Experience 7: Shakespeare in the Grove

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
(Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V, Scene i)

I have seen a few Shakespearean performances in my life and have read most of Shakespeare’s plays. I’ve seen the contemporary version of Romeo and Juliet and enjoyed a variety of interpretations of the bard’s work. What I’ve never done before is see Shakespeare performed outside. So, on a midsummer's night, Jay and I headed out to see Shakespeare performed as his plays were originally intended—outdoors.

Tidewater Community College has hosted an annual Shakespeare in the Grove production for the past eleven years. Each year, the theatre troupe led by the vision of creative director Ed Jacob, interprets a different Shakespeare play (often in a very different form than Shakespeare originally intended) and performs it over several days during the summer for the audiences who gather in the “grove” on the sprawling campus.

Though I’ve lived right down the road from TCC for seven years, this was the first time I’ve experienced Shakespeare in the Grove. In addition to more traditional productions, past offerings have included a 1950s version of Two Gentlemen of Verona and a 1970s disco version of Love's Labour's Lost. This year, the troupe performed one of my favorite plays, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with the twist being the time period and setting: 1900s Appalachia. While I was skeptical at first, their interpretation was entertaining and spot-on. I never felt they were stretching the credibility of the play by taking it so far outside the context of the original. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was written in the 1590s and set in Athens and they successfully made it work for early twentieth century American mountain folk.

Darkness fell and the full moon rose about half-way into the play, bringing an air of magic to the green-lighted stage set (and also bringing out every biting bug known to man). The fairies were a delight, as was the big-voiced Oberon and lovely Titania and Puck was his usual mischievous self. There were some weak performances, but the cast worked very well together to bring Shakespeare to life for a diverse and appreciative audience. The best part? The performance is free, which makes me feel particularly generous in my praise and appreciation. It was truly a delightful way to spend a summer’s night. I only wish I'd thought to bring my camera so I would have some pictures to share.

After studying Shakespeare for over two decades, I've grown to love his deft use of language and multi-layered plots. He can be difficult to read, but plays are meant to be seen and experienced. It's important to remember that Shakespeare wrote for the average citizen. His plays were entertainment and diversion from the difficulties of everyday life. The theatre troupe of Tidewater Community College did a fabulous job of conjuring the spirit of Shakespeare with their animated and enthusiastic interpretation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.



Do It Yourself

A few things to know about seeing an outdoor Shakespeare production…

--Bug spray, bug spray, bug spray! Use liberally.

--Bring beach chairs rather than a blanket. Your back will thank you later. Do make sure your chairs are low enough not to block the view of anyone who does sit on the ground, however.

--Bring snacks and beverages, or make a picnic of it. One of the best things about theatre outdoors is that you can bring your own food, unlike the more formal indoor performances.

--Get into the spirit of things. Maybe Shakespeare set in 1900s Appalachia isn’t your cup of tea, but maybe you can appreciate the creativity necessary to adapt Shakespeare to a different era and setting.

--New to Shakespeare? Don’t be scared. Shakespeare wrote for the masses, which means his plots are easily understood even if the language eludes you the first (or second) times you see a play.

Experience 6: Afternoon Tea at the Williamsburg Inn

To celebrate my 40th birthday, my friend Rose took me on a daytrip to Colonial Williamsburg. The highlight of the trip was visiting the beautiful Williamsburg Inn for afternoon tea. I have had tea in a variety of settings, but there was something about experiencing this most civilized ritual in a country inn that made it a special treat.

Though I’ve been to Colonial Williamsburg many times, I’ve never been to the inn. Built by John D. Rockefeller in 1937, the inn fits in nicely with the historical setting and has hosted many famous people, including Queen Elizabeth who stayed there first in 1957 and again during her visit to Virginia in May to celebrate the 400th birthday of Jamestown. It seems especially appropriate to have tea in the same place the Queen visited (though I’m guessing she probably took tea in her suite and not in the public rooms).

We were seated in the Terrace Room and began our tea with a glass of champagne, toasting friendship and birthdays. Then we chose our tea from the extensive menu and I picked the inn's special Williamsburg tea. It was a rich black tea (my favorite) that was absolutely perfect. I like my tea sweet and there is something about the satisfying plop of sugar cubes into a teacup that makes me smile. We sipped our first cup of tea while waiting for our scrumptious accompaniments.

Like most afternoon teas, the Williamsburg Inn offers three courses: finger sandwiches, scones and petite desserts. The sandwiches were an issue because Rose is a vegetarian and I don’t eat eggs, but we muddled through. I enjoyed the ham sandwiches and tea wouldn’t be complete without cucumber sandwiches. Rose was limited to the egg salad and cucumber and we both passed on the salmon.

