Immigrant

Illegal Immigrant

I have been an illegal immigrant. If you are picturing me struggling across the Rio Grande or jumping on top of a train to cross from Mexico, you're wrong.

I also did not risk my life in an overcrowded boat.

I'm not hiding on the underside of a truck crossing the Channel.

I was not forced off my land by my northern neighbor dumping produce so I could no longer sell what I grew and I had to find an alternate way to feed my family.


My home was never bombed.
None of that matters.

Because of my appearance I was not likely to be harassed. In those pre-computer days, It was easy to walk through customs at Charles de Gaulle.

I am a highly educated, white privileged woman, but when I overstayed in France where I wanted to live I was illegal and always afraid I would be deported from my dream.

My job search was not productive. Because the companies needed to get working permission, few bothered to even look at me. I came close to an Assistant VP for a major multi-national but was beaten out by an internal candidate...fair. A direct mail company wanted to hire me, but my French was too poor to handle part of the job and I could not guarantee fluency fast enough.

It all came to nothing when my mother developed cancer and I returned to the states.

You might ask why I wanted to leave the States: even in the 80s: it was health care, education, infrastructure, vacation time, culture, violence although it is much, much worse now.

Legal Immigrant

When my mother died, I started sending CVs (resumes). With no internet, I flew to France for want ads. I mailed CVs to companies found in a directory. I used European addresses for members of two professional associations I belonged to. Over 800 went out within a few weeks. I was like a machine.

I became friends with the man at the post office as I dropped off my stack of job hopes daily.

Then a response to an ad that said: "Sales person, knowledge of Digital Equipment Corporation, French, German, English. We'll get working papers." It was in Switzerland, where I hadn't tried being told it was impossible.

My German was rusty, my French below basic,  That I disliked sales wasn't important. They said they would get working papers.

I answered.

Two months later I was at my desk in Peseux, Switzerland, a Permis A in hand until my Permis B could be processed. I was legal. It was probably the worse job I have ever had, but they held my permit. And it would be cruel to compare it to a laborer picking tomatoes in the blazing sun. The permit was not transferable to another company and it took almost three years before I found a company that would sponsor me (I should add with the help of my first boss--no one is all bad).

The company that hired me had to interview local candidates first. In my case, I had a unique combination of skills that would have been almost impossible to find along with the writing ability. I feel sorry for those that didn't get the job that they wasted their time. And if I took a job away from a national, I brought something to the company that they couldn't have found locally. I paid my taxes and spent my money locally. I participated and contributed to the Swiss society even although I had been born 3000 miles away.

At that time to get a Permis C, the equivalent of a full green card it took 10 years for an American, Africans and most Asians. However, it was reduced to five. 

Citizenship

On the 12th anniversary of my arrival to the day, I applied for citizenship. I took another three years, three months and five days to be processed. I had been rejected once, but was accepted on appeal.

I say the day I stood in the Hotel de Ville, raised my hand and took the oath was the third happiest of my life: (my daughter's birth and my marriage are the other two).

Immigrants, legal and illegal

My heart goes out to immigrants, legal and illegal. I did not suffer even a nano-fraction what a majority of them suffer because an accident of birth put me in a place where I could maximize my natural abilities. The color of my skin lets me meld in with the crowd as long as I don't open my mouth and they hear the accent. I have been able to marshal resources to risk changing countries, cultures and languages while always having a roof over my head and enough to eat. I am well aware that others are not so lucky. Yet, we immigrants are the same--we want a better life.

P3

P3 chic.

What is P3?

Pup PJ Parade.

Sherlock's first run in the morning often involves Rick (more often) or me stumbling out of bed putting on the closest socks and shoes and going for a walk.

The streets in our little French village are narrow. Two doors down is another 4 month puppy.

Our neighbors, Alain and Sylvie often are out walking with Muffin (pronounced Moofen) and Tintin and we can't forget the man with the two chihuahuas.

My normal careful color coordinated outfits give way to whatever is closest. As I call it -- P3 chic.

