It is the fictional island mentioned within an allegory on the hubris of nations in two of Plato’s works, with Atlantis eventually becoming swallowed by the sea.  The history lover in me wishes Atlantis did in fact exist.  I have always found it to be an intrigue.  After all, Pompeii was a lost civilization a volcano allowed us to see completely frozen in time.  Could the ocean not hold a preserved one as well?  Man has not solved all history’s mysteries (for instance, Noah’s Ark) and there are more waiting to be found.  During spring break last year, my father-in-law took the three of us on our first paternal family vacation to Atlantis the resort.  My husband is his eldest child and our daughter of course is his granddaughter.  I would say he has spent a lot of his life in the Bahamas but he had never been to this resort.  Frankly I do not think we could have ever afforded to go without him.  But more importantly, we were truly sorry to see him leave three days later while he graciously allowed us to stay two more.  Some may pooh-pooh large, all-inclusive resorts but I quickly learned their merit.  The American poet Charles Olson, who described himself not so much as a poet but as “an archeologist of morning” once wrote, “Atlantis will rise again.”  I have repeatedly teased my husband, who enjoys myths such as Bigfoot and theories about aliens and I felt guilty that when it was something in which I would like to believe I found it quite fascinating.  Ever since I was a kid and watched Aquaman on Saturday morning cartoons I have fallen in love with the idea of Atlantis.  Aquaman could breathe unassisted underwater and, even cooler, he could telepathically communicate with the all of the sea’s creatures.  Of course his character is fictional.  The Greeks, however were divided as to whether or not Plato’s story of the powerful and advanced kingdom which sank into the ocean in a night and a day was history or metaphor.  More recent times have suggested possible historical locations, most commonly the Greek Island of Santorini, which was destroyed by a volcanic eruption around 1,600 B.C.  For those of you who have not been, allow me to take you into a world where “archaeology,” “history,” and myth mingle with “artifacts,” “pictographs” and living sea creatures surrounded by great pillars, magnificent fountains, and majestic looking towers all soaring impressively above the blue green sea … Atlantis.

I have written often that my husband and I love museums of all kinds.  We have been fortunate enough to visit places from the Louvre in Paris to a tiny little museum in Skagway, Alaska.  We did a little research and discovered a gem of a museum in Naples, Florida that is part of four Collier County Museums.  We could not believe it was free and the five acres was full of interesting Floridian relics, both inside and out.  As someone with a strong American Indian heritage, I often have a difficult time seeing archives of the “development” of places, as it certainly meant destruction for those Native peoples.  This museum did a nice job though of showing what Native American life was like and the various ways they implemented shells:  from their currency to regalia to shoring up their living quarters to protect it from water.  They even went as far back as prehistoric times and we were all able to marvel at some fascinating remains of indigenous animals who once roamed the area.  Exhibit A is this picture of a Saber-toothed cat.  I never mind studying animals when I know they died a natural death; it’s the hunted ones that sicken me.  We were stunned to discover there was once a giant beaver during the last Ice Age that grew to eight feet!  Roaming about freely, we were able to learn about all sorts of things at our leisure.  The American author Melody Beattie said, “Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.”  It was a lovely way to spend our last day in Florida and we were grateful.  We delighted in the present, looked forward to returning, and took time to learn a little about pieces of the past.

