Denmark Copenhagen mission.
Leaving October 17, 2018.
Speaking Danish.
Finland Helsinki Mission.
Leaving October 17, 2018.
Speaking Finnish.
And Christ hath said: If ye will have faith in me ye shall have power to do whatsoever thing is expedient in me.
Moroni 7:33
Mikelle is going to the Gilbert Arizona mission and she enters the MTC the same day we do.
When we found out we were both going to Scandinavian countries on our missions (Finland and Denmark), we were super excited and also terrified. There a number of reasons for these mixed emotions: it’s freezing, the languages are hard, it’s freezing. Luckily our uncle David also went to Finland and is a gear junkie which was a huge help. Get ready for some pro tips.
The most important thing was to find a nice, down filled, long parka. Mine is the Fjallraven Snow Flake parka and goes down to mid thigh. It’s 750 down fill and you need 700-800 down fill to be really toasty in Finland and Denmark weather. Some extra perks (actually super necessary) are water resistance and taped seams. My parka also packs down super small and is very lightweight i.e. easily stuffable. It’s like gas, it fills to fit the container. You can buy your coat when you get to your assigned country but I felt more comfortable buying one when I was still in the US because I was able to search for one I liked plus I was able to get opinions from everyone. Amazon and Campsaver were amazing. Campsaver is a gear junkie haven! They have tons of great deals and lots of awesome brands including Fjallraven, Arc’teryx, Black Diamond, RAB, North Face, and Columbia. Even if you can’t find the size or color of the item you want, it’s a great starting place.
Be prepared to spend kind of a lot on mittens.
Some key factors:
I also bought heat reflective glove liners that will go underneath my mittens.
I’ve already waxed poetic about these boots but I could go on for pages. I wanted something with a good grip that was lined for sub-zero temperatures–That is a direct quote from the handbook that was given to me with my mission call.
I have a couple of really warm hats and scarves so I didn’t have to buy any but I feel like I am going to pick up some in Finland. Mainly because I live for hand-knitted scarves, hats, and socks. All of my hats and scarves are neutrals so they can go with tons of different outfits.
Possibly the best find from Amazon is these earbags*. One because they are so dang cute and two because I am terrified of my ears freezing.
*affectionately known as ear socks by Gwyneth and ear eggs by Liesel.
Probably the most important factor (at least according to our mom): SOCKS! (sock, sock, sock, sock, sooocks*). Just get in your car and drive to Costco. And then drive back home and order the rest from Amazon. Wool and silk are going to be your best friends.
(*Sung to the tune of “La Cucaracha.”)
The minute our mom found out where Liesel and I were going on our missions (Finland and Denmark), she started shopping for knee-length dresses and layers. A group chat with our grandma and our mom’s sister Tina was started, as Mom bought any and all long-sleeve dresses. This gray dress is actually Tina’s and the warmest article of clothing to ever grace my body. The plushness and fullness of the sleeves are very condusive to layers.
The search for these boots was long and exhaustive. Doc Martens doesn’t make them anymore so when we first started looking they were nonexistent. (Long winded way of saying they are l.i.m.i.t.e.d e.d.i.t.i.o.n). I guess someone found an underground warehouse with a stash because a month ago, pairs started popping up. I ordered a size 8, a size 10, and what I thought was a size 9 but turned out to be a UK size 9 so a US size 11. I kept the 10s because with multiple layers of socks, they fit perfectly.
Pro tip (from people who haven’t even left for their missions yet): Ere on the larger side when buying your shoes. You do not want to be like 90% of girls in the MTC who accessorize with band-aids and blisters. And also, you can never have too many types of socks.
Mom bought this fabulous jumper and then Liesel bought this striped button-down shirt which I promptly stole. Button downs and jumpers–two staples I have in abundance. I’m bringing two jumpers and three button-downs, including a gray flannel one. I have resigned myself to looking like a pioneer, milkmaid, and ye olde classic school girl.
Liesel also has quite a few jumpers and she can pretty much wear every shirt or sweater under or over each one.
This bee pin is a prized possession. I bought Liesel one for Christmas but she lost it and so this is round two. She also has a little metal sun pin and a leaf pin. I have a vintage pin from Thredup of a lady with a hat. We can’t wait to start sporting them with our missionary nametags!