The scones are my favorite tea course and these didn’t disappoint. In fact, we asked for more! They were served with the obligatory clotted cream, lemon curd, orange marmalade and a “mystery” jam that the server believed was raspberry, but I’m convinced was passion fruit or some other equally sweet jam. In any case, the scones (raisin and plain) were perfect with just clotted cream, though I did try each of the other toppings.

Surprisingly, dessert is my least favorite course. Maybe it’s because by the time I get to dessert I’m already full of scones and tea, or it could be because the petite desserts are about presentation rather than taste. Our dessert course included miniature cakes, fruit tarts and cookies. They were all beautiful, but my favorite of the desserts was the macadamia cookie dipped in chocolate.


Sipping tea while the harpist serenaded me with “Happy Birthday” contributed to the decadent experience, as did the lush arrangements of flowers that filled the rooms of the public spaces. Tea and roses, the combination of scents is heavenly. I enjoyed two pots of my fragrant tea and a couple hours’ of friendly conversation. There is just something about afternoon tea that is so special; it makes me feel happy and feminine and hopeful, as if anything is possible and all my dreams can come true.

If you have time for tea, you have a very nice life.



Do It Yourself

Going to afternoon tea? The experience is similar—and memorable—whether you’re in London, England or Williamsburg, Virginia.

--Make your reservations well in advance of the date you would like to have tea. I had wanted to have tea on my birthday when I was in London, but because I waited until the week prior to our trip to make a reservation, they were booked. (It was also a Bank Holiday, which I didn’t know until we got there.)

--If you have dietary restrictions (vegetarian, food allergies, etc.), ask about substituting alternatives at the time you make your reservations.

--Tea is a fabulous experience for everyone, including older children. Many places that offer afternoon tea also offer a children’s menu (including peanut butter and jelly finger sandwiches!).

--If your pot of tea comes with a strainer, don’t forget to use it! Loose tea leaves in your cup of tea make for a not-so-pleasant experience (though I suppose you can read your fortune in them afterward).

--If you've never tried clotted cream, don't be thrown by the name. This is what heaven tastes like.

--Take your time and enjoy the experience.

Experience 5: Riding Griffon

Busch Gardens Europe in Williamsburg, Virginia added a new rollercoaster to their lineup over Memorial Day weekend. Griffon boasts a 205 foot climb and a 90 degree drop at 75 MPH. It is billed as "the world's tallest floorless dive coaster." Jay and I have summer passes to Busch Gardens, so we decided to visit the park just to ride Griffon.

I love rollercoasters, but my experiences have been limited to the coasters of Busch Gardens, King’s Dominion and Disney World. In other words, the tame roller coasters rather than the monster coasters of amusement parks like Cedar Point. I’ve never experienced anything quite like Griffon and after standing in line for an hour and a half, I managed to work myself into a nice little panic over the experience. Why? Check out the drop. The picture doesn’t do it justice. From that drop, riders go immediately into a loop and spiral combination. I only know this because the line queues up directly under the drop. My eyes were closed for most of the ride, so I can’t give details on the rest of the twists and turns except to say there is a water feature, but you don’t get wet.

Worse than that 90 degree drop is the hang time at the top. The designers of this rollercoaster know something about psychology. The only thing worse than dropping straight down is waiting to drop straight down. The car consists of three rows of ten seats. The entire car is suspended at the top for a full ten seconds, with the first row facing downward like skydivers in a jump. The second row is also tilted forward, but not as far, and the third row is even less angled, nor can they see the bottom for the two rows of people in front of them. Believe me, despite being in the third row and unable to see my impending fate, those ten seconds were very, very long.

Just about the time that I began to get comfortable suspended at the top, there was a loud noise as the car was released. The plummet to the bottom also seemed to take forever, as it felt like my lungs were going to explode from screaming. Did I mention I scream on rollercoasters? I scream like a banshee. This ride was no different, though I simply didn’t have the lung capacity to scream as much as I needed to. Yes, needed to.

Jay called this rollercoaster “scream-worthy,” but please note which of us is screaming in the picture. I’m surprised I didn’t swallow a bug. Then again, I might have. I couldn’t have told you one way or the other. This one was scary mother of a rollercoaster. I’m not in a hurry to ride it again (though I’m sure I will), but if rollercoasters are your thing, then Griffon is your ride. There is a ride simulator on Griffon's website which does a pretty good job of showing you what you’re in for (or in my case, what I missed with my eyes closed). The scary music doesn’t come with the real ride, though. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to hear it over my screaming, anyway.

I survived the experience and went on to ride Apollo’s Chariot, which was probably the most intense rollercoaster at Busch Gardens prior to the new addition. After riding Griffon, Apollo’s Chariot felt like a Sunday drive in grandpa’s Oldsmobile. That was enough rollercoaster riding for one day, so we stopped for ice cream cones at my favorite ice cream shop in the park, La Grande Glace (that’s it in the background) and called it a day.

