why is the 'medium' trail marked in the color red?”
Team Glavin streaks off down the mountain, the “dad entertainment factor” has officially worn off. I continue to assault the hill and my body but take comfort in knowing “roll and pop” is much easier after 30 times or so. I approach the steep incline, littered with bodies making it a human obstacle course. As I begin the descent I am pretty sure that the path is cleared not out of respect for the “Red Bullet” but more a survival tactic for kid, boy and woman alike. I am an indiscriminate collider. The hill is icy; it is mogul filled and changes direction 2x. It is a cruel trick to play on a guy making his first run down the mountain.
Fear is a funny thing; it can be motivating and paralyzing but I’ve never had both happen at the EXACT same time. Gravity took care of my issue, as a slight lean and 205lbs sent me hurtling down the icy sheet they call a trail. Since I don’t know how to stop without an all out body assault, I point the board down the hill and hope for the best. I don’t remember the first thump but I remember the last one as I clearly heard my mind and mouth say “Glad I wore a helmet.” The thud was loud and the screams from the chair lift above me were less than complimentary, “Dude, Bodmi is at the bottom of the mountain.” Bodmi is where they teach the 2-6 year old beginners. I look up at the moving graffiti on the chairlift and shoot them the international sign for “screw you,” too bad I’m wearing mittens, it’s like, a lot less effective.
Who says prayers don’t work, I make it to the bottom of the hill, legs burning, shoulders blistered from the “roll and pop” but essentially in one piece. I make my way to the lodge, board tucked under my arm getting a few nods and a few “What’s up dude?” and “Way to go.” So far so good and no one has called me the dreaded “poser”, the ultimate insult. I am not sure but I think folks are looking at me and giving me the “thumbs up.” Maybe just maybe they respect the effort. I get a spring in my walk and hobble up the steps to meet the family. They are having French fries and a coke for the bargain price of 22 francs. That’s 1 coke and 1 portion of french fries. As I turn the corner, feeling victorious, Pearse yells “Hey dad you okay, your nose is bleeding!” Now I know why I was getting the” thumbs up.” Nothing says commitment more than the red stuff. I look at Eamon and Seamus “Hey dudes, like, can you hand me a napkin!”
The first trip into the “board shop” is like a walk into a mix of psychedelic Jimmy Hendrix meets SpongeBob Square Pants. The music is loud the clothes are louder and the “sales clerks say “Dude” and “like” so much I have trouble piecing together a sentence. The ages of the 2 sales clerks added together don’t equal mine. Naturally, the first question from the “board dude” is “Like, do you free ride or freestyle?” Sensing a moment to blend in with the herd I say “Like, maybe both!” He says “Well then you’ll need a board with some sick flex and a tight camber.” One look at Eamon and I know he’s thinking “Please don’t say anything stupid.” I am reminded at that moment of Mark Twain’s quotation “At 14 I couldn’t believe how dumb my dad was and at 21 I couldn’t believe how much he learned in 7 years.” The questions continued to be confusing “How many centimeters do you want for your board, shoe size 41 or 43 cm?” and my favorite “Are you regular or goofy?” I always sucked at the metric system; darn it I should have paid more attention to my 5th grade teacher Miss Yezzi. And as far as the last question, definitely “goofy” ask anyone who knows me.
I leave the snowboard shop called “Backdoor”, honest you can’t make this stuff up, with a 159cm board, rental boots and a “let’s make it happen attitude.” The gondola ride is beautiful and I am observing Eamon and Seamus as they make adjustments to their rental equipment and test boards and talk about stuff that is as foreign to me as the German the guys working the Gondola speak. What in the world is “switch riding?”As the gondola ride surpasses its 25th minute straight up the mountain I am thinking, “Maurice, you need your head examined.” Here’s to hoping it is still attached by the time I get to the bottom of the hill.
After the gondola ride there is a short walk to the next lift called, Oberjoch, which takes you to the peak. Now the fun begins. Up til now you walked in your snowboard boots. The first heartbeat raising challenge is to “strap in.” You can hear the commitment you’re making with each spine tingling sound of the ratcheting of the plastic strap as it tightens on your toe and around your ankles. One boot secured and now the fun begins as you inch your way to the lift on your flat epoxy clad wooden board with “sick” graphics. My board brand and model is called the Solomon “Answer” and I chuckle at the irony as Solomon was the wise man from the Bible and honestly I feel like the dope from Edgmont.
