tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4519650342450320922024-02-19T00:15:11.329-06:00AlexandriaNolan.comAdventures, Travel Writing, Holiday Tips and Books aplenty. alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comBlogger458125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-37636872406287885332020-07-30T00:00:00.002-05:002021-08-03T14:12:35.258-05:00where wear wayre<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.shopwayre.com/collections/all/products/the-seville-dress" target="_blank">wayre Seville Dress </a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.shopwayre.com/collections/all/products/the-seville-dress" target="_blank">wayre Seville Dress</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.shopwayre.com/collections/all/products/the-seville-dress" target="_blank">wayre Seville Dress</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.shopwayre.com/collections/all/products/the-seville-dress" target="_blank">wayre Seville Dress</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.shopwayre.com/collections/all/products/the-flow-short" target="_blank">wayre Flow Short</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.shopwayre.com/collections/all/products/the-shift-snap-tank" target="_blank">wayre Shift & Snap Tank</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If I was an old-timey pirate, I’d say I’d been marooned. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Abandoned, put ashore, stuck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This pandemic has grounded us, cancelled our travel plans and prevented a lot of adventures. But, there’s always next year, right? And I for one, will be SO ready.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But if we’ve been given this non traveling time to fill, you can bet I’ve been filling it with travel adjacent activities. Writing about past travels for magazines, planning our adventures for next year, and figuring out how to make traveling easier for us going forward. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the aspects of travel I would like to improve is my packing situation. My partner and I have never been ones to check a bag (God FORBID) but it’s gotten... interesting and... a lot more difficult since having our son. Kids need a lot of stuff. Toys and emergency diapers, snacks and car seats and wipes, wipes, wipes. And since he’s a small boy and pretty weak (you guys, he’s 2) we have to carry all that toddler crap. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, my packing cubes and edited selection of clothing needed to be trimmed still, and so quarantine has been an excellent time to re-examine my travel wardrobe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A while ago, I backed a Kickstarter for a sustainable, travel friendly dress made by a female owned company called wayre . (A bunch of favorites right there! Kickstarter! Travel dress! Sustainable! Female owned!) The dress has POCKETS!!! (Usable, zippered, and there’s three of them!) it’s odor proof, wrinkle-proof and quick drying. It’s made from recycled plastic bottles and it’s super cute. After buying the dress, wearing it in this merciless Texas heat and sweating all up in it, I was in love. It really doesn’t stink. I keep my keys, phone, wallet and 3-5 hot wheels cars in the pockets with room to spare. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">wayre also makes very flattering shorts that are touted as “eat your way through a city”, and yeah, you definitely could. The waist and in the back is very forgiving and they’re comfortable and light, while still looking kinda fancy? My mom bought me a pair for my birthday and they’re just as awesome as the dress. The fabric is smooth and almost like silk, but without any wrinkling and so much easier to care for. They also have pockets (!!!) and the matching tank that goes with them has a snap design in the back with a loop for easy hotel hanging, and could be easily worn with jeans or a skirt and still be très stylish. When I take my wayre pieces out of the washer, they’re almost dry and ready to wear already, meaning I could wash them all in a hotel sink and they’d be ready to wear the next morning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, if we’re talking about streamlining my packing game, I would guess that I could pack two dresses, one tank and short set from wayre and a couple of other random tank tops and I would be set for 2-3 weeks in Spain or Southern France next summer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ok, yeah, the pandemic sucks, but it’s given me some time to find some gear to make future travel and adventure a little lighter and easier. It frees up my hands to carry important things like a fussy toddler, a handful of hot wheels cars and a backpack full of diapers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Watch out, 2021 my new travel wardrobe and I are coming for ya! (With pockets!)</span></div><div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /><a href="https://www.shopwayre.com/?ref=TYvCkBHvlJZE3v" target="_blank">Shop wayre here and use promo code ALEXANDRIANOLAN for 10% off</a></div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-70061796618194361632020-03-04T00:00:00.000-06:002020-03-04T00:00:06.113-06:00Surprise <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3-n3vZ2AH6OqPNOgpMhzprNMXHuUaiclqd1TbF4JPVbojm6uPhpUTpxv17qCMl3pY5C2VlM-2rwtgZj-Ps9X87u3k3V3PenDSYqL5quoAbCHV0KtceOX_CvBdcEJX3L2QbCRzi5FunFX/s1600/4C8FA330-2414-454F-8EF4-64E32CB3CB08.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3-n3vZ2AH6OqPNOgpMhzprNMXHuUaiclqd1TbF4JPVbojm6uPhpUTpxv17qCMl3pY5C2VlM-2rwtgZj-Ps9X87u3k3V3PenDSYqL5quoAbCHV0KtceOX_CvBdcEJX3L2QbCRzi5FunFX/s640/4C8FA330-2414-454F-8EF4-64E32CB3CB08.jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My partner and I recently visited Houston for the first time since we left over two years ago. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When we left I was five months pregnant, and we were riding in our car packed to the gills with a dog, two cats, and a bunch of clothes, ceramic vases, crystal from our wedding and anything else we didn’t trust the movers with. As we drove away, the outside temperature grew colder and colder the further north we drove, until we were frozen solid upon arrival in Calgary. Frozen, but excited for new experiences and a new country and a new addition to our family on the way. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When we left Houston, we were tired of it. Too hot, too humid. Too many cars and too many cowboy hats and we were simply sick of it. So it was funny on this visit back, to realize just how much we had missed it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Familiar graffiti greeted us in our rental car as we headed into downtown from the airport. A stop at “our” grocery store and then how could we pass up a margarita or two at our favorite Mexican restaurant? We’d been gone for two years, so of course there were changes aplenty. A coffee shop we used to frequent had been completely renovated, a few antique stores closed down. That favorite Mexican restaurant had moved to another street a few blocks away, its former location razed to make way for high rise apartments. (A fact that had initially terrified us, when pulling up, mouths watering for salsa to find our restaurant vanished. A quick Google search put us in the right place, but for a few panicked seconds, we were in anguish.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Houston was mostly the same, but it was changed, too, as we had expected. Two years can do a lot in a big city. But more than anything, it was we, of course, who were most different. When we’d left the city, we were two, and on this visit, we were three. Our son loved the grass filled parks and the sunshine days. It was a relief to get him ready for the day and not have</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">to add two coats, gloves, a scarf and boots for a walk outside. He sat on the lawn and ran his hand over the grass for minutes on end, in awe of simply being outside. Our old favorite places weren’t exactly as we remembered them, but they were familiar enough that we felt welcomed. And though we know summer is a very different beast in Houston, we had forgotten how pleasant it was to be in a city that isn’t snowy and frigid the majority of the year. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Old friends called and invited us to dinner, some of whom had children of their own since we had left. And so even though they were our same friends, they were different too. We’d sort of “changed together”, though we had been a country apart. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Was this really the city we had been so eager to escape from? Was this really such a terrible place to live?</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We visited the museum and were reminded how fabulous the visiting exhibits and permanent collection is. There were so many more parks than we remembered, so many more restaurants that we hadn’t tried.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We had left Houston two years ago hopeful of new experiences in Canada, not realizing there were so many opportunities in Houston that we had yet to explore. Perhaps it is as they say, that distance makes the heart grow fonder, or maybe, it’s possible that being buried under an avalanche for two years in Canada might have something to do with our changed hearts. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Either way, our visit ended in an offer on a house, and a plan to move back, as soon as possible. </span></span></div>
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alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-43833307821504173972020-02-19T00:00:00.000-06:002020-02-19T00:00:12.651-06:00Canadian Expat <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi29rQLprZl_0rVT6Gb2KOkpzCBAHTJyLLo90Q-OFsAEyURGoQB2Y7Wel3KNg8R1JhU8mddAHunyhPx7e0IthvMFgPcU17H_5PcuHVj3Wo3v25IwmP1VA-bABAuQvIR-t8WS2OAfGtxCkQl/s1600/32767556-048D-4E7F-877E-A153CBB61F2C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi29rQLprZl_0rVT6Gb2KOkpzCBAHTJyLLo90Q-OFsAEyURGoQB2Y7Wel3KNg8R1JhU8mddAHunyhPx7e0IthvMFgPcU17H_5PcuHVj3Wo3v25IwmP1VA-bABAuQvIR-t8WS2OAfGtxCkQl/s640/32767556-048D-4E7F-877E-A153CBB61F2C.jpeg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">It’s the little things. But then again, it always is, isn’t it? The small, day to day trifles of life that end up making the biggest difference in your happiness, your comfort, your feelings of “home”. The things that you barely think about, the situations and items, places and systems that hardly register as part of your life— these little things— well, they’re the big things. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">When we first found out we would be moving to Calgary for my partner’s job, we were nervous, sure. Uncertain? Definitely. But also, prevailingly, we were excited. A new opportunity, a new country, a new apartment, new city, new stores and trails and museums. A new place to explore and discover and leave our mark on. We were tired of the unrelenting Houston heat, sick of the humidity and the traffic, ready for a little cooler weather and some mountains. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Be careful what you wish for, as they say, you just might get it. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">We arrived in Calgary in February and it was snowing. Of course it was snowing— it was February! I’m a Michigander, after all, so I was expecting this. What a change! Sweaters every day, bundling up and playing in the snow! Hot chocolate and watching the flakes fall— heaven after the Houston humidity. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Until, well, snow becomes slush. And is filled with motor oil and dirt and all kinds of other gross unmentionables. When this happens, it becomes less charming. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">And then, as we lived there, we noticed all those little things that were different. Those small things that let us know that we weren’t in the USA anymore. The postal system, for one, is extremely slow. It would take 2-3 weeks to send and receive a letter from the US. The post was expensive too, so expensive that sending care packages to relatives and even letters became a real issue. The healthcare system was different too, and although it was free and the healthcare professionals we saw were kind and talented, it was... just more difficult to navigate. Many of our favorite brands were unavailable in Canada, or so expensive to ship that it was basically not worth the money. All of our old familiars, those small things that provide comfort, well, those little things were gone. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Suddenly, it was May, and it was still snowing. The days weren’t warming up, summer felt a thousand miles away. And when it finally did arrive in June, it seemed to blow hot and cold, summer one day, cold rain and wind the next. As beautiful as the mountains were in the distance, they were also far, far away. Austere, windy, and quite a drive to journey to. The climate change had once been very welcome, but when snow fell in mid September, it seemed harsh and inhospitable. Houston was hot and humid and sometimes miserable, and there were days when I had wished I could wear a sweater, but now, that sunshine was looking a whole lot better than being buried under snow from September to May.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">And so, over time, the adventure seems less exciting. The touchstones of home— a can of Vernors, our favorite brand of salsa, the cookies we used to get from the bakery down the street, that wine bar we went to on Friday nights, all those old favorites, those small things we took for granted, those things seem to matter a lot more. I miss my weekly letters to my mom, the greater selection of American Amazon and authentic Tex-Mex right down the street. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">In the end, it’s the little things. The barely significant things that mean the most. It’s those things that make it home, and honestly, we can’t wait to be back. </span></div>
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alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-36669669275239883612019-10-23T00:00:00.000-05:002019-10-23T00:00:06.907-05:00Return to Rome <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GKNch5YyDpnBYLZqyNnOteJQKV4bQf_SFfLnMFQThAJvjODUlhY8FseETgU4IfEGNl9OLgN-zObne3cXHSpHF8bR07fHq4YgAudbWsSOpsZiu8c9DiyEqo5G_pizn3b6yQSZZ0kAQNw4/s1600/F9D48B3B-1AB6-4A5A-9B1E-A94E6C592CAE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GKNch5YyDpnBYLZqyNnOteJQKV4bQf_SFfLnMFQThAJvjODUlhY8FseETgU4IfEGNl9OLgN-zObne3cXHSpHF8bR07fHq4YgAudbWsSOpsZiu8c9DiyEqo5G_pizn3b6yQSZZ0kAQNw4/s640/F9D48B3B-1AB6-4A5A-9B1E-A94E6C592CAE.jpeg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzXccQlEBjwKRoX9xJ_1S90Ewv9vjhBIgfR4S0e9X07BkqAEETrjUnvkmXg7FEz3xuNxB2eZ6ZVvAbA62lOQ4JR9JMzbh_VqFI0I3I59qMYb8sr3cEAnZjLPEK2zo4lH3lKojzdW14Hrx/s1600/FAE9D100-2A2F-4D51-B6E3-C0773FBC82E8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzXccQlEBjwKRoX9xJ_1S90Ewv9vjhBIgfR4S0e9X07BkqAEETrjUnvkmXg7FEz3xuNxB2eZ6ZVvAbA62lOQ4JR9JMzbh_VqFI0I3I59qMYb8sr3cEAnZjLPEK2zo4lH3lKojzdW14Hrx/s640/FAE9D100-2A2F-4D51-B6E3-C0773FBC82E8.jpeg" width="480" /></a>O</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One truth I have learned through traveling is that a tourist’s impressions of a place are largely colored by the tourist, his or herself. The same exact city through two different sets of eyes can look unbelievably dissimilar.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Recently we traveled to Italy and though most of our stay was to be spent luxuriating on the Amalfi Coast, we had also scheduled some days in Rome on the front and back end. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, Rome and I are not strangers. We have a history, and my opinion, based on prior experience was that the eternal city was a disgusting, stinking dump full of rude citizens and cars actively trying to murder anyone who got in their way. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, I was none too pleased with our travel arrangements. I had artfully planned our other trips to Italy so that we purposefully avoided Rome.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But on this trip, flying from Canada, our easiest flight was into Rome. And after two flights—9 hours—with a one year old, we</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We landed at the airport and hired a car to our hotel. It was a small, boutique kind of place complete with a wrought iron elevator from the beginning of time and a charming front desk and clean, modern furnishings in our room. Lovely. I was begrudgingly impressed. The concierge recommended a local place to eat and we followed the map to it without issue. A small restaurant with a wide and varied wine selection and small plates for sharing. The owner and the waitstaff were nice, even— pleasant. The walk to the restaurant had been beautiful, over a bridge and down the streets, late day sunshine at our backs and other couples and tourists strolling about, taking pictures, walking hand in hand. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We retired to sleep and passed a very comfortable night before hurrying to an early train that would take us to the coast.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wrote it off. A fluke, surely. Rome was disgusting. Vile. Uncomfortable. Unwelcoming. I’d had a bad experience the first time I’d visited. I’d been spat at. Pushed into the road into oncoming traffic. I’d slept on a bed that had to have been made from a plywood with a sheet stretched over top. I’d been harassed, almost stolen from and I’d spent some of my time that first visit wishing I’d never left Michigan. It had been my first trip outside of the US and it was the worst experience I could have imagined for a place I’d always dreamed of visiting. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But then came our stay in Rome at the end of the trip. I was expecting a letdown of epic proportions after the very pleasant stay we’d had the first night. We stayed in a different hotel, in a different part of the city and it was—delightful. Utterly. The area we stayed in was gorgeous, covered in ancient buildings with statues and fountains. Our hotel also granted access to a rooftop terrace over Piazza Navona, which is crawling with tourists—but from above the piazza is magic. We sipped aperol spritz and watched the sunset, sitting beneficently over the crowds below. It was dazzling. Rome, at night IS what all the songs and movies say it is. I was enchanted. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Same eyes, different traveler. I’d had a truly awful experience in Rome my first time. But on return, I was a different explorer altogether. I’d been many, many miles since my first glimpse of Rome. And I’m so glad that I did return. The city I met the second time was definitely worth the trip— and dare I say— warrants a longer stay next time. </span></span></div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-76876860245461967312019-06-26T00:00:00.000-05:002019-06-26T00:00:01.509-05:00Beach Reads--Forget Me Not Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's almost summer. And so, if you're anything like me, you need a book. Actually, you need a stack of books. A veritable personal library of books to keep you entertained while sunning or whilst taking a break from the waves of some beach, somewhere. May I recommend<i><b>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Forget-Not-Blue-Alexandria-Nolan-ebook/dp/B078H7XN4Y" target="_blank">Forget Me Not Blue</a>? </b></i></div>
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If you, yourself have already read it. Bravo! I thank you from the depths of my soul! Read another of <i><b><a href="http://amazon.com/author/alexandrianolan" target="_blank">my books</a>, </b></i>pretty please. Or simply pass this blog post on to someone who might be interested. </div>
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For today, dear reader, I have for you an excerpt from the book, which details Celia's introduction to many of her co-inhabitants of the asylum in which she is being kept. (but does she belong there?!?) </div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“I’m almost certain you’re not <i>quite</i> mad. Perhaps only a little, which is fine by me. People who have a little less sanity are more interesting anyway, don’t you find? Like Nelly Gromer, over there by the window? The one holding an umbrella? She’s only a little mad as well. The girl was in a rainstorm, poor dear, and then she fell ill. She’s been a little bats ever since. Laughs hysterically at anything even mildly funny, which makes me feel very droll indeed. But she cries absolute rivers when you tell her you owned a cat as a child and then reveal it has since died. Makes one feel as if one’s small tribulations are vastly important.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Annie shook her head as if satisfied at Nelly’s level of emotions being higher than they ought. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“Anyway, you’re Celia Green, then?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Celia was stunned. How did this woman know her? She sat back in her rattan chair, emitting further groans and creaks from the protesting twisted palm. She took in Annie from this vantage. Dull, wheaten hair, with a pale complexion more faded whitewash than alabaster. She had hollow cheeks and a decidedly crumpled way of holding herself that made her look like a used paper bag. Celia herself was small but cherubic with round apple cheeks, and though not fat, she was decidedly not angular. Annie was. She looked like Nelly Gromer’s umbrella turned inside out by a storm. Consumption—that’s what she looked like. But her eyes were bright and strange, and she laughed easily, which she did now again to see Celia’s expression. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“I help out in the records office. I’m technically <i>not supposed</i> to look at other patient’s files, but when you came in I was curious. You looked somewhat familiar. So I took a peek before I sent the file along to Dr. Norbert’s office.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Celia stiffened.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“But, it turned out I was mistaken. There’d been an article some time back in one of the papers, I don’t remember which— about some society lady meeting with a grisly death or illness? Or she’d run away? I don’t remember. Or maybe I am making it up.” She shrugged, uncaring. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Celia relaxed, for a moment she had thought maybe that this woman knew Simon, but Annie clearly did not. She had already changed the subject and suddenly grabbed Celia’s hand and had visibly brightened. “Well, I suppose I ought to introduce you around!” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Her voice had gone merry, and she pulled Celia to standing with more strength than Celia could have imagined an ailing woman to possess. She gestured toward the group of ladies in the corner who smiled kindly, if not bizarrely, in Celia’s direction.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“This is Myrtle and Sarah” she said, indicating two silver-haired ladies whose mouths never seemed to fully close. One, Celia supposed it was Sarah, had eyes that had gone milky white and brown spots like dripped paint up and down her gnarled hands. Both the women nodded in Celia’s general direction and their grins grew somehow wider than before, which produced an effect of friendly terror in Celia. She wondered if the blind woman had created her own world now that she didn’t have to see the reality of the one that surrounded her. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Without any regard for shame or privacy, Annie blurted out, “Sarah has been in asylums ever since her husband decided she was better out of the way, and Myrtle here was committed by her son, who owed her money. Apparently locking her away was much simpler than paying back the debt, eh, Myrl?” Annie chuckled as if this were humorous, and Myrtle nodded, smiling. Celia could find nothing to laugh about at all, and was indeed, horrified. She looked again to Sarah, and bit her lip to keep back a spontaneous sob that threatened. Husband shut her away? Was this then her future? Because she had blindly trusted a lover that needed her out of the way, too?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Then Annie gestured to the third woman, who was sitting near Myrtle and Sarah, but not quite with them. It was as if the few inches that she had put between her knees and theirs declared her wholly separate. “This fairy queen here is Caroline. But I call her Queen Caro.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Caroline nodded regally in their direction, an expression that was somehow dreamy yet imperious was fastened to her features. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“How <i>do</i> you <i>do?”</i> Caroline asked, nodding slightly at them again, her eyes shifting over for just the smallest of moments before settling back into seeing things that weren’t there, or were, or had been at one time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Caroline was tall, or would be when she stood. She had long brown hair the color of cherry wood that hung in lazy curls down her back and shoulders. Her eyes were overly large and eerily green, like a mixed potion in a fairytale. Her skin was fresh cream and her lips were pink and slightly parted. She was lovely, but child-like, more so than Celia even. Celia had features most often seen on porcelain dolls, though her skin was a bit darker. But Caroline was something else entirely, a beautiful goddess of a woman with the mind of a child. Though there was nothing about her to cause such a reaction, Celia decided she was a little afraid of Caroline. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Annie watched Celia’s reaction, and chatted on with her Queen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“How do <i>you </i>do, your highness?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“Well enough, I suppose, though the kitchen seems to have run out of cherry tarts,” Caroline narrowed her eyes and twisted her lip petulantly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“Oh no!” Annie tutted, “A great shame! But I must take leave of you now, Queen Caro.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Caroline nodded in their direction and Celia watched as Annie performed a curtsey before looking at her sharply, indicating she was expected to do the same. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Bewildered, Celia executed a passable curtsey and was pulled away roughly by Annie. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“Poor thing. Kicked in the head by a horse when she was a child. Though, I suppose there are worse things to be deluded about than believing yourself royalty.” She paused a moment and then looked at Celia.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">“Don’t approach her alone, mind you. She might look sweet and child-like, but she’s a holy terror when she’s wound. Madder than a bag of ferrets, that one.” She arched her brows meaningfully and whispered, “Violent”. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763;">Celia shivered. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: x-small;">Excerpted from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Forget-Not-Blue-Alexandria-Nolan-ebook/dp/B078H7XN4Y" target="_blank">Forget Me Not Blue</a> by Alexandria Nolan, all rights reserved.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Order your copy here: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Forget-Not-Blue-Alexandria-Nolan-ebook/dp/B078H7XN4Y" target="_blank">Forget Me Not Blue</a></span></span></div>
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alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-80924630603913022572019-06-05T00:00:00.000-05:002019-06-05T00:00:00.338-05:00Cornwall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t know very much about Cornwall before we visited. Only what I had seen represented on television, and the very loose history of Cornish miners in the Upper Peninsula, mostly about pasties, if I’m being honest. I’d read something about cream teas, and heard of the Pirates of Penzance, but other than that, just vague holiday notions of a seaside area of Britain. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We set out for Cornwall from London, taking a train from Paddington to Bristol and from there we hired a car and drove three hours down through Devon and then to Cornwall. We passed through towns that only took two blinks of an eye to pass through, and with names that seemed to have far too many consonants to be able to pronounce.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We finally, (and I do mean finally, with a fussing baby in the back and two stressed adults on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road) arrived in Gwenapp, the location of our hotel. I’d be hard pressed to explain how I chose it. I’d never heard of the town before and it wasn’t especially close to any of the main “tourist spots” of Cornwall. But, however I had found it, The Vicarage was just about the most marvelous country house I could have chosen, and what a lucky vicar to have had the run of such a beauty. Stone walls and large windows with flowers and tropical plants greeting us into a world of color. Next to the grey and rainy London we'd just left, it was something like paradise, indeed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Inside was something like a movie set for a period piece, but with a delightful jumble of hodgepodge tasteful antiques. A warm welcome for weary travelers, and what an eyeful for a grumpy baby! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cornwall. We bit off more than we could chew. We failed to understand that it wasn’t simply a place—it’s an entire region. Many, many small towns with little pubs of varying quality, but all so novel to an American tourist. Restaurants on the beach like the Ferryboat Inn, or posh hotels in towns in which to take an afternoon tea. Tea rooms, antique stores, castles and always, always, the sea. I never realized just how much the sea plays a role in the lives of the Cornish. I’d read about smugglers and excisemen, but it’s hard to fully grapple with unless one is there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A day without visiting the seaside became a wasted day. Every National Trust site we visited seemed to have a view somewhere of a large expanse of blue. Gardens that overflowed with flowers that I couldn’t believe could bloom in such profusion that far north when it wasn’t fully Spring. Bold yellows and pinks, purples and everything green, green, green. The beaches themselves were hardly to be believed as being in England. They looked more akin to the Caribbean or Hawaii in some places. Sugary sand and bountiful sun—but also <i>very </i>strong winds. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn’t write about Cornwall, however, without mentioning the cream teas. Clotted cream so thick you should choke as it goes down your throat and jam so sweet you get a toothache. And yes, of course, the pasties. The pasty every Michigander knows, but larger, in more flavors, and dare I say…better—than those I grew up on. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We spent our days—too few!— exploring St. Ives, Falmouth, Marazion, Penryn, Mylor, Devoran and dozens of other tiny places that we drove through too quickly to notice. We stopped at every antique store and any shop that captured our curiosity. We ate too many scones with far too much clotted cream (our baby fairly turned into a pot of clotted cream himself by the end). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There may not have been enough days to explore Cornwall, but that only means we’ll have to travel there again. But this time, a little more in the know, a little better prepared for its splendour.</span></span></div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-986449505398505142019-05-29T00:00:00.000-05:002019-05-29T00:00:06.463-05:00Toronto Transit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not too long ago we visited Toronto, and the trip forced me to reflect on the lack of widespread, usable public transit in the United States…and how much easier it would be to cart around my kid if we had it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unless you are living in one of the few cities with easy to use, comprehensive and convenient public transit, then you probably have a car for daily use, and you are forced to rent a car or use taxis and ride share services like Uber when away from home. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This was something I hadn’t thought a whole lot about until we had started traveling in Europe— where point A to point B is a quick ride on the metro or a jaunt on the tram. But the inconvenience didn’t really hit home until I had this baby, because, folks, babies can’t ride in Ubers without a car seat. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don’t get me wrong, Toronto has a great subway system, but it’s not quite at Paris/Amsterdam/London situation as far as the number of lines and stops. This became abundantly clear as we marched half of a kilometer here and a kilometer there. The weather, which had been temperate and pleasant, suddenly became frigid, rainy and blustery with wind. A baby bundled into my chest, the wind blowing back our umbrella as we took a train to a tram, disembarked and walked a clip so that we could switch to a bus and still had six blocks to walk. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In any other place we would have hailed an Uber or a Lyft from our phone, but, as we had no car seat packed away in our pockets, this was not an option. So we trudged on ahead, marching through the rain and feeling very sorry for ourselves and not really that fond of adventures anymore. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, taxis do in fact welcome babies, sans car seat, as they are considered public transit—just as a car seat is not required for a bus or streetcar. But if you’ve ever been in a taxi, you’ll know the fare is...extensive. Expensive. The price of a whole week’s worth of Metro tickets. So, for every day use, a taxi is not ideal for a vacation budget.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But, at any rate, Toronto was cold and gloomy, rainy and gross. Our umbrella was useless against the wind and we were soaked to the bone. The day before had been lovely, sunny and warm, and we took in the old houses in the Annex area of town and all over downtown and the Entertainment District and nearby. It seemed to be a mix of New York, Chicago and multiple European cities in a sort of antique, well-constructed but rundown sort of way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We were taken in, though. There is an impressive quality to Toronto that our current Canadian home, Calgary, lacks. We had spent that sunshine day enchanted, making plans for all of the sights we would travel to on the morrow, all the shops we wanted to stop by, what restaurants we wanted to check out. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But, when tomorrow came, it brought the ghastly weather, and between that and the convoluted transportation, all of those plans were set aside after a good soaking, for the comfort of our hotel restaurant, and an early bedtime. We ended the trip with a longing for trams that run from one end of the city to the next, for underground trains that have stops every two to three blocks in the center of the city, and wishing that more of the United States had any kind of usable public transit that we could bring our child on. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Toronto, thanks for the cheap rides around town. America—get your act together!</span></span></div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-67897753936408040262019-05-15T21:29:00.000-05:002019-05-15T21:29:04.388-05:00Afternoon Tea <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What comes to mind when hearing or reading the words, ‘afternoon tea’? Is it satin tablecloths and delicate boned china dishes, scones and jams, and pinkies sticking out just so? Is it something more casual, perhaps? Just big mugs of hot brew with a little cream thrown in, shared over a table to help keep your eyes open mid-day? Or maybe it’s fancier still, with tiny triangles of cucumber sandwiches and coronation chicken, trifles of battenburg cakes and macaroons and macarons all set upon a 3-tiers of perfectly assembled wonder. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For me, growing up, afternoon tea was simply a pot of tea with my grandmother. We’d pour cups of green tea, Constant Comment or Earl Grey and talk. She’d tell me stories, some from her life, some she made up, and we’d sip. That was it. But from that humble beginning, a fascination with the idea of afternoon tea began. I’d read about the more posh variety in novels, I’d see it in period films, and I even partook of an especially lovely version in North Carolina once. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But then, we visited England, and our notion of afternoon tea was turned on it’s head, and I was ruined forever. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On our first trip to England we were slated to visit London, Bath and Manchester. We had tea scheduled in every city. The second time we visited, we had tea in the Lake District, in North Yorkshire and in York. The best, the fanciest, the most posh and unforgettable? London, of course. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In England, afternoon tea can be any of the ideas above. It can be a small meal, it can be sweet treats, it can be scones and jam—and of course, always, tea. It can be tea in bags (though this is frowned upon) or looseleaf and listed on a fancy menu as one would list fine wines. The menu will mention the plantation the leaves were grown on, the specific aromas, whether the tea is invigorating, sensual, calming or good for the complexion. And the tea we enjoyed in London had this type of menu, and attached to it was a complementary menu of champagnes, cocktails and other refreshments to pair with the tea. At this establishment, it wasn’t simply tea, it was an event. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Being American, I think we were more in awe of the menu and presentation than the other customers. Eggs in egg cups, tiny sandwiches with sprouts, salmon, cucumbers and all kinds of strange toppings we’d normally never order on purpose. Tiny cheese in pastry and all sorts of desserts, from pink marshmallows tied into knots to miniature pink tea cakes that looked too perfect to eat. The champagne bottles popped almost as often as the teacups clinked into their delicate saucers, but the conversation never rose above a polite hum. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This experience far surpassed what I had imagined for a tea, but it wasn’t the old fashioned decadence of novels nor the stuffy etiquette of period films. Instead it was something…modern. Decadent—yes, but pompous—no. It was as if all of the fun of afternoon tea had been modernized. All of the elegance made accessible, especially for us yankee doodles who wouldn’t have known the correct position for our pinky and could barely keep our elbows off the table. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This was a far cry from my grandmother’s table, two mugs full of whatever tea had caught her eye at the grocery store. A cotton tablecloth, a plain creamer and stray sugar spilled on the table. But the feeling was mostly the same for both</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">. This is afternoon tea, then. Just a pause in a hectic day, and no matter how many tiny sandwiches or how much clotted cream is on the table, it’s the pause in the busy day that matters. That—and the champagne, of course. </span></span></div>
alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-71633250663151808642019-04-24T00:00:00.001-05:002020-09-07T14:22:56.408-05:00Calgary, Cowtown, YYC<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We always dreamed of living abroad. It was something both my husband and I always agreed upon. Let's Go! Let's Do IT! Let's live in a foreign place with people we don't know down streets we'll have to learn. </div>
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When we dreamed of it though, it was always some place like....Rotterdam or Antwerp, Edinburgh, Pisa, or Northern France. Denmark, Norway, Australia....never Canada. </div>
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But that's where we are. For now. It seemed like...a stepping stone at the time. At least there are seasons in Canada, we said. (Since Houston only has Hot and Hotter and sometimes damp cold but only for a day or two) We were... optimistic. A new baby, in a new country, with a new position in his company. I'm good at being alone. I'm good at making friends and taking care of things and organizing. I was certain I could handle it all. My husband is ambitious, he's hardworking and driven. We are both adventurous. </div>
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But, as you can imagine. A new baby in a new country where you don't know anyone or have any family is much more difficult once your rose colored glasses are off. Or, perhaps shattered into pieces in our case. And Calgary is definitely a place with seasons. But, winter is definitely the dominant one. And seasonal affective disorder is a real thing and postpartum depression is a real thing and babies are hard and moving is hard too. </div>
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But, it's spring now so the winter blues are on their way out. And all difficulties aside, we've made it this far. Arthur is thriving. He has two passports and stamps in them from two different countries. We're still traveling. I'm still writing (not as much, but still at it), My husband is killing it at work, and we've made some friends here (I DID tell you I was good at it). </div>
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So, was it a mistake to move abroad when we did? No. Yes. Maybe. It doesn't really matter now, at any rate, because we did move. We made a decision and it is what it is. We've both learned a lot. Even on a micro level, there's so many differences from one country to another that you don't fully consider. Your favorite grocery store, your daily walk, that special bakery, the best place to grab a coffee or a sandwich or... even just that special brand of shampoo you buy. Those things will change. You have to find a new sandwich place, and your shampoo company doesn't ship international, or whatever. You find new favorites. You change. You evolve. And that's always a good thing. Change and evolution is growth and growth is good. </div>
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Would we do it again? Yes. We're adventurous, after all. We like a new place. A new set of challenges. A new coffee shop and a new favorite bakery. Bring it on. </div>
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We have 3 passport books to fill up now. </div>
<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-24180688455237704152019-04-10T00:00:00.000-05:002019-04-10T00:00:04.348-05:00Flint for a Few Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We took our little one back to Flint, Michigan, my hometown. It was important to me, that he be in the place that I was born, where I grew up--the place I spent my babyhood. He won't remember it, and even if he did, it would mean nothing to him. But that's ok, it meant something to me. </div>
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While we were visiting the homeland, we went out and about a bit. Just enough to eat at some of my old favorite restaurants and to visit the Museum of Fine Arts. I've been to museums all over the world, but I was proud of the museum in Flint. It does itself proud. Arthur liked all the color...and I did too. Flint has been a little grey and wasting for a bit too long. </div>
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Anyway, it wasn't an exciting trip really. Just good food and home and art that was really, really rather good. It's important, I think, to keep going home. That way, it doesn't only exist in your mind the way that it was when you were young. Instead, you are seeing it change, and adjusting to it along the way, instead of suddenly returning and feeling the place you left is a stranger. </div>
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It was good to go home. It was good to bring Arthur there. I felt like a circle had been completed of sorts. I was a baby there, I grew up there, grew into womanhood there--it was only fitting I brought my own child there as well. </div>
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I'm rambling. Go home if you live far away. Just for a few days. Kiss your Mom and your Dad and eat some good shawarma/Chinese food/Greek whatever it is, and then (if you have one) look through your child's eyes at what your home is. If you don't have one, remember how your hometown used to be your whole world. </div>
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xx</div>
