The Visit

My former housemate who read the blog below reminded me of another memory around typewriters.

She and I ran a typing business to supplement our incomes. Prior to word processing, professors were loath to type their own work, and since we were surrounded by universities in walking distance,* there was no shortage for clients for our business named Worth Associates both as a shorter version of our street address Wigglesworth Street and a value statement.

We had rented an IBM Selectric and had invested in many of the golf balls to offer our clients a wide choice of type faces.

Then IBM came out with a new Selectric model and the rental company wanted us to switch. However, the new machine would require all new golf balls. We balked. They insisted and although we tried to stay nice, they were getting nasty.

I wrote the then IBM CEO Tom Watson. A few days later there was a knock at our door. I should add at this point we were in the process of rennovating a five-story brownstone (even if it was painted gray). The typewriter was in my bedroom on the third floor. The stairs were in half finished condition. However, the dining room to the right of the entrance hall was at least finished.

The men were dressed in business suits and had excellent posture. They handed up their business cards. They had been dispatched from the IBM headquarters in New York to solve our problem.

I do not know why they thought we were important enough to fly to Boston. My letter did not imply we were the huge client they obvioiusly had been expecting. A quick call to the IBM office and our problem was solved. In fact the rental IBM selectric had become ours.

As they left, the older turned to me and said, "Next time you have a problem, please don't write Watson, call us directly."

I promised. I can only guess what they muttered on their flight back to New York about a waste of time, etc.

Fortunately, my small Japanese chin Albert, waited until after they were gone to run downstairs with a treasure in his mouth (a used tampon). I'm not sure the VPs could have taken the final indignity.


*Schools in walking distance of our house...Northeastern, Mass College of Art, Harvard School of Medicine, Harvard School of Health, Harvard School of Dentistry, Wentworth, Northeastern, Simmons, Emmanuel, Berkeley School of Music, Museum School of Fine Arts, Boston University. In many ways it was like living on a huge campus.

Framing Memories

I see Annie, The Framer, almost daily at La Noisette (a.k.a. Franck's tearoom). Her framing shop is two doors down and we chat on any number of topics. When I had two precious things to frame, I naturally turned to her. Although I believe in supporting local business, I also love her work.

We had so many colours to chose from, but I also wanted to hang the poster along the stones, and she spied the perfect frame. She spied the perfect tone of grey with a slight design.

Why is this poster in my studio? I found it on a memory-trip to the Christmas market in Stuttgart last December. My father once had the Underwood typewriter franchise for West Virginia, and I had an Underwood when I was a cub reporter for the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune.

As my fingers fly over the laptop keyboard, I remember the pressure needed to depress the keys. In those days, electric typewriters were barely heard about. When they were I dreamed of having one. It was an Olivetti, made in Yverdon, Switzerland, a place I never heard of. Only later would it become a town I went through almost weekly. That factory has long been abandoned.

To think I once dreamed of owning then acquired an IBM with its golfball fonts, then a computer, then a laptop and now my baby laptop. As a writer all of these machines are my version of a quill pen used by writers of long ago.

The fire screen sampler was made for me by a friend of many years, who when I use to pop into her office at noon I would find munching a sandwich as she worked on one beautiful sampler after another.

We'd spent a weekend in a freezing apartment near the Bastille in Paris so we could attend a needlework exhibition that showed embroidery from the Middle Ages through to a designer wedding gown. We've shared sheepherding lessons, movies and meals, tea-toast-telly, picnics, sad moments, and times of unbelievable silliness, hopes and dreams. Thus is both a pleasure and an honour to have her needlework in my flat.

Annie came to my studio to make sure the measurements for the sampler/fire screen was the right size. She had never seen feet for a frame that my friend had provided brought back from the UK. There was much discussion on whether the frame should be rustic or modern but when we spied the exact colour of the letters, we knew -- there was no other possible choice.

Thus, I am happy to have two more possessions (yes Rose, you read that right) but they are both the item and a raft of memories to be savoured.

From Geneva Lunch

The annual Economist liveability survey of 140 cities worldwide ranks Vancouver in first place with an almost perfect 98 score out of 100. There are four European cities among the top 10. Vienna is in second place, Helsinki in seventh, just ahead of eighth-tied Geneva, Sydney and Zurich.

