Took three trips to Paris for me to finally get into Sainte-Chapelle (sant-shah-pel’), but worth the wait. This chapel is one of the most glorious places I’ve ever seen.
Sainte-Chapelle lies in the courtyard of the former royal palace on the Île de la Cité (Central Paris). Since I stayed in a center city hotel, I could easily walk. First I stopped outside Notre Dame to stare at the gargoyles. Just loved those medieval rain gutters!
Continue reading A Visit to Sainte-Chapelle in Paris
I’d been through this three times before, but needed to gather my inner strength to approach the process again. The act of matriculating a child into college calls for foresight and patience, and guarantees the addition of more than a few gray hairs. Guidance counselors usually push teens to get involved around the junior year of high school, perhaps earlier. Why, some parents even plan the choice before the child is born.
The road to enrollment follows a jagged course; one that bumps along, occasionally hitting potholes like SAT tests, college visitations and those dreaded application essays. (AutomotiveTraveler.com readers may recall my somewhat ill-fated spring break odyssey two years ago.) Once the admissions paperwork is submitted, relax and idle the engine while waiting for a green light. Will the checkered flag of acceptance unfold or the agony of rejection?
By the end of the senior year, the path narrows, a selection is made and deposits sent. Post graduation plans include road trips to orientation and shopping for what my daughter calls necessities: extra-long organic sheets, memory foam mattress topper, futon, flat screen TV, coffee maker, i-Pad, computer and books. Seems she slants towards conspicuously posh.
And so last Thursday, my husband, daughter Laura and I made final preparations. Our car(s) were jammed like the Beverly Hillbillies, albeit with higher priced items. Laura packed clothing for every imaginable occasion and essentials for the entire freshman class; and then, she crammed in a little more. Hubby Jay would drive our BMW along the 350 mile sojourn to Auburn University in Alabama and I would follow in Laura’s car.
About two hours into the trek, we entered Interstate-75. Suddenly, a warning light alerted Jay to low tire pressure. (Yes, the car was unusually weighted down.) He maneuvered onto the highway shoulder and I proceeded likewise. Whoa, one of the rear tires was a shamble, a near blow-out. Thank goodness, he avoided an accident.
Getting to the spare tire, hidden in the lower well, required the removal of all the suitcases, duffels, lamps and assorted items stashed within the trunk (think– a garage sale on the side of the road). No sooner had the bags been unloaded when it started to rain. Alas, the travel gods were not happy, opening the clouds with a torrential downpour; the type that stings worse than a failing grade. Jay quickly restashed the luggage and called BMW Assist.
A decision was made for Laura and I to proceed on while dear old Dad stayed behind to mount the spare, then purchase a replacement tire at the BMW dealer in Albany, Georgia. This plan safely brought us all to our destination by nightfall. Funny, but one of Laura’s classmates, who was also in transit, sent a text message saying her Mom was nabbed for speeding. As I mentioned, the fates were swirling that day.
Next morning dawned hot and humid with overcast skies. The heat index called for another 100 degree scorcher; after all, this was Alabama in August. We followed university directions and unloaded the immense pile of belongings at 11 am. Then I, and a number of other Moms, guarded the stacked assemblages as the cars were parked.
When Laura entered the dorm to check-in, we discovered a wrong key had been given out earlier in the morning. A student who was not supposed to move into the assigned four-girl suite had already done so. What?? And another suite mate had moved into the side where Laura and her roommate were to share the space.
Much confusion followed and move-in came to a stand still. Read – I sweltered in the sun waiting with the bags. Just when I thought I would expire, we got the go-ahead to haul her belongings to a lobby. We paced and waited for the resident director to sort out a solution. This was our chance to meet Laura’s roommate and her parents, who were the epitome of southern charm and easily rolled with the drama. Finally, at 2:00, we began to fill Laura’s new digs. She had chosen a lofted bed; one which Auburn hires installers to construct– of course, at added expense. Long gone are the days when my sons used concrete blocks to raise the beds in their dorms.
