You're my boy, Blu!

So, yeah, we had a baby, which is why this blog hasn’t been updated in a few months. Babies are time consuming little humans. They keep you up all night, pee in your face, throw up on your freshly laundered shirt (which you had to wash prematurely because they threw up on it) and sleep the only hours of the day you cannot. 

Then they lay their head on your shoulder or smile at you unprovoked or do something so unbelievably cute that you just sigh and whisper: “You little a-hole. I couldn’t love you more.”

Anyway, here’s our Oscar Blu, born July 23rd, weighing in at a hefty 8’10, 21 inches long. In the 2 plus months he’s been here, we’ve learned that he, like his parents, has some promising Gypsy feet. He loves being out and about and gets bored easily. He’s not a sleeper, which we attribute to his desire to make sure he doesn’t miss anything in this brand new world. He’s been bright-eyed since birth.

And yes, every cliché and stereotypical thing that new parents say about falling in love at first sight is true – so let me just gush for a moment. Jeremy and I are totally in love with our little dude. He’s perfect, even when he’s not. Even when he’s a little a-hole.

Sigh.

The Language of Pregnancy

It’s been awhile since we’ve penned a blog and while the last five years have been dedicated to details of our Europe-wide travels (and beyond), the blog may shift as we try to maneuver this upcoming parenting thing.

Perhaps, in time, it will shift back to travel – this time with a rug rat in tow. Which begs the question – are children checked baggage or carry on?

For now, as I’m currently 5 days past my due date, pregnancy is on my mind big time. I’ve entered the waddling phase and after a near fall yesterday when my pant leg got stuck in the spokes of my bike – I’m officially taking it easy.

I’ve been lucky during this pregnancy though, relatively speaking. I consider my pregnancy a positive experience and I’ve been able to remain active and still participate in activities I loved pre-pregnancy – but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t had its negative moments. But to be honest, most of those moments have come from third parties. So I dedicate these words to explaining the language of pregnancy. Or better yet – what not to say to a pregnant woman, ever.

Encourage mint

Being pregnant can be tough, even when pregnancy itself is running smoothly. Your hormones are a bit out of whack, your body is constantly changing and your I.Q. is cut in half. (Seriously, it’s a wonder I can still type in full sentences as I’ve resorted to speaking like a cave man).

It’s during these times that encouragement goes a long way. Here’s a list of appropriate affirmations that every pregnant woman would love to hear:

“You’re doing great!”

“You look wonderful!”

“I know it’s tough, but you are handling it like a pro!”

“Pregnancy suits you!”

“Keep up the good work!”

And when all else fails, “Congrats!” works every time.

Weighing your options

Why yes, I am completely aware that I have packed on some pounds in the last 41 weeks, no need to remind me! Please avoid phrases like:

“You’re huge!”

“Are you sure you’re not having twins?”

“That baby is going to be so big!”

Let’s focus on the latter for a moment. While I know that the birthing experience doesn’t have to be frightful, the thought of pushing a large object out of my nether regions brings a slight bit of anxiety. It’s sometimes impossible for a doctor or midwife to accurately predict the size of a baby in utero, so perhaps your estimation is off, too. But putting that thought into a pregnant woman’s head can be very detrimental to her mental state.

Feel free to resort back to old faithful: “Congrats!”

The name game

After “how far along are you? the most common question I’m asked is “do you have a name picked out?” And yes, I do, but I’ve stopped telling people what it is.

See, it doesn’t matter to me if you had a boyfriend with that name that broke your heart, or you simply don’t like it. I don’t want to hear it. None of your name issues matter to me. It’s unnecessary negativity and the likelihood of me changing it to suit you is slim.

Again, when you hear it and don’t like it, say “Congrats!”

Touch and go

Never, ever, is it appropriate to touch a woman’s belly if she is a stranger. Ever. I can’t imagine anyone who would do that to a non-pregnant stranger, so think of it the same way. Even if you’re familiar with the person, it’s nice to ask. I honestly don’t mind folks rubbing the Buddah, but when strangers do it – it makes me feel creepy.

So don’t touch, instead, just say “Congrats!”

You shouldn’t

If you ever have the urge to begin a sentence directed toward pregnant women with these two words, stop. Instead say “Congrats!”