One of the most important debates we had was over bags. Backpacks aren’t really allowed but because Liesel has back problems she is allowed to have a backpack. (Medical problems for the win!). Insert Fjallraven’s Kanken. It makes the outfit.
Speaking of staples, Liesel and I also have three skirts each. “Only?” you might gasp. But each skirt is super versatile and can be worn in both the dead of winter and the two weeks of summer we are gifted. Below are some of our simple shirt and skirt combos.
This flamenco dancer of a sweater was a Thredup find. Liesel is a fiend when it comes to secondhand shopping.
Our main stores were Thredup, Poshmark, TJ MAXX, with a little bit of H&M thrown in. Most of our dresses come from Koo De Ker and other Utah-based stores. The larger-than-normal demand for knee-length dresses in Provo and Orem comes in very handy when shopping for a mission.
Examples include:
Another pro tip: We tried to mix up the stores that we bought from. And the closets that we stole from. Take advantage of sisters, aunts, moms, and friends. Shop thrift stores (especially online ones) because then you can guarantee to make people mad when they ask you where your clothes are from.
MORE PRO TIPS!!!: Layer the h*ck out of your clothes. Everything should be able to go under and over everything else. I only had to buy one sweater (thank goodness!) because I already had three. Now my stash includes a black turtleneck, a white sweater, a light gray sweater, and the dark gray sweater pictured below. Neutrals baby!
Although a good portion of our clothes are thrift store finds, we decided to go the tried-and-tested route for shoes: Famous Footwear and Nordstrom Rack. Liesel bought so many shoes in so many sizes that her bank account emailed her, warning her about the suspicious activity.
Be prepared to see these clothes and only these clothes for the next eighteen months!
We interrupt your daily digital overload with snippets of our Outer Banks trip captured on a Miranda Hobbes green disposable camera. It was a frivolous and very-worth-it purchase.
1. Our rooftop storage was mostly filled with boxes of cheerios.
2. Golden freaking hour.
3. Butt.
4. The sunglasses Mom bought that battles have been fought over. Gwyneth won, clearly.
5. “Smile. It’s a disposable,” I warned everyone right before I took the plunge.
6. More photographic evidence of our Golden Hour Walks on the Beach.
7. Here you see a classic long distance shot blurred to perfection by the constant shaking of my hands that occurs whenever fine motor skills are involved, including pushing camera buttons.
8. Madeline taking a break from looking for shells with holes in them that she can add to her necklace right there on the beach. It’s the crustacean version of ready-made-fashion.
9. Madeline and Baby. And, I think, my (Liesel’s) foot. It has a hint of friendship bracelet on it, so that’s a solid guess.
10. Madeline and Baby 20 feet away from me.
11. The memories might fade but the tan lines sure won’t.
12. Wells surrounded by the remains of hundreds of toppled sandcastles.
13. Sistas.
14. Wells slid into the picture with his green muscles, ready to go.
15. A kidney-shaped pool.
16. A normal-shaped hot tub.
17. Thugs.
17. Thugs at a higher altitude. With more attitude.
18. (I’m so proud of the timing of this photo you don’t even know.) (Pose and scenery decisions made by Pace.)
19. No one in this picture is wearing pants.
20. The Wilbur and Orville Wright Museum.
21. Wells sporting his summer shoes and a summer cut. Wilbur Wright sporting the latest in aviator fashion: a newsboy cap and a look of sheer determination.
22. A classic duo–Mom and Baby. Also know as Mom and Squib, Mom and Wells, Mom and Squish-fats, Mom and Chugger Stinker Fats, and Mom and Baby Squish of Muffs
23. The fam bam.
Last week we pulled the kids out of school and went to the Outer Banks! It was glorious. It was the second time that we had gone to OBX as a family and it was just as good as we remembered! Last time Madeline almost died (swept away by a wave that knocked two grown men off their feet). Clearly she survived (both the wave and the constant teasing, “Remember when you almost died at Outer Banks and Dad lost his hat?” “Dad loses his hat every beach trip.” “But remember when you almost died?”), and we came back with the same number of people and hats this time.
