Political this and that

1. Major Thomas Fleener is a brave man. As a lawyer for the defendants at Gitmo, he has said the trials are show trials. He says his clients were tortured.

2. The reaction on BBC to the remark that the Gitmo suiciders did it for PR was torn apart with listener reactions posted on the site, although a few think the only good terrorist is a dead terrorist. Who is a terrorist depends on which side someone is on.

3, I am on a “baddies” list as the token liberal, the only WITT (We are all in this together) with a number of YOYOs (Your on Your Own). Yesterday I heard one of them, who was my age, was killed in a car crash. Only one other member on the list, a former co-worker and I were against Iraq, predicting exactly what would happen. The man who died was shocked when two years ago I said that the sooner the US lost the better. He couldn’t imagine an American saying that. The billions we’ve wasted in pushing death would not have been squandered. However, more important if we hadn’t gone in or lost early on, a lot of Americans and Iraqis would be alive today. To me, we will lose, the only question remains when. Although I almost never agreed with the man, I will miss him.

4. Seeing the founder of DailyKos on Meet the Press was great. They had a conservative to balance. If only they balanced each conservative with a liberal and a few on the inbetweens wouldn't be bad either.

Pigeon 1, Woman 1, Croissant crumbs 0

Breakfast at the café on a narrow road across from the church with tea, tartine and croissants.

A car starts up the road.

A pigeon jumps off the sidewalk and looks at the car and stops Tainmmen Square defiance in its body.

The woman can see the pigeon over the steering wheel and stops.

I take another bite of croissant, chew it and swallow followed by a sip of tea.

No movement from the opponents.

I finish my croissant.

The bird ruffles his wings and settles back down.

The woman inches forward, but she can still see the bird.

I butter my tartine and take a bite.

Slowly the bird turns and walks toward my table.

Laughing the woman drives on.

The bird pecks at crumbs from my croissant that have fallen to the ground.

The propogranda machine is alive and well

As a writer I know it is the choice of details that tips a story. Thus watching Wolf Blitzer’s A Week in The War in Iraq, I can recognize slant.

After being warned that scenes might be disturbing, viewers saw inside a hospital with wounded American soldiers. It was blander than ER. Compared to the pain of the wounded man or the pain of the Iraqis who live without electricity and water and see their loved ones shot, it was less than nothing. An American medic was saying how proud he was of what he was doing and implied his work was making his own country safe from other 9/11s and Pearl Harbors, neither of which ever involved Iraqis but CNN didn’t point that out.

A young wife told of the pain of her husband’s death highlighting the ultimate price paid by an American in Iraq. The implication? It was worth it and maybe for her it was. For others it wasn’t but that wasn’t mentioned.

A military man told of the need to convince parents that it was good to send their children to the military and that it would cost a lot.

They mentioned the billions Congress approved for the war effort without ever mentioning the million already spent that is unaccounted for.

They talked of Zarqwai’s death and what a victory it was, but they didn’t show Michael Berg, father of the beheaded contractor who spoke eloquently of his not feeling joy at another’s death and how violence only begats violence.

They talked about the treasure trove of information gathered in raids this week, and an expert talked about how if just one phone number in the US had been found in someone’s pocket how that could stop another terrorist attack. They never said a telephone number was found or most of the insurgency in Iraq was more concerned either with getting the US out or getting control of their own country. The implication is Iraq is a danger to us.

Giving them their droplet of due they did have a reporter say that in the Middle East the reputation of the US has never been lower.

I often wonder where the rage is the US, not just against the war, but the social uncertainties that would be impossible in other industrialized nations. Maybe because there are too many slanted programs.

Double duty goat head

The goat’s head soup had every fresh vegetable available from the local market plus a few black-eyed peas. My friend Barbara served it with flourish to me and my former neighbours from Grand Saconnex. They now live in England and were visiting.

Silence reigned as we scoffed it down. Only at the second serving did they start laughing about the head serving double duty. I didn’t understand.

They explained about their picnic Sunday where they crossed the border to investigate a different country.

“The head really served its purpose,” Robin said.

“Purposes,” Barbara said.

I had begged off because of a minor tummy upset leaving me a desire to have a toilet within close distance. Seems the head was frozen solid. Barbara had used it in place of ice to keep her potato salad chilled. On the way back it cooled bottled water.

“And the was still frozen when we got back,” Barbara added, which was why we didn't get the soup until Thursday. It still had to thaw.

Testosterone in the streets

The shots of Munich on CNN are familiar both from the times I visited my daughter there and when I had Radio Free Europe, based in that city, as a client. However, now the streets were filled with football fans dripping testosterone and wearing strange hats, nationally-colored hair and waving flags.

The World Cup crazies have begun. €100 tickets are being scalped for €1100 (Around $1300) and my not even be valid if names aren’t on them. 29,000 tickets for a game have been reserved for corporate sponsors while fans have to scramble for 8000.

Germany is holding fan fests for those that don’t have tickets, the police have no hope for a day off until it is over and their forces have been augmented by police from all over the world.

Men are searching for big screens to watch their favorite games and most women are putting their marriages on hold until it is over. Will I watch some of the games? You bet. And hopefully will also be able to catch Federer at the end of Roland Garros too.

May is back

May is back and we celebrated despite the wind on a terrace that at least was sheltered by the surrounding buildings. We were her friends: English, Scots, Danes, Canadians and an American or two. And there was champagne, nibblies and a buffet supper.

May wore shell earrings and her shell that proved she had accomplished the 800k+ or – kilometer walk of the St. James Compostelo pilgrimage. Those who complete the walk are awarded the shells. Because so many people wanted to talk to her, I will get more of the story next week or the week after when we can have a long chat over lunch when I hope more of the little details come out about her tendernitis, the weather, who she met, the conversations she held, what it was like to sleep in a room with eight snoring men.

One thing I did not want to know now led to a second natural question. The question was, “would you do it again?”

“Yes,” she replied. Her blue eyes flashed. May is a beautiful woman even in her sixties. “But I would do it differently.”

“Like?”

“When I started out I had washing liquid for my clothes, face soaps, shampoo. At the end I only carried shampoo. It is amazing how little we need.”

I also want to hear more about the Frenchmen whose phone number she lost. But we’ll save that for lunch.

Rabbit, Rabbit

Rabbit, rabbit. I remembered to say the words first thing. If those words are the first spoken on the first day of the month, good luck is supposed to follow for the next 30 days.

I had awakened almost with the sun, well before six. The light will continue until almost ten marking the lazy, hazy days of summer. Well almost.

Instead of wearing my flimsy pink nightdress with the grey lace, I am in peach flannel pajamas. My crisp and cool raspberry and beige sheets are in the closet while I cuddle underneath my duvet with its penguined flannel cover. The air smells crisp and the curtain is standing almost straight out. As I rush to the window to shut it, the tile under my feet seems to inject them with icicles.

I head back to bed, pick up my book to read before I start my day, one of the true luxuries of my life. Since the age of ten I dreamed of being a full time writer, living in Europe. Now I am. However, when I was dreaming my dreams, I never specified the type of weather I would live in.

This is not a complaint. Last night it snowed in Germany. And the cool leaves me much more productive than when a canicule (heat wave) strikes.

Blood test and breakfast

The thing I hate most about a blood test is not the needle nor is it the prick. It is not being able to eat in the morning. Anyone who knew my father well or knows my daughter or me, knows when we are hungry we morph into something between Mr. Hyde and the Hulk. My friend Barbara kids about keeping a piece of meat handy to throw to me, something like you would do to a charging lion. It is not unlike the crackers I usually had with me when my daughter was young to prevent her hungry horrors from turning into a rush for the nearest toilet.

However, this morning I was at the lab at little after seven. The nurse had a grey crew cut and cheekbones that we chipmunks can only dream about. Although I had brought a book, there was no waiting.

The owner of the lab does the blood work and I go there because he is so skilled. He was dressed in his T-shirt with the labname written where otherwise a logo would go. He's a bit on the chunky side that was more muscle than fat. He reminds me of someone who pound the mat of a boxing match and yells at his fighter to keep his fists up, but he is as gentle as the stuffed giraffe he keeps on his cabinet.

As soon as he hears my accent he switches to English. I tell him his accent is wonderful, and it is having the sexiness of Montand, Chevalier or Reno.

He blushes. “I sound like Arafat.”

“Mais vous n’êtes pas mort,” I tell him.

His laugh goes to his toes whether at my remark about his being alive or the joy of being alive, I don’t know. It seems if the giraffe is laughing too.

He is finished. I wasn’t aware that he had taken blood, but four vials are in the technician’s hand and I head home to breakfast.

Wonderful Women, Femmes Formidables

I was up early this morning. With the cool temperatures I was raring to go and before nine I had the place clean and the ironing done. I also had lunch made. Elaine, an English friend is coming: she is one of my Wonderful Women or Femmes Formidables. Nice that the alliteration works with the translation.

Who are my WWs and my FFs? They are women who independently live life on their terms, taking whatever risks are necessary to reach their dreams. When they don’t succeed, they try another route, but they don’t give up. They will change countries, start businesses, put themselves into situations that shake them up as they enrich themselves.

There’s Christina who after never working and left a widow bought a hotel and started an art centre, or Magali, who having survived a number of bad relationships, began to paint. Two of her works are on my walls. She had lived in a farm house that was a center for animals and children as she painted. The house bristled with creativity and laughter. Only when she moved did I realize that she had lived without hot water for years. Or there’s May who is walking the St. James de Compostela trail. Or Valerie who gave up a job she hated to start her own business. It still isn’t going well, but she’s looking for alternatives.

