Month: July 2022

Andi in Paris

On By Andi BrownIn Uncategorized13 Comments

I hit the enter key for the dozenth time. “Nothing available on that date. Try again,” says Electronic Madame Ticket Agent. What’s really frustrating is that I already have a free ticket to Paris, non-stop no less, purchased three days earlier with frequent flier miles. And now, I’m attempting to reduce my stay in Paris from five days to three.

A few days in Paris before the main event of my trip, a cruise (defense of boat vacation to be subject of future post) was a given. Visiting France without Paris would be like taking the coffee without the cream.  The lobster missing its drawn butter.  The bagel without its schmear. 

I actually have a recurring dream about this magical, beautiful, sensual, so-gorgeous-I-want-to-weep city, which I’ve visited four times. In the dream, I’m in Washington, DC, where there’s a secret portal that those in the know can enter to walk to Paris. Pretty cool, huh? I’m still trying to find it!

I carry around with me a mental list of activities for my next Paris adventure, even if a trip isn’t planned. I watch films that take place in Paris, getting all dreamy at the sight of the Place des Vosges, the Parc Monceau, the Marais. Favorite movies include To Catch a Thief (okay, that’s the South of France, but still,) and Charade. Hmmm, I haven’t watched Amelie in a while; I’ll add it to the playlist. I ramp up my personal French Film Festival when I know I’m actually going to Paris. I might even check out Season Two of Emily in Paris, though that might be a bridge too far.

Parc Monceau

And now, here I am, attempting to abbreviate my trip.  Have I wandered into an alternate universe in which I don’t, gulp, like Paris?   Is doing something counter to my desires an unknown Parkinson’s symptom?

I was forced into my travel schedule because I had enough points for a free ticket, which I was able to snag during a two-hour madhouse of repeating date,enter, date, enter, date, enter, enter, enter.  I’d hoped to spend three days in Paris before the cruise.  But with Electronic Madame Ticket Agent haranguing me to change my dates in order to qualify for a free ticket, I somehow wound up with five days in Paris instead of the desired three.

Several years ago, I went to Rome alone for eight days. By day six, I had entered a state of high anxiety, due to a loneliness that led to a few desperate, very expensive phone calls to close friends, just to hear familiar voices. One told me, “If you ever consider doing something like this again, call me so I can remind you of your Roman meltdown.

Will I be seized again by a profound loneliness, coupled with anxiety, that will ruin my time in Paris?  Is this entire solo Paris visit a big mistake?  I’m determined not to allow that to happen.  Hence, the effort to cut short my stay.  Which, unfortunately, I wasn’t able to do.

My usual on-my-own big-city vacation MO involved walking.  A ton.  I once traversed Paris for almost twelve hours nonstop.  Okay, I was in my forties then, but still.  At seventy—one, I’m still an enthusiastic walker, who frequently logs ten or more miles a day.  Scratch that.  I was an avid walker until I hit seventy, when Parkinson’s came crashing down upon me.  Now I can usually manage a good hour of brisk ambulation, sometimes even one and a half.   Unless, as sometimes occurs, my legs feel tired and heavy after about fifteen minutes.

On a recent afternoon, I felt the need for a nap and I wondered: What if I give in to the craving for a snooze while I’m away? Will I be annoyed that I’m squandering precious Paris moments unconscious? Should I force myself to at least grab a book and linger in a café? After lots of rumination, I’ve decided IT’S OKAY. If I need to rest, I’ll rest.

My other new strategy that I will incorporate into my five-day Paris sojourn is “One or Two Activities Per Day,” three if I feel really energetic. Chez moi aux Etats Unis (here at home) that’s pretty much how I roll. If I take a long morning walk and go grocery shopping, dinner out may be, well, out. I have a manageable list of things I’d like to do in Paris, which includes my usual strolls (in my pre-Parkinson’s life, brisk strides) just soaking up that French atmosphere. Drool over the wares at that patisserie! Go window shopping on Rue du Cherche Midi, a treasured byway! I’ve been forced to slow down pretty much everything I do, and it’s okay. (For more on this subject, check out my recent blog post Slow Down, You Move Too Fast.)

In any case, since Electronic Madame Ticket Agent did not come through for me, I’m stuck with five days in Paris (I know, I know, I don’t expect anyone to feel sorry for me). I’m thinking about ways to stem the potential for loneliness. Take a cooking class! Make a reservation at a really cool restaurant for lunch (way less expensive than dinner)!

Here’s a new travel motto pour moi; Do less, live more.

A bientot,

Andi

French Film Recommendations

Diabolique.French! Suspense! Simone Signoret! French! Fantastique!

