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 and 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!”

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 :

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

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.

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!”

Christmas in Switzerland 2009

An old Glavin tradition was revisited on Christmas Eve. Clearly the Christmas spirit was lacking for Team Glavin and something needed to be done. We walked through town, looking right and looking left with the hope that there would be a tree somewhere. Unlike the United States there isn’t a parking lot full of Christmas trees on every corner, no fire departments, boy scouts or schools looking to draw in that last customer on Christmas Eve. There are 3 trees in front of the supermarket and you first thought is “surely there are more pine trees than this in Switzerland.” A quick glance to the Alps behind us and one’s confusion is well placed, evergreens everywhere. Where’s a timber saw when you need it? Didn’t I see a few candidates on the cold, hilly, walk home last night? We’re on a mission, we need to pick one. This isn’t the Bazaar in Istanbul, no hard bargaining like in my youth when I watched my dad, on Passyunk Avenue, say “Mister, you can sell it to me for $10 or burn it tomorrow with the rest of the one’s that didn’t sell.” We pull the “bar code” off the Christmas Tree and head into the clerk and they “ring it up” like you just bought block of cheese.

Ann, Pearse and Seamus stand at the bus stop, tree in hand laughing at the picture unfolding in front of us. Here we are, tree in hand, no car to speak of and skiers waiting to get on the bus. More than a few folks look and wonder “Are they actually getting on the “free” ski bus with a Christmas tree?" Aunt Mary would be mortified but I suspect that the pop-pop’s would be proud. Seamus is grinning, a bit unsure but knows this will help with his early morning concern, “Dad it doesn’t really feel like Christmas.” The tree is not exactly White House material, actually it isn’t exactly Charlie Brown material. I’d say that it is a tree that requires some imagination and creativity to pass as a yuletide decoration as it is as skinny as any actress in Hollywood.

Our Christmas Eve, believe it or not, is marked by rising temperatures. Is it possible that Edgmont, PA is having its first White Christmas while we are watching the Alps turn from white to green/brown before our very eyes? Pearse sums it up best “That’s just not fair!” His disappointment is short lived as the smell of the 3 kilo turkey roasting with mom’s stuffing is wafting through the house. The tree is trimmed, the kids are showered, the food is on the table; the Christmas spirit has been resuscitated.

As we make the walk from the house to the Church everyone is giddy. It feels like an old Christmas movie as we walk down the mountain, past the train platforms, through the quaint little town giving a wave of the hand here and a nod to a passerby there. Merry Christmas, in English, translates to almost all we pass. It is 10:45 PM and the windows to the stores are subdued with ambient light and signs that say “closed” yet they still seem festive as they are still cloaked in Christmas cheer. The road to the Church is tucked between the Coop, the store where acquired our “pine scrub” called a tree and the clothing store, Mont-Bell, that requires a credit score of 750 to shop there. Naturally it is “uphill” to the Church. The big melt that is taking place minute by minute makes the former “icy walk” to Church less challenging than last Saturday. There’s no click, click, scratch, tap of the special ice shoes that are worn by the older women making their way to Church.

The 3 boys are slightly ahead of Ann and me. As we open the door to the vestibule the entry door to the Church has been “down sized” to mimic the actual size of the door to the “Inn” at Bethlehem. Eamon looks at me, a smile creases his face, and he says “Dad we’ve walked thru the ‘real door’ in Bethlehem, remember?” I think to myself, “This is a moment I won’t forget” as my eyes water with a sense of appreciation for the opportunity to share in such a moment with my oldest son.

The small Church is crowded and Team Glavin needs to split up. Eamon and I head to the balcony. Projected on the wall behind the Altar is a picture of the actual door in Bethlehem and a wonderful focus point for this Christmas Eve Mass filled with music, unique decorations and the celebration of the Mass in German. Good thing I loaded the readings onto my Blackberry so Eamon and I could read them and get a feel for the liturgy. I am pretty sure that the folks behind us thought we were reading e-mails during Mass. We probably made the conversation in their house and they will have a Christmas story forever filed under “Ugly Americans do Christmas Eve Mass in Grindelwald.”