These are women who think nothing of suddenly going to Africa on their own and don’t worry about language or even alphabets. Much of their money or lack there of comes from their own hard work.

All of them, despite setbacks, are happy people. Yes, they have downtimes, but overall they have found that to be happy is to celebrate what you have not mourn what you don’t. They see the pleasure in the route not the destination.

What I also notice about all them, money is only the tool to their goals. None seem to care about material possessions for their own sakes, but they really care about the experiences they have.
This doesn't mean they don't have nice homes, but it there are homes are made with love first not stlye.

I am lucky to have met them all.

Schlepping toothpaste

Forty-five cartons of toothpaste were due to be delivered to my friend. Each contained 45 tubes. It isn’t that Barbara is a dental hygiene freak, but she has a business selling this special brand. The toothpaste saga is too long to go into here, but the paste, which contains copper, does slow down gum problems.

Barbara also back problems, so friends and neighbors were alerted. Fifteen minutes outside of town, the truck driver called for exact directions. Her squad of schlepping volunteers showed up. A half hour passed. Nothing. An hour, nothing.

Finally the driver called. His truck was too big to get up the narrow medieval street, he said.

“How many wheels?” she asked thinking eighteen.

“Quartre.” Four.

A four-wheel truck drove by as she talked on the phone. Ascertaining where he was she sent Greg, one of the schleppers to meet the truck and guide him in. Within minutes he was there.
Doug, the basktetball-height Canadian and Roy, the Englishman, ambled by. Chris, the set designer, came out of his house, joining Greg, Valerie and I. Ptah II, the cat was dispatched to a sealed room so he wouldn’t get out.

We worked the line, boxes were shifted from hand to hand to hand, in the front door, up the first flight of stairs than up the second flight of stairs.

Later in the day, I checked to make sure her back was okay. Barbara was sitting at the table pasting labels on the tubes. She’d done about 10. I left her to it.

Capturing Joy

He didn’t stand two feet high. His little blue shorts covered his knees leaving a small band of skin before his legs were hidden by grey socks that matched his T-shirt. His blond curls told of a mother not quite ready to relinquish her baby to little boyhood by taking him for his first haircut.

No matter how much the mother might want to keep him a baby, this child was ready to be a boy as he raced up and down, up and down, up and down, his legs looking like pistons in a speeding car with boys of seven and eight as they chased a white and black round football. In all their heads, I suspect, they were playing in the coming World Cup.

Despite the speed the older boys didn’t knock the little one over. By some miracle, the ball ended up his feet. Still unaware of the rules of the game, the child picked it up. The meaning of glee could never be better defined than on that child’s face.

He held the ball to his chest. The older boys paused. The little one threw it as hard as he could, but it only dribbled a few feet to where one of the boys put the ball back into play.

The little boy raised his hands over his head and resumed running a scream of exultation thrust from his heart.

Throwing out Gourmet

When I moved my things to Europe in the late 1980s, I moved a stack of Gourmet magazines from 1985 to 1989. For years the magazine made lunchtime reading or rather rereading when I ate alone. Not only did they conjure up memories of my mother reading her Gourmet with lunch, but of my daughter bringing up the mail and debating throwing the magazine away to prevent me from whipping up some concoction that I had discovered between its pages.

Over the years I realized that many of the dreamed-off European destinations featured in the magazine I had visited and they were no longer exotic but ordinary.

Then in the last year, the pile sat there untouched. I didn’t try out any recipes. I knew them almost by heart.

So with my spring house cleaning they were consigned to the trash without the ceremony that they probably deserved.

When I was cleaning out my mother’s house after she died, I came across decades of Gourmets. In my goal of making it possible for my daughter to rid herself of all my personal property within a morning (or less), she will not be bothered by these memories of either my reading them, cooking from them, or her own desire to rid herself of them. However, I have no desire to make this clean out necessary for a long, long time.

Old Friends

I saw a lot of old friends the last two days. They were not human but my spring and summer clothes which I exchanged for my winter clothes, although it may have been a bit premature considering the cool temperatures.

Some I had forgotten like the red dress with the uneven hem and the matching jacket, but I was looking forward to seeing the blue Pakistani two-piece pants and tunic.

I washed them. I listened to two discs of Notre Dame de Paris as I ironed. Frollo cursed being in love with Esmeralda as I finished my blue and white provincial skirt. As she pined for Phoebus I ironed my floral pants. Quasimodo, Phoebus and Frollo all sang about her beauty as I steamed creases into my white pants.

Instead of a chore, it became a pleasant day, even more so, because as I filled my closet in category then rainbow order, I realized that I was indeed lucky. I have more then enough of clothes that I love, that I don’t need to buy anything new this year.

batons

It has always amazed me how we commercialize ordinary things so to do something that people have been doing since people became people. One thing I thought was exempt was walking. WRONG.

Walkers now need to buy “batons” two ski poles like sticks. They cost about 50 CHF and I see people wakjing with these sticks. The American church in Geneva was promoting a group walk and people were reminded to bring their “batons”.

Often when I walk in the woods, I find fallen sticks that work perfectly. Why would anyone in the right mind no matter how rich spend money to buy batons is beyond my comprehension.

RIP Clarabelle

Clarabelle the clown is dead. That won't mean much to anyone who didn't grow up in the US and watched Howdy Doody. My father claimed to once have ridden in an elevator with the clown. He never spoke, just honked his horn. If it were a French or Swiss obit it would read, "Clarabelle has honked for the last time."

Did Bush hire the KBG and Stasi pros?

Everyone who knows me, knows I am a news junkie. I scan papers from the US, Canada, UK, Israel, Switzerland, France, India, Pakistan and Australia almost daily. I also get google alerts on certain topics around Iraq and the military.

I do know each source has to be taken with a grain of salt as proven by the US papers accepting the Bush administration’s WMD claims while some like Scott Ritter were jumping up and down and saying, they aren’t any, there aren’t any. He was more or less ignored. Editor and Publisher does a fairly good job on reporting on reporting.

The following came from Al-Jazeerah's webs site. Although the West decries the station as being anti-American most of my Arab friends refer to it as a CIA tool, which makes me tend to give it a bit more credibility since both sides question their independence.

“It should be noted that on March 17, 2003 Bush hired "the former head of the KGB (the secret police of the former Soviet Union), General Yevgeni Primakov," as a consultant to the US Department of Homeland Security.

"Primakov joined another Russian, Oleg Kalugin, KGB (Ret) with the Department of State Security, also as a part of Homeland Security. On January 1, 2005 Kalugin was replaced with the infamous and sinister Silver Fox himself (his former CIA code name), Gen. Markus Wolf. "Wolf was the head of the international intelligence gathering arm (HVA) of East Germany's Ministry for State Security, or Stasi.” This went a long way toward perfecting the spying and wiretapping of the entire USA, and insured that Americans would become the next victims of State Terrorism ala the USSR and Communist East Germany.”

I don’t know if it is true to not, but I did mail it to a number of liberal reporters, senators and congressmen. With the new revelations about the NSA and ordinary American phone records anything is possible and someone should look into it.

America is probably safer from terrorists at this point than it is from its own government. It is probably safer from terrorists than it is from its water, pollution, and health system.

I picked up an interesting quote the same day. It said Congress should resign and let the immigrants take over because immigrants do the jobs Americans don’t want to do. As far as oversight and protecting the American people the Congress isn’t doing its job with or without the KBG and Stasi.

Killing Time

I had four hours to kill while my laptop was being fixed. It made no sense to make the trek back to Corsier so I decided to…

1. Eat Tex-Mex food.

2. Sit on a bench in the sun and read the IHT and listen to the sounds of a sax drifting down from a window above the square where I was sitting. According to the stone on the building a sculpture and a writer once lived there.

3.Go See Marie Antoinette which was blazoned all over the movie theatre. Sadly in small print was the real movie Keeping Mum, but I paid anyway and was the only one in theatre.

4. Pay some bills at the bank. There are lobby machines for making transfers and the forms are nationalized for all banks and for the postal accounts.

The computer was just finished as I walked back into the computer. Not a bad day.

Tears ran down my cheeks

I wasn’t crying from sadness but from the beauty that was attacking me from all sides.

My housemate and I were in the mountains of Valais where she has a chalet. Part of the weekend was to relax and part was to escape the party her son was planning with his friends to celebrate their finishing their exams for the “Bac” the exam all kids need to take to show they finished their high school studies.

Les Marécottes is a tiny village and a ski station, but with only one hotel. It lacks the chichi atmosphere of Gstaad. No Hermes stores are here and you couldn’t find an Yves St. Laurent anything if your life depended on it. Most of the chalets are occupied by real Swiss whose families lived here for generations. One tiny chalet even looks like Heidi’s grandfather could be occupying it and I half expected goats to be nibbling at the lawn with Peter following behind. Much of the wood in the chalets is old and smells of sunshine and caramel.

www.tiscover.ch/ch/guide/1524ch,de,SCH1/objectId,RGN1584ch/home.html

My morning’s walk was out of the village into the forest. Trails all over this country are marked by 18x4 inch yellow arrows giving the name of the next town and the estimated time it takes to walk there. My first night in Switzerland when I was searching for the company flat in Môtiers I thought the time was for driving, but I learned the real reason quickly when I arrived in 10 minutes while the sign said 40 and I wasn't speeding.

I chose the trail to Les Granges. Within minutes the village was replaced by woods. Although I could still hear cowbells, there was no sounds of cars. The wind rustled and bird song kept silence at bay. All kinds of birds were chorusing. One gave a come-here baby whistle while another did the ha-ha-ha-ha of a soprano warming up for her performance at La Scala. They were accompanied by the drumming of a woodpecker or woodpeckers.