We swam, we boogie boarded, we listened to Niall Horan. Niall is the best easy-listening music ever. The ideal spot was reading in the hammock we set up underneath the balcony stairs and blasting Niall. Blasting. You could hear it from three floors up.
“Wow, you have a lot of friendship bracelets.”
“I didn’t know people still made those good for you. How old are you?”
“Liesel, do you think you have enough anklets?”
Honestly, no, and I’m surprised that they knew the word ‘anklet’ and used it correctly in a sentence.
Wells loved surfing (boogie boarding) and being in the water. He went out with Dad and they caught so many waves. “That one was in the face!” Loud raucous laughter. We had to teach him how to close his eyes and his mouth and it was all uphill from there.
Wells had a surprising knack for building sandcastles. And then promptly knocking them down. Repeat ad nauseam.
Mom and the kids.
Dad and the kids.
Wear your heart on your sleeve and your dream on your hat.
Wells saw that we were taking this picture and immediately jumped in. Greatest moment of my life, as he ran, flapping his arms, “Wait for me! Wait for me!” to skid to a stop at the end of this line.
My hair truly appreciated it’s daily dunking in saltwater with a chlorine conditioner.
The waves were awesome! They were just big enough that we could pretend we knew how to boogie board but not big enough that you thought you were going to die. At least most of the time.
The last day we got pounded. “I didn’t catch that wave, so much as it caught me.” Sometimes it wasn’t even worth it to catch them because you knew you were going to have to struggle back out, “10 steps forward, 8 steps back” with every wave. Mom was really good at catching waves; me and Liesel, not so much.
The best was when all six of us caught a wave and you would look over and see five bobbing heads holding tightly onto boogie boards that we always on the verge of breaking.
The worst was when everyone but you caught a wave, but they thought that everyone had. And you were just left in their bubbles or, worse, furiously kicking but going nowhere and looking foolish.
The hot tub was such a blessing. On Wednesday, I spent two hours in the pool reading and then two more hours in the hot tub with Wells. My feet were so pruny.
Photographic evidence of Golden Hour Walks on the Beach below.
Bless these Tevas and all that they do for us.
Heel-clicking the h*ck out of there before the hurricane hit.
Sunday we went to the Wilbur and Orville Wright Museum, known to Wells as the “Wilbur and Orbul Wright Museum.” He looked forward to it all week and it did not disappoint.
Waving hi to Wilbur.
Waving bye to Wilbur.
The title of this blogpost underwent many changes including, “I’m Embarrassed to Admit How Much the ‘Best Two Years’ Influenced Me.” (Really though, besides being cinematic perfection, I am 100% sure that film is an accurate representation of missions. 100%.)
Background information: Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints can choose to serve missions when they are 18 (boys) or 19 (girls). Missionaries focus on teaching people about Jesus Christ and serving the areas they are called to. (If you want to know more, visit the church’s website, LDS.org.)
Past Liesel thought that spending 18 months away from home was a big no. (“It’s a no from me.”) In ye olden times (6 years ago) the mission age was older. Girls had to wait until they were 21 to go on missions. Past Liesel thought that 21-year-old Liesel would be married (ha.) and almost done with college. I laugh at Past Liesel’s lofty goals.
Then the mission age lowered. How the tables have turned. Thinking about serving a mission stressed me out, so I didn’t. I put it into a box and kicked it to the curb. (Secretly, I knew that if I sat down and thought it out prayed, the answer would probably be, in Wells’ words, “Just stupid, freaking go.” Watch your language.)
Unbeknownst to me, other decisions joined The Mish in the box. Including, but not limited to, being able to picture life past freshman year at BYU. I literally could not pick a major. “You’re not really a science person,” Gwyn commented, “or a math person.”
“I’m barely a person, let’s accept it, and move on.”
Once I let going on a mission slip past my mental block; it. was. all. I. thought. about. For two weeks I was convinced that I was going to serve in Russia (ha. Denmark, baby!). The stupor of thought that surrounded my major choice evaporated and now I had more ideas than I knew what to do with. That’s what minors are for.
Things that helped me decide:
1. Everybody else was going. If everybody jumped off a bridge, would you? Absolutely.
2. Working at the Missionary Training Center (MTC). I don’t know what my thought process was when I applied to wash dishes at the MTC, but I’m sure it was along the lines of, “I can totally do this! I, a person opposed to serving a mission, can work at a place where I am surrounded by missionaries and not be influenced by peer pressure, despite the hundreds of other situations where I have been 100% influenced by peer pressure.”