Charade. Not actually a French film but Audrey Hepburn ( in Givenchy- I need every outfit) and Cary Grant in Paris -ooh la la! Amazon Prime

The Four Hundred Blows. How could I not include something by the Master? Terrific intro to the great Francois Truffaut. Amazon Prime

Swimming Pool. In the tradition of Diabolique, a twisty mystery. Netflix

And Now My Love A sort-of love story across continents and generations. Breathtakingly beautiful. Amazon

Adults Only, Summer Rerun

On By Andi BrownIn health2 Comments

First, apologies for yesterday’s weird post – literally, it was a slip of the finger.

I’m on a short break from the blog, so I’m offering you a rerun of an earlier post. Sneak preview – a future blog will reveal some significant changes in my travel style. Stay tuned. And now, without further ado, this week’s post……

Twenty years ago today
Sergeant Pepper said take a vay-cay

And that was when I found myself at an all-inclusive resort in Playa del Carmen, Mexico.  Here’s my trip report…..

POSSIBLY my favorite part of any vacation takes place in my bed, months before I board the plane.  Get your mind out of the gutter, this isn’t about pre-vacation sex; I’m all too single.  No, it’s about lying awake in anticipation, the movie in my head starring moi sipping a café crème at the Flore, hiking the Atlas mountains with a Berber guide, swinging through the Costa Rican jungle tethered to a leather harness.  

So why am I on a last-minute flight to Mexico in March?  And an even bigger why, on my way to an all-inclusive, adults-only resort  (a welcome porno DVD on the pillow)?  My typical vacation M.O: Eject me from the plane, hand me my walking shoes, and point me in the direction of a little-known museum, an architectural masterwork, a backcountry hiking trail. Wind me up at 9:00 a.m. and set the timer to run for twelve hours.

But after vaulting the twin hurdles of a Bar Mitzvah (son) and college applications (daughter) over a period of several months, the thought of my usual forced-march style holiday makes me want to reach for the smelling salts.  A few days lazing by a pool, joined by some friendly singles or sociable couples from the hotel, sounded like just the ticket for a stressed-out single mom.

My suitcase is stuffed with paperbacks, tubes of sunscreen, and a brand-new beach cover-up to conceal my brand new body, ten pounds heavier than it was a year ago.  

I think I might be in trouble when, 3000 feet in the air, a twenty-ish guy in a Hawaiian shirt limbos down the aisle chanting “No Drinking in Cancun.”  Right on cue, up pops a commercial on my TV screen for one of the most popular DVDs of all time – that’s right, Girls Gone Wild – and it suddenly dawns on me.  I am fifty-one years old and I am en route to Spring Break In Cancun.  

But when I arrive at my hotel in the more sedate Playa del Carmen, I realize that isn’t my problem.  As I check in, a panel of six huge TV screens lights up with the words Welcome Andi Brown, and I know I won’t find bodacious young people puking in the lobby and hooking up on the lounge chairs.  Because I am on… a cruise.  As in, I’ve told my friends that if they ever hear me using the words going and cruise in the same sentence, to put me out of my misery.  Immediately.

Okay, so this hotel isn’t about to leave its moorings, but here are the dead giveaways that all that’s missing are the lifeboats and a guy in a cap and gold-trimmed double-breasted blazer.  Four restaurants – Asian, Tapas, French-Mex and Whatever-You-Want-We-Got-It.  Fitness center. Volleyball.  Elvis crooning Can’t Help Falling in Love with You on the loudspeaker.  

I head to the tapas place for lunch, where, when I’m served my ensalada Mexicana, I learn that the English translation for the Spanish romaine is… iceberg lettuce.   For tomato, it’s wan supermercado fruit substitute.  

Around noon, I’m able to get into my room, where the dominant feature is a marble-enclosed jacuzzi-for-two.  The fact that I’m only one means I can spread out my, um, spread, and relax.  How to operate this thing, anyway?   The faucet works the normal way, and I figure those buttons on the side will do the trick for the whirlpool.  I fill the tub, ease myself in, push the button, and help! A fire-truck’s worth of water is headed straight for my head at 100 mph.   I’m madly pushing buttons, trying to get this thing to shut off, or at least calm down.   Since I’m not on fire, I hop out, frantically pushing those defective buttons.  I call housekeeping, and while I wait for the downpour in my room to subside, I reminisce about my last aqueous adventure.