<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-59871134187233408122019-03-27T00:00:00.000-05:002019-03-27T00:00:01.404-05:00Low Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s a reason it’s called high season. There’s a reason more people flock to an area at certain times, that the prices skyrocket and the city fills up so full that it nigh on impossible to imagine it any other way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Except that there <i>is</i> a low season. There does exist a time when visitors are few and far between, that hotel rates are affordable and a good amount of the businesses are shuttered because it isn’t really worth their time to open up with such a sparse population to serve. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And while there is a very real charm to having a city to yourself, to getting a fancy room at the hotel that looks out onto the water for a reasonable price and to wandering a beautiful seaside place that looks a little like a ghost town. There’s definitely charm in that. But it’s also…a little depressing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This was our latest experience of Villefranche Sur Mer on the French Riviera. We had found an incredible deal on a flight, and on hotels, and all of the wine tasting and landmark viewing we wanted to do—it all seemed to line up perfectly, so we booked. Never mind that it was off season. We didn’t care for crowds anyway. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the height of summer—surely, there was more to do by the sea than bathe in it or sunbathe near it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Surely. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Villefranche Sur Mer is a typical postcard lovely Riviera village. A pharmacy, a bakery, a patisserie, a wine store—or three, multiple seaside bistros serving French, Italian and of course seafood. There is a marina with enormous yachts tied up, as well as quick little cruising boats and rowboats alike. Also, a fisherman’s dock, with a decidedly casual little restaurant perched alongside and just a bit farther down—fancy restaurants headed by some of the top chefs in France. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But while we are visiting it is cool—sometimes cold. The upscale eateries are closed, most with a sign announcing that they will reopen with the season. Although, not the season we are visiting in. Another reminder that we hav come at the wrong time. The beaches are all but empty. Just sand and water and sky. And it’s gorgeous, it’s lovely, it’s staggeringly beautiful—but there is also something slightly off about it. Like arriving to a party after the guests have left—or, perhaps, before anyone has arrived. Before the music has come on and definitely before the cake has been put out. The beach is more than empty, it looks …abandoned and forlorn. It is early spring and the flowers are blooming and the weather is mostly mild, but we are too early. We will never see the full bloom of the flowers or the beach full to bursting—with nary a space to lay our own towel down.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our hotel room is one of the best the place has to offer. High up, with a clear view of the Mediterranean, and one can almost pretend that Italy can be seen across the expanse if you screw your eyes up just right and see through the waves. But the few boats that are tied up on the water are empty too. Their occupants having anchored them and then come into shore—in search of excitement we are too foreign to know about. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And Villefranche is charming, and it is lovely and there are lace curtains hanging up in windows and spring is in the air. But we are too early. We’ve come too soon. There’s a reason it’s called off season, because everything about visiting now is slightly…off. A solid reminder to pay the premiums and put up with the crowds, to fight for space on the beach and arrive to the party in the high season.</span></span></div>
alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-72491207330192187762019-02-20T19:00:00.000-06:002019-02-20T19:00:01.192-06:00SUPER TOURIST!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are so many other museums in Paris. The Musée d’Orsay, the Rodin Museum, the Petit Palais, Orangerie museum and a weird erotica museum in Montmartre, just to name a very, very few. The Louvre was too big. We were told to skip it. The lines were often long, there were pickpockets aplenty, and one simply could not see everything. Not in one day, not in one week. As much as we love museums and art, this sounded like a large and stressful commitment. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, I repeat, we never intended to visit the Louvre. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But we were near the Louvre, you understand. We were simply passing by, taking photos, enjoying the chilly day. Suddenly, we were approached.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A couple, like us. Would we like their tickets to the Louvre? They asked, gesturing to the museum just behind them. No one had punched their ticket, so they were still valid. Here, they said, smiling, enjoy. We looked at one another and shrugged. The Louvre hadn’t been on the agenda, but who were we to question the universe? We took our free tickets, walked into the museum and scanned them in. Valid, just as the couple had said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The first feeling that hit me in the Louvre was an odd kind of despair. It truly is gargantuan. from looking through the guide map alone, I could see that there was no way to see all of it, or even to glimpse all or even most of the highlights we most wanted to see. It is too vast, too many rooms, too many paintings to walk by, not a moment to spend even glancing at them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We chose three halls to venture down, with the aim of seeing <i>The Mona Lisa</i>, but other than that, anything else spectacular we saw along the way would be pure surprise and coincidence. Firstly, even this course of action was overwhelming. There are so many frames and so many paintings. There are sculptures and pieces you’ve seen on television and the halls resonate with the footsteps of the multitudes of people. People from all over the world, speaking all languages, taking photos, studying the artwork, admiring, discussing, experiencing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Soon, we were at the Mona Lisa. And somehow we were right at the front, as close you can get. There is a railing a few feet away from the actual painting, and there we were, right at that railing, with an excited crowd behind us and only <i>Mona Lisa </i>herself and a bored security guard in front of us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, the first thing one notices about the<i> Mona Lisa </i>is that it is altogether, disappointing. It is much smaller than one would imagine and the colors appear almost dingy compared to most of the paintings one has passed to arrive at this spot. I turned around slightly, to whisper this exact observation in my husband’s ear, when I saw it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A pickpocket. A woman, sneakily, stealthily reaching into a man’s satchel as he obliviously took photographs. Her hand, when I saw it, was holding his wallet, she was almost home free! What could I do? Well, I must admit I didn’t even think before I stuck my finger out and pointed directly at her. Everyone else was staring at DaVinci’s masterpiece, but she and I, we looked only at each other. “No!” I said firmly, still pointing. “No! No!” She put her hands up in surrender, dropping the wallet back into the satchel. She muttered something in another language and slunk away, lost in the crowd. The man who almost lost his wallet, none the wiser.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn’t tell you about anything else we saw at the Louvre. We hadn’t even planned on going. But, world class art aside, it’s a day I won’t soon forget. After all, how could I forget my own crime-fighting superhero origin story?</span></span></div>
alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-3799601651005974682019-01-23T00:00:00.000-06:002019-01-27T17:10:47.255-06:00Best of SMA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ZTaCSSwsCAHrWRqFbc7x63K-B7YbwXTq-OEEubjlbMof7bHUpE32XqyyCF3ofTWHyzdPTqi0jBeA9Rv9ymktxTLwk5zr5vnSy2SF8sUXIP8InGynLr5mxm3qMhA03BUKrygy-DBmN_6_/s1600/Attachment-4+3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1392" data-original-width="1600" height="556" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ZTaCSSwsCAHrWRqFbc7x63K-B7YbwXTq-OEEubjlbMof7bHUpE32XqyyCF3ofTWHyzdPTqi0jBeA9Rv9ymktxTLwk5zr5vnSy2SF8sUXIP8InGynLr5mxm3qMhA03BUKrygy-DBmN_6_/s640/Attachment-4+3.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Feeling the cold weather? Me too. Canada is...ridiculous. I thought I knew what cold was coming from Michigan, but...I was mistaken. It's freezing here. </div>
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So, how better to torture myself (and you) than with pictures of warm weather Mexico and the charming city of San Miguel. It's January now, Christmas is over, there's not an end to these frigid days in sight (at least for me) so how about some recommendations if you ever visit the lovely San Miguel de Allende ( which you absolutely should)</div>
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Mexican Hot Chocolate and Churros:</div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/chocolateschurros.sanagustin" target="_blank">Café San Agustín </a></div>
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Do I need to explain this? Churros and hot chocolate delicious and inexpensive. Go.</div>
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Margaritas:</div>
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<a href="https://www.lonelyplanet.com/mexico/san-miguel-de-allende/restaurants/la-posadita/a/poi-eat/465180/361572" target="_blank">La Posadita</a></div>
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Beautiful terrace views, excellent posole soup and of course, the margs are fantastic.</div>
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<a href="https://www.tripadvisor.ca/Restaurant_Review-g151932-d3708479-Reviews-La_Sirena_Gorda-San_Miguel_de_Allende_Central_Mexico_and_Gulf_Coast.html" target="_blank">La Sirena Gorda</a></div>
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You guys, it's called the "The Fat Mermaid" for goodnesssakes. The ginger margaritas are insane and the ceviche was top notch. </div>
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<a href="https://www.rosewoodhotels.com/en/san-miguel-de-allende/dining/luna-rooftop-tapas-bar" target="_blank">Luna Rooftop Tapas Bar</a></div>
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incredible views, good vibes, excellent churro dessert and the margarita is dangerous</div>