I passed a stream racing down hill over rocks. The water from melting snow added its music to the birds as it tumbled and fell to the valley below. I dipped my hand into it, and was instantaneously taken back to Maine waters where skin turns blue in minutes. The taste was the imagined freshness in the adverts for bottle waters that never quite live up to expectations. This water surpassed expectation.

As I looked up through the trees the soft yellow of the beech trees intermingled with the dark green of the pines I saw tan/brown pine cones that still hadn’t fallen from last year and the deep blue of the sky. When I turned in another direction, I saw a snow-covered mountain through the vista of trees.

Grey boulders, some the size of chalets, some more like pieces of furniture were in between the trees and the leaf covered ground. Moss added yet another shade of green to the scene.

Along the edge of the path dandelions, miniature daisies and buttercups bloomed. I am not good at wildflower identification, but there were also flowers that looked like lilies-of-the-valley only painted a deep yellow. Mingled in between were light purple flowers on a stalk. Flitting between them all was a white butterfly with the edge of its wings painted like a woman would line her eyes.

That was when I found myself crying. There was too much sun, too much colour, too much fresh air too much naturalness to not be swept up in a tsunami of feeling. A feeling of great fortune that not only was I experiencing this moment, but I lived close enough to it that I could recapture it with a small car or train trip. I didn’t have to plan a holiday for months and save up airfare. I was here.

Not quite jaded yet

In many ways I’ve been museumed out. Having had a membership to the Museum of Fine Arts for years, been through most of Boston’s museums, many of London’s and Paris’s as well as visiting special exhibitions in New York, Boston, London, Paris and Geneva I have seen the work of all the great artists. Not all the work, but enough. This does not mean that I don’t appreciate their work, nor does it mean that I will never go to another museum. It is just the excitement of standing in front of a Renoir, a Picasso or a Rembrandt is no longer a novelty. A Chardin can still excite me, however. For some reason if there are a 100 paintings in a room I will be pulled to one of his.

And give me an unusual museum such as the Writer’s Museum in Edinburgh, the Olympic Museum in Lausanne or a patchwork quilt museum in Roussillon, or the Cluny Museum in Paris, and I can get shivers.

However when my hostess in les Marécottes suggested we go down the mountain to Martigny to see the Rodin and Claudel exhibition, I was content to go, not excited but definitely pleased.

One of the things that spoiled me in having a membership at the MFA and being in walking distance that it was possible to go in and look at just a few things and really absorb them rather than be inundated with the entire art world.

I had been to the Rodin Museum in Paris. Besides the art work I saw Lionel Jospin strolling in the garden while photographers snapped his photo that later appeared in Paris Match. He still lost the presidential race to Le Pen who lost to Chirac. In the eighties I’d enjoyed the film Camille (pronounced Cammy by the French) Claudel with Isabelle Adjani and Gérard Depardieu. I had seen both sculptors work in the Musée D’Orsay. Even for a person museumed out, their work was certainly worth a look-see.

The Musée Pierre Giandana is built on the site of Roman ruins. Although it is small, its exhibitions are of world quality. This was no exception. Despite a large crowd, there was milling around room. I've given web sites below.

I’ve always thought Claudel the better sculptor despite her subsequent madness. What I didn’t realize that she had done a number of small sculptors that made me think of her as the Mary Cassatt of stone. One was a woman in front of a fireplace, a second showed women gossiping and a third in green marbles had frolicking naked bathers about to be washed away by a wave. All three washed away any jaded points of view. They were breath stealing.

When I was at the Fragonnard museum in Grasse, I preferred the paintings of his daughter which were more homey than his grandiose classical ones. And then I realized what I like in art, including in Chadin is the homey, the woman cutting, bread, women sipping tea anything that shows daily life.

I have often wondered how art would have developed without Christianity. Okay we would live in a Madonnaless world (with the exception of the singer). And I am sure battles would have been painted and portraits. But I wonder if there would be a greater understanding of how people lived throughout the ages captured on canvas.

http://www.martigny.ch/
http://www.gianadda.ch/
http://www.artcyclopedia.com/artists/chardin_jean-baptiste-simeon.html

Walking to the Wolf Hole

The sun shone despite the pouring rain the night before that made it cozy to stay inside the chalet and watch a stupid television program about 50 things that shocked the French, none of which I found that shocking.

My hostess suggested a walk. As soon as we turned the corner and looked up the mountain we could see where new snow had fallen while we slept. She led me through the forest paths, mostly up leaf-coated paths. We picked our way between boulders and stepped over roots.

To our left when we were about half way to the snow line we came across a man-made hole with rocks lining its sides. A moss covered bench was near the edge and the stump of a tree had a piece of paper sealed in plastic saying it was in that hole in 1826 that the last wolf had been caught and killed in Switzerland.

It is funny to know what happened on a certain day in a spot 180 years ago, especially when it is not a historical (except to the wolf) event that would ever end up in a history book. I am sure some of the descendents of the wolf killers are living in the chalets of this tiny village.

I wonder if the owners of the cows and goats held a celebration that their animals would be safe. What happened to the skin? Why was it the last wolf and what had happened to the rest of the pack? Was it a male or female wolf? These answers will stay unknown as will much of the lives of people fade into the past. But walking back I still imagined the villagers with the body of the wolf tied to the a stick and the stick balanced on the shoulders of the bigger men. I heard them whistling as I made my way back down the mountain.

Protection

In one advert four hockey places are skating stark naked. Their hockey sticks or legs cover there private parts and makes me wonder how many shots had to be taken for everything to be so strategically placed.

In a second advert two naked women are fencing.

The product?

Condoms. The copy says there are things you don’t do without proper protection.

Visiting Richard

The mist fell along the country lane. We had passed a big beige stucco farmhouse with gingerbread balconies like the kind found on jigsaw puzzles that used to be sold at Woolworth’s. As a child I never thought I would see the real Switzerland with out the jagged lines of a puzzle running through the scenery.

A stone wall was hidden in the underbrush to my right with an unbroken field with grass ready for haying on the other side. On the left were trees their leaves bent from the water.

If it were not for the lilacs and wisteria turning part of the world purple, it would have seemed more like late October or early November thanks to the chilled air.

The dirt path dipped past a cemetery.

“It’s hard to believe a village as tiny as Céligny has two cemeteries,” my writer friend said.

The second cemetery was tiny, less than 50 graves spaced in two rows sheltered by trees. We pushed the grey metal gate open. The sound of a small river could be heard in the distance.

I stood in front of one with the arm pit high menhir cut in half. Already the jagged stone was moss covered. This was the reason we came.

“The stone if from Wales,” my friend said.

There was a pot of red flowers and a second mud-splattered pink pot with greens. Pine boughs were piled at the front of the grave. Someone had laid an orange plastic heart next to the pots.

The name was in simple metal letters: Richard Burton with the dates of his birth and death. Hard to believe it was 22 years ago. Hard to believe a man that lived with such flamboyance and pursued by his own demons was buried in such simplicity.

He and Elizabeth Taylor had made this tiny village their home for many years. Stars like Switzerland because the Swiss don’t bother celebrities. Burton could stand in line at the pharmacy along with everyone else and no one would ask for an autograph.

I have always liked visiting graves of famous people. Years ago in Westminster Abbey standing by the tombs of Elisabeth I, Mary Stuart and Mary Tudor it was as if I had a personal introduction to these three strong women.

I’ve a stone next to my computer that was touching Collette’s tomb as a talisman to help me write. She is buried at Père La Chaize in Paris as is Oscar Wilde, Chopin and Jimmi Hendrix.

Years ago when my daughter was studying in Germany, she and her friends went to Paris and ended up at Père La Chaize. They stopped a guard to ask for Chopin’s tomb. The guard was thrilled. These teenagers wanted something other than Jimi Hendrix. Neither my daughter nor her friends wanted to ruin his joy and tell him that they had just come from Hendrix’s tomb.

We didn’t spend a long time in the cemetery. Instead we opened out umbrellas and walked back avoiding the puddles. In my mind I could hear the deep Welsh voice saying, “watch your step.”

http://switzerland.isyours.com/e/guide/lake_geneva/celigny.html

http://www.celigny.ch/

May Monster Madness

Switzerland is a conservative place where people do not want to stand out. Therefore walking down the streets of Nyon, I was surprised to see a young person come towards me in a gorilla costume, although the head was under his arm. Soon, punks, dancers, fairies, skeletons, a highlander in kilt, the Hulk and people in weird make up filled the small pedestrian center.

Even if the weather matched that of Halloween, it was still early May. The youngsters had to be early or late for trick or treating which is a relatively new phenomenon in Switzerland.

My writer friend explained that one of the schools had a costume day around exams to lighten the heaviness of studying.

May Monster Madness can be fun.

Protection is more than fighting terrorism

President Bush talks a lot about protecting Americans from terrorism.

However, there is so much more that Americans need to be protected from than terrorists.

1. Food. The standards and inspection of meat is below what other industrialized countries do. The results of GM foods are not known, but GM foods have gone into the regular diets. The long-term effects aren’t known.

2. Job losses. With outsourcing to other countries Americans are working more, earning less and afraid of complaining because companies can get their labor cheaper elsewhere.

3. Overwork. Americans work more than any other industrialized countries even Japan. Often they need to work two jobs to make ends meet.

4. Illness. No country can protect illness, but with 46 million uninsured for health care the health of the country is at risk. Despite claims that American is number 1 in health care, the World Health Organization rates America 35th. Cuba is 8th. France is 1st.

