Today we visited the Tower of London, a fortress situated on the bank of the River Thames.  I put a mental check mark on being able to visit another UNESCO World Heritage Site.  It was founded in 1066 as part of the Norman Conquest of England.  The White Tower was built by William the Conqueror in 1078 and was a symbol of oppression, used as a prison for centuries.  The entire complex is comprised of several buildings set within two concentric rings of defensive walls as well as a moat.  There were several phases of expansion under Kings Richard the Lionheart, Henry III, and Edward I in the 12th and 13th centuries.  The Tower has been used as an armory, a treasury, (sadly) a menagerie, and home to both the Royal Mint as well as the Crown Jewels of England.  We are pictured here standing next to our Yeoman Warder, or “Beefeater” who conducted our tour.  These men have formed the Royal Bodyguard since at least 1509.  More than ornamental tour guides, they are required to have served in the armed forces with an honorable record for at least 22 years.  These men are military veterans who still guard the tower today around the clock.  I believe I speak for all three of us when I say our favorite part of this visit was seeing the ravens.  Legend says that the kingdom and the Tower will fall if the six resident ravens ever leave the fortress.  We got to see the Raven Master feeding the seven large birds (six plus a spare) up close.  It was a treat to be so very close to them without any barriers; they ate just a few feet from us on the lawn.  I had seen plenty of crows but I did not fully realize how huge their brethren were.  They reminded me a bit of vultures.  The ravens preside over four different territories within the Tower precincts and the birds are officially enlisted as soldiers in the Army.  There are records of some being dismissed from their ‘duties’ at the Tower for unsatisfactory conduct; one had a penchant for eating television aerials.  Another kept escaping and visiting the zoo.  The English philosopher John Locke said, “Fortitude is the guard and support of the other virtues.”  I think that is a very apt description for our next stop, which was accidental, and proved to be the highlight of our trip.  We stumbled upon a little church on a bustling street corner and decided to go in.  All Hallows-by-the-Tower is an ancient Anglican church overlooking the Tower of London.  Previously dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin and founded in 675, it is one of the oldest churches in London.  Inside we discovered it contained a 7th century Anglo-Saxon arch with recycled Roman tiles — the oldest surviving piece of church fabric in the city.  The church has a free museum; the Undercroft Museum, containing portions of a Roman pavement and many other artifacts discovered below the church in 1926.  This sacred jewel was so much of what I loved all in one:  history, Christianity, AND it was the ONE CHURCH IN ALL OF LONDON we discovered that allowed pictures!  God bless them.  So it was there, in this ancient church, that I found my joy.  I knelt to pray on the exquisitely embroidered kneelers and gave thanks for the gracious welcome we received there and for the respite from the city.  Narrowly escaping the Great Fire of 1666 and surviving extensive bombing by the Germans in World War II, its 1300 years of faith shows fortitude that guards virtues surpassing that of the Tower.

This day would prove to be a huge culture shock.  Out of all the places in the world we have traveled I find it ironic that it would be England which would seem so foreign.  We started by visiting the Cathedral Church of St. Paul the Apostle, which sits on the highest point of London.  It reminded me of the white domes of Sacre Coeur overlooking Paris.  St. Paul’s dome has dominated the city’s skyline for 300 years and is among the highest in the world.  It is a working church with hourly prayer (which I loved) and daily services.  Once again pictures were forbidden.  We elected not to attempt the 550 stair ascent to the top carrying a baby.  They warned us it became very narrow and, like missing the climb to see the eaves of Notre Dame, my husband always says to leave something to want to come back for.  Next we went to have lunch at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, an historic pub rebuilt in 1667 after the Great Fire of 1666.  Situated in a narrow alleyway, there was a lack of natural lighting inside which lent the place a gloomy, medieval feel.  For some reason it was exactly how I pictured an old English pub to be.  The dark wooden interior had a labyrinth of passages and staircases and they served dark ales and traditional dishes like kidney pudding.  I found myself longing for the open air and pommes frites of France.  Then it was onward to Harrods — the store I had wanted to visit ever since I’d read about Christian the lion (Google it if you do not know the story; it’s great).  The department store was enormous.  Everything was also outrageously expensive.  Growing up poor in a superficial city that centers around high end shopping, I am accustomed to snobbery.  But I must say the Brits elevated it to a whole new level.  Old Texas oil money could not compete with new Saudi oil money, where one black robed woman bought a pair of $32 thousand dollar earrings without even bothering to stop shopping long enough to wait and collect them.  The startling thing was being surrounded by women in full burkas.  I had only ever seen one woman, working in a kitchen in Tangiers, wearing one.  It was unnerving to turn around and be faced with a black wall of women with only the barest of mesh slits open for their eyes.  There was a sea of them.  To be quite honest I found it frightening; the place was overrun.  Practically the only ones whose faces I could see were the employees.  How different this was from the smiling faces of the Muslim women in Paris, wearing only their colorful head scarves.  I did like the giant Harrods bears they had throughout the store on each floor.  The Roman Stoic philosopher Seneca once said, “It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.”  I was the wealthiest woman in the store that day — able to travel, free to dress as I chose, and I had my precious little girl and handsome husband with me.  I could not have dreamnt for more.  I may not have left with a lion cub, but I did buy a little bear like the giant ones lining the windows in the world famous Harrods.