I was in Rome, when, on a stroll by the Colosseum, nature called.  Urgently. Thinking it ill-advised to answer the call by crouching behind a Corinthian column, I run to the nearest public building, a subway station.  Miraculously, someone had just exited the bathroom, and there’s no wait.  I tear into there, and the door slams shut behind me.  The room is as dark as Hadrian’s tomb.  I stumble around, seeking the toilet, which my toe discovers first.  Ouch.   I sit in the darkness and take care of business, forced to “drip dry” since my groping of the wall fails to yield a single square of toilet paper.  

As I rise from the seat, I hear a giant whoosh, and, before I can get out of the way, my rear end, shoes, and pants are sopping wet.  Is this some sort of fun-house, upside-down shower?   Are the Romans so fastidious they need a high-power bidet every time they go?  After a bit more drip-dry time, I pull myself together and make for the door…which is locked.  It’s still pitch black in there, and I now cover every square inch of the stall searching for a light switch.  Niente.  I begin to shout, Aiuta me!   

After about five minutes, some subway functionary appears and promises to arrange my release from my Roman jail cell-cum-bathroom.  Five minutes later, I hear what sounds like a crowbar land on the floor outside.  Lots of banging and swearing ensue, then silence. Ten minutes pass.  I spend the time singing camp songs in my head.  The warden returns with a new set of tools, and five minutes later, I am a free, albeit very wet woman.

Maybe my cruise aversion is due to bad karma with water.

Nonetheless, I spend my first vacation afternoon strolling the beach, calmed by the turquoise sea and cheered by the warm sun and the knowledge that back home in Boston, the temperature hovered around a frosty ten degrees.  When I return to the hotel, I sign up for the next day’s excursion to the nearby Mayan ruins at Tulum, coupled with a snorkeling trip to Akumal.  This will necessitate rising at 6:30, but ten’s my usual bedtime anyway.  

Ha!  The party’s just getting started at ten, and they want me to join, since the local Grade Z garage band is serenading me right under my window.  A week’s salary I’m paying for El Hotel Todo-inclusivo, and I can’t even control my own bedtime.

A snorkeling landscape ought to feature lovely flora among the fauna, but the cove at Akumal offered no more than plain old garden-variety rocks and I could’ve encountered a greater variety of ichthian species at my local pet store. I later learn there was more spectacular fish-viewing to be had in the area, but those sites weren’t offered at the travel desk in my lodgings.

Back at the hotel, I check out the French-Mex place, where the staff asks where my esposo is, their shocked faces at my admission that there is none signifying that they saw my like about as often as they might spot el unicorn. 

The next day, I decide When In Rome.  In another words, chill by the pool with one of the three books I’ve brought.  I slather on my 60+ sunscreen, grab a lounge chair, and start to read when an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. It’s  time for the Sport of Queens (as in Flushing) – Bingo!   The guy next to me pumps up his arm and yells “Yeah, Bingo!”  In the spirit of I’ll Try Anything Once, I grab a state-of-the-art Bingo card, which features, instead of the usual markers, strips of plastic that slide over the numbers.   We’re playing a fancy variation – two rows to win.  N43.  Nope.  B10.  Nada.  O59.  Yes!  I’m back in third grade.

But after no luck with G44, my neighbor yells out Bingo!  and we hear that Randy from Milwaukee is the winner.  Of what, it’s not clear, but I’m game to try again.  Oh my God, G59, got it.  I22, got that too, and suddenly I have two full rows.  I yell Bingo! as if a Mercedes were at stake (I later learn we’re playing for t-shirts), and the caller comes over to check.  He eyes me sadly while informing me that this time, we’re playing for a full card.  I am many squares short.  But a few numbers later, Randy jumps out of his lounge chair and shouts the magic word again!  Could Bingo at this Hotel Playa Grandissimo be…fixed????   Is Randy sleeping with the caller?

Bingo’s over for today.  Pool music ranges from Elvis to Tony Bennett to the BeeGees.  My book and I remove ourselves to the lounge chairs on the beach, where the music is fainter, though I can’t totally escape the day’s next activity:  Team Chicago vs. Team Ohio in a relay race featuring kayaks in the pool, the transport of water from ocean to land, and the blowing up of balloons. The stakes are higher this time – a bottle of Tequila.  I’d join the game if the prize were the silencing of the loudspeaker.  

I slip into the lobby rest room.   From my stall, I hear a gentle crooning.  It sounds like a Mexican love song, low and lilting.   I emerge to find a hotel staffer singing as she polishes the toilets to a pearly shine.  I smile and thank her for the impromptu concert, a rare moment of quiet grace in this boisterous monster of a hotel.  