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Plan your trip. Now. You deserve it.</div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-17648434567535658772019-01-02T00:00:00.000-06:002019-01-02T00:00:08.110-06:00San Miguel de Allende<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63QmWHlJXWKCX4eCbYrKTNM7FyfGFcV2v-SXJMbnPkvyANf3SxraI2CYuUan2sfKpxTRgzD9iawjcSTxAOFixVPd5ggijoQPHq38hSpKGx9foad1t3w8I2H2kk08NDDMd_hcXYjWXjPQi/s1600/Attachment-4+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1600" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63QmWHlJXWKCX4eCbYrKTNM7FyfGFcV2v-SXJMbnPkvyANf3SxraI2CYuUan2sfKpxTRgzD9iawjcSTxAOFixVPd5ggijoQPHq38hSpKGx9foad1t3w8I2H2kk08NDDMd_hcXYjWXjPQi/s640/Attachment-4+2.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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If you google image search San Miguel de Allende, you'll be inundated with pictures of the Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel. And with good reason--it's absolutely stunning.</div>
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The majestic pink spire towers over the surrounding landscape and is a landmark to look for from any rooftop restaurant or bar. The plaza it is located in, Plaza Principal, is a gathering place for families, lovers, tourists and teens. </div>
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And, you guys, it's pink.</div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-32647220999187246172018-12-19T00:00:00.000-06:002018-12-19T00:00:11.136-06:00San Miguel Streets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMV2MNwjb2JjTK9IuTSzMzqO0nGSsjWNe7cKg7IQfeoQqCTHyvJuxI0s8zmIbptW89kZd3uHJ-T3f06sI-EUolFXfYpNrKcaowTqWClZXB7HbPliDPM10BR6makNGHX7SP2bo7u0bPOG6/s1600/Attachment-5+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1462" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMV2MNwjb2JjTK9IuTSzMzqO0nGSsjWNe7cKg7IQfeoQqCTHyvJuxI0s8zmIbptW89kZd3uHJ-T3f06sI-EUolFXfYpNrKcaowTqWClZXB7HbPliDPM10BR6makNGHX7SP2bo7u0bPOG6/s640/Attachment-5+2.jpeg" width="584" /></a></div>
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The streets of San Miguel are gorgeous. Brightly colored, cheerful. In places luxurious, richly painted and well-tended with charming cobblestones, and in other places grubby, forgotten and broken. It's a strange mish-mash of culture, society and the people who call San Miguel home. There's something intoxicating about the city, and no matter how many times you walk the same cobblestones, you can't seem to get enough.</div>
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It is both familiar and welcoming and yet elusive at the same time. The coffee shop we frequented--Kibok Coffee--made us feel locals, as did many of the restaurants and streets. But then we'd turn a corner and Boom! Everything was new and different and it was clear we had so much more to explore and learn. </div>
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We stayed in SMA for a week, and we felt like we kind of did it all--and also felt like we barely scratched the surface. A beautiful place, a twisting, winding cobblestone street friendly place.</div>
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I guess we'll have to go again.</div>
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alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-59996930269582551562018-12-05T00:00:00.000-06:002018-12-06T14:22:13.977-06:00Portals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When we booked our trip to San Miguel de Allende, I thought I would be most excited about a little R&R, margaritas, European style architecture, and tacos, tacos, tacos. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instead, I was transported...by the doors. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, doors. Maybe because there was very little R&R to be had with a 5-month-old infant, and as a breastfeeding Mum I had to take it easy on the margaritas. So as we walked the streets, the charming, narrow, medieval village style streets, it was the doors that captured me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fascinating doors. Some well cared for, polished and oiled, wood shining brightly in the sunshine. Doors set into bright orange and soft pink walls. Others were shabby and somewhat forgotten, wood chipping in places, paint rubbed off and peeling. But rich or poor, gleaming or grungy, the doors were all eye-catching. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Generally, doors in foreign cities cause a bit of curiosity. Who lives there? What happens behind that closed door? What are the lives like of those that spend their days behind it? It's fun to imagine what your life would be like if it was your town, your house, your door, and the key for it and the life within was inside your pocket. But these doors were something else entirely.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It wasn't only the lives within that were interesting, but the doors themselves. Almost as if each one was a portal to a different world altogether. Maybe because San Miguel as a city feels a little magic. Every once in a while in our world travels we stumble across places that seem to exist in a different time--or perhaps out of time completely. This was San Miguel. Art galleries, the church in the city's center that felt more Disney-fairytale than real life. Green parks, brightly colored buildings, cobblestone streets, colorful markets and as one local said to us, " the whole city is a restaurant!". And even amongst all of this, the doors commanded attention. Painted, oiled, adorned with metal embellishments or gorgeous knockers shaped like hands, frogs, geometric designs or flowers. Long forgotten or newly cleaned each one was a treat to behold. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It seemed that every street contained a multitude of these doors. And behind some of them—palatial mansions and haciendas. Tiny restaurants behind a bright red door or an intricately carved door with a cafe behind it selling Mexican hot chocolate, (with just a hint of chili pepper and cinnamon), or a glass and wooden door painted bright spring blue that opened into a bakery stuffed to the brim with cinnamon rolls, scones, brownies and lemon tarts. Others with shiny brass knobs and finials were the entry for museums and galleries, showcasing local arts of all sorts. But for me, once again, it was the door on the front of said gallery that was most worth looking at. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">As I said, there was very little rest and relaxation. There were most definitely not enough margaritas, and it is a simple fact that there are <i>never</i> enough tacos. Instead, there was a lot of breastfeeding in questionable restrooms and ever-awkward balancing-act diaper changes. There were countless fussy moments (for baby AND me) and many hours of a smooshed face pressed to my chest snoozing in his carrier as we explored the streets (and tried not to break our neck or our ankles on the cobblestones). But there was always the magic of the city and the beauty of the doors. I wish I could have peeked behind every one of them--just to be sure there wasn't another world back there.</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></div>
alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-78189561771529883702018-11-14T00:00:00.000-06:002018-11-14T00:00:05.938-06:00Off Season <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Lake Como, it’s a dream destination, right? It’s the land of Hollywood stars, VIPs and celebrities. It’s luxury and glamour and glitz. Isn’t it?</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Well, in the summer. In the summer months it’s bound to be full of Clooneys and the royals of Europe and footballers. All of them yachting and boating and bronzing in the sun. They are drinking expensive Barolo and Nebbiolo and spending heaps of money in the swanky restaurants that surround the lake. But in the off season?</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">In the off season, there is nary a star to be seen. The villages are mostly empty, the restaurants are barely operating. It’s lonely, almost devoid of boats on the lake, except those that are bobbing, docked and forgotten for the season. Or there is also the ferry, which is also uncomfortably empty, but still somehow painfully behind schedule, still operating on Italian time, infuriating to Americans.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Of course, it was when Lake Como was cold, empty, and somewhat depressing that we decided to make a visit. For although it was all of the sad descriptions above, the off season is also when Lake Como has something very important going for it. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">It’s affordable. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">We had landed in Milan and driven to Lake Como, twisting, turning roads enough to make anyone violently ill, especially me. The roads were mostly empty, however, and the villages surrounding the lake were eerily quiet. No one was outside, the businesses didn’t appear to be open, and if they were they didn’t appear to want visitors. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">The skies were dark, and it looked as though it would rain. It looked that way the whole drive, but the sky didn’t open and pour out its contents until precisely when we arrived in the little village of Sala Comacina. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">We ran in from the rain, and then waited, soaking and holding our luggage in the lobby— for there didn’t seem to be anyone there. And there wasn’t. Until a young boy walked down the staircase, and cheerfully upgraded our room— well, why not! We were the only guests, after all! </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">We arranged to have our dinner at the hotel that night prepared for us especially by the hotel’s chef. After dumping our belongings in a very nice room with a gorgeous view of the very empty and gloomy lake, we drove around, exploring the many villages. Some of them were larger than others and some were so small you truly would miss them if you blinked. To our un-surprise, many of the sights were closed for the season. Still, even with the poor weather, the Fiat’s little heater on full blast, and the unwelcoming nature of this off-season lake, the peeks of Como we were afforded as we drove around were lovely. Most of the villages seemed almost unreal. Tiny, picturesque, almost fantasy-like little places with names like Lenno, Varenna, Cernobio and Tremezzo— and the grandest of them all, the grand Bellagio. And of course, the constant, unrelenting beauty of the lake itself. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">We drove and drove, we stopped by a tiny cafe for lunch— the only patrons! We stopped the car and took pictures of the villages, the lake, the docked boats. And as we headed back to our hotel, I was suddenly glad for the off season. It might not be as bright or as glamorous, but it seemed to go to Lake Como in the cold meant it was ours alone. The best room, personal service and all the villages to explore. It kind of made us feel... like celebrities.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Who knew the off season could be a VIP experience? </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span></div>
alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-24141081790680616922018-10-24T00:00:00.000-05:002018-10-24T00:00:00.564-05:00Autumn in New (Old) York<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the autumn, my thoughts always tend toward England. Perhaps it is because I have read too many novels, or because the weather in the rural UK seems to be perpetually made of falling leaves, mud and rain. In any case, when the world around me turns orangey and the temperature starts to dip (even a little) I find myself in Britain, if only in spirit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For the last couple of years, however, come autumn, I was in the United Kingdom in the flesh, and last autumn I had the pleasure of visiting York. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, I must admit that my knowledge of this city in Northern England prior to this trip was relegated to what I had seen in films or read in books, a vague idea of Vikings and an affinity for York Peppermint Patties, though I didn’t know how they might be related. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We planned a trip through the Lake District, up through the Yorkshire Dales, and then finally we would end our trip in York, in what we figured was the sort of “London of Northern England”. Rolling into the city on the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of the car, the change from the dales and rolling farmland of rural England was staggering. And still, somehow York was not cosmopolitan. Not like London, at least. There is an oldness to the city, a stubbornness almost. A resistance to letting go of its past that is charming and unusual. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s embedded everywhere. Like a lot of Europe, the churches and houses, shops and pubs are all old. Or at the very least what us North Americans would consider so. A bakery that’s been run in the same shop on the same street by the same family for 200 years (baking some type of meat pie that was mostly made of lard and memories from what I could tell). The buildings are stooped and the streets are narrow. One is pulled backward, almost violently, into centuries past. It is simple to imagine what life would have been like then; people pressed together because of the closeness of the street, the smells of the restaurants and pubs pouring out, the rustle of purchases in bags, and the sounds of the 40 nearest conversations thrumming through you. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">York <i>feels</i> older than London, and it feels somehow friendlier too. We toured the museums which were wonderful and varied: The Viking Museum, Yorkshire Museum, Art Gallery, National Railway Museum, the Merchant Adventurer’s Hall, to name a few. There were oodles of antique shops and outdoor markets and in the autumn—the St. Nicholas Day Fair. Steaming cups of boozy hot cocoa and cider, baked treats and every kind of homemade knickknack and knitted object you can imagine. There was a warmth in the city, even though the temperatures dropped as the evening came on—and night hustles in quickly this late in the year. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We hadn’t known what to expect with York. I hadn’t bargained on how serious (and early) the city would take the Christmas holiday. I was pleasantly surprised in the way that York blended a cutting-edge Japanese restaurant into an 18th century brick building probably teeming with ghosts. Or the way that the bells of York Minster could still ring as powerfully now as they did in the 1400s—or that you could still find locals stopping to listen to their music.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">York was familiar. Maybe because it was, in so many ways, that same city from my novels. Or perhaps it was because the weather was crisp and the leaves were falling and I’d finally answered England’s call. </span></span></div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-2830957415039494682018-10-03T00:00:00.000-05:002018-10-03T00:00:05.398-05:00Autumn in Calgary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's strange to be back in a place that has an autumn. Strange, but nice. I never fully realized just how much I'd missed the falling leaves and colder temperatures until I found myself meandering around the parks of Calgary, crunching through those same leaves and shivering into my sweater. </div>
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At the risk of sounding smarmy, there is something uniquely magical about fall. Something about the dying of nature, the last, gasping breath of the year. Or, perhaps the last stretch and yawn of the year before settling in for a long winter's nap. Everything burns vibrantly in yellows and oranges and reds. Like each plant is showing its brightest fire before being snuffed out. </div>
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And Calgary came in strong with the cold. September has had snowy days and freezing rain. I've ordered more sweaters and sweatshirts--I'd almost forgotten what it was to need them! But there's comfort too in an oversized cardigan and a blanket across your lap--a comfort that was missing in Houston. A comfort that I'd lived too long without. </div>
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But the thing is about this beautiful Canadian autumn...it makes me miss Michigan fiercely. Everywhere I look I can't help but compare to the fire-flame reds and golds of Michigan trees, the abundance of Michigan apples, the pumpkins and cool weather and autumnal splendor of my Great Lakes State home. </div>
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Will I ever return? Does it matter? Could the Michigan of my memory and my imagination ever measure up to the real thing? Or is it instead better to live elsewhere, to shiver through other autumns, and dream of a Michigan that used to be, that I used to know so well, that really never was.</div>
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alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-5981841026025931942018-08-29T00:00:00.000-05:002018-08-29T00:00:02.763-05:00Insane in the Moraine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Growing up a proud Michigander, I was under the impression that all the lakes worth visiting were in my home state. If not only for the beauty, majesty and bragging rights that come with being the “Great Lakes State” but for the sheer number of bodies of water contained within. Minnesota, “Land of a thousand lakes”? We scoff at you. Michigan is home to over 11,000. No matter where in the state you are standing, you are never more than six miles from one of these refreshing beauties. Can that be topped? Michigan is surely the epicenter of all things freshwater and deserves all the lake-related accolades.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But then, I moved to Canada. And I learned something about lakes. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve written before about our trips into the mountains to Lake Minnewanka. And while stunning, I would never say it held a candle to the soft sand beaches and clear water of Lake Michigan. Little did I know, though, that Canada, and Alberta specifically, had some lake aces up its sleeves. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband had planned another mountain related adventure, and though I was keen to get out of the house, this destination was farther than we had ever driven with the baby, and we’d be taking the dog to boot. He’d been looking up other parks in Alberta to visit and had stumbled upon Moraine Lake, which looked to be cinemascope stunning. In fact, it looked like an instagram filter put on top of a photoshop with a layer of jewel tone set over the top of it. Pictures can be deceiving. And for a 3.5 hour drive to look at a lake with a newborn and a dog, I was…skeptical. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We piled into the Buick with a packed picnic, a small dog, a smaller baby, and made the drive through the mountains. Now, I am not a mountain girl, and the more I hear people oohing and aahing over them, the more unimpressed I become. I will admit, however, that the scenery on the drive is eye-catching, and the sheer size of the Canadian Rockies is bewildering. After a few hours, we drove by the Banff Park checkpoint, straight on the through Lake Louise, continuing down a winding road that led up, up, up and around. Suddenly, we were on the very edge of a precipice, and we both made tired quips about the car blowing off the road and us crashing to our doom in the ravine below. Which was actually a possibility as there were no guard rails to speak of and just a sheer drop next to the lines on the road. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This lake had better be the photoshop version if I’m risking certain death to see it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And, well, it was.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From the parking lot, the sapphire and aquamarine lake peeked at us from behind trees. It was a color so blue, so bright cerulean that it looked completely unreal. It was the lake from a fantasy, from a dream, from a child’s crayon box. It was a blue unlike any I’d ever seen in a lake. It was a Caribbean kind of color, the water of exotic islands where you drink from brightly colored straws in white sugar sand. Not a northern lake color. Not the kind of lake you find near pine trees and mountains. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But it was real. The lake was dazzling. And though I am not a mountain girl, I’m most definitely a lake lady. And this lake, with these pines, in this wild northern place I thought maybe, just maybe, Moraine Lake was giving Michigan a run for its money. </span></span></div>
<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-59690091718805413592018-08-16T00:00:00.000-05:002018-08-16T00:00:01.518-05:00With New Eyes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Have you ever had the experience of returning to a place you had been before, to find it utterly different than you remembered? </div>
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I hope so, for your sake. </div>
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And I don't mean the sensation of returning to your childhood home to find that it is smaller than you remembered, or back to your high school to see that it is completely changed by a new coat of paint and the knocks and scrapes of different students and dramas different than those of your experience. </div>
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Instead, I mean, have you had the occasion to revisit a place traveled to find that your initial impression was incomplete, or even, in some cases, incorrect? </div>
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Such was my experience this last time we found ourselves driving through the Canadian Rocky Mountains back to Lake Minnewanka.</div>
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I was not at all excited about this little adventure, though many would have been. It is, after all, a lovely lake. Beyond lovely, actually. It is so indescribably beautiful as to almost appear like a backdrop on a movie set. It is so gorgeous as to almost seem fake. As though if you squint your eyes just right you could perceive the brushstrokes or imperfectly draped background. But no, unbelievably, it is quite real.</div>
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As I said before, I was not looking forward to the trip. For one, I hadn't had a great experience the last time we had ventured into the mountains, and secondly, we had the added bonus of an infant in the backseat. It was to be our first road trip experience with our little one, and to say that the constant anxiety of the sound of a faint or whimper wasn't playing on my mind would be a lie.</div>