5. Chemicals. People are surrounded by chemicals with long-term effects not known. What are hair sprays, Teflon, plastics and hundreds of other contaminates doing to us. Europe is beginning to require testing.

6. Medicine. Drugs are no longer properly tested or monitored. Vioxx is not an isolated case. HRT once hailed as an answer for every woman is now being looked at again.

7. Truck drivers. No truck drivers are not rampaging but with the lessening of standards and the methods of free-lance hiring they can now drive to a point where they can present a hazard to themselves and others on the roads.

8. Air pollution. Standards for clean air are being diminished
Pollution. Standards for other pollutants in our ground and in our water are being lessened.

9. Credit. Americans have been so encouraged to spend that their personal finances are the worst in the industrialized world. Their savings have now gone into the negative numbers. One recent article claimed a percentage of all Americans owe more than they make in a year.

10. Being born. CNN just reported that America has the second worse infant mortality rate in the developed world. Latvia is the only country with a worse rate.

11. Child Poverty. Here we are number two again. Mexico is worse

12. Old age. With pensions being reduced, savings almost impossible and Social Security being attacked, will a little old man of 90 be expected to run a steam shovel?

13. The government. Spying on Americans can go beyond terrorism. It can discourage any dissent.

14. Dishonest or irresponsible companies. Since co-operations have the legal rights of people they should also have the responsibilities. Fines for misbehavior need to carry weight. A perfect example is the mining disaster in West Virginia compared to one in Canada which followed stringent standards. In West Virginia, people died. In Canada they lived.

15. Global warming. I can guarantee more horrendous weather this year. I won’t guarantee a terrorist attack although it is possible.

President Bush doesn’t seem to want to protect my friends and family from any of the items listed above which are far more likely to happen them a terrorist coming through

What's in a name

My daughter Llara blames all her faults on the fact that she was deprived of a Scooby stuffed animal during her childhood. No matter that as an adult she has a small collection of the beasts, she says the damage was done.

Her second laying on of maternal blame is on her name, mainly the double L. Having had a common name I wanted to make sure hers was an original. However, she has had to put up with being called Llama, Clara and Yara. Even when she sends for things that have her name on them they often come back wrong.

An article in the Swiss magazine Femina discusses how names identify us and can almost be a predictor of success. For example if two men with identical credentials named Charles and Robert, Charles (Pronounced Sharl in French) the Charles/Sharl will be more likely to advance up the corporate ladder (there are other factors like their army status but that wasn’t mentioned in the article).

Names were also considered an example of economic/social status. Côme (aristocracy) would never marry Beverly (non aristo), because they wouldn’t move in the same social circles so they would never meet, the article claimed.

Although I was never thrilled with my name, I will be forever grateful to the writer of a film that my mother saw a few nights before I was born. I was to be named Bonnie. The writer had called a cocker spaniel Bonnie. I am so un-Bonnie. My name as well as the name Bonnie are too Anglo to figure in Francophone name research.

Of course there are in-names each year. This year the most popular girl’s name in Switzerland is Sarah with various spellings and Matteo for boys. The popular of Sarah is attributed to the popularity of Sex and the City. Lara with one L was number 4. As my daughter suggested it is probably because of the Belgian singer Lara Fabian.

Men and laundry

In Neuchâtel there is a course for men on how to do laundry. Twenty men attended. They were asked why they wanted to do this.

Philippe, 41, says women learned how to do laundry from their mothers. Men didn’t.

Gilles and Claude, 65 and 73, never did a load of laundry in their lives nor wanted to. However when Gilles was asked to take things out of the dryer he was confused. He wanted to know how to do it. Claude thought he should learn in case… He didn’t say in case for what.

Fifty-five year old François wanted to learn how to do laundry in case his wife was in an accident.

It has always amazed me that any man capable of earning a living sometimes in highly complicated fields, can’t run household machinery or even manage to put a towel and his underwear in a basket.

A fish story

One of my more stupid thoughts as I was moving to Switzerland almost 16 years ago was how much I would miss fish. With major lakes scattered around the country, finding fresh fish is NOT a problem.

One of the national dishes is filet des perches, with several of the little critters laid out a plate. It is possible to get them fried, poached, cooked in butter, or done with various sauces. Tons are brought out of the lakes each year and grace the menus of most good restaurants. One of my favourites is in walking distance of the house and the other is only a couple of bus stops away.

However, this is May. No perch can be caught. They are busy making babies. I wonder if they breathe a sigh of relief as they go about their reproduction. Do they say to their dates, “Hey, let’s swim to Yvoire. No nets for the month.”

Regardless, I wish them fertility.

T-shirt politics

In between the American Library Spring Book sale and the Indian Festival in my old commune I had time to kill so I settled down in my beige favorite leather chair in a corner. The library is small, but has more reading matter than I could possibly keep up with. The staff is friendly and going there is almost like a visit to a well-loved relative.

“Oh, I love your shirt,” I heard the librarian say.

“It’s great,” the other volunteer on the desk said.

I heard other comments about it from the stacks.
Then he came by and I saw what they were talking about it.

It said, “Don’t blame me, I voted for Kerry.” I added my appreciation of it.

This is the new version of the popular bumpersticker during Watergate “Don’t blame me I’m from Massachsuetts” the only state NOT to vote for Nixon.

It makes me wish that Gore had been allowed to take office. There would be far less national debt, there would be more concern over the environment and over 2000 American soldiers would be alive and many more not traumatized or damaged from the violence they have had to wrought.

Also, if Gore had been president the man wouldn't need his T-shirt.

Colour coordination and eye rolls

If gold medals were given for eye rolling, my daughter would take the gold, especially if the contest were given for any discussion of colour. Llara accompanies the eye rolls with the words “Mother, Mother, Mother.”

Colours bombard me and I see patterns and shades that other people ignore. Therefore, I can match a miniscule stripe in my couch to five cross stitches in The Lady and The Unicorn tapestry Llara did for me.

I half wished she were on the Zürich-Genève train with me as I sat in the Elvintino dining car to have some Ceylon stick tea(www.sticktea.ch/presse.htm for a photo) and a croissant. As I took out my 10 CHF note, I noticed that part of the patterned yellow squares was exactly the same shade as the table cloth. I even folded the bill to hold them together to allow for the difference in material, paper and cloth. The yellow was a soft lemon with white and a touch of beige added. In my imagination, she was rolling her eyes across the ocean.

The waitress slammed my tea in front of me sloshing water out of the clear glass mug. The croissants were in a wicker basket saving her the work of having to give me one. She made no offer of butter or jam. I may be mistaken, but I thought I heard a growl.

A man in his late twenties or maybe early thirties, his hair slicked back, carrying a laptop asked me if any of the other three places at the table were frei. Ja, they were. I only chose a four-seater table because all the other eight tables were occupied.

The waitress deigned to take his order and slammed his coffee down. The meat on his meat and cheese breakfast platter almost did a Mexican bean jump when she put those down. He thanked her. She ignored him.

His eye roll would have rivaled even my daughter’s best. Maybe she had a bad morning, I said. He rolled his eyes again as he nodded. For a second I wondered what would happen if they had children. Eye left-up-right-down,left-up-right-down for eternity.

War Stories

I understand why veterans like to get together to talk about old times. We were three former colleagues and current friends who don’t see each other that much and we sat and had a meal of gaspacho, veal with a tuna caper sauce, and misc. desserts each more evilly caloricfic than the one before. And we hashed over our memories of an over-controlling boss intermingled with life that has gone on in the thirteen years since we worked together.

The normal “do you remembers” abounded with appropriate “oh yeahs” that would not have been out of place in a gospel service.

Despite the bad working conditions each of us have gone on to do what we want to do and if nothing else we all were able to move to Switzerland because of those days. O H Y E A H !

I lost Einstein

It is hard to understand how a St. Bernard puppy that comes to my hip can be misplaced, but I did it. This is a good size apartment in the mountains, three bedrooms, double living room and several balconies.

I was writing but periodically between paragraphs and P-runs I would check on the dog, make sure he had a cuddle or two.

It was cuddle time but the dog wasn’t on his rug. I called. Nothing.

I checked the bedrooms. Nothing.

I checked the balconies. Nothing.

I checked the kitchen and dining room. Nothing

I looked in the two bathrooms. Nothing.

He did not respond to my increasingly frantic calls.

Since he isn’t a jumper I wasn’t worried he had jumped over the balcony. He is a lover not a climber.

The front door was closed, but when we came in from the last P-run the phone had rung. Had I left the door open and he had left and then the door closed by a breeze.

Telling his mother who loves him to a point that if she lit candles and incense by his mat I wouldn’t be surprised was not something I wanted to do. Shooting myself, going on the lam for the rest of my life would be preferable.

He wasn’t in the hall. I ran down the five flights of stairs. The front door was open. No Einstein.

A group of pre-teen age boys on their Easter break were lounging around on mopeds.

“Haben Sie Ein Grossen Hundchen sehen,” I asked trying to remember my more than rusty German as well as the German name for St. Bernard. It is the national dog afterall. I held my hand to my hip. They guessed the breed. “Er ist nicht mein. Er ist ein baby." They took off in different directions yelling, “Einstein.” They made bigger and bigger circles. Nothing.

He is such a beautiful dog visions of dognappers danced in my head.

I ran to the biggest road but thank God, there was no body.

I walked back upstairs waiting to make the dreaded call to my friend, who I suspected was about to be my ex-friend if I was allowed to live. I told one of the boys in German and French (we determined that as a backup language) that I was on the top floor if they found Einstein.