3. My Book of Mormon class. My teacher breezed stormed through the book with a familiarity that made me queasy for the final. His frequent use of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips and tear-jerking stories (the man cried at least twice a class) were treasured breaks from taking notes that I never used, on a Google doc that I never opened.
4. My Mission Prep class. (That’s what I get for going to a religious college.) I remember the exact moment that going on a mission became a concrete thought. I was in an interior design class (how nifty, Liesel) and turned around in my tiny, table-attached-to-chair desk talking to one of my best friends.
“What classes are you taking next semester?”
“I’m thinking about taking Mission Prep.” A classic bomb drop synonymous with I’m Thinking About Going on a Mission.
My eyes widened. “Maybe I should take a mission prep class,” I said, shrugging. Suddenly, goosebumps. (Y’know how in movies the shy, introverted, pretty in a “I’m not a runaway model, but I look like a normal teenager and am prone to flopping dramatically on my bed” way girl gets the classic hot guy and tingles shoot up your spine and you shiver?* Yeah, that happened.) (Goosebumps have paved the way for all of my major, life-changing decisions.)
(*Direct reference to “Set It Up,” “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before,” and “Sierra Burgess is a Loser.”)
5. The Book of Mormon. The Book of Mormon testifies of Jesus Christ and His teachings. (It is a sweet, sweet book and to find out more, and to read it for yourself, click here.) One scripture my Book of Mormon teacher read to us promised that “perfect love casteth out all fear” (Moroni 8:17). It was in reference to missionary work. One missionary said, “I speak with boldness, having authority from God; and I fear not what man can do; for perfect love casteth out all fear.” I know that all of my worries about speaking a different language, talking to people, and riding a bike in the snow and a skirt will disappear as I love the people I serve, the gospel, and myself.
I love the church and the truth that the gospel proclaims. I am so excited (and nervous) to share what I know and love to the people of Denmark. I am so grateful that God gave me five* whole reasons to make serving a mission a big, fat, freaking yes. Watch your language.
(*Does not include the aforementioned “The Best Two Years.”)
#lovesummerhateeverythingelse: a series.
This summer, Liesel and I spent all of our days lifeguarding. All of them.
One day, on an exceedingly rainy day, in a long string of rainy days, Madeline and I took on the personas of youtubers and decided to do a “What’s in My bag?” lifeguarding edition.
Sidenote: Our lifeguarding bags are equivalent to black holes. Stuff gets lost in the bottom and then appears the next week covered in crumbs and sunscreen. #truestory.
On this particular day, Madeline pulled out Cheerios and a water bottle of soy milk from the Black Hole. And we feasted. And then continued to empty out and document the contents of the Black Hole.
#lovesummerhateeverythingelse.
This photo is just one of many in our photo album titled: “I swear I’m wearing pants”. Our lifeguarding shorts propel Wells into laughter every time we pull them on and they disappear under our shirts. “I like your scratchy, scratchy pool shorts,” he commented, running his hands over the fabric.
Another time, as he was walking beside me he said, “I like your pants.”
“Thanks buddy, I’m not wearing any.” It’s an honest mistake to make.
The Black Hole in a schlump, weary from it’s trek to the pool.
All the essentials needed to Lifeguard (proper noun, because, as we remind our staff, “We are Professionals”): whistle, sunglasses (I have two pairs), goggles, and keys. These are all kept mostly crumb-free because they’re stored in the outside pocket of the Black Hole. A Planet, if you will.
After the Planet is emptied, the drawstring is loosened and the wearer sticks their arm in up to their elbow and flails around, all while maintaining eye contact with everybody else at the guard table. The claw emerges with the top layer of the Black Hole: Food.
Sustenance: Often in the form of grapes, nectarines, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (Liesel), copious amounts of popcorn. And of course, bagels.
Rations. Only to be used in desperate times.
So much bugspray.
An Itch Eraser to relieve the pain from the bugs that avenged their bug sprayed comrades.
Also lotion.
