Berlin & now in the midst of a scorcher

I’m in West Virginia right now, and today hit 104 degrees. Yesterday wasn’t far from that, and tomorrow promises to be warmer. As y’all know, I grew up in the Deep South, so you might think I’d be used to this, but this here is fire hot. I spent a good bit of the past two days scraping and sanding our deck despite it all, but this isn’t good or normal heat. My heart hurts for the goats and cats and all the other beings that make this place home. I have vats of water everywhere and am hoping for the best.

Last week I was in Berlin, and most days it was well above the average temp for June. Regardless, I really enjoyed my week in a place brand new to me. Oliver is attending in innovation program there so I flew him over on June 9 so that he could rest up before move in on the 12th and so that we could do a tour of the BMW motorcycle factory. That was absolutely fascinating. Think of every stereotype you have of incredible German engineering and precision, and you will see it all come to life in the factory. The warehouse part was a kinetic ordered chaos of millions of parts, robots, autonomous units, and highly trained people. That all feeds in seamlessly to the dynamic production lines which produce every BMW bike you see on the road anywhere in the world today. Many of the robots have such charming humanistic features; it was sort like encountering Star Wars droids in real life.

Berlin is not particularly pretty (I’m sure part of the reason is that 80-85% of its buildings were destroyed during WWII), though it has some very pretty elements, and it is huge, so I’d never recommend going there for a quick weekend unless you were revisiting. I was glad to have six full days and grateful for the extensive, easy, affordable, safe public transportation. My sister joined me for the weekend and we did two fantastic tours—one a Third Reich walking tour and the other a bike tour of “alternative” Berlin. Combined with excellent restaurant recommendations from our Airbnb host, I left feeling like I had a good sense of it as a vibrant, accepting, progressive city with a hell of a lot of history and a relatively new and burgeoning identity, knit together in admirably functional ways. Nowhere is remotely perfect, and unfortunately the right wing is attempting a comeback in Germany, but it was such a relief to be in a place that unapologetically values things like the environment, public transportation, and acceptance of all manner of identities while also celebrating music, the arts, and innovation. The environment and public transportation aren’t woke; they’re responsible and practical. It’s not normal for Berlin to have been in the mid-90s or WV to be near 105 right now nor is it reasonable to have to have a car to get literally anywhere.

Everywhere I met people from all over the world: Australia, Denmark, Georgia (the country), Turkey, the Netherlands. Every single one of them is appalled by trump and America; none are coming to visit anytime soon. The Australian couple had just canceled their two next trips to the U.S.- they have traveled in America more than many Americans have, they have made friends here, and they don’t feel at all safe coming. It’s just heartbreaking and totally understandable. The Dutch men clapped me on the shoulder and wished me luck ever getting rid of trump. The Danes were horrified and perplexed. “I didn’t vote for him,” I said over and over.

While standing atop Hitler’s Berlin bunker (now, delightfully, a shitty parking lot over the bunker which has been filled with cement), our Third Reich tour guide, a Frisian, told us about his grandfather who was a high ranking SS leader who committed suicide the day after Hitler did. His family has done its best to make peace with that history, most by moving out of Germany and to the U.S. Our tour guide’s father is the only one of the kids to have remained in Germany though he settled quietly and far away in Frisia. I wondered how his U.S.-based relatives feel right now. I didn’t have the heart to ask. I did feel openly thankful that many Germans have wrestled honestly with their past and have made very intentional societal pivots since. How mature! Our bike tour guide, when I said that Berliners seemed very relaxed and laissez-faire about stuff like thumping 24-7 nightclubs near parks, drugs/drinking, and all manner of sexual and gender identity, said “yes, you don’t get in my business, I won’t get in yours.” That attitude plus a largely functional state makes for a good quality of life. I felt, in Berlin, despite the vast diversity of everything, much more of a social contract than I almost ever do in the States. It can be done!

Today, during one of my cooling sessions inside, I peeked at my phone to find messages from friends:

This is shocking. It means ICE can send someone to a country not their own with no notice and no due process/no chance for the person to explain they might be killed if they are sent there. https://www.politico.com/news/2025/06/23/supreme-court-third-party-country-deporations-00419210

Wow. We are so fucked. (News.)