Just before leaving for Mexico, I read an article about cenotes¸ limestone sinkholes connected to caves, which dot the Yucatan peninsula and were hallowed places to the Mayans.  One in particular, Cenote Azul was cited as especially lovely and advantageously located fifteen minutes from my hotel.  None of the three concierges have heard of that particular one, but they do know where I might find a cenote.  And then I do something I’d bet no one at this hermetically-sealed hostelry would consider without a loaded gun to the head.  I take public transportation.

The ten-seater van I catch in downtown Playa del Carmen fills quickly with tourists and locals.  I tell the driver where the concierge has advised me to disembark and he nods energetically, “Si, Cenote Azul.”   Exactamente!

I get out at the entrance to Cenote Azul, where, at the small entry booth, I pay my 50 pesos, around $5.   The cenote itself is a ten minute rocky walk through a landscape that’s half woods, half swamp, featuring spindly vegetation and, blessedly, the only sound that of the birds.  I pass two small cenotes before arriving at the larger one, the size of a small pond.  The water is greenish due to the moss-covered rocks on the bottom, but clear and clean.  There’s no one there but me.  

The signs say “Only biodegradable sunblock allowed.”  My #60 is probably the Exxon Valdez of sunscreens.   Can I save myself from cancer and wrinkles without creating an oil spill?

I spread my towel on a small wooden deck, whip out my book and read for around half an hour, savoring the quiet beauty.  I’m joined by visitors eventually, first a group of American birders carrying a telephoto lens that looks powerful enough to capture craters on the moon.  They lend me their binoculars so I can get a close look at the brilliant yellow orioles. Two local families appear, and I watch the kids chase each other around a tree, hitting each other with small sticks and laughing hysterically.  I jump off the deck for a swim; the water is bracing, but I warm up quickly enough, and head for the small cave at the far end of the cenote, where I see my first-ever stalactites.  They’re smaller even than the icicles that dangle from the eaves of my New England home, but I can now claim to have seen an actual stalactite.  

Not usually much of a swimmer, I feel I could spend hours in the water.  Eventually I emerge, dry off, and lie on the deck, listening to the birds and the Babel of Spanish, French, Mayan, and English.  

A little girl approaches and tells me she’s happy about the rain – it’s started to drizzle – and I ask if I can take her picture.  She runs to ask her mother, who looks over at me, smiles and nods.   The girl poses fetchingly, then, suddenly, she turns into a performing monkey, jumping about and making silly faces.  I’m not fast enough to capture all of them, but I manage to get some good shots of darling little Maria.

I join her parents and baby sister; her dad, a waiter, spent three years selling mangos and bananas in a Manhattan fruit store.  He’s determined to raise his children trilingually, and Maria is happy to teach me the words for water in Spanish, English and Mayan.   I spend the rest of the afternoon swimming and chatting with the family, applauding the dad as he dives from a promontory above the cave. 

What surprises me about my day at the cenote is that I didn’t realize how much I needed it. Maybe it’s time to rethink my inertia –body in motion staying in motion – approach to vacations.  

After on-and-off drizzle, the sky looks more ominous, and I pack up my towel and book. I bid adios to my companions and catch the next van back to the hotel.

On the return trip to Boston, I sit with a young couple expecting their first child, who’d spent a week in a quiet nearby village.  They describe their charming, small hotel, within walking distance to beach and town.  The mix of families and couples.  The excellent local restaurants.  I feel a pang of regret that I haven’t shared what sounds like the perfect vacation spot for a stressed-out single traveler.  

So, what have I learned? Vacation in haste, repent at leisure. It’s really okay – salubrious actually – to rest on vacation. And finally…I’d probably hate a cruise even more than I ever imagined.

But now, with my Parkinson’s diagnosis, I just might find myself cruisin’ down a river somewhere. Though I guarantee it won’t be on a ship the size of a city, requiring formal dress for dinner and schlocky entertainment.

Speaking of cruises, you MUST read David Foster Wallace’s expose, Shipping Out, in Harper’s.  It’s way funnier than my piece and I guarantee you will laugh out loud.

A Farewell to Arms

On By Andi BrownIn Uncategorized7 Comments

About a year or so ago, a friend informed me that she would no longer be wearing sleeveless clothing. I had no idea why she would force such a prohibition on herself. She proceeded to remove her sweater so I could view her “wings,” those flaps of underarm skin many of us women develop later in life. My friend, by the way, is petite and fit and I doubt she’d gain much ascension should she try to fly using her tiny bit of a flap. Unlike, I suddenly flashed on, a beloved departed aunt whose wings looked as if they might loft her into the skies like Mary Poppins’s umbrella.