Off grid

The first time we went off grid, we didn't mean to.

We were staying in a bubble on the roof of a garage in the Austrian Alps in an Airbnb. Our hosts had invited us to share their dinner and we'd talked as the sun set.

Climbing into the beds in the bubble, we couldn't get the wifi to work. That was okay. Looking at the stars and the wind bending the trees above the bubble was a good substitute.

In fact we didn't get on wifi until we reached our hotel in Liechtenstein the next day. Nothing catastrophic had happened, although there was the usual bad news.

We sat on the terrace of our suite watching a robot lawn mower cut the grass and decided that not being on grid was pretty peaceful.

Rick had the idea to do it once a week. Except for the Catalan referendum, we have kept to it. Twenty-four hours of no Trump, no May, no Putin, no Facebook, no email. It can be a calendar day or 24 hours.

If our family of friends needs to reach us for an emergency, there's the old-fashioned land line.

Time flies

 It's Friday. Ten minutes ago, or so it seemed, it was Monday.

The days pass at supersonic speed.

Okay, we tend to stay in bed until 9 and maybe we could pick up time by rising earlier. But time is spent reading, drinking tea, sharing ideas, plans, good writing with my husband. It gentles us into the day.

And sometimes by the time the morning necessities -- meds, shower, dressing, breakfast -- are over, it is time to run down the street for fresh bread, veggies and other things for lunch. Unless, of course one of us decides to "cook" at one of the local or not-so-local restaurants. We have been known to cross the border into Spain, for those great buffets. In France or go to France if we are in Geneva. Takes as long as going a couple of towns away, but it still pushes the clock.

Some days we get caught up in paperwork. Other days we are lost in our writing.

And I try to work on both in polishing my French and recapturing my German. After all, working in second and third languages are good stimulation for the brain. C'est vrai.

We can't forget friends whether the formal plans for an apèro or a meal are decided, often last minute. But equally impromptu is walking by La Noisette or Mille et Une and seeing a friend having a cup of coffee. People have precedence.

Then there's Sherlock and necessity walks or taking him to the beach or down to the river bed to let him run off his excess energy.

People drop in -- more to see Sherlock these days. Tea, biscuits, chat and ball throwing ensue.

Wednesdays and Saturdays are the marchés with all the vendors we have come to know: the brownie lady, for example. Friends gather at cafés and it is a good chat time.

Facebook traps us, but again people, people, people -- some from the past, some from current interests.

Nights in the summer can involve café sits at L'Hostalet where our friends congregate or curled up on the couch watching TV, Netlflix. Right now it is The Crown and Grace and Frankie.

Despite all the activities the to-do list still has things on it, usually the least appealing. 

I am not complaining because everything, except maybe for the paperwork, I love. 

But life seems like a beautiful sunset that only lasts a few minutes when we want it to last longer.

 

Cemetery

A poem about buying a cemetery plot in the 22 January issue of The New Yorker, triggered a memory of our family's twice a year trek to the grave of my grandfather, uncle and aunt. My grandmother would plant flowers, often purple and yellow pansies in the spring and yellow chrysanthemums in the fall.

The selection of the flowers from Weston's florist had been the first stop. The florist had an earthy smell and the greenhouse always felt warmer than the air outside.

When finished sprucing up the grave, my grandmother did the same for her sister-in-law's family. Auntie Maud lived in New Jersey and wasn't able to do it herself.

My brother and I would run around, sometimes fill the water bucket for my grandmother, sometimes just letting out excess energy knowing we have to sit still when we ate lunch at a restaurant afterwards. We neither loved or hated doing those trips, it was just part of our lives like brushing teeth or eating red flannel hash after a New England boiled dinner.

My Aunt Lois died in 1915, at a year old. She had failed to flourish. My grandfather, worried about my grandmother, insisted they go to see family on the coast. Half way there, my grandmother insisted on going back. She walked into the house, picked Lois up and within minutes lost her daughter forever.