The unflattering birth story

A few months ago Jeremy and I were eating at a restaurant when our waitress decided to go into great detail about her horrific birth experience. To make matters worse, we were eating Indian food. We have yet to return to this place as the food was as bad at the service, but we still can’t figure out why she thought it was a good idea to scare to the shit out of me with her personal tale.

Everyone’s experience is different. Sure, my birth could be horrific or it could be the most beautiful and uplifting experience of my life. But it’s mine. Keep it light and keep those horror stories to yourself.

Instead, say “Congrats!”

Seriously, works every time.

Germany on my mind

It’s been a whirlwind three weeks in Savannah, a place Jeremy and I now consider home. And while we have been looking toward the future in anticipation of creating our new lives here in the South, today we glance in our rearview mirror and reflect on the past five years spent in Germany. Germany will forever be in on our minds, in our hearts and now memorialized on our blog in the form of a song, because, you know.

Watch the video below to hear the buddymollys latest tune “Sesame Street.” We love the people in our neighborhood …

Picture Sky rollin'

Last month Skydog turned 12. And although she's not the high-flying, Frisbee-catching, ankle biter she once was, she is living proof that having four functional legs is just a state of mind.

Watch the video here.

Conquering Cognac

After spending the last two years sampling Scotland’s finest spirits for our annual man-trip, this year we dusted off our berets and set out for the south of France.

Despite Rick Steves’ warning,* we chose Bordeaux as our base camp for exploring three different cognac distilleries (in one day) and the adorable St. Emilion, whose vineyards date back to the second century.

Before we arrived, most of us didn’t know anything about cognac, which, like champagne, is named for the region from which it comes. (The same spirit produced just outside this area is called brandy; champagne produced outside of the Champagne region is still called champagne.)

We discovered that although cognac and whisky are produced in a similar manner (distillation of an alcohol - wine and beer, respectively), the semblance stops there.

As opposed to whisky distilleries, which start with raw materials like malts (some even grow their own), most of the major cognac producers just buy the spirit directly from the farmers and simply age and blend them.

The disparity between the tours themselves was also evident: At the Lagavulin distillery on Isla, we learned about the process from Ewan, who had worked there for 40 years and got his start as a cooper, whereas most of the cognac tour guides were contractors not necessarily employed by the parent company.

The cognac guides definitely knew their stuff, but we still didn’t get an answer for JR’s infamous methanol question, although one did actually come close). And despite the differences, we came away with an appreciation for some booze that was definitely out of our price range.

When we weren’t sipping on the region’s sweet eau de vie (water of life), we passed the time by taking turns choosing tracks from our airbnb host’s extensive vinyl collection, which included everything from Eminem to Bob James (no relation to Rick), and watching Joseph and Jason perform burpies in their underwear to AC/DC – pretty much your standard weekend in the French countryside.

2012: Isla; 2013: Speyside; 2014: Cognac; Next up: the Bourbon Trail?

(*In a rant on the best and worst of Europe, Rick Steves said the following about Bordeaux: “Bordeaux must mean boredom in some ancient language. If I were offered a free trip to that town, I’d stay home and clean the fridge. Connoisseurs visit for the wine, and there’s a wine-tourist information bureau in Bordeaux, which, for a price, will bus you out of town into the more interesting wine country nearby.” Ouch. I think he might have changed his mind had he rolled with us.) 

Celebrating the best of both worlds

Last week I turned 38.

It’s one of those awkward ages where you either have to constantly remind yourself how old you are or do the math when people ask.

(In my experience, it makes you look even older when you have to pause to calculate in the air with your finger).

This year, I decided to combine some Bavarian traditions with some best practices I picked up in Hawaii.

Instead of being fawned over by your friends and family on your birthday, it’s German tradition to host the party yourself and provide everything, to include baking your own cake.

It’s like you’re giving folks a reason to celebrate you and I think it stops just short of actually buying them gifts.

In addition, some Germans actually avoid coming into work on their birthday so they don’t feel obligated to provide refreshments for their co-workers – now that’s commitment.

When we lived in Hawaii, my former boss, Aiko, who, for the record is the hardest working supervisor I’ve had the pleasure of working with, introduced me to the idea of taking “mental health” days.