A lovely present

Deciding what to give people are always a problem over here. Yes, often I opt for a charity, but my girl friend, a member of the Argelès Gospel Choir has a daughter turning 50 back in Boston. This is a special birthday and called for special thoughts.

Then her musical director and she hatched a plan. Why not record A Piece of the Sky, Happy Days Are Here Again and Happy Birthday and email the recording? The recording session was held and the musical gift sent out into cyberspace to land in Brookline MA in time for the big day.

Love like that cannot be bought in any store.

I was head butted by a baby camel

Yes, I am still in Argelès and I had to run an errand yesterday and used Barbara's car which was parked by the river, which was waterless as it is most late springs and summers. I caught something hairy out of the corner of my eye. Two camels and a horse were nibbling on the grass.

Then something butted me. It was a baby camel. Unlike the adult camels he was not tethered, probably on the assumption the baby would not stray far from his mom. So much for that theory as the baby camel wandered among the cars parked at the edge of the river.

I thought of my sheep herding diploma languishing in Genève but there were no trained dogs around to round up the camel. He quickly lost interest in me to nibble grass. The adult camels were also nibbling away. No one seemed concerned, so I went on my way.

This morning I have not seen any bulletins for missing camels, so I assume the baby checked in with his mother.

Sorta reminds me of having teenagers, who go on mini adventures but then come home again.

Honey comb

Elisabeth had the first raspberries of the season from local growers but she also had a pan of honey still in its comb and quickly cut off a small piece for me. It is waiting, its scent pervading the room, to be spread on pancakes tomorrow morning or perhaps on bread made with chestnut flour and with a thick crust baked in a wood oven or both.

The singing iron

Okay my iron is 17 years old. It has moved from Geneva to Argeles. It has been treated with respect and not overworked.

I am wondering why it is singing. When I set it upright after it bravely has removed a wrinkle or two, it makes a singing/whistle noise.

Since it still does it job well, I don't think it is a death song. Maybe it just likes to whistle because it is happy with its new spacious place under my sink now that GiGi has installed shelves.

Unfortunately it is a Johnny One Note singing iron... There are no words to explain why it has decided after all these years to break into song, but it has.

Does it want to try out for Star Ac, the French answer to Britain's Got Talent.

All I know is that:

Elle chante, elle chante.

Transition completed

I've temporarily left my life in Geneva with its wonderful view from the balcony of the house, my fun housemate, her son, my writing friends and other friends, the pleasure of sharing a place with the last minute sushi runs, the emails from the basement to my desk upstairs to propose this or that, DVDs to shrimp and champagne and Munchkin the cat.

I'm temporarily in my second life in Argeles with its beautiful street, my local and international friends with whom I while away the hours in cafés, the fresh vegetables where every ordinary purchase becomes a personal transaction. I've the TV, music events, my nest where every where I look in the flat my eyes find pleasure.

There are difficult transitions and there are hard ones. This is definitely the former.

Avoidance

Here is how I've avoided editing the galleys for Family Values so far today. It is 13:42 when I start this blog.



5:30 Woke and watched Paul Krugman on Hardtalk.

6:00-7:30 Read detective story in bed

7:30-8:30 Made bed, showered, watched Telemartin, had breakfast (mutli grain fruit pancakes.)

8:30-9:00 Washed down the front door and two blue pots outside. They were still covered with sand blown up from the Sahara. Even washed the two garbage bins that make even our flown-bedecked street less pretty. Planted some pink flowers. Don't know what kind, ^just know they are pink and pretty.

9:00-10:00 Took new cobalt blue mini computer to Franck's for morning tea...the computer didn't want the tea. I did. Mike wanted to see it, the computer. We were eventually joined by Yetta, Morgans, Pascal, Roy and Daphne. Was teased that my mini lap top is now colour pleasant with both Argeles and Geneva. So far I have talked with six nationalities.

10:00 Went to see Daniel to arrange for him to come to install software for printer on said cobalt blue mini laptop. Exchanged news of village.

10:15-10:20 Bought lentils, spinach, garlic, ginger, etc. at Elisabeth's for making dahl for lunch. Chatted with young man who is starting to work for her for the season. Chatted with her on village news.