Everyone I know is near-tears and/or enraged pretty much all the time, myself included. I’m still reeling from the political assassinations in MN and am pretty freaked out by the daily onslaught of anti-liberty rules and regulations being handed down by anti-democratic jerks. Two days ago, I woke up to a text from Oliver (still in Berlin): “did you see that trump bombed Iran?” Everything feels upside down.

My sister and I did the Third Reich walking tour on the day of trump’s obscene military parade here, and I will tell you that we both felt we were reliving a terrifying, odious playbook.

Exciting news is that Tom and the kids are officially Italian citizens (as of last November), AND I recently found out that I passed my language exam for spousal citizenship. This exam was a four-hour monstrosity whose reading section was rather like the SAT but in Italian and also included lengthy written and listening sections plus a live oral assessment. I don’t think I’d studied that hard since grad school, but the six months and hundreds (thousands?) of hours paid off, and we will soon submit my enormous parcel of background checks (from state of birth on) and official documents, all translated and apostilled in the hopes that I, too, will become the Italian I am (my grandfather was Sicilian). Sono così orgogliosa!

Holding the line at 49

I am 49 today and before you say, “Wow, that’s almost 50!” I do want you to know that I am well aware of that fact. Time. It marches on.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I am in West Virginia for my annual birthday plantathon. It has been a spectacularly gorgeous day, and before you say, “Wait, it’s a Wednesday and you still have a child at home: are you there alone?” I want you to know that yes, yes I am here alone. And it’s delightful. Time. Sometimes you don’t get enough of it by yourself, to spend in the way you want, and because it marches on, well…take it when you can. Happy birthday to me!

I’m in our dining room which is also a sunroom, and I’m surrounded by healthy plants (both inside and out) and birds are chirping and enjoying my window feeder and the wind is blowing and my back is aching like a 49-year-old’s back even though I work out twice a week with my trainer Felipe who kicks my ass via Zoom from Argentina all the while telling me I’m “doing amazing.” Do you know I totally believe him even though I’m not sure I am doing amazing? I don’t care. I’m trying. And his dog, Truman, is the cutest. As is Felipe really. And being that young seems ages ago and also yesterday. And that both/and keeps tripping me up. Time. It marches on and lets you know about it. My friend Karen and I are forever sharing stories about living for forced interruptions during our Felipe sessions because my god, we’ve both had two kids and our core strength is never again gonna come anywhere close to what it ever may have been or what Felipe’s is. Probably Truman’s too.

This morning, I made blueberry scones and lemon curd (from a jar) and coffee, and while eating breakfast, a crimson cardinal landed on the fence outside, and I know it was my Nanny coming to say Happy Birthday, Em. I miss her all the time and she’s been gone more than a decade.

Today I mucked the barn, feathered out new straw all over it which of course the goats insisted on eating as I spread, and weeded and mulched and planted and talked to all of the worms and other little beings I encountered, and thought a lot about how fucking excruciating this past year(s) has been and all that it’s forced me to learn and stand up for. I thought how Nanny would get that. How my mom gets that. How stupidly hard life often is and how you will be forced to learn lessons that you’d really rather not. You can’t beat ‘em but you can join ‘em, and I guess that’s the meta lesson.

Y’all, some tufted titmice are fighting in the window feeder. They are so cute.

Anyway, hard is hard, but lessons can be good, and as time marches on, I would rather learn and pivot if it means this one life we get will be happier or more fulfilling or, maybe, just simpler? Less hard? I’m not even sure how to articulate it. It’s not binary, really. But you probably understand. Some things I’ve (re)learned this year:

Profound grief can be felt when someone is not gone but is gone from you. Such absence can feel like your heart left your body and started walking away from you, maybe punching you in the solar plexus on the way out. Grief remains a dicey social topic, not least depending on who took your heart and left and how and what was or was not explained (Tom and I are fine; this isn’t that).

