Cities to love

As much as I love my current village life in Switzerland and Southern France, I've a real bond and love with many cities. Love in the sense that when I walk down its streets there's an ahhhhhhhhhhhh feeling, I'm so lucky to be doing this, so very, very lucky to be here. These are places that I've either lived for a long or short time giving me memories that I would never have had as an ordinary tourist on tour. Some I've been long enough to run into the frustrations of day to living that only come with residency. Other idiosyncrasies have been told to me by residents who are my friends. 

BOSTON

No matter what passport I carry, my roots are New England Yankee as instilled by my grandmother. My housemate and I found a house that needed renovating on Wigglesworth Street, a name that brought giggles to people when we said it.  It was named for a doctor at Harvard Medical School, a specialist in syphilis, located across the street. I lived there and later in a condo down the road for a decade. Walking the area gave me so much happiness.

One doesn't want to be in the city when the students return with their UHaul trucks clogging the streets. These same students studying at any of the 49 schools of higher learning give a special energy to the city. 

There's a beauty with its brick buildings and sidewalks, old-fashioned street lamps, the emerald necklace (a circle of parks and gardens). 

There's much to do without a great deal of money and of course, with money there's even more. sports, theater, music, libraries, restaurants -- anything one could possible want to do is available.

As a history buff, I find almost every brick has a story.

And there's the pride of looking at the State House dome and knowing my grandfather was an engineer in repairing it.  

Although it's been 30 years since I moved to Europe, I've still have my Boston accent and friends say I speak French with a Boston accent. I find that "wicked" funny.

GENEVA

Although I loved the idea of living in Switzerland, I wasn't thrilled when the job market sent me from Neuchâtel to Geneva. To this day, I feel I'm not truly in Switzerland until I leave the city, perhaps because its 43% foreign. 

I'm not anti-immigrant. The 43% are mostly attached to consulates, UN organizations and NGOs. I didn't meet a Genvois until I'd been living there three years. My flat was near the alphabet UN agencies and my neighbors worked at various organizations. They were Russian, Czech, Indian, Syrian, English, Italian, etc. That turned out to be what I loved about the city, it was a mirror of the world, its languages and cultures. 

Now, I live in a village just outside the city. There is a joy about going out my front door (a few minutes walk from the lake) see the Jura in front of me. A few twists and turns and I see the Alps.

Geneva too has all the cultural things I crave.

As for satisfying my history buff urges? After almost 27 years, I'm still delving into its past. 

EDINBURGH

On my first trip I was joined by my daughter who flew in from Boston. We stayed with a former colleague. The second  I set foot in the city, I felt at home.

Little did we know then my daughter would move to Edinburgh to get her masters. She even ran in their marathon. I made several trips over to join her.

Then a house swap let my husband and I to live there twice for an extended period.

Standing in the palace room where Mary Queen of Scots watched her lover (?) David Rizzo killed was a shiver-making moment. Walking where great and just regular good writers (Scott, Burns, Arthur Conan Doyle, Stevenson, Rankin, J.K.Rowling) lived and wrote was a thrill.

On a bridge off Princes Street, there is usually a bagpipe player dressed in a kilt. "Amazing Grace" and other well known tunes drift. I look for him each time I'm there.

On our last two trips we o'ded on English-language movies, mac and cheese, seeing the castle as we waited for the bus to take us to the center of town, discovering a story-telling festival, checking John Knox's home to satisfy my history urge.

When we played the lottery, something we rarely do, my daughter asked, "If we win, can we buy a house in Edinburgh?"

My answer?

"Of course."

 PRAGUE

My first trip to Prague was to visit my former Czech neighbors. They gave me a view point on was what it was like to live there. The tour included information about life under Communism. A trip to the grocery store, comments on modern buildings in comparison to the incredible architecture that was not destroyed by the war, where they had demonstrated as young people, all added a dimension that I was privileged to share.. 

