Summer by the numbers

Thirty-four days, 16 flights, 13,562 miles (21,816 km), 11 airports, 15 stamps in our four passports.

Two meetings, 92 degrees, 53 percent humidity, 4 monuments, .58 inches of rain in 25 minutes, four plates of mezze, one pizza. Sixty white-knuckled minutes to Dulles airport. Six hours and seven seats to spread out in to sleep.

Rowan House number 80, 62 degrees and overcast. Three fishermen in the Shannon, one swan, two coins for the dryer. Six back rashers, one white pudding, no eggs, but two glasses of orange juice and a mug of fair-trade (soy) cocoa. 087 377 2763 for ten Euro.

One silver Rolls Royce, one tiny church, 75 people, a 25-minute homily. Twelve siblings on the bride’s side, two for the groom. Two hours between ceremony and dinner, three rounds of Guinness. Four courses, one Euro each in the pool for how long the best man would speak; 30 Euros for the lucky winner at seven minutes.

One hour to Prestwick, three hours of windy roads, six pounds for supper from the chippy. 1865 semi-detached, four bedrooms, two baths, one still under construction. Five people piled in a car. A hundred feet of peat-built wall, one Victorian museum with 20 Roman altars, six NATO early warning radio masts, twenty rowing punts in a stunning lake, another two pints of Strongbow cider.

Three days apart (Two hour delay, twelve midnight arrival for him, two backpacks for the two of us). Countless meters of Hadrianic wall, one Roman fort, one priory, 70p for a bag of homemade butter toffee from the church shop. Five minutes to pick teeth clean.

Two flights, 50 minutes in Paris, two busses to the plane. Four busses, no jet ways, three airport fire departments, one ambulance with sirens blaring. One to greet us; Eight people in a three-bedroom house: two beds, one futon, one sofa, one air mattress.

Two brides, three hours at the hairdressers, twenty people in one room, one notary, ten minutes to marry. countless glasses of champagne, seven toasts, ten minutes of fireworks down in the valley. To bed at twelve.

Four hotel rooms, twelve rolls in a basket, nine at the breakfast table, already 25 degrees. Ten minutes into town, two trailers make a tiny market. Four aunts and one cousin, two swimsuits, two hours in the pool. Twelve tables in a single tent, two cases of champagne, one keg of Bier. Five floating candles in the pool, one thunderstorm, two speeches, dinner two hours late. One mosquito bite, one wasp sting, one swollen eye on one tired kidlet.

Nine o’clock breakfast, already 25 degrees Celsius. Two bottles remaining, nine glasses, ten minutes tops. Fifteen kisses goodbye, three cars depart, 40 minutes to the airport. Two popsicles and a candy bar from one aunt, zero wait for security. Three and a half hours in Paris, two terminals, three cafes, two baguettes, two oranginas, ten pains au chocolat, two cocoas, one chocolate fondant, six hands of Uno. Two non-EU passports, ten minutes to explain the itinerary. Two smiling faces and four warm arms to greet us.

Nine hours of sleep, three days of restful companionship. Third morning: seven alpacas grazing outside my window in the morning. Two cups of cocoa, a cool 18 degrees. Ten minutes pass, one more alpaca outside my window, freshly born, wet and cold in the dewy grass. Two hours pass before she nurses for the first time.

One pound coin for the luggage cart, two pounds for a sandwich and one for a chocolate croissant. Thirty-two pence remaining. One aircoach, forty minutes to Bewley’s, ten minutes to the B&B. Five minutes to freshen up, seven stops to St. Stephen’s Green. Three hours to watch the buskers, buy two sandwiches, watch seven swans in the rain, find a license plate for Little One’s imaginary car. Supper with five new-found friends, three cups of cocoa, two PIPs. One hour train and walk, three beds, three heads, three pillows.

One hour to breakfast, two hours to pack three bags, another air coach, two hours to Frankfurt. One luggage tag torn, fifteen-minute walk to the rental car. One dent, 20 minutes to walk back to report it and be able to leave. Twenty-five minutes to the hotel.

One floor, three rooms of family, one ironing board, two wrinkly suit jackets. Forty minutes to the park, fifteen people in a horse-drawn carriage, one sister lost (one GPS malfunction), bride 50 minutes late as well. Twenty minutes of ceremony, 150 guests and four stringed instruments running to the 17^th century barn to get out of the rain; 30 more minutes of ceremony. Two speeches, three toasts, seventeen chafing dishes, one more speech. Thirty balloons, one kilometer hike to the car, three tired people, but flight 491 from Seattle left on time.

Seven a.m. breakfast, flight 491 expected twenty minutes early. Three bags stuffed quickly into the car, 20 minutes to the airport, 45 minute wait for one tired Number One. Three and a half hour drive to the number two apartment at the farm in Oberzell.

Four windows, two window screens, 26 mosquito bites. Two trips over two days to the rental agency to pick up the car; not the right one. Third time’s the charm.

Three hours westward, 35 minutes with two godsons, one hour along the Rhine, ratatouille (not the movie) with four Alsatians. Five minutes to Cora, 25 bars of chocolat, three glasses of moutarde, 2 bags of sel marin (iode, fin), 2 jars of herbes de provence, and one tube of harissa. Three hours to picnic: two baguettes, three cheeses, four éclairs.

Four bells pealing at 11:30, processional of one happy couple, four children, four in-laws and four grandchildren. Three hymns, five prayers, fifty years blessed. Forty for champagne, twenty for cake and tea.

Three Meersburger wines, one secco, 200,000 liters in the cellar kept at a constant 16 degrees Celsius. Four-course dinner, Three speeches, two musical interludes from two grandchildren (one borrowed cello). Thousands gathered by the lake, twenty-five minutes of fireworks at eleven. Kisses, hugs, 40 minutes in the dark; a thousand and one stars overhead.

Breakfast for nine, dinner for 16 from a one-butt kitchen. Two go-carts, three ride-on tractors, four bicycles and one bee sting. Two aunts, one cousin, seven hours at an amusement park. One last meal, seven bags packed, one last rental car.

Four hours to Frankfurt, two beds for four people for ten hours. Three bags to check, ten hours, two meals, four movies, 20 minutes for the shuttle. One key, one cat, finally home.