Teeth and travels

When I was in first grade, my teacher hung up a chart documenting the class's tooth losses. It was simple, really--it listed each name down the left-hand side, followed by a long, empty space that would eventually fill with stickers for each lost tooth. By the end of the year, several students had quite an impressive line-up of stickers to match the gaping holes in their mouths, but I didn't even have so much as a wiggle.

There was one girl who was tied with me in the race for second-to-last place: Heather. There we were, embattled for what seemed like months on end to be the first of the lasts. One day, the unthinkable happened: Heather arrived in class toting a huge, construction-paper, pink and red, heart-shaped card that had appeared under her pillow the night before along with five whole dollars of glorious tooth fairy bounty. And sure enough, when she smiled big to announce her winnings, she had that tell-tale hole in the front of her grin.

I was devastated. I finished out the year with not a single sticker, and didn't even have a serious wiggle until the end of the summer. It finally got to the point where it was hanging by a thread and had just become a nuisance, but I couldn't muster up the gall to pull it out.

One day, my grandparents came over and I met them in the driveway, boiling over with the excitement of how close I was to finally losing that first pearly white. I pushed it first forward, then all the way back, just to demonstrate to Nanny just how loose it was. She bent over to me, intrigued, and said, "Wow! Can you show me that again?" Gullible girl that I was, I pushed it forward and back, and just as I got it as far as it would go, she bumped my elbow and it popped out into my hand.

And that's how Nanny has always been--she gives us that little bump when we're too scared to go any further.

The first week of my trip to Spain, all I wanted was to go home. And I'm not just saying that--I couldn't sleep or eat, and I didn't want to make friends or see the country. One afternoon, I was in the middle of a long, sniffly phone conversation with my mother when my grandparents walked in the door. Nanny got on the phone right away, and she only had to hear my voice break once to know what was going on.

She moved to Boston after World War II, newly married to my grandfather, who had been stationed in the navy in her hometown of Plymouth, England. I'd never really considered what it must have been like for her to leave everything behind and come to a strange place, with no way of getting in touch with her family. She told me that when she got to her husband's family's home, she panicked and refused to get out of the car. He went inside to explain what was going on to his family, then came back out to try to calm her down. She met him at the door and went inside to introduce herself to everyone, one by one, because she had seen enough photos to know immediately who was who.

They were stunned. A minute earlier she had been hiding in the car, confirming their suspicions that she wouldn't impress. Now here she was, striding into the room with a smile, shaking hands and guessing names.

And that was the key, she told me. I was terrified, but I acted like I knew what I was doing. I pretended poise and self assurance. Even if you're not, make them think you're confident, and the rest will come.

That became my mantra for the rest of my trip. When I stumbled over the language, I self-corrected and moved on. When I felt left out or lonely, I'd find something on my own to do. I took up running and taking spontaneous detours on my way home from class. Exploring became my manifestation of the confidence that I wished I had.

And she was right--the rest did come. The people who probably thought I was weird at the beginning for my incessant tears and lack of energy became close friends and allies in a strange world. I learned to master the general flow of a conversation rather than feeling inadequate and obsessing over a single word I didn't understand. I learned my way around the city like the back of my hand, and became a resource for my less navigationally inclined friends. My running routes took wider and wider loops and I welcomed getting lost so I could test my abilities to find my way back home.

She opened a door for me that day; she gave me that bump in the right direction when I was too scared to move forward, and all I wanted to do was to give up and come home. It was one of the most important lessons she has ever taught me, and it's something she could never have shared with me had I stayed at home in safe waters those four months.

Election Day: At home and abroad

This afternoon on Talk of the Nation, Neal Conan did a piece on the U.S. election overseas. At first, the focus was on what to do if business travelers were stuck in a situation where politics came up, and how to tread lightly around touchy subjects in order to preserve professional relationships. Then the topic kind of evolved, and travelers were calling in to talk about their experiences in all parts of the world during election season, and it turned into a really interesting discussion about international viewpoints on our political scene.

Turns out a lot of foreigners know a lot more about our electoral system than many of our registered voters do, and nobody seems altogether shocked about that--it's long been acknowledged that we Americans take for granted our right to vote and participate in our government. There are plenty of people here who think their votes don't count, while abroad, it seems that a lot of people are taking this to heart and seeing it as a big moment in international history.

The general consensus seemed to be that people had no qualms about asking who U.S. travelers would be voting for on November 4, either.

One caller said that when he was in France, he was asked where his vote would go, and the guy told him that most people had been saying they'd be voting for Obama. He speculated that this was for two reasons: one, more conservative types who would be voting for John McCain might be less inclined to travel in the first place, and two, those who would go abroad would be less likely to choose to go to France based on the stereotype that the French aren't huge fans of Americans.