Getting “on” the lift is much easier than getting “off” the lift. I’ve been snow boarding a few times but not in Switzerland and certainly not above the tree lines. I know what I need to do and as we raise the bar, heart pounding and sweat dripping, I take comfort in knowing that the 3 person pile up that is sure to happen at the bottom of the lift will be all Glavin’s. Seamus and Eamon made the courageous decision of taking the first ride with their midlife crisis dad and some folks, especially my kids, just like to be close to the accident so they can see all the blood and guts. It won’t be “Call of Duty 4” blood and guts but it could be close. I think I see a bit of joy in their faces at dad’s unsure demeanor and less than perfect balance. What’s the saying “Payback’s are a B----!”
The moment of truth is upon me, as I “strap in” the left foot making a total commitment to myself and the mountain. Hoisting myself up proves more than difficult probably the result of too may pastries in Vienna. I get my first lesson in snowboarding as Seamus demonstrates the “roll and pop up.” Was that my shoulder cracking? And did he say “Just pop up?” The last time I just “popped up” there was an insect with 8 legs and a bed sheets involved. Did I know that “roll and pop up” was going to be the order of the day? Pearse is strapped in next to me and he seems much more confident and I quip to myself “He doesn’t have
as far to fall.” He’s already had a lesson and he looks the part of the “little dude” and is already a fan favorite with folks all over the mountain.“The first 20-50 feet are always the hardest,” that’s what I keep saying to myself. I am not sure what to take from all the people clearing away from me as quickly as they can other than they sense that the Red Coated freight train obviously has breaking problems. The look of terror on my face and the flailing arms might be another sure sign that anything in a 50 ft x 30 path is in serious jeopardy of becoming a Volvo Crash Dummy! As I make it to the first plateau I am relieved and grateful that all appendages are still attached and I’m not too concerned that snow grooming machine was following me rectifying most of my divots and replacing the snow that is now located in every hole in my jacket, pants, helmet, and body orifice created by God! Only 3 more plateaus to go and one is after the change from beginner trail to a “medium trail” and I wonder "Why is the 'medium' trail marked in the color red?”
Team Glavin streaks off down the mountain, the “dad entertainment factor” has officially worn off. I continue to assault the hill and my body but take comfort in knowing “roll and pop” is much easier after 30 times or so. I approach the steep incline, littered with bodies making it a human obstacle course. As I begin the descent I am pretty sure that the path is cleared not out of respect for the “Red Bullet” but more a survival tactic for kid, boy and woman alike. I am an indiscriminate collider. The hill is icy; it is mogul filled and changes direction 2x. It is a cruel trick to play on a guy making his first run down the mountain.
Fear is a funny thing; it can be motivating and paralyzing but I’ve never had both happen at the EXACT same time. Gravity took care of my issue, as a slight lean and 205lbs sent me hurtling down the icy sheet they call a trail. Since I don’t know how to stop without an all out body assault, I point the board down the hill and hope for the best. I don’t remember the first thump but I remember the last one as I clearly heard my mind and mouth say “Glad I wore a helmet.” The thud was loud and the screams from the chair lift above me were less than complimentary, “Dude, Bodmi is at the bottom of the mountain.” Bodmi is where they teach the 2-6 year old beginners. I look up at the moving graffiti on the chairlift and shoot them the international sign for “screw you,” too bad I’m wearing mittens, it’s like, a lot less effective.
Who says prayers don’t work, I make it to the bottom of the hill, legs burning, shoulders blistered from the “roll and pop” but essentially in one piece. I make my way to the lodge, board tucked under my arm getting a few nods and a few “What’s up dude?” and “Way to go.” So far so good and no one has called me the dreaded “poser”, the ultimate insult. I am not sure but I think folks are looking at me and giving me the “thumbs up.” Maybe just maybe they respect the effort. I get a spring in my walk and hobble up the steps to meet the family. They are having French fries and a coke for the bargain price of 22 francs. That’s 1 coke and 1 portion of french fries. As I turn the corner, feeling victorious, Pearse yells “Hey dad you okay, your nose is bleeding!” Now I know why I was getting the” thumbs up.” Nothing says commitment more than the red stuff. I look at Eamon and Seamus “Hey dudes, like, can you hand me a napkin!”
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