By now the atmosphere has transformed from high anxiety to family friendly; parents planned future tailgates and football weekends. Jay was in charge of piecing together modular storage units, a project reminiscent of Christmas Eve toy construction. The Moms made a run to Wal-Mart. By 6:30 pm, we’d all had it; dinner and drinks called.
On Sunday morning, Jay and I stopped by with foodstuffs and good luck wishes for a successful year. We found four girls a flutter, wearing dresses that would stir male hormones, yet they had donned them for the first day of sorority recruitment or rush. My, they looked beautiful (yes I’m biased), but the insecure girls worried about their shoe selection and make-up smudging in the heat. To be honest, my daughter almost forgot to give us with a good-bye hug. So much for poignant moments
Shortly thereafter we left for the six-hour journey home. The desired transition was not what you’d call stress-free or uneventful, but our daughter was officially a college coed with a school address. That meant we were empty nesters. For the first time in 36 years, I did not have a child living at home.
Stepping back to pre-parenting days afforded a sense of relief and freedom, but leaping forward left me with an empty laundry hamper and a permanent wrinkle in my aching heart.
The Catty Shack, Jacksonville, Florida
I wasn’t quite sure what to expect of a place named The Catty Shack. Visions of Bill Murray, moles and golf courses came to mind, but the spelling is ‘catty’ not ‘caddy’ shack. And its not about gossip. The Catty Shack is a rescue center for large cats like lions, tigers, leopards, cougars and panthers. And it’s right here in my hometown– Jacksonville, Florida.
The newspaper announced a public fundraiser: A chance to watch the felines feast for fifteen dollars. Game on.
I gathered a friend and her daughter and drove over to the north side of town, not far from the airport. Directions said to look for a mailbox with a statue of a lion. We certainly weren’t in Kansas, no wheat fields around, rather a residential neighborhood. Do they really house 40 big cats in a normal suburban setting? Oh my!
We entered though a security gate, then passed by a 15-foot-high stockade fence. Ahead, as far as my eyes could see, were enclosures with large animals. First up was a lovely lion whose mane reminded me of the Cowardly beast in the Wizard of Oz. Next to the lion was a scarecrow. No. A napping white Siberian tiger with the most gorgeous blue eyes and gigantic, supersized paws. His claws bespoke power; they were visceral weapons. Further along, three tigers frolicked in a swimming pool. Really now, there’s no place like home.
These sleek felines looked professionally groomed; their coats were shiny and their nails clean. I later learned they are given vitamins with each feeding, once daily, of 10 to 25 pounds of beef, chicken, or fish.
Biggest question — How did these magnificent critters end up here? Turns out a number of people obtain licenses to own large cats, but don’t maintain proper standards. The state also confiscates for illegal ownership or maltreatment. They are moved to Catty Shack and once a kitty arrives, it stays for the rest of its life. None are ever sold.
Curt LoGiudice, Executive Director/Curator or as I refer to him– Top Cat, has been running the sanctuary since its inception 25 years ago. He has a personal relationship with each animal, whom he refers to by name. Courageous Curt walks right into the enclosures with the feeding bowls. And, let me tell you, these carnivores (sometimes weighing 500 pounds) are ominous. When they go after their food, the fur flies. Couldn’t miss the loud, guttural growl of one tiger, as he bared his saber teeth, to another yet-to-be fed, cage mate.
On the night I visited, dinner was a huge bowl of chicken legs and wings. The sound of the cats crunching their food is akin to the noise branches make when a tree falls. Imagine amplifying the Frito Bandito’s bite into a chip by about a thousand. You’ll remember the snap.
I turned to my friend and said, ” Watching and hearing these cats devour their meal is one of the strangest things we’ve done in a long time.” And to this, my friend who parties at Mardi Gras, rode donkeys on Santorini, and dogsledded with me- agreed.
If you live in the area, just ‘wiz’ on down the road to The Catty Shack Ranch Wildlife Sanctuary for the up-close adventure of a Friday night feeding. You’ll support a worthwhile cause and as Tony the Tiger would say, “It’s grrrrrreat.”
Telephone 904 757-3603