10:20-10:45 Stop at Franck's again. Chris has returned and is drinking coffee. Showed him the Geo Magazine which features a photo of the trompe d'oeil of his house. The caption claims it is true Catalan. I guess they didn't know he is a London theatre set designer.

10:45-10:53 Drop copy off at Rosella, the potter, so she can see Chris's house in Geo. Leave magazine so she can read about North and South Catalonia, the main subject of the magazine.

10:54-11:45 Amble to the house I once owned. Gertrude and Froed are in residence. We discuss her latest film and NGO projects, elderly mothers, writing and make plans to get together next week.

11:45-12:05 Head home (I've not really gone more than four blocks in all this time). Chat with neighbor Christine, a retired school teacher from Lyon, about the merits of living alone or with people. We discuss the neighbour's suicide, the motor cylcles that make too much noise and the cascade of flowers that hang in tank-size clumps of orange, purple and pink making arches across the narrow road.

12:05-13:42 Make dahl, listen to Obama's speech, turn on computer. Try and think of another delay. I know. Some things need to go to the charity shop (also within the same four block area.)

I will get to those galleys...yes I will...I will, I mean it...I will

Lazy but Lucky

I admit it. As a writer I'm a lazy researcher. For example, I need to include soap making, candle-making, etc. in my new novel, but I am content to find the directions on the internet and not test it out.

On the other hand, when a character had to drag a corpse up a hill in my novel Running From the Puppet Master, my poor daughter became the corpse to see if it were possible.

If it is history I am more apt to read more deeply rather than commit a gaff, but sometimes there are things I don't check. TWA flew out of Miami in The Card although someone told me after the book was published that wasn't one of its routes. I hadn't even thought to check that one.

My character Abigail had been a student at Le Rosey in Switzerland. I chose it based on my neighbor, Hiram Manning's experiences there. I needed just a few sentences and in the back of my mind I was thinking of going to one its two campuses when I was in Geneva for the last two months, but kept postponing it, as I've postponed meeting with the expert on the last witch in Switzerland for another novel I'm researching. I'll get to it..., the witch expert that is.

This morning, as I was making my rasberry-cinanmon-oatmeal pancake, ARTE had a program on Le Rosey...I have my sentences without any effort. What luck.

This happened once before when I was writing Triple Decker, still trying to find a publisher. By setting it in my old neighbourhood, the Triangle of Roxbury Crossing and Mission Hill, I did not need to do research to know the sidewalks were brick and what the triple deckers looked liked either inside or out. However, when it came to the church, the church where I attended midnight Mass on Christmas Eves, I couldn't remember what it looked liked.

Lo and behold, it was the time the Pope died and CNN broadcast from inside the church on some of the issues on the errant priests. I had my brief description without asking a friend to walk around the corner to check it out.

That's why I say I am a lucky researcher...and yes, a lazy one, too. But that doesn't mean I don't want to be accurate, but I'll celebrate any bit of luck that comes my way.

CHANGE

I put myself through Grad School on Swiss change including the flights to Wales. After Grad School I continued to squirrel away change and by 2004, some eight years later, I had more than three years of retirement money saved. After retirement I continued to save change, although not at the same rate and without touching the savings I already had. I have always lived under my income (a novel concept today) because I have more than enough to meet my needs and make me happy, although it is good thing I have no desire to own an airplane or a huge diamond.

And yes I know I could make more money if I invested in a stock market, but there are so many companies that do such harm, I couldn't sleep at night knowing that I was helping them. And yes, I also know my pension funds are probably invested in these same companies, but I can't control that. So I happily put my money in co-operatives and credit unions (and yes the post until there's enough to transfer) knowing that the money is going back into my community not to polluting a jungle in Equador or bribing the FDA to release an unsafe drug.

Thus this morning I took 800 CHF in rolled coins, saved from my stay in Geneva up to the Post to face... MY OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE POSTMASTER.

He weighed, reweighed, reweighed, reweighed each roll, found one short 5 centimes. The line behind me grew longer and longer and longer. He reached into his pocket and added the five centimes. I reached for my wallet but he shook his head.