My Uncle Gordon died at 33 of a cerebral hemorrhage during the night.

My grandfather joked he wanted to be buried in his beloved veggie garden, claiming, the tomatoes would be wonderful with him fertilizing. Imagine the shock when we arrived one time to see a flourishing tomato plant over where he was buried, the only one in the cemetery, which is located in a city nowhere near a farm.

When my grandmother died, my mother kept postponing adding my grandmother's name to the tombstone. I finally did it myself.

Once my grandmother was gone, we no longer tended the graves.

My mother wanted to be cremated and her ashes spread in the woods which she loved looking at from her North Andover apartment balcony even though she said terrible things went on the woods (read teenagers making out and maybe more).

On the day my brother and I would follow her wish, I picked up my girlfriend. I found her sitting on the stoop of her Boston townhouse. "I checked Emily Post to see what you wear to an illegal ash scattering of a woman you don't like on Earth Day," she said. We wore jeans and sneakers, had my two Japanese chins, Amadeus and Albert with us, and ate at MacDonald's afterwards. The dogs split a plain burger.

Later I was telling a co-worker named Bill about it. We were a small firm of eight, four of which had the name Don or Donna. Bill said I should write a story about my mother's ghost who killed any teenager making out in the woods. 

I read the poem in bed, my puppy Sherlock curled up between myself and my husband. The church bells did their usual seven o'clock symphony. It also dawned on me that I had spent ten days in the spring at my daughter's in Malden. I could have gone to the cemetery, but it never entered my mind.

Why?

The people who are buried there have left only their earthly remains. Who they were, what they did is part of me wherever I go. 

Self help

Self-help is a $20 billion industry between books, apps and products. But is it causing more problems than it solves, so asks the Jan. 15 issue of the New Yorker.

A question is why do we need to spend so much time, money and energy fixing ourselves to a point of constant discontent and sense of failure.

Maybe I'll write a book called, Weaning Yourself off Self-Help.

Subtitle, The Last Self-Help Book You'll Ever Need."

Failure

I was in the shower this morning, when it dawned on me, except for paint for our flat that I want to buy. I have enough or more than enough of everything I need or want. Okay there is the exception of books.

I told my husband.

"You're a failure as a consumer," he told me.

Pride

I have a friend, a widow, who had many years of a good marriage. She has done a remarkable job building a new life. This year she went skiing for the first time in decades. My reaction was, "I am so proud of her."

One of the definitions of pride is a reasonable or justifiable self-respect.

I shouldn't be proud of her. I had nothing to do with her courage in living.  I wasn't there during her times of self-doubt and often not there when she pushed herself to do something new or difficult. 

When my daughter has some new accomplishment, I may feel a sense of pride on the off chance I did something right in raising her, but deep down I know, she accomplished the things on her own. My part may have been placing things that helped her should she decide to use them, like a good education, but I never conjugated her Latin verbs or passed the accounting exam or wrote her masters thesis. She did that.

Then I came up with a different phrase...I am so proud for you...in the sense that I recognize the accomplishment and want you to know I care and celebrate what you've accomplished.

Hope that is a better phrase.

Puppy

Not having a dog for more than a decade, I'd forgotten how much a pup adds to one's life.

We wanted a rescue dog, probably an older one. We didn't want to go thru the puppy training. And we thought, because we are older, we'd probably outlive older dog.

That was before Spider, now known as Sherlock, was put in my arms. All preconceptions disappeared in a lick.

What has been fascinating is watching not just his growth (oops he can reach that now, put it higher) and how quick he learns. He mastered "sit" fast if you consider sit is having your butt graze the floor.
A few days later "sit" lasts longer and the treat can stay on the floor until we give the okay -- unless we take too long, that is.

His household accidents have diminished and biting is reduced.

Cesar Millan, the dog whisperer, has become my favorite youtube.

Mostly it is the pleasure of watching Sherlock put his toys away in his chosen place, moving his bed and blanket to where he wants it. He has a mind of his own, and is only beginning to realize that Rick is Alpha dog in our pack and I'm Beta. He can be any of the rest of the letters.