Dolla dolla bills. Madeline did swim lessons all summer plus lifeguarding so she raked in the cash. These dolla dolla bills paid for pizza and breadsticks multiple times.
Sunscreen and a fork.
My first and last green drink.
My water bottle that hangs off my bike handles and bashes me in the knees when I bike. Liesel’s gone through two water bottles because she accidentally kicked the first one off the lifeguard stand. Mine has held up for two years and keeps my water cold for four hours. It has also, on occasion, transported otter pops from our house to the mini fridge in the guard office.
Five pools at our company won “Pool of the Week.” We were one of them. “Sponsored by otter pops and sweat.”
Otter pops. Neon liquid crack in a plastic sleeve.
Dear BYU On-Campus Housing,
(Specifically Heritage).
You were great, like John-Krasinksi-in-everything-he’s-been-in great.
Pro tip: Live six minutes away from campus so you can wake up at 7:52am and make it to an 8 o’clock class on time.
Dressed.
We shared The Dorm with four other girls who we made twin sandwiches with, real sandwiches with, and, at the end of the second semester, starved with in a mutual hungry companionship.
When empty, The Dorm looked like a sterile hospital room. This was mentioned to various roommates by various non-roommates. It was fixed by a quick trip to the DI and a print shop. Over time (i.e. two days after the Sterile Hospital Comment), it was cozy with dorm room classics like BYU Folk Dancing vinyl records and golf ball string lights.
Previously, while searching for a compliment, people would desperately land on, “It’s so clean,” as a last resort. After our HGTV makeover, they moved to, “You have so many roommate pictures.” The Dorm barely escaped being adorned with One Direction posters and instead, bravely bore numerous photos of a plaid and denim-clad family.
The Dorm endured a lot of music. The last three weeks of the second semester, it was 24/7 One Direction. Other times, you could walk down our one hallway and The Greatest Showman would be blaring from underneath the crack in the doors of the first bathroom, middle bedroom, and second bathroom.
We all religiously listened to music in the shower. “I’ve only listened to this song in the shower, and I had no idea those were the words or that they were bad,” was a frequent comment, because no matter how loud the music was, it was never loud enough.
The Dorm was the generous host of peanut butter toast parties and adventure planning meetings. Sometimes the two coincided like the Zions Camping trip turned peanut-butter toast party. The craving set in just after midnight. Our two-slot toaster has never been in higher demand.
Our planning would have halted, but we had to toast in shifts. Liesel– peanut butter and banana toast. Gwyneth–the same. Regan–the same. Kate–peanut butter and honey. Liesel–seconds.
The Beloved Barstools that these parties gravitated around, cemented friendships. We spent hours on them. We made frosting and decorated sugar cookies for all important holidays in a desperate excuse for treats. Thank goodness for good roommates who pounded on doors to warn you the oven timer was ringing. It was weak and could barely make it to the living room much less through the One Direction into our room.
The Beloved Barstools masqueraded as our TV stand in addition to a cement mixer for friendships. While a laptop masqueraded as our TV during the second semester. We placed the Beloved Barstool two feet away from the couch and fought for who got the privilege to rest their feet on the rungs. Subtitles were always present because the laptop speakers were inadequate despite the two feet. We converted (again) to Survivor and complained and strategized our way through the 36th season.
The Dorm was not a kid friendly place during cleaning checks. Because the smell of Costco-sized-bulk Clorox wipes permeating the air, damaging lungs. Pro-tip: Those will be the only cleaning supplies you need. They will take the place of mops, paper towels, and toilet cleaner. While you’re buying those, buy toilet paper because that runs out.
At the time, taking finals seemed easier than our last cleaning check. But we thank The Dorm, for the long peaceful times in between the cleaning checks, when it looked cleaner than it was. Our couch and speckled gray flooring were excellent stain-hiders. It was an unspoken rule (and spoken to visitors) that shoes were demanded in the kitchen.
We will remember fondly the wars that were fought with the dishes and the battlefield that was the thermostat.
We miss our humble abode and all the girls that willingly wore Tevas during a snowstorm for the sake of our family pictures.