I found myself having versions of this conversation over and over with different friends. My own wings seemed fairly inconsequential so I wasn’t having that debate within myself…until I took a good look at my knees. Whose are those? I wondered, and how did they get attached to my legs? Also, what did they mean for my sartorial choices? I had a couple of dresses with hems that fell just above the knee that I was particularly fond of. Could/should I gift them to my daughter, whose knees didn’t resemble anything like an elephantine limb, as did my own?

I’m not without vanity, but I’m also not one to sacrifice comfort for style. For example, I’ve never even been tempted to adopt the fashion for high heels. I have no idea how women manage to propel themselves forward in those things, as I’m a pretty brisk walker (or was, until Parkinson’s made his unwanted appearance) so maybe that’s why I never took to the stiletto. Women sometimes expressed surprise at my preference for low heels or flats, since I clocked in at 5’2” at my tallest. This view operates on the premise that I’m dissatisfied with my short stature and must want to be taller. Well, guess what! I’m not and I don’t.

I imagine all those Carrie Bradshaws mincing their way down Madison Avenue in their thirties. Fast forward thirty years and they’re hobbling along in their sixties as a result of having damaged their feet from years of poor footwear choices. ( Yeah, I can be pretty judgmental. Let’s just say I have strong opinions.) I’ll be running alongside them, outpacing them by miles (and probably would have been, had Parkinson’s not decided to invade my body).

So, back to the sleeveless issue. I’m not inclined to post much on social media; mostly I’m seeking or offering information, and these days it’s primarily about Parkinson’s. But what the hell, I recently posted a query on the Facebook page Silver Hair Foxes: A Woman’s Creative Approach to Aging: “Sleeveless, yea or nay.” Ordinarily, if I get any likes, I’m thrilled. Two or three, wow! Six or more, I’m over the moon. Ditto for comments. Well, I’ve obviously struck a nerve, with 353 likes and 590 comments. I don’t have either the time or the inclination to calculate percentages of yeas and nays, but here’s a sampling of opinions:

A female comic I heard recently said she was going to have feathers tattooed on her arm flaps. I flap mine for my grandkids who laugh hysterically.

Let’s call them the start of our Angel wings to come.

Too hot for sleeves! Who wants to roast! And yes my arms are crepey and flabby. But I choose comfort over style. I am 74 and and if you don’t want to see it don’t look. Besides most women I know look about the same .

At 71 I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I am lucky to have both my arms.

Hate my flabbing arms, so I tend to not go sleeveless. Although I have decided to try it in my own backyard. Small step!!!!

I won’t  go sleeveless, period. I don’t think sleeveless is any cooler than a short sleeve, and I have too much pride in my looks to do the sleeveless thing. But hey, to each their own.

I would be flattered if I thought someone was eyeing my flabby arms. When you are in your Sr. Years we are invisible and just wear beige and sit in the corner!! Blahaha!!

I am 80 and still wear sleeveless occasionally. I am not bothered by aging. I am grateful to be here.

 I too have friends who say “I can’t wear shorts” “I can’t wear sleeveless” etc. WHY? Do they have a gun to their head??

It actually seems vain to me. What they are saying is “I could never look less than perfect to other people”.

Everyone says love yourself then starts “covering” every sign of old age. I say let them flap  and wrinkle , sag , droop , whatever). BE COMFORTABLE!!!!

I was shocked to see a picture of me in a sleeveless dress. It made me reconsider,…. For just a minute 

Can’t do it- guess I’m just too vain,

We need to embrace who we are

They are called “wavey janes” or “bingo arms.” I say Let It Go! If I run fast enough, think I might soar!

I feel like we have earned the right to wear whatever we please. I am too mature to worry about what ” others” think. I am stylish and love dressing cute. I don’t care if that means my crepey skin shows or my bat wings are flapping

So many people have much worse things to worry about. Just do you and be comfortable.

I have to have sleeves

This is a stupid topic. We all need to be comfortable and not worry what other people think. I’m 74 and wear sleeveless tops. I even wear shorts…if you don’t like the way I look.. Tough..

Remember, few men waste time with such body image concerns.

To each their own..I am 81 years young and haven’t worn a sleeveless outfit in years. It isn’t cooler and I certainly look much more stylish with sleeves covering my flabby arms. I am a REALIST and have always accepted the fact of aging. I swim, am active and most don’t guess my age – they would if I went sleeveless.

If they don’t like it they can look away.

People simply have to accept others as they are. Most people won’t notice flappy arms unless you waggle them in their face

Body Shaming should come from NO ONE, including oneself. Wear what you are comfortable in. If you are uncomfortable cover-up. You will only live once, enjoy it.