I’m just happy I didn’t puke.



Do It Yourself

If you’ve never ridden a rollercoaster before, or are attempting Griffon for the first time…

--Get to the amusement park early. The lines for the big rides can be ridiculously long and the longer you wait, the worse the anticipation. Ride early. If you like it, you can ride it again.

--Don’t eat before you ride. Trust me on this. You will want to stay hydrated, especially if it’s summertime.

--Don’t bother buying the over-priced photo of your experience. Take a picture of the display with your digital camera. The quality won’t be as good, but you’ll still have a memento of the experience (and you can crop out the strangers).



--Remember: No matter how scary it seems, it’ll all be over in a few minutes!

Experience 4: A Couple's Massage

For Christmas, Jay and I got a gift certificate for a couple’s massage from our friend Rose. So, now that school is over (and before Jay leaves for six months in Rhode Island, courtesy of the tourism department of the U.S. Navy), I figured it was time to indulge. This was actually a case of two first experiences: the first time I’ve had a couple’s massage and the first time I’ve had a male massage therapist. To be honest, I think I prefer my massages solo, but I may never go back to a female massage therapist.

We had a 3:30 appointment at Therapeutic Body Kneads in Ghent, so we had lunch at No Frill Bar and Grill, went for a walk around Ghent and then stopped at Starbucks. I’d probably skip the walk and the coffee next time. I was hot and sticky and buzzing on caffeine by the time we arrived for our appointment, things which aren’t conducive to lying on a massage table for an hour. It took a good thirty minutes of my massage time before I could feel myself relax, but those last thirty minutes were blissful—except for the fact that I was in desperate need of a bathroom by the time our hour was up.

I’m not one of those people who likes to talk to my massage therapist. I know some people prefer the conversation, but I want peace and quiet while I’m getting massaged. My massage therapist, Jeff, picked up on this pretty quick and other than asking me if I was too warm (I was) or if he was using too much pressure (he wasn’t), he stayed silent. This was the only problem with the couple’s massage: it is disconcerting to be drifting off into a Zen-like peace only to hear the other massage therapist talking to Jay. It didn’t happen often, but every time it did, it jolted me right out of my peaceful meditative state.

At the beginning, Jeff told me to let him know if he was using too much pressure and didn’t bat an eye when I said, without thinking, “You can’t do it too hard.” I carry a lot of tension in my neck and shoulders—both physical, from hauling around a messenger bag loaded down with a laptop and books, and emotional, though I’ve never understood the relationship between emotions and knots the size of Texas in my back. In any case, Jeff worked me over and at one point, for about thirty seconds, I reconsidered my comment that he couldn’t do it too hard. The moment passed. I would have been happy to have him work on my shoulders for the entire hour, but the full-body massage was pleasant enough and he made a second pass on my shoulders toward the end. I was impressed with his foot massage—I have ticklish feet and hate having anything cracked, but he spent some time on my feet and I never once giggled or winced.

This was a more therapeutic than relaxing massage, so I woke up with some (expected) pain in my shoulders the next day. It’s gone now, along with the painful knots and tension, and I’m seriously considering scheduling another appointment with Jeff in a month or two, when I know the effects of being a writer will have returned. As for the couple’s part—Jay didn’t seem to enjoy his massage quite as much as I did (possibly because he wasn’t having any pain at the time), but we both felt more relaxed when we left. Other than the fact we were both in the same room at the same time, it wasn’t a very interactive experience, so maybe I’m not fully understanding the purpose of the couple’s massage. Or maybe I just don’t like groups.



Do It Yourself

If you’re going to get a massage, couple’s or otherwise…

--Make sure you let your massage therapist know there is a particular area you would like them to focus on. They will likely ask, but think about it before you go. The all-over massage is lovely, but it’s so much better if you can get extra attention on those trouble spots.

--If you get a couple’s massage, make sure you know what your partner’s preference is regarding a male or female massage therapist. Neither of us had a preference, so I got Jeff and Jay got a female therapist.

--If you eat before you go, eat light. I’d also avoid walking around in 90+ temperatures and drinking a lot of caffeine.

--If you haven’t gotten a massage before because you think it’s too expensive, reconsider. A good massage can do wonders for your body and your mind and that’s priceless.

--Don’t forget to tip!

Role Models

A lesson in humility is walking down the street with a younger (and thinner) woman and feeling practically invisible as men of all ages stare at her. Thankfully, my ego can take it, but I can’t help but feel sorry for those men. They’re missing out on so much. Not on me, I’m not interested, but there is a veritable banquet of older women— radiant, passionate, sensual older women— just waiting to be sampled. Actually, I doubt they’re waiting for anything. Women of a certain age tend to take what they want without waiting for someone to give them permission.

