Notes from the Red Bird House

I came screaming down the hill toward the Old City. 7:40/mile pace, a full two minutes faster than I'd run up the hill at the start of my run. I guess I should add that I wasn't literally screaming; running fast is what I meant. Surely not my fastest - I honestly hadn't run much in the weeks before my vacation (my Spring run-write-cation to be exact) - but I was running. In Dubrovnik. Within sight of the Adriatic. In fact, at the midpoint of my run, I actually took  a short break, something I never, ever, ever do, and walked a few steps to the water's edge. Then the most amazing thing happened. I touched the Adriatic Sea. A woman from California who grew up a stone's throw from the Pacific, who never imagined she would travel very far and certainly not to Croatia, dipped her hand in the cool, salty water and splashed some of that water on her face. Water from a sea she had only read about and seen in pictures, water she never thought she would touch.  A friend a

I know it's a fairly common refrain when I'm traveling outside the United States. Language. Probably better stated Languages , definitely plural with an 's.' Because everywhere I go in Europe, I hear multiple languages. Assuredly, there is the native language, the 'mother tongue' so to speak, but one can also hear other languages in the mix. English, of course. English is spoken everywhere. In Croatia I'm finding that it is only prevalent in the touristy places; in Scandinavia, however, it's literally everywhere. Everyone speaks at least some English and the majority are highly fluent. Highly fluent. Like they speak better English than most Americans I know. Sure, their vocabularies may not be as extensive as many native English speakers, but fuck...they choose and use their words extremely well. That's not a knock. I can say only a handful of words and phrases in Swedish and none in Croatian (I know a couple words in Danish but only because they are

Today is about turning fifty. And falling in love again. Being in love again. There was a moment when I doubted my decision. Back maybe a couple months ago. So many places in the world I want to see and experience and I chose to come back to Stockholm? I actually thought that maybe I'd made the wrong decision. That I should have gone somewhere else, shouldn't have been so quick with the ah-ha moment that had me coming back to Scandinavia yet again. Was it my discomfort with new places that let me to take a "safe" way out? Should I have handcuffed my fears to my fearlessness and gone somewhere f***ing new? I mean, Jesus. Don't be a pussy. But I wasn't being a pussy the day I decided. Fear never entered the equation at all. I distinctly remember the conversation that convinced me. A co-worker and I were discussing his favorite ports of call from his recent Baltic cruise. We talked about Copenhagen - his favorite. And Stockholm - mine. Then it came to me. Why h

I spent the final day of my fiftieth year (today, for the uninitiated) sick on a train. Like literally sick on a train. Let's just say thank goodness for Swedish OCD and a commitment to keeping things clean. Yes, I realize the little white plastic bags are for trash.......and not what I used it for. How's that for an opening? It just goes to show you that even on vacation amid the meticulous planning and high hopes, shit happens. In this case, a migraine happened. I truly thought the worst thing that would happen to day would be a cancelled train. I arrived suitably to early the train station in Copenhagen all ready for my journey to Sweden. One train, no transfers. Stow the luggage and just sit back and enjoy the 5+ hour ride across the Oresund and the Swedish countryside. If I was looking forward to anything this vacation, that train ride was it. But the big board sad "Cancelled" and something about catching the train in Malmo, across the bridge in Sweden (If you&

The thought occurred to me this morning, as I was doing my best to meander and failing miserably at it, that I never do anything that doesn't have purpose. When this epiphany happened, I was out for a walk - I intended to stop for coffee and write at some point (Of course, I have to say "and write" because I can't simply just have a coffee and be) - and I approached a crossroads. Stay on the road? Or take the longer way around through a park? I'm on vacation , I rationalized. I don't actually have to be anywhere or do anything. I can take as long as I want to get where I'm going.  I stopped to snap a few pictures, took a side trail to see a fountain, watched a group of older people doing Tai Chi. Briefly. All briefly. Regardless where I am and I am still who I am. And that's when it came to me. I can't not have purpose. A walk has to have a destination (or at the very least get me to my daily step goal). An eclectic bit a blathering has to becom