In a way, it reminds me of my daughter's early days, where each day there was something new in her development.

We are part of P3 (Puppy PJ Parade) Club in the early morning hours for the first walk. And I find I am talking more to neighbors in French and/or English. My feelings aren't hurt that they greet Sherlock before me.

To say he has altered our lives, is a true statement. As for our hearts, there is a wiggly puppy that has set up his own place there.

Davos demonstrations

The U.S. embassy in Bern has issued an alert to American citizens concerning the World Economic Forum in Davos. They expect major anti-Trump demonstrations.

"Demonstration Alert – U. S. Embassy Bern, Switzerland (January 12, 2018)
"Location:  Bern, Geneva, Zurich, Davos, and possibly other cities in Switzerland – monitor local media for confirmed locations and times.
"Event:  Planned and unplanned demonstrations are expected to take place in a variety of locations in the lead up to the 2018 World Economic Forum which will take place January 23 – 26, 2018 in Davos, Switzerland.
"Actions to Take:

• Monitor local media for information about specific demonstrations
• Avoid the areas of the demonstrations
• Follow the instructions of local authorities at all times
• Exercise caution if unexpectedly in the vicinity of large gatherings or protests
• Keep a low profile"

As for the actions to take, I suspect many Americans will be demonstrating not afraid of actions against them during the demonstrations. So many times people have come up to me and asked me to explain Trump. This has included

• a nurse in the emergency room as she took my blood pressure
• my dentist
• my vet
• strangers on public transportation
• other diners in restaurants 
• people on the street
  
  
  
  If I were home in Switzerland, I would be demonstrating too.

Not well traveled

It is not a joke when I say my mother thought if you went two towns away you fell off the edge of the earth. We were on the same street as the country club where we played golf and swam (I waded). The Quanapowitt Players put on three plays a year and the Reading Symphony would satisfy any classical musical urges.

I was not allowed to go on school trips to Boston (12 miles away). I was an adult before I walked the close by Lexington/Concord battlefields, where my country was born. Some of my classmates thought I had a heart condition which prevented me from going on the bus. In reality it was a neurotic mother.

My freshman year of college at Lowell, MA I was under a half hour away. When the boy I was dating wanted to take me to meet his parents in Attleboro, it was forbidden. That would have taken about an hour by car.

A year later to the day, I sailed on the S.S. America to join my new husband (different boy) for his Army stint in Stuttgart, Germany.

I didn't fall off the edge of the earth. I discovered the world I thought was out there really was there. He was in an Army band, a public relations unit, and we played fashings and fests in cities and villages around Germany. Wives were encouraged to go. I need no urging.


My ex wasn't much for travel when we returned to the States, but we did go to Niagara Falls to see his sister, D.C. to meet up with friends and NH.

The year we separated I took a trip alone to London. I tried to visit Europe at least once if not two to three times a year after that. When my daughter was nine she began to go with me at least on some of the trips.

There was a point I realized that she'd been to Europe five times without ever seeing her own capital. We made sure she saw D.C.

Eventually I found a way to live in Europe (about 800 C.V.s mailed across the Atlantic) and between business and pleasure trips, I explored the European countries. I knew life had changed when I HAD TO GO to London on a business trip and I wanted to spend a weekend at home to catch up with laundry. If I could have kicked myself for resenting the trip, when once going to London would have been a miracle, I should have.

Though I've been to Turkey, Iceland and Syria too,  I now know I am not that well-traveled in comparison to many of my friends who talk about their trips to India, China, Japan, Bali, Thailand, Australian, Mauritius, South Africa and most places that one can find on a world map.

Even school children (public and private) get to go on school trips that once were only a fantasy nothing like Lexington and Concord which were down the road from Reading where I grew up. Imagine skiing in the Alps or building a school in Tanzania  or giving a play in Jordan as part of your curriculum .