Now, is that a part of the conservative culture--favoring domestic travel and opportunities over international ones? Especially in the wake of all the talk this week about "pro-American" parts of the United States and what traits "Real America" has, it's an interesting discussion to bring up.

Personally, I don't know that the idea really holds any water at all--some of the most avid international travelers I know are conservatives who generally vote Republican. My dad identifies with many conservative viewpoints, but he was practically giddy when he came to visit me in Spain last spring--he threw himself right into the culture, the language, and greeted every opportunity with an enthusiasm that probably had him knocked out for a week after he returned stateside just from sheer exhaustion. He had initial misgivings about visiting Europe before he had seen all of his own country, but he quickly discovered that it was an opportunity that he could use as a catalyst to see the rest of the United States, rather than to limit himself from the beginning.

I'm not willing to say that a person's political views hold too much sway over their likelihood to visit other countries; there are far too many other factors involved (this economic crisis comes to mind as a big one). However, maybe there's something to be said for the Republican campaign framing the international perspective in a certain light. I really like this quote from John McCain that my boyfriend shared with me a few months ago from an August 8 Peggy Noonan column on wsj.com:

"As for Mr. McCain, I think he had the best moment of the month this week at the big motorcycle convention in Sturgis, S.D., when he was greeted with that mighty roar. And his great line: 'As you may know, not long ago a couple hundred thousand Berliners made a lot of noise for my opponent. I'll take the roar of 50,000 Harleys any day.' Oh, that was good."

So clearly the international vote doesn't count towards any physical tally, but it's up for debate whether it influences voters here--and I suppose there's an argument for it in either direction.

The last time I was overseas was a little over a year ago, long before the election buzz was even starting to hum. Politics weren't as close to the forefront of the discussions I had with Europeans, probably because the election wasn't the only topic on everyone's mind, like it is now, two weeks before November 4. As a freshman in college in 2004, I was just a few days too young to vote in the last election, so when I got into a situation where someone was asking me how I voted, I could truly say didn't have an answer.

I did, however, have one friend who took offense when she heard people giving George W. Bush a bad rap over there. She had a few heated political discussions, the most memorable ending with a screaming match in a crowded bar when someone who was a little too aggressive got in her face. But it would probably barely register when compared with the attention U.S. citizens are getting overseas right now, if NPR listeners are any sort of indication.

As a sidenote: I don't mean to get all celebrity on here, but since we're on the topic of Talk of the Nation, I just thought I'd mention that when I was in Washington in June, I went to the Newseum and got to sit in the audience for a Wednesday afternoon broadcast.

When I got up during a break to head back to my hotel for a bite to eat, I was feeling rather plucky and inspired, so I approached Neal Conan to introduce myself. I told him that I had just graduated from a journalism program and that I really looked up to him, or something equally dorky. He smiled graciously and shook my hand, and that was my brush with celebrity for the day.

Us country folk just get so excited in the bright lights of the big city...

The ultimate commute

I know I don't really have the right to complain, because I only commute a few towns over to my office, but hear me out anyway. Since I'm heading from a western suburb towards Boston each morning and back out again in the afternoon and mostly traveling backroads clogged with SUV-wielding moms with their cell phones in one hand and hot cups of Dunkin' Donuts in the other, I've had oh so many moments where I've wished there was a bridge from my neighborhood that would soar high over all those horns and middle fingers and deliver me safely to the comfort of my office parking garage. Of course, only people who would actually move and not just ride their brakes would be allowed--that's a given.

But I'd never thought of a self-propelled walkway.

Imagine my intrigue when I heard about this escalator in Hong Kong that runs from the Mid-Level residential area straight into the downtown business district. You just hop on, enjoy your newspaper and morning coffee, and it carts you safe and sound over the bustling streets. There are several exit points, just like a subway or a bus, and it's free. Rain? No need for an umbrella--it's also covered so you're warm and dry. Hong Kong is a hilly city, but don't worry about saving your poor, tired legs from all that walking--the escalator just climbs the hills for you. Perfect for those of us who can't give up our favorite Steve Madden heels.

Don't expect to hear from me for the next few days: I'm busy drafting up plans to construct an escalator from my bedroom window to my office. Now, if only I can get it to run to the coffee shop, DSW, and my favorite restaurants... just think how much I'll save in gas!

Bridge to somewhere

Let me begin by putting something out there: I have an unhealthy obsession with bridges. True, I'm mildly uncomfortable with heights, and the idea that a big hunk of metal suspended like magic over a raging body of water could hold the weight of thousands of cars is more than a little difficult for my poor little brain to comprehend. But for some reason, I can never cross enough bridges to quench my thirst.