Love,
Liesel and Gwyneth
Our trip to New York started with a simple phone call. Dad and I were discussing the specifics of getting flights back to Virginia. I imagine he was sitting at the computer desk in the kitchen, and the noise coming through the speaker-phone confirmed that. “Well there’s a layover in New York City,” he said with disinterest. Mom’s voice floated through the air, “Oooh babe, we could…” “I’ll call you back!” Dad said as he abruptly hung up on me. Cut to a few hours later and me, Gwyn, and Mom were headed to a four-day weekend trip to New York City.
Me and Gwyn flew in from Utah and Mom drove in from Virginia. Mom sent us a picture of bubble wrap, “Guess what I’m popping to keep myself awake during my drive?” It took serious self control for her to save it from a previous package. When she finally got to the airport and picked us up (a feat in itself), the bubble wrap, displayed across the dash, looked a little deflated and profusely popped.
We braved New York traffic to get to Mom’s cousins’ apartment, scouring the city for famous people and parking garages. Once we dumped our stuff out, we whipped out the list that me and Mom had emailed back and forth. Gwyn, wisely, left the planning up to me. The only constraint Mom put on us was, “We have to look cute!”
*Cue Taylor Swift songs galore* “Welcome to New York!”
We headed out to the Met and the Museum of Modern Art. We got there via our own two feet because we needed a full twenty-four hours to gear up for the subway. (In hindsight, we probably could have used even more time).
We fast-walked through Central Park, oohed and aahed over the greenery, quickly took photos, and then fast-walked out of there. We were on a schedule, dangit!
We fast-walked our way to the Met and through the Met.
We had our system down for pictures. One picture with the nice camera of Liesel and Gwyneth (Thanks, Mom!) and one selfie with Mom’s iPhone (amendment: It was actually closer to two or three pictures, because I have a strange compulsion where I blatantly blink when fingers get near the camera button. The iPhone Selfies remain unseen–we were too busy to look at them because of the aforementioned fast-walking.)
(Gwyneth would never allow me to write “thicc” as a caption, and I so desperately want to.)
Ye olde Persian rug.
Our fine friend, Alexander Hamilton. This was the closest we got to seeing Hamilton.
What a stunner.
We spent a lot more time at the MOMA than at the Met–burgeoning modern art admirers that we are–and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
Gwyneth loved this picture–it’s the planning meeting for the MOMA. I love that a girl in a pink sweatsuit and Uggs was deemed worthy to judge Art.
I loved the hanging installations and the random plethora of photos that adorned the walls. “Not exactly Art,” some would say. Not I, I am liberal with my use of Art as a descriptor.
Mom’s favorite painting.
Mom’s favorite installation: A hallway lined with thousands of birth pictures hung by painter’s tape. Mom walked in, realized what it was, and gasped. “This is exactly what it’s like.” She thought it was beautiful. Give us ten-twenty years and me and Gwyn will understand her feelings.
Starry, Starry Night. Vincent Van Gogh, ya did good.
There was a really cool installation that mimicked an artist studio complete with orange peels. As a budding artist and known for saying, “Whoops, I left my orange in the shower,” Madeline would fit right in.
We stumbled across Times Square on our way back to our apartment (as you’ll find out, we stumbled upon a lot of sights during our stay, they were nice surprises and made us feel better when we got lost).
We tried for all of the lotteries. All three of us. For three days. If you want self-esteem don’t do this, because it was really disheartening to go to my email inbox and read “unfortunately” in the memo of fifteen emails. We get it, Broadway! We didn’t win. We had falafels for dinner as a consolation prize.
“Do you want red sauce or white sauce.”
“Is the red sauce spicy?” Mom asked nervously.
“Yes.”
“White sauce.”
Me and Gwyn got red sauce. Me and Gwyn made a mistake.
One bite into the falafel and pita bread and my mouth was numb. I looked at Gwyn through my watering eyes, identical watering eyes stared back. “I can’t feel ba bouth,” I groaned. The numb feeling lasted for a minute and then my mouth caught on fire.
Mom laughed at us over her falafel drizzled with white sauce.
On Saturday we went to the 9/11 Museum and Ellis Island. We decided that we would embark on the subway. We fueled up with smoothies from the health food place on the corner near our apartment. Peanut butter and spinach was the best option.
When we got to the subway station, the full weight of our undertaking hit us. “This is why I need another adult,” Mom said, forlornly looking at the map. Gwyn and I looked at each other.