On several occasions at the coffee shop where I go to write, I’ve noticed two older women in particular. The first is in her mid-sixties, a plump woman with full, rounded breasts and hips that suggest fertility even though she is long past her childbearing years. Her hair is a shock of white, pinned back from her face. Long strands of that white hair often slip their confines to trail down her wrinkled cheeks. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles, as does her mouth. If I had to guess, I’d say she smiles a lot. Her waist is thick, probably in part from the rich desserts she orders with her black coffee. She wears clothes that border on frumpy, yet there is always something about her outfit that suggests a sensuality most people wouldn’t notice at first glance. Her skirts come below her knees, but she doesn’t wear stockings and her shoes are open-toed sandals that reveal a fresh pedicure. Her blouses are conservative, high-buttoned and in neutral colors, yet they’re often unbuttoned enough to reveal a hint of cleavage or a wayward bra strap in some not-so-neutral color as turquoise or hot pink. There is something about her smile, playful, almost secretive, that makes me think she’s a satisfied woman—in all ways.

The other woman is younger than the first, probably mid-to-late fifties. Her hair is a dramatic shade of strawberry blonde, falling below her shoulders. The only makeup she seems to wear is lipstick—some glossy shade of pink so that her hair and her lips are the first things you notice. She’s slightly thinner than the first woman, but the extra pounds she carries don’t weigh her down.. She often wears flowy, calf-length sundresses, sleeveless but with a high neck. They’re brightly colored, unlike the first woman’s wardrobe, but not what I’d call sexy. The last time I saw her, however, she revealed a lot of leg when she sat down because of the thigh-high slit running up the side of her purple dress. She didn’t pull and tug at the fabric to cover what she’d bared; in fact, she always seems very comfortable in her own skin— and in revealing it. Like the first woman, she smiles a lot and her laughter is that easy, quiet laugh of someone who is at peace with herself. She’s American (or, at least has no discernible accent), but on two occasions I’ve heard snippets of her cell phone calls—one was in Spanish, the other in French.

These two women captivate me. There is something about them, some intangible quality so rarely seen in women of any age. Though they bear the wrinkles and spots and sags of age, they seem ageless. I wonder what has made them that way, what experiences and philosophies they have embraced in order to be so at ease with themselves. I wonder if they’ve always been this way or if they grew into it. So many women seem to be in a constant state of perpetual unease, uncomfortable in their own bodies and hiding from the world. Not these two. They have a presence about them that makes them impossible to ignore. They are luscious, vibrant women and they know it. Maybe that’s what makes them seem so much more alive than other women— they know, and love, who they are.

Spending fifteen minutes watching women like this is so much more valuable than reading women’s magazines with airbrushed covers and diet articles. This is something I can aspire to be. This is something I want to be.

Experience 3: Getting My Master's Degree

It took me nearly twelve years, off and on (mostly off) to finish my Bachelor’s degree. I started out like most people do, as a fresh-faced eighteen year old with no real idea what I wanted to do, even though I was “the girl most likely to go to college.” After two and a half years (and two schools), three majors, financial and home problems and the lure of the big money to be found in retail management (ha!), I dropped out. A few years later, I was married and working a series of unrewarding jobs (I was only beginning to dabble in writing professionally), so I decided to go back to school. Three years, two more schools and a bunch of lost credits later, I finally got a B.A. in English. It was one of the most rewarding moments of my life—not because the degree itself meant all that much, but because my self-esteem had suffered from not living up to expectations (not only others’ expectations, but especially my own). I also rediscovered my love for learning in the process: my initial college experience fell under the “something I’m supposed to do” category; the second time around, I was there because I wanted to be there. It made all the difference.

When I decided in 2003 that I wanted to return to college for my Master’s degree, I debated what to study. I was leaning toward a M.A. in English for a long time. I even went so far as to start the application process for the English degree. Something didn’t feel quite right about it and I dragged my heels for a year. The curriculum felt too restricted—and too familiar—the same literature I’d read as an undergraduate, several times in some cases, with very few electives. I wanted to go back to school because I wanted to learn and I like learning. I was afraid getting a Master’s in English would feel too much like repeating my undergraduate degree.

I stumbled into the M.A. in Humanities based on the catalog description. It was described as a “Do It Yourself” degree, meaning it was interdisciplinary with only a few required courses (three, in my case). The rest of the curriculum is based on the student’s individual interests, with classes as diverse as Art History, Theatre, English, Foreign Language, Music, International Studies, History and Communications. The idea for the degree in Humanities is to dovetail your interests into one cohesive course of study. The individuality of it appealed to me, along with the fact that I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to do in the first place.