We began our next day in London by passing Britain’s most notable icons:  Big Ben, Parliament, and the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.  Our first official stop was Westminster Abbey.  My husband really wanted to see the Churchill War Rooms.  Now a museum, visitors can see the secret World War II bunker that tells the story of Winston Churchill’s life and legacy.  It was a little confining and I remember the baby was afraid of the mannequins.  I love a good gift shop though and I still have my pen that looks like a lit cigar.  The most delightful surprise came after we emerged.  We found ourselves right across from the most charming park with a pond and all sorts of breeds of ducks, geese, and pigeons we had never seen before.  St. James’ Park is at the heart of London and the oldest of the capitol’s eight Royal Parks.  Next to benches the fattest squirrels I have ever seen in my life sat waiting for food.  Given that back home Burk calls our well-fed squirrels “Blub Blubs” that is really saying something!  We had just finished lunch and I had taken the bread simply because I cannot stand to waste food and I thought the baby might like some later.  My little one who loves all animals wanted to feed our bread to the wildlife, and I was thrilled with our good luck.  One squirrel took our offering directly from our hands and it was a joyous delight.  Our girl shrieked and clapped with glee as she carefully studied the birds gathered around us.  Our favorite was a goose with pink feet.  Speaking of pink, we joined our extended family for dinner at London’s oldest restaurant, The Rules.  Opening in 1798, it has spanned the reign of nine monarchs.  I decided to have the pink cocktail favored by Princess Diana.  The venerable establishment was posh, quiet, and the median age I would say was sixty.  I must have been delusional to think I could bring our one and a half year old!  As a still new mother I had no idea what I was doing.  I did not know to bring any little toys to entertain her and I remember getting a picture of her “reading” the menu upside down.  To this day I cannot believe our little girl sat perfectly content in an old high chair for almost three hours!  She wore a little green velvet dress bordered with tiny rosettes as well as a matching hat and coat.  At some point she pulled off her little hat, smiled and clapped.  Looking back I think it was sheer insanity and bringing a baby into such a place was probably breaking the rules.  But we did it.  My husband and I still speak about that evening with an incredible amount of disbelief, nostalgia, and love.  The American athlete, actress, and fashion model Aimee Mullins said, “Life is about making your own happiness — and living by your own rules.”

We arrived in London and made our way to this beautiful, charming little hotel.  Now swallowed up into a larger chain, it had a huge modern monstrosity nearby that was touted as being its sister hotel.  I did not care about the new monster hotel’s gym; we’d be doing plenty of walking.  We had no use for their indoor pool; we could swim anytime.  So this little jewel suited us perfectly.  Like a grand dame, she proudly retained her old world charm in the shadow of her younger sister large Marge.  This hotel was old school and full of history — just the way we like it.  We would have the pleasure of descending and ascending this beautiful staircase each morning and evening, coming down for breakfast and going up to bed.  Our room was just upstairs and off to the left if I recall.  No sterile elevators going up a gazillion floors, just the smooth feel of the polished balustrade’s old wood gleaming underneath our hands.  We set out to explore a little and by far the best thing I discovered about London was the cabs, which were salvation for anyone with a child in a stroller!  They all have tall, rounded roofs and a crazy amount of space!  You simply roll your pram (using my newly acquired British lingo) right on in and buckle up the entire stroller — baby and all!  No unpacking all the bags, lugging a heavy car seat, transferring a possibly sleeping little one, folding up the stroller, and then having to reverse the entire process just a short while later.  It was absolute heaven and so transformative I cannot fathom why all other countries have not followed suit.  If you do not have a child in a stroller you have tons of room and space for your bags.  It really was the greatest.  During the course of our travels we have had cab drivers from all over the world:  Haitiian, Asian, Arabic, French, Spanish, Italian, African, Latino, Canadian, and American.  I pride myself on having an ear for language and my husband and I enjoy getting to know where people were born and listening to their stories.  The hilarious and unexpected part of this trip is that I literally had to translate everything any cabbie ever said to us during our entire week in London.  The irony is they were ALL British; therefore they spoke English.  It was incredibly difficult to discern their various thick cockney accents, particularly when they spoke quickly.  I found it comical that of all the places we had been fortunate enough to travel THIS would be where I would do the most translating.  The cabbies are all Brits because they must pass what may be the most difficult test in the world.  It is called “The Knowledge” and it demands years of study to memorize the labyrinthine city’s 25,000 streets as well as ANY business or landmark — no matter how obscure.  That is incredibly impressive!  Its rigors have been likened to those required to earn a degree in medicine.  Without question, it is a unique intellectual, psychological, and physical ordeal demanding thousands of hours of immersive study.  They must commit to memory the entire city of London and endure a process which takes at least four years to complete; for many it takes much longer.  The German philosopher Immanuel Kant said, “It is beyond a doubt that all our knowledge begins with experience.”  As we took in our first sights of London, our experience was slowly building our knowledge:  of prams and of proud cabbies … and of the knowledge of London.

Time flew by so quickly and it was our last day in Paris.  We took our little one to the same carousel across from the Eiffel Tower that we had ridden on our honeymoon.  It was another full circle moment literally and figuratively.  I vividly remember taking a picture of my new husband of one day and seeing stars as we whirled by Paris in circles.  Now I had my little one bundled up and riding on a horse with me while my handsome husband rode beside us.  They had a photographer stationed there, and every professional photographer knows no mother is going to turn down photos of her child.  When our ride was over she showed us her shots.  The lights twinkled merrily against the early grey day and the music tinkled cheerfully behind us as we looked over the moments she had captured.  Overcome with emotion, I asked Burk if we could get several.  He said sure and I smiled and nodded at the woman, choosing my favorites.  “D’accord” she said as she deftly glued them into a faux gold paper frame.  Oh how thrilled I was to have all of us captured on my favorite carousel!  Then we walked down a short way to take a ride on the Seine.  The tour was different in the light of day and I was able to view angels on bridges, the marks from water levels, and all sorts of other details much clearer.  Although I prefer the romance and hazy glow of an evening ride, I think it was good to have a different perspective.  The English singer and songwriter John Lennon said, “Love is a promise, love is a souvenir, once given never forgotten, never let it disappear.”  I tried to take in every precious moment in my beloved Paris before we left to travel back under the ocean to see the sights of London.  The word “souvenir” is from the French meaning “to remember.”  Going with me were my treasures:  my loves, my promises, and my souvenirs.

In keeping with the tradition we started on our honeymoon, we headed to the Eiffel Tower first, only this time we we had our beautiful baby doll with us.  It was a cold, windy day, unlike the sultry, warm June night of 2007.  The tallest structure in Paris, it stands at around 81 stories.  We made our way up all three elevators, each with their steeper ascents, to reach the top.  Burk and I decided to have a champagne toast and we bought plastic fluted glasses that lit from the bottom.  Multi-colored lights flashed up through the sparkling wine as it fizzed and tickled my nose.  For me, this was full circle and well worth the symbolic splurge.  I had the true love I had waited so long for and now our miracle child for whom I had so fervently prayed.  In keeping with that knowledge, the next place we revisited on our short weekend was Notre Dame.  The church had been blacked from years of candle soot and incense the last time we visited.  We were shocked to discover the entire interior with its high vaulted ceilings had been scrubbed clean and I thought these ribbons were particularly resplendent in Easter’s wake.  The whiteness of the stone only served to heighten the splendor of the rose windows.  It turns out we were lucky enough to be enjoying the 850th anniversary celebration of the famous French Gothic cathedral dedicated to Our Lady, the mother of our Lord.  As you walk along the church, different naves are dedicated to her and her manifestations to people around the world.  Our child did not walk at a year like others and I was not the least bit concerned;  I waited 41 years to hold my own baby.  I remember she was getting squirmy so I decided to put her down.  To our utter amazement and true delight, our Marian child began walking completely on her own in the church dedicated to the mother of Christ.  She started at the Virgin of Guadalupe and just kept going.  We could not even keep up with her and I found myself whispering “excusez nous” as we weaved in and out of visitors, frantically keeping eyes on our suddenly independent and mobile toddler.  Transcending all the languages I heard being spoken as I passed, people from all over the world smiled kindly and they could see by the glow of pride and astonishment on my face that our little one had literally just started to walk.  My husband and I were beaming.  With sudden clarity I knew this was where she was meant to take her first steps — surrounded by the Ever Blessed Virgin Mother Mary.  The French abbot Saint Bernard of Clairvaux said this:

“In dangers, in doubts, in difficulties, think of Mary, call upon Mary.  Let not her name depart from your lips, never suffer it to leave your heart.  And that you may more surely obtain the assistance of her prayer, neglect not to walk in her footsteps.  With her for guide, you shall never go astray; while invoking her, you shall never lose heart; so long as she is in your mind, you are safe from deception; while she holds your hand, you cannot fall; under her protection you have nothing to fear; if she walks before you, you shall not grow weary; if she shows you favor, you shall reach the goal.”

I have written before of the unexplainable connection; I wanted to honor that when I named the child she had promised me.  And so Maris Grace began her first steps in Notre Dame.

The next day our luxurious jet touched down at the Harrod’s airport hanger just outside of London.  Officers boarded and almost apologetically checked our passports.  That was it — no lines, no pat downs, and no removal of clothing; just kind smiles as they left, wishing us a lovely holiday.  Although we would spend the majority of our time in London, I could not bear to be so close to my beloved Paris and not visit.  Our extended family graciously arranged for a black Mercedes SUV to take us to the St. Pancras railway station.  Victorian architecture encased a modern array of shops as well as Europe’s longest Champagne bar.  It was surreal to be in an open air station.  Standing inside, I gazed up in wonder at the grey sky, as huge snowflakes fell upon us this surprisingly frigid April day.  We stopped for a bite to eat and I remember being perplexed that there were absolutely no trash cans ANYwhere.  I just could not understand why there were none to be found.  I now know it was for security reasons; that way no one would be able to drop some type of explosive device inside one of the bins.  We got our tickets for the Eurostar, a train which would take us into the Channel Tunnel (or “Chunnel”) under the ocean to France.  The train was well-arranged, with some cars having groups of four facing each other around tables.  It was particularly nice if you wanted to get something to eat or drink.  The last car sold snacks, beer, and wine.  Burk and I each tried a 1664, the French beer founded in the year after which it is named.  We both enjoyed the pale lager as we pulled out of the station, and before we knew it we entered a tunnel, gliding along at 99 miles per hour.  I am claustrophobic and was not scared in the least.  At its lowest point it is 380 feet below sea level and, at 23.5 miles, it has the longest undersea portion of any tunnel in the world.  For the cost of just around 100 euros, we found ourselves a couple of hours later at the beautiful Gare du Nord train station in the Île-de-France.  Slightly older than its British counterpart, it was built in 1864.  After taking a taxi to our hotel we decided to relax awhile in our room.  Our little one proved to be a perfect international traveler without fussing even once!  This is one of my favorite photos — Maris in Paris “reading” Le Parisien.  We were so blessed to have been invited to go on this incredible trip and my heart was truly full.  Paris, where we had spent our honeymoon, I was now getting to experience with both of my loves — my handsome husband and our beautiful little baby doll.  The American historian and archivist Mary Ritter Beard once said, “Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.”  I can attest to that.  My first visit to Paris changed me forever.  It was so great being able to return, this time by voyage under the sea.