I’ve always said that if I had to cover up all my wrinkles I’d have to wear a burqa. I dress stylish and I won’t apologize for my 77 years of flabby arms.

I refuse. I hate my arms. I like knees and elbows covered- but always have.

If I had to guess, I’d say the “yeas” have it – the most popular responses were something on the order of “Love yourself,” “Go sleeveless,” and “Who cares about your flabby arms.”

And with the wisdom that can only come from being cursed with a very unpleasant illness, I say, who the hell cares? It sounds cliché, but being sick really does alter one’s perspective. Things that used to get to me – I’m having a bad hair day! My flight is delayed! My souffle didn’t rise! – just don’t seem to matter anymore. Or at least not to the same degree that they did when I was perfectly healthy and could enjoy the luxury of caring about which shoes looked best with that outfit.

I would say “you do you” for the first and very last time in my life but that would mean that my body had been taken over by an evil demon and we don’t want that. So, do whatever the hell you want. Just make sure it makes you feel good.

Recommendations

Two classic films and personal favorites

“American Graffiti” is the quintessential coming-of-age story starring before-they-were-famous Richard Dreyfus (giant crush) and Harrison Ford as well as the already famous (Opie) Ron Howard. Poignant, funny, and with great music. Amazon Prime.

https://www.amazon.com/American-Graffiti-Richard-Dreyfuss/dp/B0044WQHA2

“To Catch a Thief”. Hitchcock at his sassiest and most playful, not terms usually ascribed to the master. But with Grace Kelly toying with Cary Grant – and him toying right back- how could you not? Plus, the south of France as the third leading role. Yum. Prime, Paramount plus. Apple.

https://m.imdb.com/title/tt0048728/

Slow down, you move too fast.

On By Andi BrownIn Uncategorized6 Comments

People have been asking me to slow down my entire life. I think I may have developed the habit of moving at a quick pace during my childhood because my mother, a tall-ish woman, walked fast and I was forced to figure out how to keep up.

A colleague who was taking a pottery class
gave me this beautiful vessel as a retirement gift. It’s the perfect receptacle for storing my daily allotment of pills.
I take 21 pills a day, three for “normal” stuff and the rest for Parkinson’s. And here they are!

Whether I’m out for an exercise walk, or just ambling with a friend (oh wait! I don’t know how to amble) my usual gait is not a relaxed one. Here is where I disclose my petite stature – I clock in at a mere 5’2” (oh wait! Old habits die hard. I’m now measuring a lean and mean 5.’ I guess those two inches were stolen by the same prankster who stole my dopamine.*)

I knew something was wrong when, after an hour’s walk, my legs felt tired. Plus, a colleague noticed that I’d begun to shuffle. And my sister observed that my movements in general had slowed; my reaching for some food at dinner was almost in slow motion, at least relative to my normal, speedy actions.

I used to complain about my mother-in-law, whose tortoise stroll I decried to my then husband as passive-aggressive. She not only told me – frequently – to slow down, she illustrated her desired pace for me, one very d e l i b e r a t e step at a time. Lest I appear insensitive (you’re assuming she was a frail older person, right?), I will tell you that she was a mere sprite of 60 and an avid and energetic folk dancer. I of course returned the favor, stepping up MY pace as much as I could without ending up five blocks ahead of her. See, I am sensitive to others’ needs. Also, a little passive-aggressive.

She could have kept pace with me if she’d so desired. She obviously did not so desire. Instead, she wanted to teach me a lesson, which was essentially “What’s the rush? Slow down and smell the coffee and/or roses.”

And now I have, though not because I’ve suddenly seen the light regarding the merits of a more leisurely existence. This alteration was not my choice; I was dragged into what I’ll call “Slow World” kicking and screaming.

As a short person, I’d occasionally wondered what the world looked like from “up there,” where the tall people resided which, from my low-to-the-ground vantage point, seemed like a different universe. Views that were eye-level to me might be waist-height to a person of elevated stature. They don’t see what I see at all. And I miss out on their view.

And that’s how I felt about ”Slow World.” It was a different universe altogether. Walks that used to take 15 minutes now took 25. Some days, I woke with no symptoms and was able to walk for a full hour. Other times, after walking for ten minutes, my legs felt as if they were transporting twenty pound weights, and I would be forced to end my perambulation. Every day I awoke to a surprise party, not knowing if it would be a PD (Parkinson’s Day) or not. In other words, would I feel a great deal of discomfort, or very little? Walking, and the pace thereof, served as my Parkinson’s barometer of the day.