Not surprisingly, my two years of graduate studies included several literature classes. Despite the limitations of the English degree, literature is my first love and I was able to take classes that piqued my interest without worrying about meeting any requirements. I also took a lot of Humanities classes (though it’s not required for the degree) because the interdisciplinary nature of Humanities appeals to me. Many of the classes I took were cross-listed as English and Humanities or Women’s Studies. At the moment, I’m considering finishing the requirements for a certificate in Women’s Studies.

I graduated with thirty-seven credit hours. For the curious, these are the classes I took:

Humanities 601 and 602 (required)
Humanities: Capstone (required, takes the place of a thesis)
Language, Power and Gender (cross-listed as English and Women’s Studies)
Women Writers (cross-listed as English, Humanities and Women’s Studies)
English Seminar: Edgar Allan Poe (English)
American Literature 1810-1870 (English)
American Literature 1870-1945 (English)
Asian American Literature (English)
U.S. Popular Culture (cross-listed as English and Humanties)
Harlem Renaissance Literature (English)
Feminist Thought (Women’s Studies)
Theatre in London (Theatre; 1 credit hour; my second trip to London!)

I finished my course work for my degree on May 3 and graduation was on May 5, the day I arrived in London. I had decided not to attend graduation because it was more important to me to be in London a couple days before my 40th birthday, when I’d be over the jetlag, than it was to attend a 9 AM graduation (I have my priorities). Because I didn’t attend graduation, my degree was mailed to me. So, though I was technically finished with my Master’s degree before my birthday, I didn’t truly feel like I’d completed my goal until I saw this:





Do It Yourself

If you want to go to graduate school…

--Make sure the program is right for you. The best thing I did was apply for the M.A. in Humanities rather than English. It didn’t felt right to get another English degree and, though it took me an extra year to get back in school, it worked out for the best because I found a program that was perfect for me.

--Don’t give up on grad school just because you’ve been out of school for a few (or many) years. There are graduate programs for everyone, so if you need to take evening classes or can’t move to another state or don’t want to sit in a classroom, there is probably a program for you.

--Consider your undergraduate studies, but don’t be limited by them. While I took a lot of literature classes, I didn’t want to be limited to only that subject. I also didn’t have a foreign language requirement for my undergraduate degree and didn’t want to commit the time to getting one for my Master’s degree—something I didn’t have to do for the Humanities program.

--Just do it. The best thing about graduate school is that your studies are more focused than your undergraduate curriculum. So if you loved English and hated Math, major in English and you’ll never have to take a Math class again! Or vice versa. In theory, your graduate studies should be in a subject you are both interested in and good at. What better reason to go back to school?

Experience 2: Lighting a Candle in Westminster Abbey

I didn’t get inside Westminster Abbey on my two previous trips to London. The first trip, we visited the day after Ash Wednesday and the Abbey was closed; last year, we simply didn’t have time. I’m happy to say we made time for this magnificent Abbey. One of the tour books I read said to allow an hour or so for our visit—in reality, we spent four hours at the Abbey and probably would have stayed longer but they were closing!

When we think about history in the United States, we think in terms of a couple hundred years or so. It is breathtaking to stand inside Westminster Abbey and realize that over a thousand years of history have taken place there. Founded in 960 AD as a Benedictine monastery, most of the church was built between 1245 and 1272 on the orders of Henry III. Beginning with William the Conqueror in 1066, most of the monarchs have been crowned here. The Coronation Chair (which appears to have graffiti scratched into the wood, which makes me want to research further) has been used in every coronation since 1308. Geoffrey Chaucer was buried at Westminster Abbey in 1400. There is so much history in this building, it is overwhelming to even attempt to contemplate it all.

Strangely, Westminster Abbey seemed both smaller and larger than I imagined. It is a tremendous space, but there are so many twist and turns it often feels very small and intimate. I jokingly said it reminded me of grandma’s house—so many knick-knacks, it’s overcrowded! The knick-knacks in this case are the various memorials, effigies, tombs, busts and statues that the Abbey has accumulated over the centuries. There literally isn’t any space left for anything else! Also, the Abbey is a “living church,” and services are still held there. It’s easy to forget this is a church that people attend regularly given the touristy appeal (not to mention the £10 ticket price!), but approximately every hour they ask visitors to pause while they say a prayer. It is a nice reminder of not only the age of the Abbey, but its purpose.

I had told my friend Jae before I left Virginia that I would light a candle and say a prayer at any church I visited in England, in preparation for our skydiving adventure with our friend Nick later this month. As Jay and I finished our tour of the Abbey, I paused in the Nave to light a candle and sit for a moment, absorbing the experience. Tears came to my eyes, the same reaction I had last year when I visited Bath Abbey in Bath, England. It is a humbling moment to sit in such a magnificent place and truly understand what it represents. The people who have walked those floors, who have prayed at those altars, who have been buried beneath those stones. It is English history, but it is also world history—and my history. On leaving the Abbey, the guidebook instructs you to look over your shoulder at the statues of the 20th Century martyrs, which were added above the west door of the Abbey in 1996. This recent addition only adds to the living aspect of Westminster Abbey; it isn’t some old, dusty place of forgotten history, it is still very much alive and relevant to modern culture.