I am not complaining nor am I jealous. I've come/gone a long way from being that "little girl in Reading" that one of my friend's used as a description when he listened to my adventures. He had never been further than Maine.

I don't take it for granted that I am at home in Paris, comfortable in London, happy in Vienna. I also am proud that it is still an adventure to discover some historical event, a natural phenomena that most people aren't aware of off the usual tourist destinations. No matter where I have been, there is something to delight.

I am happy that when I went more than two towns away, I did not fall off the edge of the earth. I am also happy for my friends who have been able to discover even more than I have.

It's a huge world out there...Carpe diem.

His face

When the man walked into La Noisette, I did a triple take. His resemblance to my father, when my Dad was younger, was striking, especially the chin, face shape and eyes. His eyebrows were slightly thicker than my Dad's but the baldness was the same.

However, my father died 35 years ago.

Unlike my father, the man at La Noisette did not wear glasses.

Three more times at La Noisette, I saw him. And when I was having a blood test, he was at the lab too. The last time I went up and mentioned how much he looked like my father. He wasn't sure how to respond. I thanked him for the memories.

I just found this photo of my Dad, taken at the surprise party with all the aunts and uncles to announce that he was going to be a grandfather. He was the last of the siblings to have a grandchild and he had teased them so much they all asked me to tell them first when I was pregnant for some loving payback. It was great party with joke gifts.

I still miss my father. Due to family dynamics, I did not know him as a child. When I was at university, he appeared. He had been afraid of rejection, but my wonderful stepmom encouraged him to make contact. We developed a wonderful relationship.

There is one major difference. My father smiled a lot. The man at La Noisette does not. Yet, seeing his look alike, smiley or not, brings back all the good memories.

me too

The French actress Catherine Deneuve has set off a storm by saying that #metoo has gone too far. She feels that it reduces the normal give and take between the sexes.

Let me say that I am a feminist. I have been sexually harassed from the dentist who wiped his hands on my almost non-existent 12-year-old breasts to the boss who was going to make sleeping with him a condition of employment. He was replaced for other reasons within days before I had to act. I had another boss who constantly told dirty jokes, of which about 2% were funny. Two of the men my mother was dating at different times made a pass at me. One company where I worked, made warning about the CEO part of the orientation process for women employees.

As a pre-teen and teen I wasn't sure what to do. I kept it a secret. As a single mom, who needed her job, bad behavior added to the stress of having too much to do, too little time to do it in and not enough money to do it with. 

On the other hand, one place where I worked, I started dating another employee who was slightly higher in rank. My boss, a lovely older man, a mentor in the full sense of the word, had said, "Bill, you're single. Donna-Lane is single," and left it at that. We did the rest on our own. In today's world this would not have been acceptable and we would have missed out on an overall pleasant experience even if it ended.

This morning I asked my husband if he felt funny complimenting a coworker about her appearance. He said when he did, she thought he was hitting on her. That's sad.

Years ago I was going up the stairs at the Central Square T station. A man passed me and said, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you look great in those slacks." They were burnt orange. He continued walking and I never saw him again. I didn't feel insulted. In fact, I'd been having a bad day, and he made me feel a bit better. Today that would be unacceptable. 

Had he followed me, tried to get information about me, that would have been scary.

I don't think Deneuve is totally wrong. There should be room for flirting and compliments without pressure. At the same time there should never be room for forcing one self on another or making another person uncomfortable, especially when there is a power difference. 

It is never acceptable. 







 

Flowers

Today, sitting behind L'Hostalet sipping tea and munching Catherine's savory tarts, we watched the vendors and customers at the marché. They gave us much inspiration for my writing friend and I to do our ten minute exercises creating a flash fiction piece. The only drawback was we know too many people to chat with. And people come first. But I did get one piece written. Here it is unedited.

GINA spent at least 10 minutes trying to decide to buy flowers. She left the marché stand, selected cheese and tomatoes from Jean and Pierre's stalls.

The desire for flowers was too strong. She went back. Lilies were four euros, a mixed bouquet five, and a single rose three.