The idea is to take a pre-emptive “sick” day to relax and get a break from work before you decide to bring in that AK-47.

Mental health days are particularly helpful when used midweek or on, say,  a Thursday, which my birthday just happened to fall this year.

So combining these ideas, I struck out for Bamberg, a sleepy little Franconian town I didn’t even realize was my favorite until I arrived that morning.

With nine breweries in the city center, which is also a UNESCO world heritage site, Bamberg has the medieval charm of Nuremberg with the elegance of Wuerzburg or Dresden.

Bamberg is also famous for its rauchbier, a smoky beer with an almost bacon-y aftertaste (I know).

My plan was simple: bop around Bamberg, provide quality control for its breweries, and catch up on some correspondence at each stop.

For the record, I caught up with at least 6 of you, but you won’t know who you are until next week.

My mental health day culminated with a fantastic sushi dinner with my frau. 

Then, this past weekend, Molly and I hosted a brunch (German style), where I got my brefuss bake on and she made some killer green onion and carrot French toast. We all gorged ourselves and took a leisurely Sunday walk through the woods – even Sky got in on the off-road action.

In all, it made for a weekend more memorable than my age, which I have already forgotten.

Singing in the rain

Molly staggered for a few steps, laughing, before eventually catching her footing. By the time I reached her, the same thing happened to me.

The wind, which was gusting at more than 100 miles per hour, was blowing us over.

Just 30 minutes into our three-day slog through the backcountry of Cairngorms National Park in the Scottish Highlands, we were beginning to think we had bitten off more than we could chew. It didn’t help that our trip coincided with Hurricane Bertha’s visit to the United Kingdom …

The rest of the first day didn’t get any better, but our spirits did.

As the rain continued to fall, we clambered over man-size boulders and scurried around swollen lakes, trying not to let the wind or our 40-pound rucksacks topple us.

The only benefit of the wind was that when the rain finally stopped, we were dry in no time.

After about seven hours, we stopped for the first night in a “bothy,” one of a handful of rudimentary concrete huts where travelers can grab a break from the elements.

A pair of hikers, a younger Lithuanian and a middle-age Czech man, both of whom worked in a casino in Aberdeen, joined us. The rains had washed away a bridge – the only crossing for one of the rivers – forcing them to double back.

At 9 p.m. the fading daylight still lit a third of the hut through the only window. We sat sipping tea, discussing U.S. foreign policy while our wet clothes hung on makeshift lines above us.

When we awoke the next day, the winds had died down, but the rain persisted.

“It’s a bit midgy out here,” said Tim, our guide, as he stepped out of the bothy. The midges – these swarming, biting gnats – were out in force today after taking yesterday off.

Tim was a former IT specialist for almost three decades who started his own hiking business in the last five years. Though he’d been hiking near Cairngorms for more than 20 years, he said he’d never seen the rivers so high.

The area had received so much water that the hiking paths were now mini streams and the streams were rushing rivers. So even when it wasn’t raining our feet were usually submerged in 60 degree water.

Throughout the wet trek we learned that rocks and clumps of grass are your friends, as they both indicate somewhat solid ground.

We wound our way up the valley and made several river crossings where I was sure someone was going to end up in the drink. Perhaps we were too scared to fall. 

The next morning we packed up and resigned ourselves again to the futility of fresh, dry socks. We hiked up the backside of Ben McDui, the UK’s second tallest peak, crossing our fingers that the winds would die down.

An hour later, Tim huddled us up and yelled over the wind, “I don’t think this plan is going to work!” We were already on Plan D, so we skipped to Plan E and kept moving. 

The alternate route added several hours of boggy trekking but ended up being the most scenic of the trip. The last hour we skipped down blocky, rocky stairs, our packs feeling lighter with every step.

Later that night as we unpacked at the hostel, I took out my sunglasses and smiled. They never had a chance.

In addition to the hike, we caught up with old friends: two who were boondoggling at a science conference, another who was balancing adorable twins in Dublin, and a handful of ladies we met four years ago on a yoga retreat in Turkey. The people are still the best part about the UK.

Looking back on our hike from the relative calm of Glasgow, I realized why Scottish people are so friendly and upbeat despite enduring the worst weather in Europe: After you accept your wet, windy fate – it really can only get better after that.