We also visited the gardens of the Abbey, which are beautiful and serene. The gardens are in what is essentially the backyard of the clergy who reside there and the students who live in Westminster School’s dormitory. Like the Abbey, the gardens are rich with history, most of which I didn’t learn until got home and read the brochure I picked up. It is believed that these gardens are the oldest in England, having been cultivated for nearly one thousand years. It was a beautiful spot to visit, lush and green and in sharp contrast to the gray stone and marble of the Abbey.

We weren’t able to take pictures inside the Abbey (I think that's probably because the Abbey can get pretty crowded— if everyone stopped to take pictures along the way it would create an awful bottle-neck), but I have a few pictures of the outside and the gardens. It is a magnificent place I hope to visit again—after I do more research!


Do It Yourself

If you go to Westminster Abbey…

--Buy a guide, sit in one of the chairs near the entrance and read it. Though my temptation was to immediately start exploring, the guide offers some valuable information about where to look and what to see. I didn’t do the audio tour, but you might consider that, as well. It helps to know what you’re looking at while you’re looking at it rather than see it and read about it afterward.

--Observe the moment of silence and prayer that occurs every hour or so.

--Go early. One of my tour books recommended scheduling “at least an hour” to visit the Abbey. I would say allow at least three hours, especially if you’re interested in history, churches, architecture or the arts. Don’t be rushed by people who are determined to get in and out as quickly as possible. I found myself stepping aside on more than one occasion to let families of four or more move ahead.

--Don’t miss the gardens. It’s a pleasant place to spend an hour, cloistered from the rest of the world.

--Let me know if you find my favorite inscription, about the woman who was well-endowed both mentally and physically!

What This Blog Is… And What It Is Not

When I decided to start a blog chronicling a year’s worth of experiences, it was with the intention of challenging myself to learn and grow. Many people reach a point in their life when they’re happy to know all they will ever need to know and content with the same routines and experiences. I’m not like that and I hope I never will be. Still, I have a personality that stubbornly resists change and, as I get older, I find myself growing more cautious when it comes to trying new things. Therefore, I thought this would be a good motivator for me: a place where I challenge myself to experience forty new things in my 40th year and document those experiences for everyone (all three of you) to read.

Having said that, I have no intentions of losing my mind. At least, not more than I already have. This blog won’t be Kristina Does Fear Factor. I will not be eating live eels, covering myself in stinging insects or burying myself alive with a hundred wriggling snakes just for the sake of saying I tried something new. This blog also won’t be Kristina’s Extreme Makeover. I will not be going under the knife for a thinner nose or bigger breasts, nor will I be subjecting myself to liposuction or a facelift. I may, possibly, indulge in a little Botox, but that’s it. Really. I promise.

This blog will not be about testing my limits of physical or mental endurance (thus, no hiking the Appalachian Trail or visiting relatives for an extended period of time). Likewise, it won’t be about acquiring a bunch of stuff I’ve never owned before because I don’t consider materialism to be an experience. I won’t be blogging about forty trips abroad—much as I’d love to—because my budget won’t allow it. I also won’t be blogging about forty EXCITING AND DARING ADVENTURES because I’d be exhausted when the year is over and I don’t want to spend my forty-first year in traction. I hope not to blog about anything boring, but I do imagine there are things I haven’t experienced that many other people have. So, I hope you, dear readers, will bear with me if I learn to change my car’s oil in the next year (it’s not on my list of things I want to learn, but who knows?) and blog about it with great enthusiasm. Hard to imagine, but anything is possible.

This blog is not at attempt to prove how cool I am, how young I am, how fearless I am or how much money I have. It is also not a traditional journal-blog. If you want to know more about who I am and what I do, you can visit my main blog KristinaWright.com for the more day-to-day stuff. Though this is a blog about being a woman of a certain age and my links will reflect that, it is not intended to put anyone down or exclude anyone. In fact, I hope it will be an inspiration and I will try, where possible, to include photos and links so that anyone who is interested can find out more for themselves.

This is not a one-way blog. I look forward to comments, questions and suggestions on things I should experience. I have a list—a short list—and I’m looking for ideas! I may grow tired of this blog by December, but I hope not. I hope it will challenge and motivate me to experience everything life has to offer-- as much as I can handle in one short year, anyway.
That is what this blog is… and what it is not. I hope I will gain readers as I gain experiences. I’m counting on it, actually. It’s going to be hard to keep pushing myself to experience new things if there isn’t anyone out there to hold me accountable!

Experience 1: A Day in Cambridge, England

My first couple of new experiences happened while I was away on a trip.