I walked back into the apartment. I glanced at the bathroom. In the doorway Einstein gave me, “so where were you” look.

Where was he?

Later he went missing again. This time I found him hiding behind the bathroom door.

As I write this up, he is asleep half in the sun and half in the shade. It is a beautiful sight as is the fact, that I don’t have to hide out and bare the guilt of losing a good friend’s beloved pet.

The toilet installer spoke Italian and German. I speak French and English and much of my German is buried deep in my database.

However when he finished, he gave me a guided tour of the new electronic toilet and I understood, Ich verstehe.

1. It senses when you sit down and turns itself on.
2. There are controls both by the toilet and it has a remote.
3. A special button flushes it.
4. Another button causes a metal hose to descend to a strategic location and spurts water.
5. Temperature, flow and pulse of the washing device can all be controlled by buttons.
6. Seats go down automatically.

Now I have to admit I miss the hose for washing that goes with each Syrian toilet I used. And I do like the water conservation of many toilets here that you can choose either a big or little flush.

I’ve heard people refer to toilets as The Throne, but this throne would impress even the most imperious of monarchs.

Voting in Switzerland

Just got back from a Radical (centre right fiscal, centre left social) Party meeting to which all foreign voters were invited to introduce them to their party in particular. There are seven main political parties here.

In Swiss Romand (French speaking section) foreigners can vote in local but not Federal elections. We represent 33% of the canton and 48% of the city.

The speakers kept saying giving us the (foreigners) right to vote wasn't a gift, we are giving Switzerland a gift with our new ideas and contributions to the society and culture.

I am still hoping my last and hopefully final interview next month for my citizenship which will give me the right to vote at all levels. The right to vote is sacred, a viewpoint passed down to me not only from my family but from my Boston neighbour Kelley who made sure you voted each election or she wanted to know why and it better be good.

One man from Ethiopia who has been here since the 1960s stood up and said almost in tears that he has never had a chance to vote in his life and he was so appreciative of the right. He had tears running down his cheeks.

People died so I could vote. People died so I could live in a democracy. I owe them to take my responsibilities of keeping that democracy alive my vote.

Jesus Loves me

Jesus Loves Me...a song we all sang. Against it are beautiful pictures. Take a look and be proud.

http://peacetakescourage.cf.huffingtonpost.com/animations/wwjd.html

Snails, sun, snow drops, snow at St. Cergue

“I think the picnic is still worth it,” my writer friend said. She is the mother of my two favourite little girls ages three and five. I agreed despite the peek-a-boo sun and she picked me up shortly after.

The drive up the mountain to St. Cergue is twisty. We were surprised that patches of snow still existed and even more surprised that in between them snow drops both purple and white bloomed. (http://www.st-cergue.ch/photos.htm only take away about 85% of the snow and put in grass and flowers). The temperature left us comfortable with jackets, although both little girls operating on a more powerful heating system shed theirs.

We crossed a stone wall that would have done Robert Frost proud and settled on our blue quilted blanket for our chicken in tortilla sandwiches. There was lots of healthy cheese, tomatoes, juice and cukes, but a less healthy chocolate Easter bunny saw his last moments.

The area was deserted with clumps of pine and we walked along the wall to find all kinds of treasures from walking sticks to snail shells and even an earring in the shape of a violet was put into a pocket to be taken home for washing. They discovered things I would never have and their enjoyment was boundless and contagious.

I dare you to watch this

It is painful to watch the clip - An Iraqi writhes on the ground. Bullets are fired. He is still. “We got him.” Cheers and yahoo. Pure glee. Then a clean faced youth that should be taking his girl to a movie says, “That was awesome, let’s do it again.”

Watch it if you dare then ask yourself if you are doing everything possible to stop the war for the sake of our troops whose souls we are killing never mind the Iraqis who never did anything us.

It’s the Dahr Jamil’s article subject to the penalty of death.
http://www.truthout.org/docs_2006/042506A.shtml

Katie Curic is traumatized

One of the great things about the internet is that I can always listen to videos of programs like Meet the Press.

There are others. Yesterday I listened to one from the Today show where Katie Curic talked about being traumatized by trying on bathing suits. This is the same woman that Dan Rather said must show seriousness about news.

Anyone who is traumatized by a bathing suit probably should get a good dictionary and look up the word traumatized. A person who has had their house bombed in Iraq is traumatized. Probably the victims of genocide who have survived in Sudan are traumatized. The Pakistanis still living in tents months after the earthquake are traumatized.

If Katie is traumatized at a bathing suit, I suggest she not anchor the news and they get a real reporter in who understands the real world’s problems.

More about the Dissipated Santa Claus

Scott made dinner last night, roesti, the Swiss version of homefries. As we listened to music, ate the talked, I mentioned the Dissipated Santa Clause street person I’ve written about. He knew of him, and said he thinks he is a former professor of philosophy who has deliberately chosen this as a life style. It explains the reading. I am tempted to talk with DSC, but I am not sure I wouldn’t be intruditing. On verra. We will see.

Back to may favourite marché

For almost 11 years at least two Saturdays a month found me out of the house early to go the Ferney-Voltaire outdoor marché. Marché shopping is fun where grocery shopping is boring. So much better to taste a bit of cheese, talk about which is the best honey for a cake than to drop stuff into a shopping cart with nary a human communication in the process.

People who did not realise that I lived on the Swiss side of the Swiss-French border but just four short bus stops from the French border didn’t quite understand if I said, I was going to France for coffee, dinner, leave my dry cleaning whatever. However, now I live the other side of the lake and dropping into the marché isn’t as convenient as it was before.

This past Saturday I was meeting a friend, who lives in Ferney. What a delight to march through the marché again. It takes about an hour to wander through looking at all the out door stalls and tables, some with gay awnings and coloured umbrellas that surround the statue of Voltaire who peers down in metal britches, stockings and buckled shoes. http://www.ferney-voltaire.net/en/visites.php

The first block is mainly clothes, jewellery, soaps, cloth, pocketbooks. Then come several blocks of all kinds of food from roasting chickens, to bread that was in the oven hours before. In Saturday’s spring sunshine, the smell of strawberries wafted out. A man showed me his spring onions and said they had been picked last night after dinner.

All French towns have marchés one or two mornings a week, run by farmers, artisians, and small business people, but this one will always be my favourite.

My daughter when she lived in Geneva often went with me and one day, she started to laugh as we crossed the last street before the roads were blocked for the marché. “What is it?” I asked.

“We’re in France, right?”

I nodded.

“Look at the license plates.”

I did. Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, France, Geneva Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva.

And this day I was reminded of it because as I wandered around, I ran into old colleagues and other people I know from the other side of the border.

The First Picnic of the Season

The day was such that staying inside would have been a crime. Flowers were in abundance, their colours translucent int he sun. My girlfriend and I decided the only thing to do was to go on a picnic. Having stocked up on pâté, cheese, olive bread, artichoke-olive-sun-dried-tomato-celery-salad and grapes we headed off to find the for the perfect spot.

A small river runs through two small villages on the French/Geneva border and we walked the trail along the banks until we found a place for feast and blanket. The river was filled with melted snow and it sang to us as it foamed and rushed over rocks.

The sun, filtering through the trees, warmed us.

My friend will be in a play and we went over her lines. She is a good actress. Every now and then hikers would come by and a couple in hip boots and with fishing poles tried their luck in the river.

Water in rivers has a certain smell that cleans the mind as well as the nostrils.

This spring, maybe because it arrived both late and suddenly, seems worth some pagan celebration. I suppose we could have danced naked along the river bank, but we didn't. The image is better without bare feet stumbling on sticks and stones.

La Doublure

I love French movies. The theatre at Ferney-Voltaire was showing La Doublure (http://www.allocine.fr/film/video.html?cfilm=59303 for a clip) has all the elements of an unfaithful husband, a clever wife and cleverer mistress. The director is the same man who did Huit Femmes, which to me was one of the best French films in years. http://www.allocine.fr/film/video.html?cfilm=59303 for a clip. If you have problems try googling for the film title and allocine

If that wasn’t enough moving, we then went home and watched the video of Snow Falling on Ceders. No complaints. Like you can never have too much chocolate (unless you are a dog named Vixen or Albert) you can never watch too many movies.

Accents

Okay, when I speak French, there is no doubt as my daughter would say, my accent sucks out loud, but I get through.

Friday night I spent with my Indian friends. The couple was going to a dance recital in Bern and although their teenage daughter is capable of being left alone, they knew they would be more relaxed if an adult were in the house.

I arrived in the late afternoon and was greeted by a gaggle of teenage girls preparing for a party all who go to the International School. I have long been used to the fact that Nandita’s chums can be from any country and over the years I’ve met, Latvian, Indian, Korean, French, etc. little girls. Now they aren’t quite so little.

The next day Nandita said two of the girls were American. “They knew you were from Boston,” she told me. I had said one sentence something about not wanting to disturb them. I wasn’t surprised. If my French accent is terrible, I do a great Bostonian accent and that’s without trying.

Where my ancestor walked

A while back looking for my missing brother on the web I came across my father's and step mom’s names to find the complete history of the family going back to their settlement in the early 1600s in Canada http://free.hostdepartment.com/a/aclinks/fam00105.htm

The Boudreaus (Boudrots) arrived on the continent a few years before my mother’s (Stockbridges) in 1636, which is a shame that my mother didn’t know. My mother thought of my father’s family as foreigners and newcomers although they didn’t get down to New England until the Depression and Boudreau was definitely an unWASP name for our New England Yankee community.