One of my memories was being in a tea room. A couple in furs were having trouble ordering because of language difficulties. They were Russian. My host asked the waiter if he spoke Russian. "Of course," he said, "but not with them." 

It is experiences like this when I know how blessed I am to see things that ordinary tourists would not.

A later trip was with Rick. This was far more touristy as we explored the recommended sites. 

I knew from the international writing community that Prague has an active English writing presence that I would love to be able to explore.

DAMASCUS

I've seen Damascus through the eyes of my family-of-choice Syrians, introduced by my former neighbor whom I love more than any normal sibling.

Having someone point to a window and say, "St. Paul escaped from here," or walking on the same Straight Street that is in the Bible, is something that I never knew enough about to dream about it. Seeing bullet holes from a war in the ceiling of the souk which operates as it has for centuries, praying in a mosque all spun me into another culture and time.

Eating seeds and sipping maté, talking with Syrian women who polished up their English for me. Listening to Syrian musicians after a good meal in a restaurant was amusing. Half were songs popularized by Elvis and half were Arabic.

The people I know and love have survived the war. Someday, I hope I visit with them again vs. exchanging Facebook messages or the very, very occasional phone chat.

There are other places such as Montreal, Amsterdam, London and Paris that I've been fortunate enough to spend extended time in. In Amsterdam we were on a canal boat. I probably have spent six months in Paris in dribs or drabs. I promise myself that I will never forget that the time I've been allowed to explore in depth is truly a gift.

Meeting family

                                                                            U.S. America

 As a kid, I never spent time with my father's family. My mother considered them "ignorant foreigners" and refused to have anything to do with them.

They had migrated from Nova Scotia in the 1920s.

My parents divorced. My mother had custody and my father disappeared from my life.

My mother fought my marriage at 20. When my bridegroom was sent to Stuttgart to play in the 82nd Army Band, I moved in with my father, whom I had not seen for many years while I waited to join my husband. Also there was my stepmom, who was anything but the "little tramp" my mother described her. My stepmom and I went on to have decades of a wonderful relationship.

Before I was due to sail on the U.S. America to join my new husband, my father and stepmom suggested we go to a Boston nightclub with my aunt, uncle, cousins Marilyn and Frank.

I should have suspected something. Neighbor Ray "returned" a 50-cup coffee maker. My father spent the day cooking for a neighbor who was having a party. "He does it so well, people want him to help," my stepmom said. "He loves doing it."

My aunt, uncle and cousins arrived. I liked them immediately. My cousin Marilyn needed to take a bath and get dressed for the nightclub. She took forever and I mean forever. 

Finally she came out, the same time the house filled with people, lots of people, who turned out to be aunts, uncles and cousins I had not seen since I was in kindergarten or longer if ever.

My father seated me before a huge model of the U.S. America covered with envelopes. "Open them," he said.

I did. "Thank you Aunt Lillie," I said looking around the room after opening the card from her with $20, hoping Aunt Lillie would reveal herself. The same for Billie, Evelyn, Bert, Agnes, Butch, Walter and on and on. There were envelopes from an uncle and aunt living in Washington and another who was a ship's captain and at sea. I was welcomed verbally and with hugs into this "foreign" family.

Over the years, I spent much time with these aunts, uncles and cousins: birthdays, Thanksgivings, Christmases, bbqs and get togethers for no reason other than they enjoyed their own company. I heard family lore and now wish I had had asked more questions and recorded the stories. I regretted missing the fun the cousins had had. 

As they retired, most of them moved to the same town in Florida. I would go down and be treated like a visiting princess, feted with my favorite foods. I could make the rounds in the morning and get to spend time with each of these loving people one on one.

Eventually funerals replaced the get togethers. My stepmom was the last to go, leaving a hole in my heart and my soul stuffed with memories of a loving family that left Nova Scotia and made a successful life for themselves and my generation and now the generation after.

 

A tale of two clerks

 

I went to the village poste to mail a book to a New York friend.