Which brings me to the subject of Italy, and the slow food movement, introduced there in the 80’s. “Slow food” focuses on local ingredients and taking the care and time to prepare meals in traditional ways. But I think the slow food movement is a metaphor for a way of being in the world, more attentive to the small graces we may encounter daily but usually miss or ignore because we’re too rushed to pay attention.

Italy is one of the top five countries visited by Americans. And let’s face it, Italy wouldn’t be Italy without its “slow food” approach to pretty much everything. We wouldn’t want Italy to be more American, but could we ask America to be just a bit more Italian?

If my mother-in-law were still living, I might suggest we take a stroll. And I’d be right beside her, without frustration or annoyance at her relaxed stride. And by the way, there are probably people who found bothersome or even inconsiderate what I liked to think of as my peppy pace.

So now, a year since my diagnosis, I am an uncomplaining holder of a passport issued by “Slow World.” And it’s okay. Really.

Recommendations. I’ve mentioned these before but it’s been a while and you might have missed them. They are two excellent blogs for people with Parkinson’s and those who care about them:

*Who Stole my Dopamine? Emma has teenagers. Also Parkinson’s. Emma lives in Scotland. Emma is hilarious. Not to be missed: Her A to Z Parkinson’s.

Twitchy Woman This is a fabulous site/blog, covering all things Parkinson, including information about events, support groups, research and more, delivered with authority and humor.

Till next week,

Andi

Slow Down, You Move Too Fast

On By Andi BrownIn Uncategorized3 Comments

People have been asking me to slow down my entire life. I think I may have developed the habit of moving at a quick pace during my childhood because my mother, a tall-ish woman, walked fast and I was forced to figure out how to keep up.

A colleague who was taking a pottery class
gave me this beautiful vessel as a retirement gift. It’s the perfect receptacle for storing my daily allotment of pills.
I take 21 pills a day, three for “normal” stuff and the rest for Parkinson’s. And here they are!

Whether I’m out for an exercise walk, or just ambling with a friend (oh wait! I don’t know how to amble) my usual gait is not a relaxed one. Here is where I disclose my petite stature – I clock in at a mere 5’2” (oh wait! Old habits die hard. I’m now measuring a lean and mean 5.’ I guess those two inches were stolen by the same prankster who stole my dopamine.*)

I knew something was wrong when, after an hour’s walk, my legs felt tired. Plus, a colleague noticed that I’d begun to shuffle. And my sister observed that my movements in general had slowed; my reaching for some food at dinner was almost in slow motion, at least relative to my normal, speedy actions.

I used to complain about my mother-in-law, whose tortoise stroll I decried to my then husband as passive-aggressive. She not only told me – frequently – to slow down, she illustrated her desired pace for me, one very d e l i b e r a t e step at a time. Lest I appear insensitive (you’re assuming she was a frail older person, right?), I will tell you that she was a mere sprite of 60 and an avid and energetic folk dancer. I of course returned the favor, stepping up MY pace as much as I could without ending up five blocks ahead of her. See, I am sensitive to others’ needs. Also, a little passive-aggressive.

She could have kept pace with me if she’d so desired. She obviously did not so desire. Instead, she wanted to teach me a lesson, which was essentially “What’s the rush? Slow down and smell the coffee and/or roses.”

And now I have, though not because I’ve suddenly seen the light regarding the merits of a more leisurely existence. This alteration was not my choice; I was dragged into what I’ll call “Slow World” kicking and screaming.

As a short person, I’d occasionally wondered what the world looked like from “up there,” where the tall people resided which, from my low-to-the-ground vantage point, seemed like a different universe. Views that were eye-level to me might be waist-height to a person of elevated stature. They don’t see what I see at all. And I miss out on their view.

And that’s how I felt about ”Slow World.” It was a different universe altogether. Walks that used to take 15 minutes now took 25. Some days, I woke with no symptoms and was able to walk for a full hour. Other times, after walking for ten minutes, my legs felt as if they were transporting twenty pound weights, and I would be forced to end my perambulation. Every day I awoke to a surprise party, not knowing if it would be a PD (Parkinson’s Day) or not. In other words, would I feel a great deal of discomfort, or very little? Walking, and the pace thereof, served as my Parkinson’s barometer of the day.

Which brings me to the subject of Italy, and the slow food movement, introduced there in the 80’s. “Slow food” focuses on local ingredients and taking the care and time to prepare meals in traditional ways. But I think the slow food movement is a metaphor for a way of being in the world, more attentive to the small graces we may encounter daily but usually miss or ignore because we’re too rushed to pay attention.

Italy is one of the top five countries visited by Americans. And let’s face it, Italy wouldn’t be Italy without its “slow food” approach to pretty much everything. We wouldn’t want Italy to be more American, but could we ask America to be just a bit more Italian?