The Mass was beautiful, I think, and from the balcony I could see Pearse’s head bob up and down a few times. It surely wasn’t the toe tapping melody of the German Christmas hymns. I suspect it had more to do with the late hour and the tired little body from 3 hours of sledging earlier in the day. His Christmas Eve is over as the hour struck 12:00AM. His first Christmas wish, as we exit the Church “Dad can we take a taxi, back up the hill?” Funny but I am pretty sure his mother’s first Christmas wish was the exact same request. As we come down the hill from Church we make the right onto the main drag and peer intently thru the fog, looking towards the train station. “Is that a yellow bubble on top of that van?” “Does it say taxi?” “Could the first Christmas prayer be answered so quickly?” The 5 of us climb into the taxi grateful for the leg sparing walk up the mountain.

Pearse climbs into bed beckoning Seamus to make the commitment to sleep too. Pearse is excited hoping that Santa can find him in Switzerland. He is at the age where he wonders but doesn’t want to make a “verbal commitment” one way or the other about the man in the red suit and white beard. His intellect tells him one thing but his little heart tells him something different. And so goes the age old question “Does he or doesn’t he?” As the last bit of light squeezes from his room Pearse yells out “Good night dad and don’t forget the milk and cookies for Santa!” What can a Dad say to that?

6:45 AM arrives early and Pearse declares “I got my snowboard and bindings!” The rest of the morning is a blur as Eamon, Seamus and Pearse open gifts and i-Touches, black berries and computer games begin to come to life from their hermetically sealed packages. There are smiles everywhere and loud laughter as Seamus opens his “chocolate” Swiss Army knife. He was hoping for a “Huntsmen” Swiss Army knife, the one with the corkscrew. I asked “Why do you want a knife with a corkscrew?” and Seamus replied matter of fact “Dad, you never know when a party might break out and we’ll need a corkscrew!” How do you argue with that logic?

The 2 peaks of the snow covered Swiss Alps, visible from the living room windows, are the backdrop to the wonderful Christmas scene unfolding in front of us. If you look at the peaks just right they look like a craggy, capital “M” as if they approve of our Merry Christmas in Switzerland.

Team Glavin says “Merry Christmas to everyone," and "Yes Pearse there is a Santa Claus!”

Snow is falling in Grindelwald!

Hi-Ho Hi-Ho It’s Off to Grindelwald We Go

As we get ready to depart, the darkness of the early morning still envelops the city of Lisbon, the Christmas lights can’t even cast their candle power onto the few passersby. The café’s are closed up tight and the tables and chairs chained together lest some city urchin make off with them under cover of darkness. The dorm room like fridge is close to empty as we pour the final litre of milk onto the last bowls of Chocolate Krispies and into the last steaming cup of hot tea. All of the 5 AM action this morning reminds us why we love to be in an apartment. The last few electronics are unplugged and begin today’s long journey on battery support. We tuck the last i-pod, phone charger and extension cords into any space that will have them in the rolling suitcases and we are ready to make the descent, 3 flights of stairs, no elevator. By the time I get to duffel bag #7 having made 4 trips already I am thinking more about Dante’s levels of hell than what a joy it is to traipse across Europe during the 2009 Christmas season.. Good thing we are headed to Switzerland today as I’ll need the cool weather and the snow of Grindelwald to refresh Team Glavin.

Off to one of the many squares around our apt in search of a TAXI. We’ll need 2 cars to get us to the airport, a trip we usually make via Metro but here in Lisbon the Metro doesn’t start early enough for our trip and another SMALL draw back is that it doesn’t actually go to the airport. One benefit to the early morning start is that the taxi can make its way to the front door of the apartment as this is usually a “pedestrian only zone.” Ann meets with the real estate agent as he “walks the apartment” checking for damage and we hold our breath hoping that the security deposit will be returned “in full.” We always worry that the errant scratch on the wall or the broken pane of glass “pre Team Glavin” will result in a 500 Euro charge. We get the “all clear” and it’s off to the airport for our 19th flight and baggage check in.