After a brief detour, we made it to the 9/11 Museum. Unwilling to wait in line to buy tickets and then wait in line again to get in, Mom gave in and became a member. It was very worth it.
There was a lot of Philip Petit paraphernalia, dim lighting, and tissues. Catering to the masses.
Last spring break, we went to the Flight 93 Museum, and the 9/11 Museum was similar. It walked you through the events of the day, heart-wrenching phone calls, and thousands of personal artifacts.
The only pictures we took of the three of us were Mirror Selfies or the aforementioned iPhone Selfies. NYC is ripe with prime Mirror Selfie spots.
We ate outside the museum; sandwiches and wraps from the smoothie corner place. Mom was in love with the avocados on her wrap. They were the perfect fuel for the plethora of times that we got lost. We named our GPS Rufus. Because it rhymes with Doofus.
This advertisement spoke to me on a spiritual level.
The Freedom Tower. AKA the landmark we circled around when we were hopelessly lost.
After the 9/11 Museum, we bought tickets for the ferry ride to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Since Ellis Island is a National Park (who knew?), I got to use my National Park Access Pass. Baby Hand coming in clutch. (The ticket attendant looked very confused by our request, which is the point. “Confuse and abuse” is my Access Pass motto.)
To prepare for the ferry ride we all took Dramamine. Every ferry ride we go on is accompanied by Dramamine and a retelling of the disastrous whale watching ferry ride in Sri Lanka.
We decided not to stop at the Statue of Liberty and just admire her from afar. That did not stop us from jostling other ferry-riders out of the way to get an iconic photo.
Instead we waited on the ferry ride and basked in the sun and the wind. And freely shared all that we know about the Statue, darling Liberty, which was not a lot, and mostly focused around the question, “But why is she green?”
Then the ferry took us to Ellis Island. “Immigrants we get the job done!”
We saw lots of people with headphones and audio tours and Mom asked, “Should we get an audio tour?” We laughed and she quickly regained sanity. We are not guided tour people, audio tour people, ferry people etc. Leave us be. We’re barely museum people. But for barely being Museum People, we sure spent a long time there.
The view from the ferry, featuring our beloved landmark; the Freedom Tower.
Then we went off to search for food. We wandered into an H&M (typical us) and Mom bought a sweater and I bought the Perfect White T-Shirt. It was my only souvenir from New York and I’ve worn it three times. For dinner that night we had sorbet and a loaf of bread from Eataly. Typical sustenance. Gwyneth had banana chocolate chip, Mom had lemon, pear, and mango, and I had raspberry, lemon, and mango.
After dinner, I made everyone come with me to find the Man Repeller store. Along the way we stumbled across some NYC gems! Namely, the Shake Shack that is in Something Borrowed with John Krasinski. Being on a huge Office kick at the moment, we reverently touched a bench. We also bumped into a Flat Iron. “This was on our list of things to do!”
“Who’s list?” I asked, completely bewildered about why we were so excited about a hair accessory.
“Dad’s list.”
We also saw the Empire State Building. We’ve already been all the way up, so we just waved at it from afar. Being die hard White Collar fans, I’m ashamed that we forgot to pop into the Chrysler building. Next time.
In true fashion, we stumbled across the Man Repeller shoppe completely by accident. We went inside the tiny shoppe and quickly browsed. I was sorely tempted to buy a Man Repeller hat. I didn’t and I regret it. Wear your hearts on your sleeves and your dreams on your hat.
(Side note, I just googled the Man Repeller baseball cap and couldn’t find it. So, looks like I’m going back to New York pronto.)
We staggered back to the subway and, thankfully, made our way back to the apartment without any detours.
The next was Sunday so we went to Sacrament meeting! The church was in the New York temple which was pretty sweet. Going there only strengthened my fervor to move to New York. (This, and my dream to live in a tiny house and/or van (I’m not picky) are scoffed at by Gwyneth.)
After church we went to the High Line Park: a 1.45 garden walk built on the elevated railroad tracks. It is amazing! We sat down on benches and people watched. The sitting-down-on-benches and slowly meandering around were only because we wanted to take our time and not because our feet were slowly dying. Got it?