Not having gotten to go to a beach until I was an adult (and even then it was because I was in the Miss Texas U.S.A. pageant, so I was really there to work) there are tons of things about which I still do not know — like sandbars.  I was astounded that way out past where my feet could no longer touch there were people who were clearly standing.  I will never forget the first time we took the baby in and my husband, who had been fortunate enough to have spent his early childhood in the Caribbean, casually said, “Just watch out for the undertow.”  I was already petrified of stinging jellyfish, pinching crabs, and whatever other sort of creatures inhabited the waters.  Once in a lake at church camp when I was in high school I freaked out because some type of long fish brushed against my leg.  I didn’t scream; I was just silently, completely, and thoroughly unnerved.  I love animals — all of them; but unless the water is very clear one does not really know what to expect.  I decided this would be the year I conquered my secret fear and I swam confidently out to the sandbar that stretched its way parallel to the shoreline, dividing the water from a lighter greenish color to a deep, dark, mysterious blue.  I could see the line of white sand, which proved to be far wider than I had first thought, and at last I was able to touch down.  Immediately I felt a dreaded strange something underneath my feet.  Trying not to recoil, I just wanted to make sure I had not hurt whatever it was.  My husband was with me and he dove down to try and uncover it.  In the meantime, I felt another one of the strange somethings and I bravely decided to scoop it up with my feet by going underneath it in the sand and putting it on the top of my foot.  At the same time, my husband and I emerged triumphantly with sand dollars!  They were scratchy and brown and I had only ever seen them smooth, somewhat brittle, and white.  I quickly realized they would die without the sea and I was not going to be among those horrible people who allowed them to suffer a tortuous death just so they could bring them home as souvenirs.  Luckily, I had my shelling bag with me and we carefully placed them inside to swim back in closer with our little girl so I could capture this sweet picture.  Of course after that we promptly swam back out and gently placed them where we’d found them.  We all noticed then that our fingers and palms had turned yellow after holding them.  It turns out they produce a harmless substance called echinochrome.  I was so relieved they were back where they belonged!  One of the women whom I admire the most is the American oceanographer Sylvia Earle, who said:

“On a sea floor that looks like a sandy mud bottom, that at first glance might appear to be sand and mud, when you look closely and sit there as I do for a while and just wait, all sorts of creatures show themselves, with little heads popping out of the sand.  It is a metropolis.”

For just a few moments, we got to connect with a part of the ocean’s ecosystem.  Briefly holding all those sand dollars definitely made us feel rich.

This day would prove to be an interesting one.  My child of the sea did NOT want to leave the beach!  Finally, I saw the guys taking up all the umbrellas and the chairs early and asked why.  They explained it was because it was sea turtle nesting season and they did not want to disturb them.  My little darling pitched a fit, still clutching furiously to her alligator raft from the waves, when I said we had to go.  “I DON’T WANT TO!” she wailed.  Finally I hollered, “THE BEACH IS CLOSED!!!” and pointed to all the cabana boys who were taking everything up.  “Why?!” my little one demanded as she drug Mr. Chompers to shore.  When I explained to her it was because the mama turtles needed to come and lay their eggs and that we shared the ocean with them she willingly left.  “I do not want to hurt the ‘tuttles’ Mama,” she proclaimed in her still baby voice.  What’s funny is that all the other moms used me as the bad guy, pointing as I hollered to my little one that the beach was closed.  Once we took the tram through the mangroves back to our hotel we discovered that all the power was out.  And we had 17 floors to climb.  Abruptly, our then three year old proclaimed she could not possibly walk.  God bless this young man, who — in his full hotel uniform — offered to give our little one a piggy back ride.  “Yea!” she squealed as I shook my head furiously.  “It’s OK,” the young man said.  I got this picture of them that I think captures my little one’s unbridled glee and this poor guy’s exhaustion.  God bless him.  The Danish Baroness Karen Christenze von Blixen-Finecke, who often wrote under the pen name Isak Dinesen, said, “The cure for anything is salt water:  sweat, tears or the sea.”  I can truthfully say we had all three that day:  salt from the sea, tears for having to leave it, and sweat from this darling man who was kind enough to schlepp a little girl up 17 flights of steps.  By all accounts we had it covered:  the cure for anything.

It was our first full day of our third trip to Naples and we were ready to hit the beach.  Swimsuits:  check.  Sunscreen:  check.  Cover ups:  check.  Sun hats: check.  Sunglasses:  check.  Basically anything that can block out the beautiful, golden rays of the sun:  check.  Arm floaties:  check.  Mr. Chompers, our alligator, raft:  check.  Cold bottled water:  check.  By the time we were prepared to go, the sun was starting to rise higher and I wanted to get out early.  My husband complained about the sunscreen.  My little one complained about the sunscreen.  My husband proclaimed it greasy; my little girl proclaimed it too cold.  As someone who was once incredibly tanned for the Miss Texas U.S.A. pageant, I have since had several pre-cancer surgeries.  I did not want them to have a back that was carved up like mine.  My little one and I love to find rocks that are heat-shaped and we began leaving them at the foot of our big St. Francis statue who presides over our koi pond.  I hope that we will always share our hearts.  I believe in this picture my little one had discovered what she thought to be a heat-shaped shell.  The American author H. Jackson Brown, Jr. said, “Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”  Maybe this shell wasn’t precisely a heart, but she painted one for me upon our return that does resembles one.  I keep it on our coffee table in the den as a reminder of our family time on the beach.  She is my greatest love, and I know for certain that she will always have my heart.

This was our third visit to Florida.  We had a night flight and landed at an ungodly hour with our then three year old.  But the unmitigated Hell was in trying to install the car seat into our rental car.  I sweltered for an entire hour with sweat trickling down my body while my husband languished with the baby inside the air conditioning.  Finally, a big, burly cop came zipping up riding a Segway and asked if I needed help.  Now sporting an actual sweat mustache, I told him yes; there was about to be a murder — my husband’s — for not assisting.  Since we were literally the only ones still at the airport at half past one in the morning my spouse was easily spotted, looking cool and relaxed and reading his iPhone.  The police officer laughed hard and said, “Just wait until you get out of the airport to do it!”  He was one of the good guys.  I finally realized perhaps I could Google an installation manual online.  Of course I knew how to put in our old car seat, but our little one had outgrown it and this was a new one complete with cup holders, which made her feel very grown up.  At LAST the two of us working together got it and I didn’t feel quite so dumb when the officer pronounced it was the most complicated car seat he had ever seen.  Sir Philip Sidney, a prominent figure in the Elizabethan Age, once said this:  “It is the nature of the strong heart, that like the palm tree it strives ever upwards when it is most burdened.”  I resolve to be more like the palm tree when faced with a trying situation, striving ever upward.  Before leaving to make the one hour drive to our hotel, I captured this picture of my little one.  I love the look on her face as she stared up in awe — palms up!

I have always been partial to the name Mark, as it was my father’s.  After Paris we visited Venice on our horneymoon.  I loved St. Mark’s Basilica, among other reasons, for its curved archways and its prolific use of exquisite, tiny, dark blue mosaic tiles.  I have blogged about it in the past under this travel section.  This was to be the second St. Mark’s that we would visit — only this time we were a family of three and we were in Texas.  Completed in 1877, it is an active Episcopal parish and listed in the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. The church is located in the heart of the River Walk district, only four blocks from the Alamo.  The Texan and former U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson and his wife were married right here in 1934.  Now that I have visited Europe several times I realize practically all churches seem like plain babies by comparison.  I would use the word “colonial” but I have found churches in Mexico and Guatemala to be much more ornate, perhaps owing to their Catholic roots.  Regardless, it is not intended as an indictment; rather my own observation.  The Texas church’s facade is covered in white rock, or Austin Stone, named after the limestone rock quarries in Austin, Texas.  The stones are set in orderly rows with somewhat irregular patterns, which I found enchanting.  We were strangers yet we were welcomed repeatedly and without question.  I found it to be a lively, loving parish and I was so grateful we were able to visit.  Lyndon B. Johnson once said, “We must open the doors of opportunity.  But we must also equip our people to walk through those doors.”  I would say Burk and I were not particularly equipped to walk through either of the doors of St. Mark’s in Venice or Texas; the difference is that one was vibrant, alive, and filled with the spirit of Christ.  Prior to entering the one in Venice a gyspy spat upon me and cursed me, which was very disconcerting.  The little Texas church may have been more simple and not as famous but I believe I would choose to walk through the doors of the second St. Mark’s.