Not unrelatedly, female friendships are the linchpins of life. Some women are shit (Pam Bondi, Usha Vance, Marine Le Pen, etc) but any (good) woman will tell you that she’d be up the creek with zero hope without her female friends. They are the ears, defibrillators, water, comrades, “tell me, girl,” spare tires, laugh tracks, diaries, emergency everything, honest, photo taking, wise, antibiotic, disgusting in the best way, care package sending, late night call picker uppers of life. Without my girls, I think I’d just have quit by now. I would like to add that I have two male friends that I consider girlfriends and that is the biggest compliment and thank you SA and MB.

Some-a minuscule percentage-of men seem to be getting this, but it’s not nearly enough, and I truly feel sorry for them. They are missing out on SO much. And I say that as a woman who birthed two boys and has spent years trying to underscore the value of emotion and sharing it. To their credit, they do feel and share it. To my fatigue, they only feel and share it with me. Do better society. Back to girlfriends. **Please take a moment to listen to Sister Suffragette by Glynis Johns in Mary Poppins. My dear friend Jennifer recently reminded me of this treasure, and shit, it holds up. Not least because…well, if you don’t get the why there, you’re hopeless.

Always behave such that history will not consider you a disgraceful cunt of some sort. Do you see what I did there? If, in that sentence, you’re upset by the use of “cunt,” you are probably not behaving well. Do better. Especially every single trumper, maggat, and other meanie out there. To be fair, WHAT is the Venn of Bad in which one is not a trumper or maggat? Truly? What is left in “bad”? Like, if you abuse animals, I suspect you voted for trump. You appear to be fine deporting a Maryland resident and father to El Salvador with no cause, so you don’t seem to have standards that constellate around good.

Another thing I’ve learned is just how important it is to keep learning, so let me know if there is any answer to the above question about the Venn of Bad. I don’t know that there is, but I am open and eager. Beyond that Venn, I continue to love learning about plants, birds (“peak middle age, Mom!” -Oliver), needlework, Irish literature, some other literature. Irish politics, Ireland, my students, and my female friends. Less enthusiastically but perhaps most importantly is learning to hold my own lines.

Holding ones own lines, aka knowing, asserting, and holding your boundaries, is, to be honest, an absolute pain in the hole for non sociopaths and, probably, most men. Not saying men are sociopaths but they are a lot better at boundaries. Boundaries is probably the #1 or 2 source of angst, fret, therapy, etc for all but one women I know. That woman is a dear college friend, she is neither male nor a sociopath, she is just awesome and powerful. A rare breed in my experience. You go, TC!

I am NOT good with holding my lines, but damn if this past year hasn’t said, “Emily, hold these lines or throw in the towel of life.” And so I have tried. And continue to try. And you know what? It is absolutely worth it, even when it is terrifying, risky, the threat of the unknown looms, or someone gets mad. MY values, my integrity, my moral compass…those are all worth holding the line for.

Most of the birds have returned to their nests and the goats and cats have called it a day. I’m still waiting for the orange feral cat to come get his dinner that I left out on the deck. Poor lamb- he heard me open the door and is hiding, but I hope hunger overrides his fear and he emerges for a double Fancy Feast.

I thank every single dear one of my friends and family who remembered me today. Your notes and texts and calls meant and mean the world to me. Oh, last lesson: It is NEVER a bad time to thank someone or let them know you’re thinking of them. NEVER. Do it more. You’ll never regret telling someone that they mean something to you or have done something that you appreciate. It puts goodness out in the world to thank and take time. It softens edges, it is healing. The world needs tenderness now more than ever. Also boundaries. Jesus christ, can we have more Harvards and fewer Columbias, more Marc Eliases and fewer Skaddens!

Look for and add to the beauty, tend your and others’ hearts (not least because you never know what they might be going through), stand strong and don’t be a cunt, be good to nature and it will repay you more than you could ever wish, and if you’re grieving, find your women. Do it now. Time marches on.

Adieu 2024

Two posts this calendar year. What a shame. As the author, I can, of course, only blame myself. But it is, indeed, a shame to have so little to show here for this year.