A woman, probably in her late 40s early 50s, was behind the counter. She growled at me to stay behind the desk. I was behind the desk that separated the counter from the customers.

I asked if I needed a custom declaration. The book was in a white document envelope.

"Oui."

I asked if I could have one.

"Non." After more silence than was necessary, "Get it from the machine."  There are several machines in the poste.

"Which one?"

A wave of her hand to the side where there were two machines. 

I went to the wall and chose one. However, going through the menu, I could not find anything about border declarations. When I went to the window again, the grumpy, growly woman had disappeared.

I went to another window with a woman about the same age. 

"May I just help this man, and I'll be with you," she said.

We went to the machine together and we worked through several layers of choices. "It's not intuitive," she said. All conversations were in French, but the second woman spoke slowly without growling. She may even have been smiling if her eyes were any indication. She said she wished she could speak English as I spoke French. The expectation for Anglos to speak French at any level is rather low, but I thanked her and told her that learning French was one of the hardest things I've ever done. She admitted it was hard.

"Those verbs," I said.

She rolled her eyes in an O là là manner.

Together we worked through the multi screens, printed out what we needed, went to another counter to make sure the forms were put on the envelope properly. Since it was a new procedure, she apologized for taking the time. I asked her name.

"Sophie?"

"Are you the only Sophie?" I had a plan.

"I want to get her some flowers," I said to Rick as we walked towards the center of the village.

I found a Cyclamen, a pretty pink. I debated having Galdric, the florist, deliver it, but he has a hurt ankle and the work of getting the car and driving through the convoluted tiny village streets for a five-minute distance, didn't seem worth it to ask him, although I knew he would. I wrote a note in French, "Thank you for your help," and my name which they stuck on the gift paper.

Rick and I walked back to the poste. Inside, although there was a line at Sophie's counter, but I walked to the front, put the plant down, apologized to the people in line, told Sophie merci and left as her eyes reacted. I suspect she smiled, but again, those masks.

I've taught customer service. I still love seeing people who do it well, while itching to train those that don't. If I'd videoed the two women, I'd have had a perfect case history of how to and how not to. 

What I do hope is Sophie will tell her co-workers a client gave her flowers in appreciation for being helpful and pleasant. 

 

Globilization

 

Former Secretary of State Mike Pompeo said multiculuralism "is not who America is."

DUH!

At best the statement is arrogant. At the worse it is ignorant.

America was formed by waves of different nationalities, starting with the English, Dutch, French, German, Spanish. Other nationalities followed. Africans from many countries came, but not out of choice, as did Chinese, Japanese, Indians, Pakistanis, etc., etc., etc., etc. 

My mother's family arrived from England in 1636. My father's family in the 1920s via Nova Scotia via LaRochelle, France in the 1600s. 

I've said before I never thought I had an ethnic identity like my Irish friends who step-danced or my Italian friends for whom spaghetti sauce was as common as breakfast orange juice.

Only when I left the U.S., did I realize that my baked beans on Saturday night was part of my ethnic identity.

How boring being only with your own kind. 

I worked with a Pakistani woman. She was thrilled to make me a traditional meal and that I would take an interest. Interest? What a taste treat.

Living in Geneva which is 43% foreign has enriched my life beyond measure. Not only have friendships formed there, but it gave me the opportunity to visit exotic places. I wouldn't have missed a Berber tent, drinking mate tea with a silver straw as part of a woman's group in Damascus, seeing first hand places of rebellion in Prague told by people who'd been there, living for almost two weeks in a St. Petersburg apartment and hearing how life was under communism from people who had lived it. 

Only speaking one language would cut my enjoyment of other nationality's movies, books, magazines, conversations, festivals. Others are far more gifted than me and speak many. I am a bit jealous, but they've put in the work to learn.

When I lived in Boston there were all kinds of ethnic celebrations. We had enclaves of different nationalities that let me dip my mind into something beyond my normal life. 