It was the second day of our weekend getaway and we decided to introduce our little one to the joys of schlock shopping.  One could also refer to it as souvenir shopping.  (We just like our term because we generally do not buy very expensive things.)  My husband and I tend to enjoy finding small momentos of our travels.  Our baby took to it like a duck to water!  She wanted it all and we had to reign in our little shopping señorita.  The Historic Market Square (El Mercado) has been a favorite of locals and tourists alike for generations.  It has long been said to contain the largest Mexican market outside of Mexico.  I have to say I am stronger about telling our little one “no;” her Daddy pretty much just caves.  So we decided to stop for lunch at another one of our favorite San Antonio haunts.  A testament to our little one loving it was that she drank the salsa.  It seemed to shock people and I forgot that restaurants in Dallas were used to seeing her slurping down salsa.  Seated in the booth behind us with his grandchildren was the former rector of a downtown Episcopal church which we’d known nothing about.  Of course we had visited all the Catholic churches but we had never thought to see if there might be our own denomination, which is Episcopalian (or Whiskeypalian as I always like to joke.)  We had a lovely time speaking with him and his wife and decided to visit the next day.  That’s another beauty of travel:  no matter how well one thinks they know a place, there is always something new to discover.  Lakhdar Brahimi, the Algerian born member of The Elders, a group of world leaders working for global peace, said:

“What again I tell my people is that no matter how much you know, it’s never enough.  You will always discover, after the fact, that you’ve missed something.”

One thing I have learned is that, whether at home or abroad, there is always more to discover.

Do not adjust your screens.  Today we are time traveling a bit.  Yes, I have written about San Antonio before.  I just like to catalog our trips in the travel section as we’ve taken them.  They have become even more joyful now that we’ve been blessed with our daughter.  This was a few years ago but I’m trying to post them chronologically for my own memories.  It was our first road trip with our little one and she did great.  For my international readers who may not know this, the state of Texas can literally fit into the entire country of (my beloved) France.  So folks often drive long distances here.  Anyway, we made it in pretty good time and arrived in the afternoon to check into an old, historic hotel right on the plaza across from the Alamo.  Just as I cannot pass up a trip to the Eiffel Tower, my husband never turns down an opportunity to visit the Alamo.  In 1836 the famous battle took place and was a pivotal event in the Texas Revolution.  Pictured here is what remains of the fortress and compound:  the chapel.  It is known as the “Shrine of Texas Liberty.”  Afterward, on a lighter note, we got some ice cream and sat on a bench to relax and enjoy the last rays of the spring afternoon’s sun.  We have a tradition of always eating dinner the first night at Casa Rio, the Tex Mex place right on the river with all the colored umbrellas.  Afterward we took a boat tour down the beautiful San Antonio river and our little one fell asleep with her rump in the air, literally sleeping like a baby.  The American essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.”  My world has become more beautiful having my husband and even more beautiful with our daughter in it.  If we never got to travel, I am so blessed to have a family of my own … I carry the beautiful with me.

This was our last day in Paris.  Our little one, not yet three at the time, had but one request.  She looked up at me sucking her thumb, took it out, and said, “‘Mama, no more ‘chuches.'”  (She could’nt pronounce her “r’s.”)  I realized then we had put a lot of grown up things on such a tiny little one and it is my hope that she will grow to love the church just as I always have.  So we threw our itinerary to the wind and made our last day a play day.  We darted in and out of little souvenir shops where I got got an “I ❤️ Paris bag” and magnets for the fridge.  Burk and I had berets, books on Versailles, and we bought Chat Noir oven mitts.  We were typical American tourists in Paris buying schlock and having a wonderful time.  My little one was immensely enjoying her “camera” that showed all the famous scenes of Paris through it (I always longed for a “View-Master” my whole childhood but we never could afford it) and she thought she was taking pictures of it all.  I got a couple of refillable Paris lighters (my favorite is a sleek Eiffel Tower that blinks and lights up when you open it) as well as some more cigars for my little humidor’s stockpile.  We did not spend a lot but we certainly got a lot in terms of pure frivolity and fun.  That is something which not often presents itself in our lives.  We were without worry and there was no one there to judge us over our treasures.  We went back to the hotel and all exclaimed over each other’s souvenirs.  Every day as I look around our home I see little remembrances of our precious time in Paris.  Some would say they are just things.  To me they are tangible memories that bring me back to this time and my heart is happy.  This was the day we threw out all the rules.  We let our almost three year old have pistachio ice cream laced with chocolate, coupled by potato chips.  It was exhilarating to let go of “the rules” and have a little fun.  We did not eat or drink anything particularly redemptive; rather we dined on la vie — frites et chocolat.