Then tonight while staying with the Indian family to be there for Nandita when she herself got home from a party, I started going back though the list until I found the village in France where the Boudreaus migrated from.

Lordy, Lordy, it has a website: http://www.ville-larochelle.fr/ Sometime before the end of the year, I think I’ll go and have a look-see. The writer part of me wonders what Michel Boudrot would have thought when he sailed off for the new world to know that almost 400 years later his descendent would walk down the same streets he walked down, albeit with a bit more traffic

Eating outdoors

The red table cloths matched the tulips that grew from the cement planters surrounding the Auberge’s terrace. Leaves on the ivy against the stucco walls were just beginning to bloom.

My writer friend and I chose a grilled fish that was brought on a copper plate. The owner deftly filleted the fish, filled our plates with rice and fennel placed in stripes and served it with a fresh pepper and coriander sauce.

The sunshine was too refreshing after the winter to hide under any umbrella. None of the other diners wanted shade either. We couldn’t imagine their conversation was as much fun as ours as we delved into conflict in writing and what should and shouldn’t be in first drafts, but that was probably because we are so passionate about our subject. Still I hope they were as passionate about theirs.

Dessert was seven different ice creams all made by the restaurant, served on a ceramic painter’s pallet with each ball served in an indentation.

This was the first outdoor meal of the season after a winter that went on too long.

Accidental Cinema

I didn’t mean to go to the movies. After three days of self-imposed exile (everyone was gone out of the house) and with a writing schedule that I deliberately slowed to nothing, I was using the time just to be… to wake up and feel the sheets under me, to listen to the birds sing and Munchkin clack at them.

Today, I decided I needed Texmex and headed to town, the first day a jacket wasn’t necessary. The colors were breathtaking from the yellow forsythia and dandelions to the purple pink cherry blossoms.

The dissipated Santa Claus was in his usual place, surrounded by his shopping carts, sans his girlfriend, but engrossed in a book.

At the bus change I saw Nigel, who used to work for me, then took over my team while I went onto other projects. He later quit because he didn’t want to work for a while, a man I can respect for taking time to be. However, he was dressed in a suit, shirt and tie and admitted sadly he was working again.

All the cafés and restaurants had their tables filled with people in shirt sleeves.

The Texmex was as good as I thought it would be and as I wandered back to walk by the lake I saw the movie at Chantepoulet was The Secret Life of Words. No writer can resist a title like that, especially with Tim Robbins in the starring role. The film was starting in minutes.

This is what film making is all about. Excellent, Excellent, Excellent…

The walk

Munchkin is the world’s best barometer. On a bad day she centers herself on my bed giving out illness-producing looks to anyone who would dare suggest she move. On a good day she can’t get out fast enough to consort with Goose, the neighbor’s cat, and keep the garden free from footed and winged critters.

Today her purr woke me and she did that two-legged walk she has so perfected to lead me to the door.

Her accuracy was right on, and I decided to take advantage of this holiday and do something I’d been meaning to do since I moved almost two years ago – walk from Corsier to Geneva.

Walking allows you to see what isn’t visible from a bus. A pansy face is more intense up close. A toad is only visible when walking, but it also conjured up memories of my daughter at 18 months when after work each night she wanted to go to a place that toads gathered, a reptilian conference so to speak. Llara would hunker down and the toads of all ages held her attention for up to 15 minutes. I learned more about toads that summer than before or after.

Today it was ladybirds/bugs that littered the sidewalk and I was careful to step around. Two seemed attached like a double lorry as they ran in tandem. I wondered if it were some kind of mating ritual.

One of the mansions along the lake, turned out to be four apartments probably broken up a while back. Up close I could examine the details of the villas and chalets that the bus rushed by.

And I could smell the water as the boats bobbed on the surface.

The walk took about an hour and a half and I did catch the bus back. Coming back to the house Munchkin was no where to be seen. She obviously was not ready to let go of being outside.

Easter surprise

My Easter surprise had nothing to do with eggs but with the telephone. After a wonderful dinner in Payerne, I headed home and before my coat was off the phone began to ring. Each call was nicer then the one before, old friends and family wishing me a nice Easter. However the absolutely best was from Czech and my old neighbors and friends.

So often in Geneva people do not bother to make friends with people because so many are transient. Some feel why put in the work if people will jsut disappear after three, four, ten years.

On the bus last night I heard two people tell their friends they were moving back to Norway (their common language was accented English) after being here over 25 years was a reminder of the ever changing nature of the human climate.

My theory is that is better to have friends for three or four years then miss them rather than not knowing them at all. But just because people move, doesn’t mean a friendship has to end. I am amazed how many people have stayed in touch with regular phone calls, card, letter, e-mails and/or visits. Yes, it is different then when people are in dropping in distance, but the richness can be preserved and new memories can be made.

The Couple Czech was always extra special in my heart. Our communications were sometimes in French, sometimes in English, never in their language and it involved lots of shared meals, shared laundry nights, diplomatic bread which was bread they had flown in from Prague in the diplomatic pouch and totally different from what I could buy locally. Half a loaf would be left on my door, half they would eat. She made baked goods that would earn her a post in any pattiserie and he loved my peanut butter cookies.

This is the couple that one of my chins would have moved in with in a shot. I always knew when they were home because Mika planked himself down in front of their door and had to be physically carried to our own flat. When they retired back home they left a hole, although the Indian couple that moved in also became special, special friends. That is the way in Geneva.

Since they moved the Couple Czech and I’ve stay in touch. I have visited Prague, they have come back. Today I was thinking of them and Florian had asked about them. I made a mental note to buy a card and send it. (I had talked to their son by email not that long before) As if by ESP they knew and called. The man explained they hadn’t been in touch for a little longer than usually because the wife had had cancer but waited until everything looked like it was going to all right. Their son hadn’t wanted to tell me about his mother.

We caught up on the news. The warmth was almost as good as when they lived two doors down the hall, but not quite only because I would have loved to see their faces (and perhaps sample one of her pastries). Still it reminded me of the important of taking the effort to stay in touch and that moving away doesn’t mean friendships have to suffer. They just change format. What that format is depends on those involved.

Yup, the phone call was better than any huge black chocolate Easter Bunny.

He has a girlfriend

The street person looks like a dissipated Santa Claus (DSC). He “lives” on a small island in the middle of traffic crossroads at Place Eaux Vives where a small chalet houses a news stand. On one side, under an overhang is a long wooden bench. DSC has stored his two shopping baskets filled with his treasures there, and they provide some privacy for him when he stretches out on his blankets to sleep.

During the cold weather he was often huddled there on and under blankets. Sometimes he leaves his baskets. I am not sure why the owner of the newsstand hasn’t had his stuff carted away when DSC isn’t there, but it hasn’t happened in the months that I have ridden past on the E bus.

No matter what the temperature, his pants are always cut off at his knees and his red legs only add to the Santa Claus image. I’ve never seen him with alcohol, but I have seen him sit there watching traffic with a smile. Sometimes he is in other parts of town without his shopping baskets.

Geneva does not have a lot of street people in compared to other major cities, but this isn’t why he stands out. He carries a sense of dignity within the small home he has established.

Today when I passed he was sitting with a woman with long gray straggly hair and poorly dressed. They were holding hands. It made me feel good.

The lyrics to a Christine Lavin song beat in my head.

I was standing on 6th Avenue at the corner of 53rd Street
Waiting for the bus
Token in my hand
Thinking about Dinner and what I would eat
That's when I saw him all dirty and ragged
Begging for nickles and dimes
I got on the bus
Rolled away
But one thing stayed in my mind.

He once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced him on her knee
Do you think she has any idea
What her little boy's grown up to be?

I was walking through riverside park
On a beautiful afternoon
Telling my neighbor about the vacation
I planned to be taking soon
That's when I saw her all dirty and ragged
Drinking a bottle of wine
I turned my head
Walked right on by
But one thing stayed in my mind.

She once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced her on his knee
Do you think he has any idea
What his little girl has turned out to be?

In the back of a checker cab stopped at a light
Heading toward Broadway
To see the latest critically acclaimed
Pulitzer Prize winning play
That's when I saw them outside the shelter
Forming a ragged line
We pulled away
I didn't look back
But one thought stayed in my mind.

They once were somebody's babies
But somewhere their lives went all wrong
Next time you see them don't think the worse
Why not try to think of this song?

Memories of Motier

When I was first in Switzerland I lived in Môtiers, a tiny village in the Vals de Travers between Neuchâtel and the French border. I describe it as having 600 people, 6000 cows and 6 million flowers, which was more or less accurate and as a city girl I fell in love with country life. Never before had I been awakened to cow bells as their bearers marched down the street on their way to pasture next to where I was living.

Today I found its website http://www.motiers.ch/ and I was transported back to the village with its fête des fountains (check out the photo with the gnomes – it is on top of a fountain) where once a year each neighbourhood decorates the fountain closest to it. I could almost hear the waterfall where Jean-Jacques Rousseau pondered weighty topics. I visited the cave where champagne was distilled in the old abbey. Before a dinner party I would lead guests to it and we would sample what I would buy for our apero. And I saw the fields where my chins Albert and Amadeus played. I couldn’t help remember the time they routed out a soldier hiding behind a hay roll as part of his military exercises. Less pleasant was the memory of Albert fresh from his bath rolling in a fresh cow patty. He was proud of his new odor, I rebathed him.

Today has been a day lived in my imagination and memory. Tomorrow I will live once again in real time. But then, I may also take a real-time visit to the village and stock up on my Mauler & Cie champagne even if it can’t call itself champagne officially it tastes just as good.