"Is it a gift?" the vendor asked.

"Yes." It was a gift for herself.

He put the flowers in a transparent film, took yellow and orange ribbons and made a bow near the bottom of the stems. He used a small knife to run down the ends, creating curly cues.

Gina's other errands were mundane, although the smell of fresh bread from the oven made the bakery smell heavenly. The butcher was able to sell her a cheap piece of mutton, that she knew she could stew into tenderness

Back home she put the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table, but then moved them to the living room.

As she prepared the stew, she changed her mind and returned the flowers to the kitchen table. She found herself smiling every time she saw them as she moved from table to counter to stove in preparing the lambb stew.

The kitchen door opened. Thomas stormed in. "What are those?"

"Lilies."

"How much did you pay for them?"

She told him.

"God damn waste of money." He went into the living room slamming the doors behind him.

She looked at the flowers and a wave of sadness swept over her not at the waste of money on flowers but the waste that was her marriage.

Bond

My daughter and her step father, my beloved husband, are more alike in movie tastes than I am even with no related DNA.

Last night Rick put on a James Bond movie. I don't know which one and it had Daniel Craig. I may not be typical, because I know many women find him sexy. I find him creepy even though I usually like blue eyes and blond hair.

I watched for a few minutes.

He and a woman were walking through a Day of the Death parade. She led him to a motel room, but he went out and walked on a ledge above the parade and came across a gun where he proceeded to kill a bunch of people through a window across the street.

Then the building blew up and he slid down the crumbling building and landed on a couch, a bit dusty, but the dust disappeared as he went into the crowd who didn't notice a building collapsing.

There was a man he was trying to catch and after this accident which should have left him in intensive care if not a funeral home, the two men had a fight in a helicopter flying over the crowd.

Helicopter did do some amazing flying if it wasn't a special effect. But it went on and on and on and on and on and on...I could have had time to get a snack.

The crowd seemed to ignore them. No one seemed to notice a building collapsing in a neighborhood. No one noticed that gun shots had killed a bunch of people. No one paid any attention to a helicopter flying upside down above them, sometimes with people hanging out the door.

Overall special effects boor me. Ya, they are clever for a few minutes at best but let's get on with the story. There was one movie I walked out on when it took a full five minutes for a car to fall off a cliff, and not a very big cliff at that. Five minutes after I looked at my watch. I've blocked the title from my memory and am happy it was only a five Euro movie.

What I like in movies is story, story, story with deep and well thought out characters that are tested.

It can even be movies like Shrek. I adore Donkey and Puss.

Limited violence is okay, but war scenes past, present, future, bring to mind real war, with real suffering at the hands of corrupt leaders. The evening news is enough.

I can like silly movies...Every now and then a good nincompoopy movie as my friend calls some chick flicks can take my mind off more serious issue, personal and public if there is a reasonable story behind it and the characters are believable.

If Rick had wanted to, he could have watched the whole thing. We don't have to agree any more than my daughter and I have to agree on movies.  I didn't care if they ever explained Bond's miracle of landing on a couch unhurt or where the dust on his clothes went.

In the end we both went to bed and read as the rain poured down outside and the wind blew. It was a nice night anyway.

Viking blood

"Of course we are all beautiful, the gorgeous hunk of man said. I had remarked how handsome (and tall) I'd found the Norwegians.

We were a café in Oslo Norway and at eleven at night it was still daylight on the pleasant May night.

"We were Vikings. We only captured the most beautiful women."

Fast forward many decades and like many others I had my DNA tested. Much of what came back, I already knew: English and French predominated.

But there was a surprise. A tiny bit of my DNA contained Norwegian heritage.

It made sense with all the Viking raids in the late 700s, I had an ancestor that crossed the dangerous seas to land in the Angl-Saxon area of what is now the UK.

Did his arms get tired as he rowed? Was he seasick?

Did he worry his wolf helmet would rust from the salt water if he had one.

Then when the boat landed how much did he plunder and kill? He must have found a local woman and like the man in that café said, select a beautiful one.