Back in March, I was trying to decide how I wanted to spend my fortieth birthday. I’ve been making a big deal out of this birthday for a couple of years now and I felt a little guilty because I didn’t want my friends to think they also had to make a big deal out my big four-oh. I was sitting in my American Literature class one evening, daydreaming about what to do about my birthday when it hit me: I wanted to wake up in London my birthday. So, that’s what I did. My husband Jay and I left for London on May 4, arrived at Heathrow on the morning of May 5 and by May 7, I was over my jet lag and had a wonderful birthday in my favorite city.

I’ve been to London twice before (March 2003 and again in March 2006), so that in itself is not a new experience. However, in the midst of familiar experiences (visiting the Tower of London, having tea at Claridge’s, seeing the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace) I did experience some new things on this most recent trip, the first of which actually happened on my birthday: Jay and I spent my birthday touring Cambridge, England. About twenty of us took the hour-long train ride with our London Walks guide, Simon, and arrived in a rainy Cambridge around 10:30 in the morning where we were met by Chris, who drove us around the city by coach (bus).

Our first visit was the American World War II cemetery, outside the heart of the city. Seeing the rows of white marble crosses reminded me of Arlington National Cemetery (a place I have not yet visited), yet this burial ground is in England. The steady rainfall seemed an appropriate backdrop for such a somber setting. Shortly after our visit to the cemetery, we made our way into the center of Cambridge where Simon began one of our two walks for the day. We walked around this lovely little town, appreciating the medieval storefronts as well as the stories about the numerous colleges that make up Cambridge University. There are 100,000 residents of Cambridge and over 30,000 bicycles, which seems impossible to believe until you actually visit Cambridge and are nearly run over by a couple hundred of them in a few hours!

It was the exam period for students at the Cambridge colleges (which extends from April to June), so we were unable to tour the college grounds, but we did get a feel for the city. Simon also told us that Cambridge is a “city” despite the fact that it doesn’t have a cathedral, which is a prerequisite to be a city. It is hard to refer to Cambridge as a city when it has such a small-town feel to it. There are many shops and restaurants and, obviously, a very young demographic, but there are also endless green spaces and waterways. Students make money by taking tourists “punting” on the River Cam, which involves guiding boats along the river by using long sticks. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to go punting, due to both a lack of time and the unpredictable weather.

After a short break for lunch (at Michaelhouse Café, which is attached to a Medieval chapel), we went on our second walk. The afternoon walk included a tour of King’s College Chapel. What a beautiful church! The stained glass is the original medieval glass, which was removed and stored in the basement during World War II and returned to its rightful place after the war. The ceiling of this gothic chapel is even more incredible than the stained glass. It’s hard to comprehend how it could be built with modern technology, so it is an amazing architectural wonder when put in historic context.

Cambridge is strange blend of old and new, brilliant minds of the past inspiring brilliant minds of the future (which may be why Bill Gates has a facility in Cambridge). I will remember Cambridge for its Medieval buildings, brightly colored bicycles, throngs of students and tourists, beautiful trees and the abundance of purple Wisteria in full-bloom and the other-worldly feel of this village-like “city” only an hour outside of London. It was a wonderful way to spend my 40th birthday and the perfect first-of-forty new experiences!


Do It Yourself

If you go to Cambridge…

-- If you only have a day to see Cambridge, consider going with a tour group. London Walks offers several day trips to various parts of England. The Cambridge day trip included two walking tours and they get a group discount on train tickets. When you only have eight to ten hours, it’s nice not to have to worry about transportation or waste time trying to figure out where to go.

-- If the weather is nice, go punting! It looked like fun, but between the off-and-on rain and budget constraints, we opted to wander a little.

-- Stop at the market. There are many famous markets in London, but the Cambridge market reminded me of the farmer’s market in Chicago—fresh bread, herbs, locally grown produce and homemade bath products. I bought a pint of the most beautiful strawberries from one stall and a strawberry-scented bath ball from another. Yummy!

What 40 Means To Me

It was the summer of 1977 and I was ten years old. My thirty-four year old mother, recently diagnosed with uterine cancer, told me she would not live to be forty. This declaration was the result of the cancer diagnosis and the fact that she had lost three (of eleven) siblings to heart disease, cancer and alcoholism within a year of their fortieth birthdays. Despite the fact that the cancer was removed and the prognosis was optimistic, my mother lost a part of herself just as surely as she lost the cancerous tumor growing inside her. She was never the same after the surgery, though it’s hard to remember what she was like before. I think she might have been happy.

My mother came home from the hospital on August 16, the day Elvis died. The house was quiet and grim, as if she was the one who had died instead of one of her favorite singers. There was no happiness or sense of relief. There wasn’t even any hope. Not for my mother, and not for me. The memories are fuzzy after thirty years but it seems as if my mother told me—on a daily basis—that she was going to die.