It might be the view--there's something so irresistible about looking over a panoramic water vista that I invariably terrify all the passengers in my car by staring out the window when I should be watching the road. More likely, it's just an addiction to the anticipation of what's on the other side. I'm only slightly ashamed to admit that when I cross over the Bourne Bridge onto Cape Cod, the excitement comes because I get to prove my superior ability to navigate a Massachusetts rotary in full summertime tourist swing: my hand hovers over the horn, waiting for the delicious opportunity to cut off an unsuspecting out-of-stater who's circled around three times just trying to find the right exit.

Every summer, I cross over a little green bridge to a small island in North Carolina, where I spend a week or two with my extended family. You'd expect the first crossing of the year to bring some sense of suspense--what's changed in the 50 weeks since we were last here?--but then the excitement should wear off, right? But even though I've probably been over the bridge a hundred times since we first visited the island in the mid-'90s, it never gets old, no matter how many off-island packie and food runs I'm sent on. I'd even venture to say that I'm more content just driving those few yards over the intracoastal waterway than sitting on my butt in a beach chair later on.

So imagine my excitement when I discovered this weekend that in order to get to Newport, Rhode Island, one must cross not one, but two--TWO!--large bridges. The western one, Jamestown Bridge, looks like a roller coaster from the bottom. Not for the faint of heart, but as you can imagine, I was thrilled. (Unfortunately, I didn't dare whip out my camera for fear of careening off the edge--see aforementioned fear of heights. I did, however, find this image of the bridge, courtesy of samholland on the Flickr Creative Commons, just so that you, dear reader, can witness this spectacular feat of engineering.)

The second bridge involved a toll of two dollars, which, although steep, I paid to help Rhode Island pay for their beautiful roads. (You're welcome.) Plus, my directions told me to go that way and I was still reeling from the Jamestown, aka Mount Everest, and the thrill was like crack.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering Newport with my sister. I'd been there once, in high school, but it seemed completely different yesterday. The plan was to go to the town's Oktoberfest celebration, but we scrapped the idea after a cop told the line of several hundred people that the event was full and they wouldn't sell any more tickets until some people cleared out. Instead, we went to the Smokehouse Café, where we got an open-air table and enjoyed heart-stopping chili nachos and a half-rack of ribs in the warm light of the sun over the harbor. The weather was outstanding: when was the last time I got a sunburn on an October afternoon?

After all that salt, we needed something sweet: enter the Cookie Jar down on Bowen's Wharf. They must have just made a batch of snickerdoodles, because as soon as we walked in we were enveloped in a sea of sweet cinnamon and sugar, and we couldn't resist ordering one along with the M&M sugar cookie we decided to split. They turned out to be the perfect mix of thick and soft, but I think the snickerdoodle was the favorite. In fact, I was just about to comment that I had finished my half of the first one before Sarah had finished hers (I tend to eat slowly and savor treats like this, while she can't get them in fast enough), when I looked down and realized she had already eaten her half of the second one, too. Just look at that adorable little face of hers--she couldn't even contain her excitement.

We hopped in the car and drove over to take a look at the famous Newport mansions next. The city is home to a stretch of Gilded Age mansions, designed by some of America's wealthiest families towards the end of the 19th century. Around the 1960s and '70s, preservation groups in Newport started opening the mansions to the public, making the city a notable tourist destination.

We parked the car off Bellevue Ave. and wandered down the street to the Salve Regina Cliff Walk. Sarah was disappointed to discover that it was somewhat of a misnomer: what they call a "cliff walk" was actually a safe, paved pathway between the mansions and the cliffs, with chain-link fences to protect visitors from plummeting into the choppy breakers below. However, we did enjoy meandering through in the sunset light, picking out which houses we'd someday inhabit (you know, once we've made our millions, her as a teacher and me as a writer).

The sun finally set, and the temperature promptly took a nosedive, so we set off towards home--Massachusetts for me, and college in Connecticut for Sarah. The bridge crossings were almost as beautiful at night, but the trip was spoiled: as I was crossing the Newport and preparing to pay the extortionate two dollar toll again, I remembered that Sarah had told me about how she had no cash in her wallet, but had luckily found an emergency stash of two dollars on her way there. It was just enough to cover the fee, but we had forgotten about the return. A vision flashed into my head of my poor little sister stranded forever by the tollbooths, unable to pass through. I called her and discovered that she had managed to scrounge up the correct change in dimes out of the crevices of her car, so she would be able to successfully return to the rest of civilization.

Oh, Newport Bridge, you cruel, cruel lover.