I don’t know why but when you know you are headed to the airport to check in with an airline called Easy Jet you feel “uneasy”. Perhaps it is the constant warnings about the # of bags “permissible” or the “ungod-like” charges for “extra weighted bags.” The warnings are so common that Pearse even asks “Do they charge you for oxygen?” As I hoist the bags, one after another, the folks around us glance at us and chortle “Are they really checking 7 bags?” Little do they know these bags have seen some miles, ridden more airport conveyors and logged plenty of track time. There is the pregnant pause waiting for the Easy Jet check in agent to speak; will it be “We need a credit card” or is it to be “Will that be all for today?” The guy beside us has 2 suitcases open in full view of the airport trying to make the weight balance; he’s over the limit and looking at a 50 Euro charge. His wife is not happy that her underwear is on display for Lisbon’s entire airport to see. The kids chuckle as she smacks him and says “it’s not too much!” The gate agent looks at us and says “Gate 9 you board at 7:50!” We feel relieved and the ebullient boys lead the way to the gate and past the flight board marked GENEVA. They know we are one step closer to the ski slopes of Switzerland.

Easy Jet is to flying what generic mayonnaise is to a ham and cheese sandwich. It gets the job done but you’re not exactly “livin large” you know what I’m saying? I managed a seat next to the understudy of the large boy from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. He ate for 2.5 hours and spent most of his time yelling at his mom across the aisle about how hard it is to be him. He felt pretty confident that he bought ½ of my seat too as he spent the better part of the flight up and down and in and out of both seats. I asked if he could read English and he said “yes”. I only asked because he spent the rest of the flight reading my computer screen as I typed.

As the Easy Jet lands Ann prepares to make the mad dash to the train station. We have 40 minutes to buy train tickets to Bern Switzerland and we want to get the tickets booked for the remaining 2 trains. It is rare that Team Glavin is “off the plane” first but we manage to disembark to the cool blast of Geneva air and to our delight the discount airline isn’t on the other side of the planet from baggage claim. Eamon and Seamus camp at the bottom of the luggage conveyor, staking out valuable real estate after confirming that the bags go “counterclockwise” in Geneva airport, another lesson learned. 7 bags accounted for and off we go in search of the train platform and mom. It is awesome that the station is right at the airport. The difference between catching the 12:36 vs the 14:00 is the difference between arrival in Grindelwald at 16:40 and 21:30. 5 hours doesn’t sound like much but with 3 kids on the go since 5:00AM the difference is a finish that is more like “Thanks for the help” than “Because I said so.”

The first class accommodations of SBB Switzerland Rail are a perfect start to the 3 train day. It is a Double Decker train with world class views of Lake Geneva and the farmlands of Switzerland. The first stop, Bern train station, is a mere 2 hours away but we won’t see much of the station, we hope. Everything breaks just right and we sprint though the station from platform 7 down the stairs and over to platform 3 and up the stairs. Did I mention we have 7 bags and 8 minutes to make the train? We are tested but ours is an experienced team and they jump the train like kids used to “riding the rails”. We pull out of Bern headed to Interlocken and are treated to panoramic views of the lakes with the snow trail covered Alps erupting behind them. Seamus says it best “Eamon, could you just rip down that travel poster covering the window?”

Click clack click clack though the towns and the mountains we go. The sky is threatening snow and the kids are giddy with anticipation. It brings new meaning to the song “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” As if on cue the clouds oblige and it begins to snow, coating the grass and the trees in the valley between the lake and the mountain. The small train from Interlocken to Grindelwald looks like something out of a 50’s Christmas movie. As it pulls away from the station we pat ourselves on the back knowing that in 55 minutes we’ll be at the destination that we actually picked in February 2009 in response to the question, “Where do you want to spend Christmas while in Europe?” As the train ascends the mountain, doing a real rendition of the “little engine that could” and the green valley landscape changes to a blanket of white snow, we look at each other and marvel at our good fortune.

“And the Word Became Flesh” December 8 and 5 Glavin’s at Fatima

The bus rolled away from the curb in Lisbon headed to Fatima. We wondered to ourselves “Do you think we made the right decision going it alone?” Many Pilgrims make the trip to Fatima as part of a tour group but Ann and I decided to experience the day with no schedule and an open mind.

The kids tried to get comfortable on the hour and half bus ride, hoping to recapture the precious few minutes of sleep that were stolen by the predawn call of the drill instructor aka Dad. We need to do 2 Metro’s to get to the bus stop by 8. No problem from a logistics standpoint, we’re seasoned PT users, just a bit challenging considering its 3 kids and as far as they are concerned we aren’t headed for a fiesta. Pearse summed up the youthful sentiment for his brother’s “a full day of religious stuff.” How can we be so mean to these lads we call sons?