Did he rape her?

Or did he fall in love, and like some other Vikings stay and farm, and raise off springs one of which who passed their DNA onto me? Since such a little part of my DNA is Norwegian, I assume he did not take the woman back to Scandinavia.

Or did he just leave the woman pregnant. When she gave birth was she shunned by the community, or were they glad they had survived the onslaught and accepted her and the child?

I like to think of it as a love story. That tired of the cold of his homeland, sick of the sea, he was happy to settle down.

I will never know although I am tempted to do a series of short stories with the different possibilities...or not.

Sigh.

Santon Dolls

Santon dolls create a world of their own and have been made since the 1700s in France. The detail in clothing, facial expressions and accessories have amazed me since I first saw them at a Christmas fair in Grand Saconnex.

When my friend Barbara, I inherited two, this old woman and a fisherman. As much as I love them, I am trying to reduce my possessions but I had to make sure they went to go to a good home.

Facebook to the rescue. A notice brought a message from a friend, a former Argelesian. I didn't want to sell them, but she felt she would like to make a donation to a cleft lip charity in Barbara's name.

Barbara would approve.

That is a win-win.

Christmas Debts

Christmas is over but for many the bills keep rolling in. Some of the bills are for things already discarded or broken. Even if people got tremendous bargains on Black Friday, interest charges could wipe out what they saved.

In the 70s I worked for a credit union and one of the big products was a Christmas Club. Members deposited a certain amount each week and in late November of early December would withdraw the money for their holiday shopping. Amounts were usually under $1,000.

I don't know if these products are still offered but there is nothing to stop someone from setting up a savings account and putting money aside for the holidays or for that matter, any other purchase coming up.

It's an old fashioned concept, saving for something rather than charging it.

I admit I have a horror of credit card debt. There was a period that I had huge debts due to a family illness that prohibited me working full time. Once it was paid off and I realised the thousands of dollars that went into interest, I vowed never again.

At the end of each month, my credit card debt will be zero. If I can't pay for it outright, I won't buy it until I have the money.

Boy am I out of step with modern society. I don't care. I never have to dread the after Christmas bills.

Bye 2017

What a year it was.

As Rick was looking thru receipts for our taxes, he would say, “We did . . .” And we did. It was a combination of places, activities, learning and most importantly people.

I am posting it as a list.

I read from Murder in Schwyz at the American Library in Paris.

There was a family reunion of Rick’s daughter, mother, brothers, and grandkids in upstate New York followed by a couple of days in NYC.

Three visits with my daughter in Boston, Argelès, Edinburgh. Time with her is always a gift.

Testifying before Congress in Washington, DC and meeting with Congressmen in our fight against FATCA. Here is the video that started the hearing.

Was able to see my friend in Long Island and once again had multi-colored bagels. The friend was the best part, the bagel was just the extra-extra.

Learning that the Supreme Court will be asked to hear our FATCA case.

Wrote and am preparing for publication Coat Hangars and Knitting Needles, to fight for women’s rights to control their own bodies.

Slept in a bubble in the Austrian Alps.

Celebrated the third stage of our ongoing honeymoon in Liechtenstein.

Reconnected with a friend from my hometown in Zurich.

Attended the Paris Air Show.

Spent time in Paris with my Syrian family of choice.

Stood at the tomb of Eleanor of Aquitaine (also Henry II, Richard the Lionhearted)

Spent a month in Edinburgh.

Stood where Mary Queen of Scots was crowned and also where David Rizzio was murdered.

Had a chance to see the former neighbour who was a little girl and would visit me almost every night and see what a fine young woman and almost doctor she is.

Remet a young man from Demark, who has beaten back his handicaps.

Worked with a fledgling company in Colmar. What a pleasure to deal with these dedicated, intelligent people.

Had a few days with my former housemate bringing back good memories and creating a few new ones over Thanksgiving.

Adopted a puppy.

My marriage to my wonderful husband just keeps getting better.

On to 2018.