When we were asked several years ago if we would like a ride to Europe I did not think they were serious even though they are extended family on my husband’s side.  At the time our little one was about a year old and they were inquiring about the following spring.  They kept inviting us until I finally realized they actually meant it.  I allowed myself to entertain the idea but told them I had no clue as to what a toddler would be like and I was worried she might disrupt their peaceful holiday.  They were not concerned so we prayed it would all go smoothly.  I could not believe we were really going to go!  I was not lucky enough to aquire a passport until I was 35; my little one got hers before she was even a year and a half.  I believe this was the largest jet they had at the small, private airport where we went.  We had two pilots and a flight attendant who could not have been nicer; the next thing I knew we were in the air.  No scary safety spiel, no “fasten your seatbelts,” no “bing bong; cross-check, prepare for take off,” and no slow ascent.  It was like a rocket only whisper quiet, seamlessly smooth, and not frightening at all!  Right away I had champagne sparkling in a cut crystal glass pressed into my hands.  As we toasted our trip cool maps appeared on the television screens detailing our flight path.  I got a goodie bag filled with useful and fancy things and I started pulling them out one by one like a kid opening presents on Christmas day.  Among what I can remember, my little black bag contained a personal mirror with magnifier, hand lotion, a small travel perfume, minted rose lip balm and, something I had never seen before, “paper soap.”  Hot towels were presented for our hands before we were served dinner from silver trays on china.  We all got to have our food custom-ordered and it was everything I loved.  Mixed nuts rested in bowls on the sides of the burled walnut lined aircraft.  Our chairs were spacious and comfortable; swiveling and reclining, and we each had our own window.  A couple of sofas flanked the middle of the plane and could be converted into beds.  I think Burk and I were too excited to sleep.  Toward the back they had a table, chairs, and banquette.  Behind that were curtains which took us through a galley complete with a refrigerator, microwave, toaster, coffee maker, and cabinets that I can recall.  And the lavatory!  It was all mirrored and marbled and so spacious it was unbelievable!  I still cannot get over it!  Conservatively I would say it was six times the size of a regular airplane facility.  The American personal trainer Greg Anderson said, “Focus on the journey, not the destination.  Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it.”  The greatest joy for us on this trip was found in the time we spent with family focusing on the journey.

My little baby had introduced to me to a love I never even realized I had; a love of the sea.  The famous French writer and aristocrat Antoine de Saint-Exupery said, “Each man must look to himself to teach him the meaning of life.  It is not something discovered: it is something molded.”  I watched my seven month old be lulled to sleep by the ocean’s gently rocking waves as my husband and I held her in her little float.  On this, our first solo family vacation, the three of us would be molded together like an inpenetrable castle in the sand.  It was built around special time spent with each other, in nature, with no watch.  We all were blessed to be in the mystery of the Blessed Stella Maris’ domain, the fathomless blue sea.  I collected shells obsessively and realized I could lose myself in that forever.  With each receding of the tide there was the chance of discovering a new treasure offered up in the powder white sand.  I lost all track of time and felt happy and genuinely at peace.  All too soon our precious time had come to an end and it was time to go.  Before the airport we were able to stop at this quirky place called the Shell Factory.  It was huge and contained everything from fossils, to jewelry, a fudge shop, a Christmas room, and a very impressive shell collection.  We all had great fun.  I scored a once costly bracelet made of real shells (on sale for 60% off,) Burk found all sorts of map replicas, and our little one rode her first carousel.  The picture here is blurred because we were actually turning as my husband took it.  Seashells and carousels; nature and delight.  That is what I wish for my precious miracle child.  Hence the meaning behind the name of my blog:  seashells and carousels.

The Austrian born American journalist Henry Grunwald said:

“A beach is not only a sweep of sand, but shells of sea creatures, the sea glass, the seaweed, the incongruous objects washed up by the ocean.”

This was the day I had been waiting for!  We were finally at Sanibel Island and this picture was the very first time my baby set foot on a seashore.  I remember her lifting up her little feet and looking at them, not ever having felt the sensation of the silky shift of sand.  Then when the gentle white foam of the waves tickled her tiny toes she shrieked with delight.  I deliberately chose this place as it was special.  The beach was an embarrassment of riches.  Everything in the foreground was all shells.  It took several feet of walking on them (which I absolutely cringed doing) to get to the sand.  When my husband realized this was a serious shell hunter’s paradise he abandoned his moue of distaste; happily joining in my quest to acquire shells.  Of course we would never take anything living and I discovered it was actually a type of fossil hunting.  I got so immersed I only stopped when I felt my arms start to sting.  That stinging would prove to be a WICKED sunburn.  So we left with our treasures from the sea and went in search of lunch.  We drove on to Captiva Island and ate at the world famous Bubble Room.  The outside was painted with every imaginable color and the inside had even more character.  Each meandering room contained wall to wall toys from the 1930’s and ’40’s, Hollywood memorabilia, trains running on all three floors, an actual Tunnel of Love booth, an old trolley car booth, plus my favorite, a room with fish tanks built in the walls made to look like a submarine.  And of course, there were bubble lamps.  On the way back we stopped at a fun store called “She Sells Sea Shells.”  We had a captivating time on Captiva Island and, just as I’d hoped, on Sanibel we began the creation of lifelong memories at the beach collecting seashells.