One of the great things about being back home is that we get to borrow from three other people (Mom, Madeline, and Gretchen). Me and Gwyn are very good at sharing, mostly because we shared a womb for awhile. “I was in that womb too!” Gretchen exclaims anytime I try to pull the Womb-mate card. I hasten to add, “But not at the same time, so it doesn’t count!”
My point is that I am wearing Mom’s jean jacket and Gwyneth is wearing Mom’s sweater. Moms, am I right. Also, Mom is not pleased with herself in the above photo and did not give permission to post it. We did not know we were in a funhouse mirror situation.
When we finally reached Chelsea Market, we were barely moving. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” my feet muttered as they shuffled along. My appendages take great joy in berating me anytime I make them do something slightly difficult. Like walk 11 miles in boots.
At Chelsea Market we found a vegan sushi place (suck it Postmark) and ordered the peanut and sesame wraps. The cashier was delighted to have real-life vegans in the house (not being a vegan himself, but well-versed in the vegan options around New York) and gave us recommendations for vegan pastry shops.
We also found a map place and Mom bought a black and white, minimalist print of the New York subway lines. Personally, I think the map mocks our complete ineptitude at getting around New York.
After Chelsea Market we went to the Brooklyn Bridge, which took some prayers to find. The Brooklyn Bridge is to tourists what dairy-free pastries are to vegans. (That analogy will become clear soon). The bridge was packed with fanny-pack-sporting, picture-taking tourists.
When we got to the middle of the bridge, we wanted to take a picture to commemorate the momentous occasion (and as proof that we walked it). We found the perfect spot to take the picture. At the moment though, it was occupied. The occupant in question was taking his sweet time. Mom waited a respectable amount of time before blurting out, “You have thirty seconds before we move in.”
“Ok, ok,” he reassured us. He then turned on music–his photographer transforming into a videographer–and whipped out a dance routine. We watched in abject horror. If we weren’t so determined to take a picture we would have done and abrupt about-face and walked out quite a bit faster than we walked in. Instead all we could was gape.
After quite a bit longer than the promised thirty seconds, he turned off the music, and me and Gwyn swooped in. We took the picture and then got the heck out of there.
After we stumbled off the Brooklyn Bridge, we found a place to sit down. (The difference between our second and third day in New York, is that we did a lot less stumbling upon tourist sights, and a lot more stumbling upon our own feet.) We desperately perched on a small curb.
“Cinnamon Snail?” I offered–one of the vegan pastry places that Non-Vegan Sushi Boy had suggested. “They have the best vegan donuts I’ve ever had,” he assured. Rufus promised us that it was only 0.6 miles away.
Cut to two hours later–me, Gwyn, and Mom are sitting on a slightly larger bench, laughing/crying tears of mirth. I had just led us perfectly and with great confidence to the wrong place. It’s like when Michael Scott drives his car into the lake, and it was only fitting that we ended up on a pier.
“I am going to cry,” I threatened, “That’s it we’re done.” The hysterical laughter was very therapeutic. We finally composed ourselves and got up from the bench and walked towards a subway station. (We hoped–at this point we were blindly trusting that the combined faith of the three of us would get us there.)
Once on the subway we sat down on the largest benches of the day and relaxed. The train stopped and I bolted upright, “The Cinnamon Snail is on this corner!” (This was an elusive Cinnamon Snail that hadn’t shown up in my previous google maps searches–“You’d better be sure,” Mom warned.) “Please, please, please,” I prayed as we got off the subway.
We walked out onto the street, no Cinnamon Snail. I cursed Non-Vegan Sushi Boy.
“Maybe it’s in Penn Station,” Mom offered. I thanked her attempts to humor me and we walked in. We ended up asking a customer service man if there was a Cinnamon Snail anywhere near. He clearly noticed the desperation in our faces and gave us incredibly accurate directions to the Cinnamon Snail that was an escalator ride away. I’m convinced he was an angel.
We ate our donuts in victorious silence. Rufus had also been silenced.
The donuts were gone too soon.
Were they worth the search? There’re probably a few conflicting answers to that question. But we definitely burned enough calories to earn them.
See ya New York and your calorie-burning, tourist-losing streets and subways. You will be missed and I will be back.
HEY LIESEL & GWYN 