Imaginary Farmhosue

The marché de puce (flea market) is every Wednesday and Saturday at Plainpalais, http://www.smpg.ch/FR/Histoire/French_Frame.htm but I hadn’t been there in years. Why I woke with an urge to go is beyond me, but then again why not?

Do look at the web site with its photos because the feel is very much the same and with the gray day even the sepia seems realistic.

As I walked among the furniture and dishes I mentally bought for my imaginary farm house that I have furnished and decorated then refurnished and decorated over the years.

The house itself is real. Robbert and I found it in one of our wanderings in the Pontalier region of France just over the Swiss/France border from where we lived. It backed up to a rock cliff and had a stream running by.

It was easy to imagine tables and chairs on the tiled side garden with fresh tomato salad from my own garden flavoured with olive oil and my hand-picked basil that grew with abundance next to my string beans.

In my imagination I bought the old wooden bread trough that probably had been at some bakers and a cupboard for the upstairs bedroom that would hold some of the antique linen. There was even a person selling old fashioned nightgowns that would have to be worn in my imaginary home.

Clear glass and hand painted with flowers cups, low and long, would be wonderful for fresh cold berry soup also to be served outside. The berries would come from the patch next to the house where my two Japanese chins would play. This time they would be a girl and boy named Tristan and Isolde.

There as no danger the two-foot copper plate with JFK in the middle would hang in the hallway (I saw the plate in a box in front of one stall with each item for sale more ghastly than the one before), between the two Queen Anne style chairs with maroon fabric that I did buy mentally.

There were fewer vendors than normal, for the Cirque du Soleil was stationed in the middle of the field. I half wondered what the performers sleeping in their trailers with their satellite dishes on the roof felt with the hubbub around them. Their curtains were drawn so there was no way to see in.

The sky darkened, and I headed for the tram. I love my imaginary farm house and it in no way reflects a dislike of anything in my current life. One of its main advantages is that it never needs cleaning, the plumber would always show up on time IF it were to need a plumber, which would never happen, the beds make themselves automatically and nothing is ever out of place while it has the warmth of a lived in home. Just like my imaginary Japanese chins never shed.

If I were to become extremely wealthy, which is not likely, I just might try and turn my imaginary farm house into a real one, but then again, I might not. I am so content with what I do have, that I doubt if much would change. Besides, the fun of an imaginary place is it is just that.

Beauty

Friday was so beautiful that it was almost painful to look at. Snow capped Jura rose over the lake being crossed by a lone Easy Jet plane on its way to Cointrin airport. The apple orchard shook out the first of its white blossoms that resembled flickering candlelight more than full blooms as they danced in the early morning breeze. The cloudless sky was blue while the grass shone in multitudes of shades of green.

Thank goodness the vineyards hadn’t begun to sprout leaves leaving their tortured branches as a small reminder that perfection isn’t possible. Still even with their twisting and turning, they represented a form that would do a bonsai designer proud.

I had chosen to walk up the hill to the post office even though everything is closed for the four-day Easter weekend. If I weren’t a writer, I would say tighter than a drum, but that is a cliché. Since I’ve just been reading old fashioned mystery novels let me try tighter than a size 34 blouse on a dame with a 36D bust. No one else was around, just me and beauty. A gift.

Walking, more than exercise

The walk was familiar from my old apartment house to my old office. For almost ten years I was able to walk to and from work, taking about 20 minutes to do so.

I had stayed last night with former neighbors, enjoying catching up with the news and basking in the warmth of their friendship and hopefully sending out some of my own.

I was meeting a former colleague for lunch.

There are two routes to my old office, one that is grassy with a short cut through a mini wood. Since the cherry tree in front of ILO still isn’t in bloom, I opted for the Route de Ferney, more heavily trafficked and the one I used to use when I walked in the dark. However, I still passed the field with the horses, and I noticed chives were sticking up along the side of the road. Nestled between them were violets, my favourite flower.

Although it hasn’t been that long since I stopped working, the new WIPO building has wiped out a vacant lot where trees sprouted mushrooms that would make seats for elves with weight problems or dwarfs without. The two-story, three-legged chair symbolizing the damage of land mines is gone as a huge redevelopment project is taking place in front of the UN.

The temperature was good.

After lunch I continued walking downtown to finish the rest of my errands enjoying each flower along the way. Nothing spectacular but excellent for inner peace. And I will go back in a week or so to catch that cherry tree, and again a week later. Whenever it sheds its blossoms it looks as if there had been a pink snowstorm.

Geneva is number 2

The list of the best places in the world to live is out. Zurich is 1st, Geneva is 2nd and Vancouver 3rd.

My writer friend and I discussed the quality of life in Geneva over lunch in a pub-like restaurant with long planked wooden floors and couches surrounding tables. Because it was the noon rush we were seated on each side of the bar. She had salmon tartare and I had a poulet tangine with couscous and lots of veggies and we split the gateau du chocolate de la maison (which if the judges had eaten any would have pushed Geneva into the number one spot.)

We decided that over all it is the basic respect people show each other as part of the culture. The excellent transportation system, clean and safe streets, good education system, fine hospitals (and universal health care although paid for by the residents is affordable--but universal health care exists in all but one industrialized country so that couldn't have been a factor.). Of course we can find scandals and mistakes like anyplace but the best way to summarize Geneva in particular and Switzerland in general, it works better than it doesn’t and it works better than most. The judges who decided the best places in the world to live must have thought so for at least two of our cities.

Masks

I had seen the posters advertising the masque display at the Barbier-Mueller Musée but hadn’t really thought about going until one of my writer friends suggested it. The museum is in the Vielle Ville, nestled in an ancient building where Calvin could have tapped his cane on his way to his church.

A noted poet was asked to write a poem for each mask and they came from all over the world. His words captured the essence of each one. Not only were we entranced but we quickly noticed that those from Papua or New Zealand were always elongated, while the oriental ones were rounded. One looked as if it were made of fine gold threads. We grew better at guessing the locations of each.

“Guess where this one is from.” My friend covered the location. It was horrible with horns and vampire style teeth and it looked out of place. I guessed wrong. Ohio 1960s. There were other American masks, a baseball umpire’s, protection for soldiers in combat, one for a diver and another for miners. They looked out of place with those that were for theatre, marriage, religious rituals and carnivals. But we thought about it and maybe our rituals are war and sports.

Neither of us could remember if American Indians had masks, although there were several from Alaska. We thought maybe they could have included carnival masks from New Orleans, but they did not have any of the carnival masks from Venice either.

We’ve decided to create a mask that is symbolic of how we see ourselves for the next time.

A few of the masks can be seen at www.barbier-mueller.ch/eng/home.htm

Flowers and cities

The Boston Globe web site had a photo of the cherry blossoms along Comm Ave. What a beautiful street that is with its red Bulfinch or Bulfinch styled buildings on each side a grassy divider, part of the Emerald Necklace, the green area that makes Boston such a great city to walk in.

Meanwhile Geneva is alive with flowers. Pierce neige (not sure of the English name, but it translate as pushing through the snow) are in abundance on lawns and you almost need sunglasses against the yellow forsythia. Daffodils, pansies, planted by private and public people are seen in window boxes and town planters.

I still haven’t checked out the flower clock. Look at the photos of the clock and other beautiful parts of this beautiful city.
http://www.swissworld.org/fre/swissworld.html?&siteSect=1215&rubricId=2200&pg=2&img=6044507

I did drive by it yesterday on the way to spend a day with a friend, doing housework (she has a bad back) eating a great stir fry she made and seeing Memoir of a Geisha. I was too busy worrying about the traffic. Cars and spring do not belong together. From the bus I can appreciate the budding beauty without guilt.

How was I lucky enough to end up living in two incredible places in one lifetime???

Ritual return

Coming back to Geneva is almost ritualistic now. It doesn’t matter if it is a weekend, a week or more.

1. Stop at potty before going through customs. The handicapped has more
room.
2. Clear customs and make sure passport is safely away.
3. Stop at bank
4. Buy tailleul bread.
5. Check window for new colored pencil animated display. Nope this time it is still the two Eskimos fishing while a polar bear looks on.
6. Buy monthly bus pass, a great deal at 70CHF and will be even better when I turn 64 in July and the price drops to 45 CHF.
7. Check to see if any LeMatin papers are left
8. Hit Boky, Mikado or restaurant under the train station for sushi. The
location depends on what I am toting, time and temperature (I wanted to say
weather but decided to use three t’s)
9. Grab either the 8 or 16 to Rive then the E bus. Admire the Lake, jet d’eau,
and mountains if it is daytime. Imagine them if it is dark.
11. Check out the life size cow with the glasses in front of the optometrist’s in
Collonge.
12.Get off at Corsier Port.
13. Walk down the hill, totally entranced once again by the beauty.

In this case 13 is a lucky number.

French dental costs jump

I read in the newspaper….

From 14 Euros a visit to 17. That means instead of paying $17 per dentist appoint people will now pay $20.90. Insurance does take care of 75% of that. And how much do you pay for your dentist visits?

I have to admit my Swiss dentist is a lot more expensive.

I miss Peggy et. al.

I miss Peggy, Jess, Katie and Bridget. I have lived with them for 15 months. They are the characters in my new novel Triple Deckers and they are as real to me as Barbara, Chitra, Julia, Susan, Marina, etc. I have watched Jess fall in love with a reporter, Katie try to loosen up over the alleged immoralities of her daughters. Mostly I miss Peggy who has survived the loss of her son in Iraq and moved beyond her self imposed limitations and Bridget who was one of those strong, strong women who fight for their families.