“I’ll be dead by the time I’m forty. You’d better learn to take care of yourself.”

I had six years to prepare for what, according to my mother, was the inevitable. Due to my family situation (which is too complicated to go into), I not only believed that my mother would be dead by the time I reached my sweet sixteen, but that I would also be alone, homeless and have to depend on myself. I had a recurring nightmare of being alone in a big, dark room. I still have that dream sometimes.

How does a ten-year-old prepare for being independent? I saved my allowance, birthday and Christmas money, I learned to cook, I got excellent grades and I tried to be a good girl so that one of my friends’ parents might adopt me. It sounds utterly ridiculous now, but to my ten-year-old mind, it was a matter of survival. I was going to be alone. I was going to be motherless. I believed it just as surely as my mother did.

I grew older and my mother kept living, but her fortieth birthday loomed ominously. Whenever I tried to be optimistic, she quickly squashed my hopes.

“The doctors don’t know anything. The cancer will come back and I’ll be dead. Then what will you do?”

My mother turned forty two months before my sixteenth birthday. She was still alive. There was no party, no celebration.

“I’ll be dead before the year is out. Wait and see.”

I waited. My mother lived. She turned forty-one, forty-two, forty-three. I got married at twenty-three, my mother was forty-seven. She didn’t smile in any of my wedding pictures. I don’t remember my mother ever smiling much after she found out she had cancer. She didn’t seem to think there was anything worth smiling about since death was inevitable.

Her prediction of dying at forty was pushed back to dying at fifty. There was still nothing to be happy about. She was going to die, she just knew it. At this point, having moved away and gained some perspective, I decided that my mother wasn’t afraid of dying, she was afraid of living. She was afraid of everything and she had managed to instill some of that fear in me. When I told her I had opened an IRA and that I couldn’t touch it until I was fifty-nine-and-a-half, she wasn’t very supportive.

“With your luck, you’ll be dead by the time you’re thirty.”

I was twenty-six. My mother was fifty. I hung up on her and we didn’t talk for a month.

By the time I was thirty I had decided that the only thing I really needed to be afraid of was my mother’s negative influence. I’ve had almost no contact with her since 1997 and, as far as I know, she is still alive and well.

My mother is sixty-four.

I came to the conclusion a long time ago that birthdays were not the dire, depressing events my mother had convinced me they were. I have always loved my birthday, loved celebrating, loved presents and cake (chocolate) and blowing out candles. The older I get, the more I love birthdays.

“What’s to love? You’re just one year closer to death.”

I decided a long time ago that I would not live my life the way my mother has lived hers. Being afraid of everything, being afraid of growing older, of dying, of disease, is no way to live. I want to experience new things. I want to keep learning until the day I die and I want to know, when I finally do die (whenever that may be), that I’ve made the most of it. I want to smile.

My mother has spent thirty years waiting for death. Every cold was the flu, every flu was tuberculosis, every cough was emphysema (which didn’t convince her to stop smoking), every headache was a brain tumor. That kind of attitude makes it hard to plan for the future, to look forward to things, to make the most of any given moment because of the paralyzing belief that it might be the last.

I know forty is supposed to be a tough birthday to deal with, especially for women. My mother’s issues with dying aside, forty is the over-the-hill age that we’re all supposed to dread. We live in such a youth-oriented culture that being over forty is as good as being dead. I can’t be bothered with worrying about how old I am or how much time I have left. There’s too much I want to do first.

Because she was so convinced she was going to die by the age of forty, I believe a part of my mother did die that summer in 1977. The part that is youthful and hopeful. The dreamy part, the part that plants flower bulbs in the fall and waits for spring blooms. The part that saves for the distant future. The part that says, “When I’m fifty I will run a marathon.”

“When I’m fifty you won’t even visit my grave. You’ll have forgotten all about me.”

Part of me died that summer, too. I lost some of my innocence in that proclamation my mother made. I lost some of my youth. I lost my ability to believe that anyone will ever be there for me. I resent how my mother let her fear of dying (and living) overwhelm her to the point that she made me afraid, too. But waiting for my mother to die did instill some positive qualities in me. Resilience. Self-reliance. Independence. Good traits acquired in a very difficult way. I’ve managed to overcome the fear (for the most part) and hang on to the positive traits, but I often wonder if I’m too independent for my own good, too stubborn to lean on other people, too afraid to ask for help when I need it.

When I was ten years old, forty was the big, scary monster under the bed. Forty was a vampire waiting to suck out my life force. Turning forty was something to be feared. Forty was old. Forty was the end. Forty was dead.

I’m not ten years old anymore and this blog is not about my mother. It’s about me. I’m forty years old. I’m alive. I’m going to enjoy every moment.