The bus eeks to its first stop 80 minutes later. It is a bit unsettling as it’s not a terminal, nor one of those plastic and steel shelters to protect you from the elements. There isn’t even a sign that says “bus stop.” I suppose the bus driver saw my quizzical look or perhaps heard my clear direction to the kids “don’t move until we know this is really Fatima.” He shouts back to Ann and me “FATIMA,you GO!” and points to the road. I wonder as we disembark “why do humans insist on yelling louder and slower in a different a language when they think you don’t understand them?”

Anyway, we get off the bus, take a mental picture of the stores and any landmarks to make sure that we return to this exact “unmarked bus stop” and look for a sign. No, not a sign from God, but one that points to Fatima or the Basilica. We amble up hill and after a few blocks the path becomes clearer and the retail shops with everything from rosary beads to glow in the dark Blessed Mother statues lined the streets. The crowds were hustling along, coming in from all side streets like tributaries. Team Glavin gets in line like it’s the June Alaskan salmon run and we don’t want to miss our chance.

I’d like to think that I am well schooled in the traditions of the Catholic Faith but today there are so many things going on it is hard to know where to begin. So naturally Pearse and I head to the water close (bathroom) and Ann heads for the kiosk that says “info.” She returns with a map of the facilities and 3 candles. The tradition is to pray and toss the candles into the huge pyre. As we make our way down the path, the boys are drawn to the flame like moths to light. There’s something about fire and boys and I say to myself “a good start to the day in Fatima.” I feel confident that all 3 boys will remember the moment they tossed in a candle for the Deely’s, the Glavin’s and the “family and friends.” It is a visceral feeling as the candles melt quickly from the heat and you are moved both spiritually and physically as 100’s of people are making there way to the pyre. It is indeed a special day for many including us!!

Today is the Holy Day of Obligation, the Immaculate Conception. We chose to come to Fatima on this day hoping to bask in the glow of the appearance of Mary to the children of Fatima. We stand at this most reverent of sites where the apparition appeared to the 3 simple shepherd children of Fatima. The public address system is booming with the praying of the rosary in Portuguese but you know the prayer by heart so the language doesn’t matter. The people are streaming in from the parking lots by the busloads and the Chapel of the Apparition is filled with religious awaiting the start of the procession for 11:00 Mass. There is plenty of time til Mass so we avail ourselves of the wonder of this site visited by 4 Pope’s and millions of pilgrims. The 3 boys see things unique to this amazing place including woman crawling the entire length of the marble path in the esplanade, some 2 football fields long. They pray the rosary privately, inching their way to the statue of the Lady of Fatima. Their faith is so clearly on display, their eyes streaming tears and the boys looking and wondering “How can one be so moved in prayer?” As I watch them young and old, slightly infirmed and apparently healthy, crawling inches at a time I find myself tearing and praying that their prayers are answered. It is not lost on the boys that I am emotional.

The Basilica is lovely. Inside there are lines of pilgrims looking to see the grave sites of Francisco, Jacinta and Lucia, the shepherd children. The building is beautiful with wonderful paintings and stain glass unique to this Holy Site. The “papal” plaques, commemorating the visits of the Pope, are all over reminding us of the significance of Fatima. There’s only 20 minutes until Mass and we make our way to the large space in front of the amazing outside altar. As the music begins the energy in the crowd, which has grown to 1000’s in the last hour sings, in Portuguese, a combination of May Procession hymns of yesteryear and Christmas songs reminding us of Advent. We happen to get a spot close to the barrier and we can see the Statue of Mary lifted to begin the journey from the Apparition Chapel to the Altar for the celebration of this Dec 8th Mass. It is 60 yards or so to the Altar and the pace is deliberate and careful. Pearse worms his way thru a couple of senior citizens who look at him excited that he is happy to be here. The older couple looks at Ann and me and gives us a gentle head nod, seeing the other 2 boys, and the nod says “good for you to have them here.”

As the Statue passes us by, four men holding the flowered platform tightly, there is amazing feeling of calm and a warm satisfied, sensation pulsing through your heart. It is a feeling of comfort that is ever-present when you are near your Mother.

For video of Lisbon wit Fatima footage visit the youtube video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEPUnObMYR0