Where Fantasy Rules - Tuxedo Park, New York

Why yes, they ARE wearing capes in 90 degree heat

This past weekend I took a road trip down to Westchester County, New York to visit my sisters. Yeah, okay so technically I don't have any but I grew up with these two since I was around 5 years old and they're as close as it comes. In one of our inspired (and not just by alcohol) moments, we decided to go to the New York Renaissance Festival in Tuxedo Park, about an hour away.  The last time I had attended one was sometime in the early 1990s in the Bay Area of California. It was hot, dusty, wacky and entertaining. A fantastic combination--let's go!

Now for those of you not familiar with the American style Renaissance Festival, let me try to sum it up. Americans like to dress up. We do. This is the whole point of Halloween, Civil War reenactments, the Freedom Trail in Boston, the Bay to Breakers race in San Francisco and Mardi Gras (though those last two are more about not dressing at all).  

As far as I recall from my American history classes, we did not experience the Renaissance in the US. That stopped us never from dressing up in giant gowns, small corsets, codpieces, hats, and floral wreaths.  Seriously, it was 90000000000 degrees in the shade and people were in armor, velvet and furs.Oh, and one Storm Trooper who greeted any questions with "Long long ago, in a universe far far away" or whatever that folderal is.

Wait, so did I sum it up? No? Okay, get thousands of people together on 6 consecutive weekends in August and September in a tiny one-pub town in midstate New York, charge $29 ($19 for those of us with smart girlfriends who pay ahead of time), and provide entertainment such as a live chess game (awesome sword play, unintelligible dialogue), jousting (huge horse, funny Sir David against the Scot Sir Angus), Vixens en Garde (bad), belly-dancing (ummm?), Birds of Prey, and Rotten Tomato throw. The latter merits a moment. But first the food.

Live chess match.

Vixens en Garde spouting Shakespeare and bad innuendo

Sir David of the Blue & Gold. He won.

One of my sons entered the fair (or "Faire" if you will) chanting "Turkey Leg, Turkey Leg" until he got one. It was HUGE. Approximately the size of his thigh. He could not pick it up and I ended up picking it off the bone for him. Our whole strategy was to keep the kids so overfed and overdrinked (non-alcoholic please) that they would not notice how hot and sticky it was. So that was followed by ice cream, frozen lemonade, Root beer floats (VERY medieval), and who knows what else. I do appreciate that the fair was pretty well-priced--a lemonade for $3 was a lot less than we would have gotten taken for at Disney.

If you tipped the waiter or waitress, they would yell "Huzzah" and shake their parts. Some corsets are made better than others and that is all I have to say about that. Well, that and I think my 7-year old son just grew up very fast. 

Remains of the turkey leg

We spent some time at the Rotten Tomato toss where for $2 you could throw three peeled tomatoes at a man in a wood "cage". He would wait for your shots by insulting you very creatively. One of the "targets" was so creative and funny in his insults that I started crying laughing. Especially when one of my sons confused him by asking about his green eyes or why he was so mean. The other son wanted to throw the tomatoes but once I told him that he had to take the insults without crying, he quickly backed down.

The kids all invested in wooden swords and daggers and shields or floral tiaras. Some adults invested in beer. I did not have any chocolate covered bacon no matter how much I was tempted (not for one second).

Americans are very strange. I like it.

________

The Renaissance Faire is in Tuxedo Park, NY all weekends until September 21. www.renfair.com. Highly recommend, but go early!

The Evil Inside - Weston, MA

My backyard

This is a photo of my backyard. I love my new backyard--it is the main reason I wanted this house. It reminds me of the Alemão, the ranch house we rented for three years in Brazil. It reminds me of growing up on three acres in Connecticut. It reminds me of all that is good about suburban living in the US.

It is the antithesis of my small walled stone-tiled backyard in São Paulo. Now there is no fence (okay my neighbor has a four-foot fence around her pool on one side but surely that is for legal reasons--and it's not electrified which is nice), no security....yet, it is the scariest place my kids have seen. Barely inside those woods is an evil.

What is it?  Two words. Poison ivy. My kids are terrified of poison ivy. I have to admit that it is more than partially my fault as I yelled at them the first day to get back from those three-leaved evil plants. Now they are frightened of clover. I am terribly allergic to poison ivy and expect that my kids will be equally susceptible. 

This should make me laugh. In Brazil, we were afraid of various things at the wild fazenda (ranch): poisonous spiders, poisonous snakes, the always-rumored jaguars, canine tick disease. Now we are afraid of plants, lyme disease and lawsuits.On the bright side, one of my sons found a tiny garter snake that he confused with a worm because it was so small and cute. Very few snakes in Brazil are cute, unless you see them through my sons' eyes and they clearly inhale too much white glue every day. 

So we have an awesome backyard. Just don't go into the enticing woods. There is evil inside.

I need a title - Weston, MA

Not my car

So yesterday I bought a car. The process was lengthy but somewhat more fun than I thought it would be. The main reason for this is that I went with my dad. Yeah, BH completely bagged out of car negotiations. In his defense, I had pretty much decided which car I wanted, which color and besides checking some pricing, I had it all ready to go. 

Off Dad and I went for a test drive. Our poor defenseless car guy was named Aurelio--for one moment, I thought he was Brazilian but in truth, he was just a really good sport. Dad and I joked our way through sport suspension testing, braking and rolling windows up and down (there is no multicultural moment so happy as moving from a bullet-proof car to a non-bullet-proof car).  I hope those window motors are the best as they will have to survive the twins putting the windows up, putting the windows down, up down up down...

I have to say that buying a car in the US is much like buying a car in Brazil. Except that I get to choose between 300 colors and options instead of three colors and two options packages. And cars cost twice or three times as much in Brazil. I sold my three-year-old CRV for almost as much as a new one costs here. 

I complained to Aurelio that the lady on the phone had said that the silver color was in stock but it was not. He said "that's not my department." Those are the phone people. Then my dad asked "how much does an oil change cost here at Acura?" and Aurelio said "I don't know. That is not my department."  And then we asked what was the best deal on the car and he said "I don't know, let me get my manager." And I pointed to the embroidery on Aurelio's shirt and said "you are Acura. You are every department to a client." And Aurelio laughed.

After visiting the Hyundai dealer next door, we discovered that things get worse. We met another sales guy (sorry, did not catch his name, hope it was a good one) who told us he was a "Selection Specialist." After asking a few questions about cars and servicing, we got the same responses about not knowing service costs (the service department was 10 feet away from his desk). And so we asked what exactly was his role at Hyundai. And we found out that a "Selection Specialist" is only responsible for helping a client choose the right Hyundai model and then he hands off to the "Sales Specialist" or perhaps it is the "clean-out-your-wallet specialist".  And so on.

So, I've decided that in the US, we all need titles. As you know, I have a garbologist who comes every Tuesday and picks up the garbage. And yesterday morning, I was visited by the arborist who told me all about ash borers and made me pity the deer last year which desperately chewed up half the rhododendrons even though they hate rhodos.  Do not call him the tree guy. He is the arborist. And fair enough, he does have a forestry degree I noted on his online resume.

I need a title. BH tells me I am the Head of the Motor Pool. The pool is one at the moment. Head of the Motor Puddle. I am also COO of this household.  Chief Entertainment Officer of small children. Hopefully I'll get a paying-job title soon. And then I can tell people who ask tough questions "that is not my department."

Stick this in your orifice - Weston, MA

Instructions on the top of the GIANT recycling bin

Anyone who knows me personally knows that I am not a do-it-yourselfer. I have nothing but the greatest respect (but not envy) for those who can build treehouses from toothpicks and recycled farmhouse wood or keep orchids alive for longer than the evening of their arrival in their house, sew evening dresses out of curtains, that kind of stuff. I just can't do it. I "have people for that". Yes, I am willing to pay. 

Here is an example of this. We have arrived in this sweet town of 11,000 people outside of Boston and there is no central garbage collection service. Say what? We had garbage collection three times a week outside our door in São Paulo. But here, with no knowledge of what to do, we allowed garbage to pile up in the garage for a week until I was saved by two fortuitous moments: 1. I asked a neighbor what she did with her garbage (answer: self-haul to the dump) and 2. A coupon arrived from a company called "Orifice" for garbage/recycling collection for $55/month.  Let's go at this is the proper order:

Town dump. Let me get this straight. I need to pile up a week or two of stinky garbage including lobster husks and chicken bits, then chuck it into my trusty car and haul it over to the town dump. Wait, not so fast...you also need a car-specific pass that allows you to dump there. Yes, I found out about it at the town hall--I had to show my purchase and sale agreement for my house in order to get the coveted pass. I passed on the pass. I have neither a permanent car nor do I enjoy the smell of garbage in the morning, or any other time of the day. Yes, I am probably missing out on some social hour over diaper genies but I'm going to have to survive. I'd rather join the Weston Women's Club or whatever. 

Garbology. Ah, the serendipitous arrival of a coupon from Orifice Recycling and Refuse. Just the name made me smile. Not to mention the fact that the brochure stated that this was a "garbologist since 1985." Yes, the owner of this company has been in garbology since I was in high school. I do not know if he truly holds a degree in such a field, but I have decided not to annoy him by asking. Anything but go to the town dump. Anything.

This morning I silently cheered when the giant green garbage truck piled boxes and bags and recycling and everything into its maw, and left two enormous wheeled bins behind for me to practice my own style of garbology. I feel clean. 

One small step.

What Could Possibly Go Right - Weston, MA

So yesterday I posted about what went wrong on our return to the US: TSA checks, temporarily-lost cars, broken arms, that kind of trivial stuff. But I forgot to talk about what went right. And many things did:

All nine of our bags made it through customs and to the final destination in Boston. Nothing was broken. Everything is here. Yes, two of the bags are literally exploded on my bedroom floor but since I don't have any place to put anything (the dressers are not yet here and I am opposed to hangers in general), that's just the way it's going to be.

My brother and sister-in-law surprised us even before the baggage claim. They were holding a huge sign welcoming us to the United States and had two perfect kid-sized Boston Red Sox hats for the boys. I haven't lived in the same town as my brother since 1995 (and technically we are still not in the same town since he is downtown and I'm in the 'burbs) but he took time off of work (as did my sister in law) to make our arrival special. He even helped us find our lost car in the parking lot. Love.

Three of my new neighbors came over to introduce themselves--one brought cookies, and one loaned us a soccer ball since we had forgotten our ball inflater in Brazil. We are sitting on several useless deflated balls. Lalo is no fan of deflated balls. One of my neighbors is clearly insane since she volunteered to stay with the twins if I needed to run out and do some errands (clearly she doesn't know that I would never ever return--just kidding, BH!) I now know more of my neighbors in Weston than I did during six years in São Paulo. Love.

My parents. My wonderful parents. My parents live near Chicago but they drove cross-country a couple of weeks ago to get us set up here. We arrived to a giant soccer goal and art supplies for both kids, food in the fridge, cold beer and wine, extra sheets and towels and a whole lot of love.They have been helping with the kids too as we run around with various errands. They even rented a car to help with the vast quantities of luggage and braved rush hour Boston traffic for us. Mom has weeded the flower beds and gifted us plants which I will try really really hard not to kill (but know that their days are numbered). Love.

And when things did go wrong and my son Nico broke his arm, the forces of good came together. The pediatrician got him in quickly, various people offered doctor recommendations and other support, my sister in law came in to the hospital with a fluffy toy and a card, later taking his six-year old cousin's out of camp early so she could visit the hospital too. My brother again stopped by, taking time off work. My parents sat for hours with us in the uncomfortable hospital room. My mom stayed with Nico at the beginning of a rough second night so the rest of us could have some time out. Lest you think I have forgotten, the much maligned BH won massive numbers of points from his overnight stay, his taking-care of the whole insurance mess, and for dealing with a very upset mama bear. 

As we were leaving for the hospital, a beautiful vase of flowers was delivered from a São Paulo friend. A homecoming gift. More love, and from afar. And the response of friends through email and facebook about the injury to Nico has been overwhelming. His two godmothers sent him a remote control tarantula--yes, he loves spiders and he can control it with just one hand. Perfect. Love.

I don't have a single friend yet in Weston but I have one incredible support team.

And that is what has gone right.

What Can Possibly Go Wrong - Weston, MA

What actually went wrong - complete with the floor that caused it

So when I named this blog, I was laughing about the title of an article about allowing concealed firearms into schools--
what could possibly go wrong? It was just so obviously over-the-top ironic. And I thought that it would be a great title for a blog about moving back home after years away in Brazil--like, I know this place, what could possibly go wrong?

And what I've learned is that one should never ever tempt fate. When something went wrong, we were only two hours home in our new house in Weston, MA, after an overnight flight, a connecting flight complete with a TSA run-in (no, nothing with concealed firearms but rather a forgotten filled water bottle--I almost went to jail over it, but that's another story), and a lost car in a Boston Logan Airport parking lot.

The house is nearly empty--our shipment is not expected for another month, if lucky. We have a few pieces of furniture I bought from the former owner, but mostly we're camping on top of lovely polished hardwood floors. I had just put on a dance playlist and the kids were sliding around on socks and playing capoeira. I was in the dining room unpacking when I heard a crash, and ran in to find Nico literally screaming in pain and holding his arm. 

Now I have a kid with high pain resistance, and one with low. Nico is low. We comforted him and shushed him, and put him on the couch to rest. We knew he was hurt but we thought he was perhaps overreacting because he was tired from the trip. Sure enough, he fell asleep on the couch soon after. About an hour later, he woke up in pain unable to move his arm--his elbow had swollen to twice the size of the other.  And so we debated: I had already set a well visit with a local pediatrician the next morning at 8 am so the kids would be approved for summer camp participation. Should we wait or should we take him in to the emergency room? 

We have emergency care coverage from our Brazil insurance but doctor visits are not covered right now. I called the local pediatrician whom I had never met to see if we could bring Nico in. We live approximately 7 minutes from the office and they were able to squeeze him in to see a doctor there. I will love forever the Weston Pediatric Group for their care of Nico and immediate action.

We were there in minutes, my dad had come along for a quick trip to the grocery store. No one could believe that this would be more than a bruise, at worst a dislocation. Then the bad news: the doctor told us that without an x-ray, it would be impossible to tell the damage. We were told to go to Boston Children's Hospital, possibly the best children's hospital in the land--there we would find pediatric orthopedic surgeons on call and if there was a worst case scenario, surgery would be at the same location.

We dropped my dad off back at home, and then BH and I (For those who don't know us from the last blog I call my Brazilian husband "BH" for security reasons. No, for privacy reasons. No, because I can) were off to Boston in 5:30 pm traffic with Nico. At this point, Nico seemed to be a bit better and was chatting non-stop--but it took us an hour to get to the emergency room. 

While there were not many kids in the waiting room, we were received quickly but waited almost an hour to get the x-ray done. The staff at the hospital were great and friendly and chatty with Nico. The news finally came back: the arm was fractured right above the elbow and slightly dislocated. The seemingly-teenaged orthopedic resident said that surgery would be necessary. It seemed likely that the surgery would not be until the next day (it was then 9 pm) but until that was decided, Nico was not allowed to eat or drink. He cried.

An hour later we found out that the surgery would be the next morning or early afternoon (there were six kids scheduled ahead of Nico). We got some food and drink into my son and BH volunteered (oh, all right, I didn't fight too much) to stay the night on the couch in his shared room. But before I left, it was time to put the IV into Nico. And that is when we brought down the house.

Oh yes, Nico hates needles. HATES. He also has a very loud voice. He screamed and screamed. Before the needle went in. Because when the actual needle went in after the numbing "bomb", he didn't even notice.  And he got an Air Force metal jet toy as a reward--perhaps subtly reminding us that his screams had broken the sound barrier. Shell-shocked, I drove home alone from the hospital at midnight.

I guess this has gotten more detailed than I had meant so I shall move swiftly onwards. Nico had his surgery at 9 am and was able to choose his cast color (camouflage) and will be in a cast for three weeks at least with three pins in his bone (I have elected not to tell him of the needles sticking out of his arm under the cast). So much for the summer plans of soccer and tennis camps and afternoons at the town pool.  The part I find most ironic? I am a crazy mom on kids in helmets on bicycles, on pony rides, careful on tree climbing, skiing, etc. My kid went down in the family room. 

Home we are. Nico is fine, in a low level of pain and learning to eat and draw with his left hand. His twin brother who suffered with Nico's absence (he slept in my bed during the one-night hospital stay) helps him carry the heavy cast, and puts food on his fork. We'll be fine, though this homecoming was not exactly how I planned. What is, really? 

What can possibly go wrong, indeed.

Isn't there something else we should be doing? - Winchester, MA

Swanton Street Diner in June. No, just kidding, snow was gone. Photo credit: hiddenboston.com

While my husband and I were in the Boston area in June, we were in Winchester, a lovely small town just north of Boston, to sign papers at the bank. After signing we had some time for lunch and trip-advisored up the Swanton Street Diner.

Any restaurant with "diner" in the name is pretty much predestined to be a good place (in my eyes, at least). A diner, for my non-American readers, is usually casual, usually has waitresses with little patience for the gab of introducing themselves as "I'll be your server today!" and serves non-complicated and good food quickly. I note that this definition has changed over time as Swanton Street had some fairly sophisticated food including Lobster Pizza (totally opposed to a crustacean on my pizza). I stuck with some delicious broiled scallops. How I miss scallops--you can't find them much here in Brazil and when you do, they are pre-frozen and cost as much as a small car.

Part of the menu. The weird part.

Anyway, as we were sitting there waiting for the food -- our waitress was definitely diner material--borderline rude (I'll go with "gruff") and harried, I looked up at the framed certificate over our head. Here it is (sorry about the bad quality, I was scared of the gruffalo coming back and catching me):

Let me summarize. The Massachusetts House of Representatives has "recognized" the diner for its "Felicitous arrival in Winchester, Flavorful Entrees and Fun-Loving Staff, for many years to come." Wait, the HoR took out time for the "entire membership" to extend its "very best wishes"...? Oh, come on, I know that they probably do 4000 of these a day, but really? Realllllly? They don't have something else they should be doing?  

On the other hand, do you think I could get one of these? Maybe they could write me a certificate for my "felicitous arrival" in the state of Massachusetts after 23 years of absence. Who do I write? Should I just show up at the State House? Hmmmm.

And in a final smile for me, under the gold seal, the document is signed by no other than "Sherman "Whip" Saltmarsh Jr".  You just can't make this stuff up.

PS. Loved the visit. Highly recommended if you find yourself in Winchester!