If my mother-in-law were still living, I might suggest we take a stroll. And I’d be right beside her, without frustration or annoyance at her relaxed stride. And by the way, there are probably people who found bothersome or even inconsiderate what I liked to think of as my peppy pace.

So now, a year since my diagnosis, I am an uncomplaining holder of a passport issued by “Slow World.” And it’s okay. Really.

Recommendations. I’ve mentioned these before but it’s been a while and you might have missed them. They are two excellent blogs for people with Parkinson’s and those who care about them:

*Who Stole my Dopamine? Emma has teenagers. Also Parkinson’s. Emma lives in Scotland. Emma is hilarious. Not to be missed: Her A to Z Parkinson’s.

Twitchy Woman This is a fabulous site/blog, covering all things Parkinson, including information about events, support groups, research and more, delivered with authority and humor.

Till next week,

Andi

Make new friends, but keep the old

On By Andi BrownIn Uncategorized12 Comments

One is silver and the other’s gold
(Girl Scout anthem)

Ya gotta have friends 
(Bette Midler)

Friends, friends, friends, we will always be
(Camp Mataponi)

Thomas Hardy declared “New love is brightest, and long love is greatest, but revived love is the tenderest thing known upon earth.” That sentence makes me want to weep, as I fantasize about embarking on reawakened love affairs with beaux gone by. How “tender” that would be.

It’s often stated that it’s difficult to make new friends when you’re older. I haven’t found that to be the case. Maybe people mean that it’s difficult to become deeply connected to new people later in life. Are we more guarded? Embarrassed about all our baggage that stems from our perceived mistakes and therefore fearful of others’ judgment? Which leads to the biggie – that we’ll be rejected.

It usually takes a while to develop a feeling of kinship with another human, and when you’re twelve, time is something you have in abundance. I suspect younger people are much better than we elders at living in the present.

I haven’t given up on new friendships, and have put myself out there – maybe to be rejected – quite a number of times in the past few years. Sometimes the relationship’s a keeper, other times not, but I’m still willing to swap stories of childhood, marriages good and bad, health concerns, favorite movies, and whatever else might connect us with potential new pals.

But there are two types of friendship that are unrivaled in their singularity. One is the longstanding type, an unbroken line since elementary school, or maybe college. It’s the friend with whom you giggled about crushes, who held your hand when your father died, who stood by you when the other kids mocked you for your bad hairstyle, or because your family was weird.

But Hardy’s pronouncement need not apply only to romantic love. I feel a sense of kinship with friends from summer camp, even if I don’t see them. But prompted by a reunion twelve years ago, I reconnected with one camp friend I hadn’t seen in nearly 40 years. Yet we didn’t miss a beat. Although she lives some distance away, we stay in touch. I’ve met her family, including some of her grandchildren. We never run out of things to talk about and I feel I can count on her friendship for always.

I have recently enjoyed a lovely reconnection with two college roommates, and I treasure those friendships. And thirteen years ago, I attended my 40th high school reunion. I spent most of the evening becoming reacquainted with women I’d known throughout our days at John Howland School in Providence, Rhode Island. One – my very first friend – I remembered playing with on the swings in nursery school; we must have been three. A post-reunion dinner turned into semi-monthly get-togethers. My mother once said, “I assume you reminisce about the old days.” “Occasionally,”’I told her. “But we are very much linked together in the present,” as we share our joys, sorrows, and everything in between. There is a profound love for one another that stems from our early association and connects us to this day.

As the docs tell us, “Good friends are good for your health.” Speaking of friends and health, I’ve been experiencing quite a bit of (Parkinsonian) pain while writing this. But a friend just called to invite me to dinner. Besides the good mood this friend always puts me in because of her delightful company, I know I’ll feel better physically as well. Social engagements seem to alleviate some of my pain, probably due to distraction. When invited out, my first impulse is often to decline, mainly due to fatigue but sometimes just feeling lousy, but I try and force myself to go, and I’m always glad I did.

So, stay friendly….and healthy.

Till next time,

Andi

Recommendations of the day

The Indian Doctor Charming culture clash series about an Indian doctor and his reluctant wife who relocate to a small Welsh village. Some of you will recognize the star, Sanjeev Bhaskar, as DI Sunny Khan on Unforgotten. Available on Amazon Prime.

Dopesick Michael Keaton stars in the true story of the opioid epidemic. How did it start and who was responsible? Amazon Prime

Love and Mercy Wonderful film depicting the genius and the torture of the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson. I could listen to that music – especially the Pet Sounds album – all day long. Amazon Prime