Multiculturalism adds color, smells, taste, intellectual stimulation, understanding of the human condition to every day life. It makes us better citizens of our planet, never mind our countries.

And to say America isn't a multicultural country? Multiculturalism doesn't preclude some common cultural values, Mr. Pompeo. It does help stamp out ignorance and a limited life and mostly it limits ideas that we can all benefit from no matter who we are and where we are.

Poetry/Burns

 

There isn't a drop of Scottish blood in either my husband's or my veins. Yet we love Scotland. I suspect my husband's love is partially golf related. He has played his golf Mecca, St. Andrews and later became enthralled with the old time hickory sticks and is playing in hickory tournaments around the world.

The old course, St. Andrews

I love Scotland for its history, writers, people, writers, bagpipes, writers, cows and more not in any order.

Writers Museum, Edinburgh

In my novel, Murder in Edinburgh, one of the characters is trying to open a Scottish poets' museum

 

                                     That's Walter Scott's statue on Princes Street in Edinburgh.

January 25, 1759 was the day Robert Burns were born. Over the years we've celebrated Robert Burns Night in a variety of ways.

Sometimes we've been with Scottish friends when the Haggis is featured along with his poems. One year in Geneva, my daughter brought Haggis.

The year we can find no Haggis. But at lunch my husband and I will read a Burns poem or two. Sadly we have no Irn Bru. We will play Scottish music. Don't ask what we'll be eating, please.

Turnaround

Two more flash fiction pieces done at L's table while eating the last mince pies of the season and drinking tea. We open a novel and pick out a line that is the prompt for the story. We write for 10 minutes and then read our work. The words in italics are the writing prompt.

 

THE WILL

 "How was your rest?"

Trevor wanted to say it sucked. Instead he said, "The traffic outside was a bit loud."

"Did you close the window?"

Trevor nodded instead of, "Of course I did, you dickhead."

He'd never liked his cousin Thomas from the time they were in a playpen together. His mother told how he always cried when she put them together. Although he couldn't say for sure, Trevor suspected Thomas bullied him even then as he had done all through school.

Trevor had come to Hartford, CT for the reading of his Aunt Maudie's will. She was his mother's twin.

Unlike her son Thomas, she was a loving human being, intelligent, giving and wise.

In the early afternoon the two men were in the lawyer's office. When she stepped out to ask her secretary to bring them coffee Thomas said, "That's one beautiful piece of ass."

Unfortunately the lawyer had reentered. "Not just my ass, my whole body. Shall we get down to business, gentleman and Thomas."

It didn't take long. Aunt Maudie had left most of her possessions to Thomas in trust.  He'd been bragging what he'd do when he got his hand on the money and property.

"In trust?" Thomas jumped up.

"Your cousin Trevor is the trustee." The lawyer smiled.

 

THE LETTER

 

Jack put the letter down on the ground and stared ahead of him.He hadn't had even an inkling that it was coming.

He wanted to ask Amy, but his wife had been gone for three weeks to take care of her mother 1,500 miles away. Her text messages had been brief.

• Arrived safely.
• Very busy.
• Spending time at the hospital with mom

Jack had been busy himself at work as usual. He hadn't missed Amy all that much.

When had he and his wife started living separate lives in the same house? The only time they spent any time together was at social events and then he was with his buddies and she with her friends.

Today was his first day off since she'd left. He'd planned to mow the overgrown lawn, but first, he'd gone to the mailbox.

The letter was alone. All their bills were now electronic and the door of the mailbox said, "No publicity."

He opened it.

Dear Jack.

I thought it was fair to warm you that I'm filing for divorce. My lawyer will call you soon to get the name of your lawyer. Just having you served with papers seemed too harsh. And doing it by email is just tacky.

I've tried to talk to you for months, but you were always too busy. I think we both need new lives and I hope this can be a friendly divorce.

Amy