It was a hard one—one of the hardest of my life. I imagine that stress has inspired my literary muteness, that and the fact of the kids getting older. Old enough that our lives are still intertwined but the ages that theirs are not my stories to tell nor even (most often) my side of them. This blog has accompanied me through so much of parenthood so far. I believe I first wrote, on Tumblr if anyone even remembers that platform, when Oliver was 18 months old. He will turn 16 in March which is hard to imagine in some respects and not remotely difficult to understand in others. He just got his learner’s permit, and we have begun to loosely discuss college visits and what he might want in that experience. Awareness of the great joy he brings Tom and me on a daily basis and how significantly we will miss him when he leaves the nest brings me to tears sometimes.

During this arduous year, I have tried to keep centered by broadening my creative endeavors, both in the garden and on fabric, by spending time with my fur babies, and enjoying time and travel with Tom and friends.

In February, to belatedly celebrate Tom’s birthday, he and I flew to London and drove to Wrexham, in northern Wales, to see Wrexham AFC play Notts County.

Have you heard of or watched Welcome to Wrexham? It’s a sports docuseries produced by Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney and about the historic-yet-floundering football (soccer) club they bought during the pandemic. We started watching during season 1 when the team was dithering in the national league which is the very bottom of the English Football League. I especially fell in love: the team and story are sort of like a real life Ted Lasso tale meets old mining town that needs an infusion of hope and resources. Wrexham AFC is the third-oldest professional football club in the world and their stadium, the Cae Ras or Race Course, is said to be the oldest still in use.

the English football league pyramid

The team was promoted to League 2 for the 2023-24 season, and we left on Valentine’s Day which is well into things. It was such a delightful adventure. We had beers at The Turf, a great pub that directly abuts the Cae Ras, saw so many stars of the show (athletes and town citizens) that we felt we’d come to know, I sheepishly but enthusiastically asked for selfies with many of the players, and we both got plenty of kit to wear. Notts County is a long-time Wrexham rival so I’d really hoped that game was the one we could attend. We’d had to get up in the middle of the night in January to try and beat all the other international fans in the online ticket grab but came away with two tickets and thrilled.

And, we won!! One of our favorite players, Steven Fletcher, a Scottish Viking god man, scored during the first half, and the win pushed Wrexham into the automatic promotion zone. Thrillingly, the lads are now playing in League 1 and are in 2nd/3rd place at the time of this writing (and playing Barnsley tomorrow to start the New Year.)

PHOTOS BELOW:
top row: Em at The Turf, owned by the wonderful Wayne Jones; Em with Steven Fletcher!
second row: Em & Tom in the Race Course on game day; Em outside of the Cae Ras in her crazy kit
third row: Wrexham mural, not far from the stadium; statue honoring Wrexham miners and steelworkers
fourth row: Em with James McLean (Derry man!) who is one of her faves; Arthur Okonkwo, goalie extraordinaire

The players are all SO nice and so thankful for the community’s support and love. They are always happy to sign autographs and take selfies and have a chat. Honestly, I just loved every bit of the vibe in Wrexham. In the Marks & Spencer in town, we spied some of the players—Steven Fletcher, George Evans, and, I believe, Will Boyle—but didn’t bother them as I’m sure they get it all the time.

We stayed at a darling Airbnb, and our hosts Jenny and Darren could not have been lovelier. They have a yard of chickens that I got to play with, and Jenny, not really a Wrexham fan but a watcher of the documentary, actually spotted Tom and me in an WtW episode months after the game and kindly let me know. Eagle eyes, I tell you!

Welcome to wrexham: notts again

Sometimes, when life feels the hardest and worst, it’s best to just fly to coop for a bit if you can. There is great privilege in being able to turn away from absolutely crap, and with gratitude for our ability to bolt, I’m so glad we did.

In July, as a belated 20th anniversary celebration, we again raced across the Pond, this time to Amsterdam and then London, for the Eras tour and then Wimbledon. But more on that adventure later.

For now, I send a hearty middle finger to large swaths of ‘24, and I wish all of you, all of us (but not Cheeto or his people), the very best for 2025.

Thanks for sticking with me, everyone! Buon Capodanno!