I can promise you it was the absolute last thing I felt like doing. When I finally got to my hotel room after traveling something like seventeen hours (Ok, ok... In the grander scheme, it could have been worse, a lot worse, and in fact almost was. More on that, maybe...), I sat down on the little twin bed, kicked my shoes off, and put my feet up. I glanced around the room. I'd opened the window to let some fresh air in (These days it's more surprising to me that American hotel room windows don't open) so a crisp breeze caught the curtains and the muted sunlight of an overcast day illuminated the room. I closed my eyes. A nap. Yes. A nap, I recall thinking, would be perfection. Absolute and utter perfection. I'd been out in the world running for flights (Alright, just the one, but it was a long run), chatting with friendly American strangers, and sitting the f*** upright for far too long. I wanted - dare I say needed ? - to check out, sequester myself someplace quiet, co

I find myself apologizing lately in my blogs. Not for them. Lord no. I gave that up long time ago. I write what I write. I won't apologize for that. On the contrary, it's like they should all being with "With all due respect...." Perhaps that's just the time we live in. People are sensitive and reality shy. And look, the only reality I ever claim to understand, support, and/or covet is my own. Mine. With all that said... With all due respect, I've never much liked Austin. I mean I've tolerated it, liked it better at certain times than others. In other words, I've made the best of it. For almost ten years. God bless, I've wanted to leave NUMEROUS times (Caps intended). Just when I think I'm out, something pulls me back in - friends, grad school, tennis peeps, finances, an old dog. I'm sure fervent Austinites are shocked, appalled even. What's not to like? For me (remember - my blog, my life, my opinions), it's hot, expensive, crow

Let's get some business taken care of here at the outset. At some point (if this post goes the direction I'd like it to), it's going to seem like I'm either writing a product review or I have a travel sponsor. Neither is true. No one is paying me to do a damn thing - not to give my opinion or carry a particular backpack. It just so happens that I'm thirteen days away from my annual two week Spring run-write-cation and I feel woefully behind the eight-ball already. I'm a planner. Not OCD level or anything and for shorter trips I've learned not to stress out. You can go without a variety of items for a weekend or maybe even a week, but two weeks? Yeah, you gotta plan. Ok, I gotta plan. By this time, I should have several to-do lists going. Things to do before I go (like put together my itinerary and email a copy to my mom - she worries - or order new running shoes). Things to pack (I'll come back to this one in a minute). Things to not forget to do/pack

Wait a minute. Let me count. I was about to say six months, but now I'm not so sure. I think it might be longer. I'm right. Seven months. Not of like solid work. I honestly vacillated on the issue for at least half of those months. Other things (I should probably be more specific - Other women ) entered my consciousness here and there. They all ended up on the friends' shelf. And, well, so did she. For a brief moment. Whew... I'm over it. Look at me go. Hang on. What's this? She's back? And she was. Fuck Jesus, can't you just stay up there? No. The answer was no. She couldn't stay up there. Said more accurately, I couldn't keep her up there. It's not like she had (or has) anything to do with it. At all. I am highly skeptical that I enter her consciousness - ever - if I'm not immediately present. Out of sight out of mind. It's one of my super powers. But I digress... Last night, I kissed her. Or maybe she kissed me. It often blurs do

I'm craving ice cream. It's not one of my usual cravings, like pizza or even donuts. Plus I'm cold; it's a cold day. Maybe that's it. Part of it anyway. I tend to like ice cream better when it's cold out. It melts slower. My mom and I used to go to this ice cream stand when we lived in Michigan. They weren't open in the winter but as the summer slipped into fall... She's get butter pecan and I'd get whatever was low fat and low sugar (They always had at least one). We'd stand outside or sometimes sit in the car. The cooler out the better. I don't know if that's it or not. I think there's something more to it than that. A friend got ice cream at Sonic the other night. Ordered it right in front of me. Sort of. I was on the phone with her. Long story short - She got ice cream; I didn't. And that started it. Better stated, she started it. Ever since then, I've been craving it and it's only getting worse. I tri

"I love your vulnerability...your honesty and most of all how aware of your surroundings you are... Keep sharing your truth! We live in a world of appearances... I adore how transparent you are." ~ a reader comment on my blog post, "So, About Last Night..." I've been doing this a long time. Blogging. I've been far more popular than I am now. A decade ago in Texarkana I had people come up to me in bars, restaurants, etc and ask if I was Stacee Harris. They'd read my blog on Myspace (it was all the rage in the day) and thought they recognized me. That was before Facebook and Notes from the Red Birdhouse. I wrote as therapy. My very first blog was an all-too-personal diatribe about my latest break-up. I quickly lost the anger, but I kept the honesty. I was an atheist lesbian living in the geographical center of the southern Bible Belt which made life pretty interesting at times. Needless to say, I wrote a lot. My following grew. Readers didn't alwa