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But after a tense drive through the gorgeous summer mountain range, we arrived at the zig-zagging roads that led up, down and around to the lake. </div>
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The first sight of Lake Minnewanka is enough to literally steal your breath. There is nothing like it. The water is so blue, and it ripples evenly as though it is being painted before your eyes by a master artist. The mountains are covered in green trees, dappled like sunbeams on the mountain's slopes. So many trees that it feels impossible that so many could grow in such numbers and at such heights.</div>
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I had anticipated stress and a nagging need to return to the car and drive right back to our little house in Calgary, all while calming a screaming infant and my own nerves. But instead, the calm of the lake's waters smoothed my own ruffled anxieties. The sun shone warmly above, but it was not an oppressive heat, but instead a gentle, steadying kind of warmth, like a familiar hand on the back of your shoulder. </div>
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Surrounding the lake were families. Old men, young women, toddlers, babes in arms, fathers, sisters, uncles. They were having picnics and testing their feet at the water's edge. They were renting boats and taking pictures, sitting on the dock and holding hands. Calm washed over me, and over the sleeping baby in my arms. This wasn't a scary, stressful outing after all. We were exactly where families were supposed to be. Under the pine trees, beneath the sun and cottonball clouds, at the water's edge. Lake Minnewanka was a family kind of place, a gathering place, where people came to spend the day with those they loved. To experience the spectacular beauty of the lake and capture a little of the magic of it for themselves. </div>
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It was difficult to tear ourselves away in the end. The baby opened his eyes in apparent wonder at our surroundings, though his eyes seem to open in wonder in most surroundings, truth be told. The ride back to Calgary through the mountains was just as calming and the mountains seemed friendlier, less imposing than they had on the drive up. </div>
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The same place, but with new eyes. The same experience, except, this time, it was utterly different in every way. </div>
<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-32879268873625319742018-07-18T00:00:00.000-05:002018-07-18T00:00:03.446-05:00Summer Reading List<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Summer, to me, is Michigan. It's Lake Michigan sunsets and blueberry, cherry and strawberry picking. It's camping and waterfalls and sand in your hair from a day at the lake. It's Mackinac Island and hotdogs and the sound of lawnmowers waking me up in the morning. It's cool summer nights around a bonfire and cool mornings where you have to wear a sweater until the day heats up.</div>
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Michigan summers are the best kind of summer. Hot and cool and sunshine and going "up north" with the family. It's dark green forests and jewel blue lakes, so many of them. Over 10,000 lakes in Michigan, actually. You can't go more than ten miles without finding one to jump in and cool off. </div>
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But, more than anything, as I mentioned before, summer, to me, is Mackinac Island. Which is why I based my series there. It's a place of so much magic and beauty, just enough mystery, and legend to make it somehow...unknowable. Even as familiar as I am with its paths and shops, scenic hikes and views, there is always something... ancient and hidden there. In <i><b><a href="http://a.co/eZQnUMT">Starlight Symphonies</a> </b></i>(Book 1)and <a href="http://a.co/95GFVvo"><b><i>Moonlight Melodies</i></b></a> (Book 2), I tried to bring the island's past to life and to give depth and personality to the brave and dynamic inhabitants of the island, native and of European descent. The kind of real-life characters that called the island home are some of the most fascinating and intrepid that one can imagine. Who better to write about?</div>
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It's summer. Travel to Mackinac Island's past and have an adventure.</div>
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Books available on Amazon and in select bookstores.</div>
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Click<a href="http://a.co/2U8yash"> <b>HERE</b></a> to purchase on Kindle or Paperback</div>
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And Book 3-- <i>Sunlight Serenades-- </i>is coming later this year!</div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-21606408492713889042018-07-11T00:00:00.000-05:002018-07-11T00:00:07.458-05:00Brand New<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been a little busy lately.</div>
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You see, I had a baby. </div>
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I gave birth to a human boy. Which seems just as insane to think about as it is to type out. </div>
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But, the momentousness of that creation has stalled my other creative endeavors. I haven't written a word--until now, that is. Who knew how much effort the complete care of a brand new tiny person would be. I certainly vastly underestimated the amount of selfishness I would have to give up and the amount of patience I would need to develop. </div>
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And though we have spent most of the last weeks within a mile or so from our house here in Calgary, instead of our usual summer jaunts around the globe, this baby is a different kind of adventure. A difficult, no-sleep, high-stress kind of adventure, but a very rewarding and exciting one nonetheless. </div>
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And we can't wait to introduce him to our favorite places around the world--and see them through his brand new eyes. </div>
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<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-704657678552871122018-06-13T00:00:00.000-05:002018-06-13T00:00:08.832-05:00Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I used to always say that my books were my children. But, now, that my son is here, I realize that's not quite right. Instead of children, they are more like...facets of my soul, of my self. Perhaps that sounds dramatic, but I really don't intend it to be. It's a simple fact. It's impossible to write a book without slipping your personality, your feelings, your fears, your hopes, dreams, wishes, into it--at least a little. </div>
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The characters are parts of you, they are people you know, or have met or would like to meet one day. They are stitched together, little quilts of people that a writer creates so that at the end of a novel I am left with a patchwork of vibrant chaotic colors, all of the patches shades of myself and my thoughts. </div>
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I am extremely proud of my work, even my earlier work that may be...lacking in the skills I have honed a bit more as my writing has advanced and I have grown more comfortable with my own style. Not to mention the fact that I work with some pretty amazing editors and reviewers now. </div>
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And though I am a new mother, I am determined to finish the third book in the <a href="http://a.co/4RxqCEw" target="_blank"><b><i>Starlight Symphonies Series</i></b></a> and to begin a new novel I've been dreaming up for a while now by the end of the year. </div>
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If you have read any of my work before, thank you, sincerely. If you haven't I invite you to try it out. It is a little mystery, a little romance, a little spooky, ghostly, supernatural, fantastic, historical. It's fun and according to the reviews--people like it. </div>
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And if you have read some of my work, well, read more of it. And if you've read all of it, recommend it to a friend. I love to be shared. </div>
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May I recommend:</div>
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<b><i> <a href="http://a.co/dkgklcV" target="_blank">The Word Collector</a></i></b></div>
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or the most recent novel:</div>
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<a href="http://a.co/6L6mKDX" target="_blank"><b><i>Forget Me Not Blue</i></b></a></div>
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Enjoy! And get reading!</div>
<br />alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-451965034245032092.post-26906851174607765832018-06-06T00:00:00.000-05:002018-06-06T00:00:14.066-05:00Saturday in the Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEIEJaroIcehCKnpDsExIoQDVyAuvgObXxcZDIdB5fhVbIccou3ikcAo4o_AsiufxCJCVHtXP7TnrHtvYCTMIMgDK97xnp2SvPABi0njkvPI-n9VVO8PizHqijNVYqgIMwsliYFSy10mP/s1600/Attachment-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEIEJaroIcehCKnpDsExIoQDVyAuvgObXxcZDIdB5fhVbIccou3ikcAo4o_AsiufxCJCVHtXP7TnrHtvYCTMIMgDK97xnp2SvPABi0njkvPI-n9VVO8PizHqijNVYqgIMwsliYFSy10mP/s640/Attachment-1.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Have you ever stumbled upon a different part of a place you thought you already knew? This is precisely what happened to the husband and me on a recent trip to Prince's Island Park in Calgary.<br />
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During the winter, (which was like the Narnian winter for us. Always winter, never Christmas and unbelievably mercilessly neverending and freezing cold) we ventured out to Prince's Island Park quite a few times. We walked across the bridge we ambled around with the dog, we discussed how much better it would be if the temperature wasn't in the negative integers. And even when it began to thaw around the city we explored the park quite a bit. But, somehow, we had always missed the side of the park in the pictures above.<br />
This part of the park, upon lucky discovery, is dotted with wildlife and Canadian Geese with their goslings. There were flower beds and wide open spaces where people picnicked and played frisbee and held hands. Part of the beauty, of course, was the season, and the loveliness of this specific day, but there was something...oddly European about this new part of the park, though. Something, slow and sweet and it made us feel as if we had stumbled upon a secret.<br />
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It was a beautiful day, and we remarked on it constantly. We pointed out babies in buggies and excitedly discussed when we would bring our own (as yet unborn at the time of writing) son to the park for a picnic. We oohed and aahed over bright flowers and let our small dog sniff every tree, bush, and plant we walked by. It was, in a word, glorious.<br />
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A little slice of heaven in the middle of our new city, what a treat.alexandria nolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13787691360969123999noreply@blogger.com