When my best friend Elissa and I were in our junior year of Our Lady of Victory Academy (the high school we attended) our very over protective parents (more precisely our overprotective mothers) gave us an early graduation gift. They allowed us to go with the sisters of Mercy for a 2 week European school trip. Our mothers assumed that because we were with the nuns, we would be safe. They assumed that the nuns would be in loco parentis—except even better—they were Catholic nuns after all. The assumption was that they would be strict with the rules. Even my Grandmother Manello was okay with me going—and my grandmother Manello feared the Boogie man.
And off we went. But something became crystal clear to both Elissa and I once we arrived at our first destination—no one was watching the store. The nuns were on vacation. There were no rules. There was absolutely no custodial care. They could care less where we went at night or who we socialized with just as long as we showed up on time for breakfast. There was no concern for our virtue. Two busloads of 16 year old charged up Catholic school girls were being let loose o n a foreign continent—and apart from scheduled bus rides and tours, we were on our own. We were free to do whatever we wanted. And not only were Sister Dillane and company not imposing any rules, neither were the European police—there were no drinking laws. And since the Irish nuns were exceptionally fond of hanging out in bars and drinking German beer, we embraced the custom as well. We rationalized that since the food was so awful our daily sustenance should be derived from the carbs provided in the beer. So we went on a two week high carb diet.
And for 2 full weeks we enjoyed european discos and bars, freely purchasing alcohol, and no curfew. And Sister Dillane and company didn’t just look the other way, they encouraged us to have as much fun as possible. Our mothers would not have approved. And on our last night when the busload of Irish soccer boys pulled into our hotel, Sister Dillane called all our collective rooms for us to come down to the lobby and socialize.
I saw an Irish ginger boy. And we began to talk--I told him I was from New York. And what I understood through his thick brogue to say was I hear there are a lot of dogs in Manhattan. And even though I thought it was a strange comment I went with it. Maybe he was some kind of animal activist. So I said yes—it’s very sad. When the population gets too high—the city exterminates them. And he was horrified. He said how do they do that? And I said usually they are gassed. And he was even more horrified. He said you gas them ? and I said well it’s humane really—they can’t take care of themselves if they are living on the street. And finally he said He said you gas drug addicts? And I said huh? And I realized there was a whole lot of miscommunication going on--he did not say lots of dogs—he said lots of drugs. To which he added do you want to go upstairs to my room and look at my sports equipment? And I said no---there was no miscommunication in that statement. I was done. I had enough of world languages and local customs. It was time to go home.
Elissa and I were never so happy as when our plane hit the runway at Kennedy. The high carb diet and lack of rules had caught up with us. We were homesick. We wanted someone to care about us again. We wanted our mothers. So we didn’t even mind when those two crazy women tried to storm the doors of customs to see us and nearly got arrested. We were happy to see them. We knew they cared.
And although even at 81 years old, my mother is still way too overprotective (as is Elissa’s), I remember what it was like not to have a mother for those 2 long weeks. Freedom had its price. Because no matter how much you complain about how annoying your mother is, it beats not being loved or cared for by one. No one wants to be an orphan. No matter how old you are. I try to remember that when she still asks me what time are you coming home? Or who are you going out with? Because I will miss when she is no longer there to ask me.
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