The Sirens of Sorrento

I threw three coins over my shoulder and into Rome's Trevi fountain thirteen years ago. Legend has it that this act guarantees you a return trip. But really, I wanted to come back to Sorrento, a little town three hours south, where my Dad and I visited during a day trip from Rome. In the years following the two hours I spent there, "Sorrento" was always my answer to the what's-your-favorite-place-in-the-world question.

 Its piercing blue waters, powerful cliffs, and taunting Mt. Vesuvius, beckoned me the way the sirens lured sailors to the dangerous rocks below, thousands of years ago, according to Homer. It's said that the only way Ulysses resisted their song was by stuffing his ears with wax and strapping himself to the mast of his ship. The mermaids (half-woman, half-rooster, according to my mistranslated guidebook), were distraught, thinking they had lost their seductive powers and fled the cliffs. And that's why it is inhabitable today. Thank you, brave Ulysses.

But I discovered, this December, that the sirens still haunt those waters. At least they haunt the shopping district downtown. Their song is so lovely and so subtle, you hardly know they're singing. They whisper in your ear words like, "Isn't that a beautiful purse?" "Have you ever seen such a lovely bag?"

I realized I was listening to their pleasant song when I heard them say, "You've always wanted a Burberry scarf." "I have?" "Yes!" As I passed a window display of sunglasses, they reminded me that my eye doctor recently urged me to buy some Italian sunglasses to protect my eyes. Lovely lace dresses, leather gloves and purses, pottery with bright yellow lemons called to me, begging to come live in my kitchen. "We already match your tea pot! We'd fit in so well!" I wanted all this stuff. And lots of it.

This desire for beautiful things took me by surprise. I'm not usually one to get distracted by stuff, at least not expensive clothes or accessories. I knew it was not going to last. Didn't I memorize Matthew 6:19-20 in first grade? "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven..." My temporary distraction with Burberry scarves and leather purses reminded me of a song I'd been listening to recently. 

"All the Pretty Things" by 10th Avenue North

So we're waiting but our eyes are wandering to all this earth holds dear

Look at all the pretty things

That steal my heart away

I can feel I'm fading

'Cause Lord I love so many things

That keep me from Your face

Come and save me 

"How humbling," I thought, "To be so distracted by meaningless stuff that does indeed distract me from God." I basically gave myself a pass, believing the desires for "all the pretty things" would fade the further we drove from Sorrento and her Gucci wearing sirens. And they did. The longings diminished, but they were unexpectedly replaced by a stark realization: There are actually lots of "pretty things" that distract me from God. They're just harder to identify when they aren't labeled "real Italian leather". It's easier to justify distraction when it's called "travel" or "making memories" or "taking pictures of beautiful places". Even that phrase, "taking pictures", suggest a selfish grabbing for more of what I want. The gorgeous sunset isn't enough. I want to capture it and keep it forever.  Twenty-seven times from each and every angle and setting on my camera.

The beauty of what he's made can subtly distract me from him. Not always. At times it causes me to stop and thank him and marvel at his glory. But more often than I'd like to admit, this beauty, and the desire for more of it, makes me forget all about him--the one who made it for me. I take what I want, and leave satisfied, without so much as a thank you. And then I go home, look at all my pictures and sink further into the self-focused search for satisfaction.

Okay, I realize I may be losing you. You may be questioning my self-deprecating rant against photography. That's fair. Because it's not bad to take pictures of pretty things. For me, though, I am realizing that those pretty things can distract me from what's most important to me: my relationship with God. I hope I cracked open my Bible while I was in Sorrento, but I can't remember very clearly. I do remember taking lots of pictures, looking at them each night and deleting some, lamenting the fact that I hadn't brought my second memory card because 1,000 pictures was not enough, I wanted more, more, more!

Neighboring city of Positano.

It's okay to not read my Bible every day. It's not guilt over skipping my quiet time that is prompting my shame. It's the sad truth that "pretty things" sometimes control my life in a way I didn't know I'd given them permission to do. I feel alive and peaceful and fulfilled when I spend time with God. I want that to be my priority. But clearly, it's not. I am distracted by the sirens' song.

CS Lewis writes in The Weight of Glory:

"It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased."

 And I am far too easily distracted.

And a few more pictures of our trip to Sorrento...

Doesn't he look so Italian drinking cappuccino for breakfast?

Visiting a lemon grove.

I found the graffiti so encouraging.

Somehow, Sorrento felt even more charming in the rain.

Christmas in Europe

Warning: This post may contain a traumatic spoiler for some of my previous kindergarten and first grade students. Please don't read it without your parents' permission.

Intriguing, right? Well, here it is: my confession. I don't actually like Santa Claus. I wasn't raised to dislike him, but my parents were up front with me about the fact that he wasn't real. So we never left him cookies and milk, and he never brought me any presents. To me, he was just kind of the creepy old guy in the red suit who was always hanging around the mall during Christmastime.

Well, after hearing for many years how secular Europe has become, I thought Christmas here wouldn't be a very big deal, or at the very least, it would be all about Santa. How wrong I was! Christmas is a very big deal in Europe. Decorations abound. Across the main street of each town, they drape evergreens with lights and some kind of star or wreath in the center every 4 meters or so, creating a glorious path of light and good cheer!

The windows on the buildings are not to be forgotten and they are either lined with lights or draped in evergreens. In one town square, I counted 92 balconies all dressed in matching greenery with red bows and gold, silver, green, and red balls. And lights, of course. Another staggering number was the thirty-odd Christmas trees in downtown Kandern. They have crammed Christmas trees into every nook and cranny. If space doesn't exist for one--no problem--they'll slice it down the middle and stick half a tree against a wall, leaving barely enough room to squeeze by.

But no one cares because it's Christmastime and they can just walk in the streets that are closed half the month for all the festivals and Christmas markets. The town is transformed into a magical Christmas land. They build little huts or booths that become shops, selling nativity sets, scarfs, candles, mulled wine, and roasted chestnuts. The exact opposite of a mall, the Christmas markets actually make Christmas shopping fun! Stores are open late and the entire town bundles up and comes out to celebrate.

With my sweet friend Betsy, inside the drink booth at the BFA Christmas banquet.

Of course, shops and restaurants go all-out in making their windows the most Christmasy as possible, filling them with evergreens, ornaments, snowballs, and advent candles. Advent is very important. Everyone has at least one kind of advent wreath, and if you don't, you can buy one at the grocery store, flower store, or local fruit stand. In fact, the town fountain in Kandern is transformed into a larger-than-life advent wreath complete with light bulbs and paper flames.

The only tradition that appears more prevalent than the advent celebration is the displaying of the nativity scene. No one seems to find it offensive, or politically incorrect, or hurtful to people celebrating Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, or not celebrating anything at all. No, in fact, everyone seems to be in a secret competition with one another to display the best nativity ever. I've seen the holy family made of wood, clay, paper, and even pizza dough! They appear in churches, of course, but also above doorways, outside parking garages, and even in fish tanks! An electronics store in Italy, not to be left out, simply stuck a baby, presumably Jesus, in a basket (Or was it Moses?) on the counter. There wasn't room for Mary or Joseph, much less shepherds or wise-men among the electronic gadgets, but Jesus is, arguably, the most critical figure.

Outside a parking garage, Jesus appears to already be practicing his cartwheels.

A pizza dough creche is most impressive.

Behind these gates, I encountered my first ever live-nativity. It was cool, until I saw the three wise-men...three women drinking coffee and chatting with each other.  Apparently there is a shortage of wise-men actors.

And the nativity in a fish tank.

For all creatures, great and small.

It is funny, and refreshing, and a little bit sad to be so readily reminded of why we celebrate Christmas by people who perhaps only display their nativities because of tradition, and not because of any true faith in the baby who was born because of the deep love God has for them. But sometimes it's hardest to see what's right in front of us. And sometimes, I think, God uses people who don't even know him, to draw others closer to himself. Regardless, I'm grateful for the ever present reminders of Jesus birth from these sweet little towns.

And Santa? The only times I've seen him, he's been crawling up a rope or ladder, trying to get in a window or balcony, but he never seems to make it inside.

French Faux Pas

All I wanted was a slice of quiche.

I confidently popped into the boulangerie/patisserie, in search of the flaky crusted treasure. I peered past the local French patrons, into the glass display case. The croissants, au bon pain chocolate, and other delights, all much more familiar to me these days than my waistline would like, smiled back at me. Yet to my dismay, I saw no quiche!

Quiche has been a dear staple in my life ever since I worked as a waitress at the local tea house in West Palm Beach and wrote, "Keeshe" on the ticket the first time a customer ordered this unknown food.  Since then it has become to me a cultured way to cook eggs; a fun and classy way to sneak protein into breakfast. I loved it even before I tried it in Paris, but I may now be ruined for any quiche made outside of the country of France. It was another remnant of redemption from our trip to Paris that has sweetly lingered with me.

My eyes darted disbelievingly around the restaurant. No quiche at the boulangerie?? It couldn't be true. What I saw gave me hope: the customers seated at tables were reading menus. Surely, I thought, my quiche is waiting for me there on the small printed cards. A quick glance toward the door revealed a shelf with hoards of the little menus and drink cards stuck inside of rocks-turned-paperweights with small slits inside to hold the cards.

I stepped around a couple seated at the table closest to the sliding glass door as inconspicuously as I could. My hand reached toward the shelf, but as it did, the door slid opened for an entering customer. I grabbed the menu and rock-menu-holder just in time for the sliding door to hit my wrist, knocking the menus and rock to the floor. The rock landed with a loud snap behind the door and the diners heads all sharply turned my way.

Trying to recover quickly, while ignoring the 25 French citizens and one husband who had their eyes on me, I reached for the rock. It took me several attempts to realize that each time I tried to grab the rock, my hand initiated the automatic sensor to open the door, grating against the rock and trapping it behind the glass, outside of my grasp. Finally, a kind man at the nearby table was able to retrieve one of the fallen menus for me.

As nonchalantly as possible, I thanked him in a hurried combination of German, English and French, and abandoned the trapped rock. I stepped away, trying to blend in with the chocolates as I skimmed the elusive menu.

And there it was, just as I had suspected: Quiche Lorraine. Jordan followed me on my walk of shame to the back. We crammed ourselves into a one-person table and waited. The waitress arrived, acting kindly unaware of my embarrassing blunder. I convinced myself that all would be well from this moment onward and ordered my quiche. "Ahhhh, skjdl asj&dflj dllsdfo-ssd//hjsksjks, ,lksksdno iw9aw ij akmn," she said regretfully. I didn't need to speak French to understand that I would not be having quiche for lunch today. They were out.

My game time decision resulted in ordering what I thought was the tomato crepe. Because when there is no quiche, crepes, I told myself, are a completely adequate substitute.  The problem, though, with relying solely on language cognates to interpret a menu, means that you miss the little word that means "egg" before the easy "tomate". Normally this wouldn't be a problem for me, except that I prefer my eggs cooked. What appeared on my plate was a yolk that jiggled like jello, threatening to burst it's yellow goo all over my crepe under the slightest provocation.

Burst, it thankfully did not, so I gingerly ate all around the egg, ignoring the fact that the bottom of the crepe was completely burned, and if I hadn't just caused a scene and possibly broken one of their rock-menu-holders, I would have complained and sent it back through a series of hand-motions and gestures and disgusted-looking facial expressions.

Though my experience today was traumatic and probably damaging to my psyche, I do feel as though I was reminded of something important: Be grateful for a husband who willingly sits with you at a restaurant where everyone else is shunning you and who will verbally walk through the entire embarrassing scenario again and again as you process, and who will also support you in ordering an au bon pain chocolate to finish off lunch when the raw egg crepe just doesn't hit the spot.

I love him.

Here is a sneak peak at the fun part of our day:

Saw this lovely wall of corn on the way to Neuf-Brisach.

Christmas Market

The walled city was a fortification built in the shape of a star!

I tripped while running over to pose for this one. 

Fail.

Win!

I really wanted to take pictures by the yellow doors on that hill.
Unfortunately, they did a good job with the fortification and we couldn't reach them.

I had to settle for pictures by the cool, red door.

I thought the live nativity was charming!
Until I saw that the three wise-men were played by women who were chatting and drinking coffee the whole time.
Kind of killed the mood.

These guys really were charming.

The day ended with one of my favorite pastimes: sunset chasing.