They have come to me in the middle night and have told me that they wanted to demonstrate at at Fort Bragg or sell their house. Bridget shared her concerns for her husband. Jess reminded me of what it means to fight for what you believe. They have sat on benches with me and warned me that if I wrote something a certain way, they wouldn't do it. With them I walked through my old Boston neighbourhood and didn't buy a house a Florida.

Now I have released their friendships to their new lives and I am going on with mine.

I need to fine tune my mysteries before I can start on a new novel although I’ve done some research for two. Since I will be in Geneva, I will probably work on the Geneva one.

In general I declared April a non-fiction writing month, although words still bounce in my head they are for my articles and my blogs.

Peggy and her family are moving further away from me as Liz, Jane, Diana and other characters that have shared my life, and it leaves me feeling sad and at loose ends

The woman in the window

The woman sat in her kitchen with its window looking out on the marché. She was peeling potatoes for lunch and her friends were leaning against the house talking to her. Next door the smell of cooking onions and meet wafted out.

The flower dealer had deep purple iris in a vase that seemed more beautiful than the tiger lilies and mixed bouquets, but I decided not to buy anything because I am heading home to Geneva tomorrow.
The mini-vacation down here has been fun, but I am looking forward to a master writing class, a meeting with a political party that wants to sell its message and a dance performance by my Indian family.

I need to do some work on my web site and I need a long walk along the lake even if there’s no woman peeling potatoes sitting in her kitchen window.

She would make a good painting by Vermer or Chadin.

Klutz Time and Things That Go Wrong

A simple withdrawal and paying for airline tickets should be simple right?

Nope. The ATM machine had a 300€ limit and I needed 620. I waited in line. Monday mornings people go and do stuff, even though a lot of the stores are closed. Those that open have long lines. Tellers at Crédit Agricole no longer give cash, but they give you a card to withdraw money from the ATM.

Money in hand I headed to the travel agent. Since there was a line I went to buy bread. No chatagne bread until next year. They are out of chestnut flour.

Back to the travel agent. Only one person was there. He wanted to go to Miami. Forty-five minutes later after discussing every flight possibility he ended up going to San Francisco through Madrid via Toulouse. I didn’t have my passport number so the agent couldn’t issue the ticket, but she did accept my money and gave me her email so I could send her the info. Granted everything I was doing was in walking distance of the house which is wonderful.

Once home I broke a glass followed by dropping a package of cookies. It was toss up which had more little pieces. If my broom were a living creature it would probably be in mental collapse at this point.

I may spend the rest of the day under the desk. I can always nibble on any cookie crumbs the broom missed.

Cemetery Art

I love French cemeteries. Many graves are decorated with metal and ceramic books with messages and photos. There’s a new store in town that sells these, but they are far more elaborate than others I’ve seen. Two examples:

A farm scene with a tractor. The background is painted with a blue sky. The words are for Papy, grandfather.

Another has a bronze man dressed in 1930s style with knickers pedaling a bicycle.

Of course there are the ceramic books with messages from families and friends, scenes of rivers flowing, gardens, etc.

I haven't checked to see if any are already on display in the local cemetery.

Chocolate Merry-go-Rounds

Lopez sold his bakery and tea room. He lost a son, and his wife has had two bouts with cancer. He obviously needed a change. The new owners are the ones who made the chantagne bread (chestnut flour bread). Lopez at Easter decorated his window with chocolate art.

The new owners have created a one foot chocolate merry-go-round with the horses being made of multi-colored frosted horses. Not quite as fine, but still worth a smile.

The copper bowl

Dust from the fireplace had fallen on the pine cones in my Paul Revere-style copper bowl that decorates the middle of my hearth. Since seeing how nice Betty’s hearth looked sans fire but with decoration, I threw away the logs and used the fireplace as decoration.

In the early 70s I wanted to sell copperware on the party plan. At the time I was a bad salesperson and hated asking my friends to give the initial parties that would have sent me on the path to riches. I did end up with some beautiful copperware however, including that bowl.

As I was dusting, I realized I have had that bowl almost 30 years and for the entire time, whenever I look at it, it brings me pleasure both from the shape and the color.

The Farm Fair

As a former city girl, it may seem strange that I love farm fairs. The one held April 2nd was at the Salle Polyvalante and was only a ten minute walk through sunshine. Inside the hall cheese, olives, anchois, sausages, honeys, sausages, herbs, nuts and other produce were displayed in abundance. Another stall featured beautiful hand-knitted sweaters made from the stall owner’s own wool.

Outside piglets tried to nap on straw despite one piglet wanting to lick them all up and down and around. However, it was a bit disconcerting to see pork recipes displayed above the enclosure. If I wanted to buy a pig, the farmer would raise it until fall then return it to me in chops, slabs of bacon and sausage. Although it was enough to turn me off pork, I know if I smell bacon cooking I won’t be able to resist not even for a second. If I were to buy a pig at least I would know that it wasn’t stuck in a building but ran around happily during its short life. However, one pig has more pork than I have eaten in the last thirty years combined.

Cows were segregated by colour. Some were the soft brown that I so love and there were a number of grays as soft as the sky before a gentle rain. Each was named. I met Tulip, Amande, Sabine and Amelie nose to nose. They had their history on purple placards. I new their birthdates, weight at birth and at 120 and 210 days. I knew who their fathers were and if the names were confirmed all though one had a father whose name was a guess.

The cows have already lived longer than the pigs will. One had passed her 17th birthday. She watched the goings on. Maybe she likes farm fairs too as a change of scene from her pasture.

A woman didn't shop for a year

Susie sent me the following link with the email heading – Right up your alley. A Consuming Life Could you live a whole year without shopping? Author Judith Levine did. Here's what she learned. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12099950/site/newsweek/from/ET/

I send it on to my mega shopping pal Rose. I am probably between the two -- Rose and Judith. I did shop on my mini vacation buying a new phone (I can now hear what people are saying and it works when my ASDL line is plugged in unlike its predecessor) and a new CD-player. What good are CDs without something to play them on? The old phone and CD-player have already been sent to the decheterie /dump and disposed in the proper recycling bins. Even if I had an attic, they would never be put there until I decided to fix them as my Swiss gentlemen friend does. We both know they will never be fixed, but it makes him feel better so why not. I also purchased a new printer ribbon. So I do shop.

Disliking shopping is not new for me. I remember when I ran away to my father’s (too long a story to go into) and we had to go shopping for clothes for me. I was in an out of that store so fast that it became a building block of our relationship. I didn’t know he hated shopping and it was a real act of love and need that he had taken me.

Part of the dislike is that I don’t want the things that shopping brings cluttering up my life. Things have to be dusted. Things have to be taken care and I do. My oven and food processor still look almost new despite three and five years of use respectively. When I have too much stuff it gets lost.

However I am not sure that I would want to give up ice cream, movies, going out to eat or wine as Levine did. We all have our levels of consumerism don’t we?

French Strikes

I love the French. The students and their adult supporters have taken to the streets to say they don’t want job insecurity – some three million of them out of a population of 60 million. The students estimate that for everyone in the street and we can’t assume it is the same 3 million each day there are another five in 100% support of them. Mathematically that means one in 4 agree whole-heartedly against the government. As for numbers as I talk to my neighbors while on my mini vacation, I have yet to find anyone who disagrees with the students. They probably exist, but I haven’t found them yet.

The French love their social contract. It is nice to know if you lose your job and it has to be for cause and even then you will have a roof over your head and food in your bellies. You will have health insurance. No one needs to be homeless in this country. Admittedly for business, it is expensive and frustratingly unwieldy, but good businesses survive. There are less super rich but there are also less super poor. I don’t hear a lot of people dreaming about being rich but having a home, a family and free time to enjoy them.

And if strikes are a pain and trains schedules and bus schedules are perturbed so be it. It is what a democracy should have, the people telling the government what they want. Chirac said he heard, but what he offered wasn’t enough. Neither did De Gaulle in 1968 and it not only changed the presidency it changed the country. Like in 1968 I suspect this strike is training a whole new generation of leaders that will influence France for decades to come.

The students, although they want work, they want fairness in the workplace. And there are other implications. If they are hired under the system, few landlords will rent to them because they do not have a secure salary. Likewise employers can take advantage of lower wages to keep all salaries depressed or have a turning door of cheap workers. Of course some would be kept, there’s no question, but how many.

In the US businesses have the legal status of people with the benefits but not the responsibilities to the society in which they operate. In France it is the reverse.

De Villepin may be a sexy man, but he made the mistake of not checking with the unions and the students before announcing the new law. Interestingly, many business leaders have said that they wouldn’t change their hiring practices, sorta like the 35-hour work week was supposed to increase jobs. It did give lower level employees more free time, but les cadres, the managers, took up much of the slack of work that had to be done.

Meanwhile in Britain people are striking against reducing pensions.

Latin America is slowly rejecting the IMF and World Bank policies of privatization and cuts in social contracts.

The EU was founded on the idea of free movement of trade, capital and people, but globalization is only the free movement of trade and capital. People are locked into their home countries and if jobs flee to cheaper locations, they can’t move after them. Now if workers globalized and demanded the same salary structure, job security, pensions and health insurance everywhere, it would truly be the level playing feel they talk about in free trade which is far different from fair trade.

I respect any people who stand up to power when it is against their interests. America did it in 1776. The new immigrants are doing it now in the US. But will it happen world wide? I doubt it.

I may sound anti-business, which I am not. However, for a healthy society business needs to take all interests into consideration: the employees, the stockholders and the clients. Without any of them the business can’t survive nor can the society that it lives in.