No sooner had I gotten home and the phone rang. It was him. There was another error. Now I admit I have a major math problem almost to the point of learning disability. Thank goodness for computers to do what I can't. Back to the post office I went. We fixed the error. I can now go to Argeles with an empty piggy bank and when I get back will worry about the next step.

Still change has given me a sense of security. Maybe Ben Franklin was right. A penny saved is a penny earned or maybe it is a centime saved is a centime earned not to mention a five franc piece.

Petal Puddle

What a sensual day it was starting by coming downstairs to find the petals puddled from the bouquet on the desk.

A dead bird on the walk to the post was a reminder of the fragility of life, but the moment passed as a sleek horse clip clopped by. The sound of his hooves against the pavement was too pedestrian belying his sleek glimmering chocolate coat and his arrogrant strut.

The lake shimmered below. A red/orange flowering bush, lush hid the irises behind. They were such a translucent lilac, that the colour was almost imaginary.

Bird song accompanied me back to the house.

Waiting for the bus, the sun baked through my jeans thawing the last bit of winter cold from my bones. At the same time, a light breeze blowing through the irridescent leaves tickled my cheeks with all the force of an eyelash blinking against my skin.

Eating downtown the couscous was flavoured with cinanmon and the meat ball had a hint of mint.

Back to writing, two wasps played tag in my room. I suspect they had microphones and a rock band amplifier attached to their bodies as I shoved one out the window. The other committed suicide in my desk lamp.

When moment after moment fills the senses with sound, smell, colour, touch I know with every eon in my body what being alive means.

Susan

Did Llara get there okay...?

Worried Mom

A woman hands raised

trapped in an evergreen tree

head bowed braids trailing*

*The tree is on the ILO grounds

A weekend of surprises

It was a weekend of surprises.

1. I was called up on stage after my friend's Indian Dance to be thanked for my part in helping with the writing of the 20 anniversary book of the school. I resisted walking across the stage with the Indian dance traditional high steps and hands folded in front of me. I was touched by the thoughtfulness of the head of the dance school, a woman I admire greatly. A couple of years ago I had written about her for a woman's news site.

2. I woke up Sunday morning AFTER the handball tournament I was supposed to attend started. I don't usually oversleep no matter how late I get to bed.

3. The sister-in-law of my host and hostess had the same birthday I did. This would not be surprising in a group of 50 or more but with five, well add it to the list.

4. The decision to go to Gruyere (yes of the famous cheese). I'd been well over 40 times (it is a great place to take friends in Switzerland for a short time to get the feel of the mountains) but not in the last six years.

5. Finding a Tibetan museum in Gruyere.

6. Eating a fondue WAS NOT A SURPRISE!!!! In fact going to Gruyere without eating at least of one of the follow -- fondue, raclette or meringues with double cream and/or raspberries, would be a surprise.


7. The best surprise was on the way home when my host pulled off the road and started down a path where he showed us the Pissing Cow (English translation) waterfall. The force of the water dampened our faces, the smell of the damp earth and the newly-leafed trees made a perfect ending to a perfect, albeit surprising) weekend.

I know computers are important

in our house for both work and pleasure but this morning I found my housemate in what looked like prayer to her Mac. She did give an explanation but...

Billet Orphelin

The Ongoing Original Death Notices Series

Billet means bills as in money, Orphelin is orphan. The man who designed the latest round of Swiss money died. His death was announced by making the money an orphan. I love it. It comes second to Miller has gone to join his Marilyn.

Happiness is

My new pretty blue mini laptop and a pot of tea in my penguin teapot

A trip to the post

I went to the Post in France to mail eight books to my agent based in Paris. She wants to push for more international sales. The cost is about 75% less than it would be in Switzerland and I did not want to face my obsessive compulsive postmaster in the village. In France you buy the box, the weight is immaterial, and there is a tracer.

One Collisimo box was too small, the next too big giving me a Goldilocks moment, but the smiling clerk handed it over. I should explain that in a right brain left brain test I DID NOT answer ONE left brain question. Thus the folds and machinations of sealing the box were a challenge. I was to one side of the post using the bank of chairs as a table. The line of eight people were finding my attempts amusing at best. Finally a man broke out of line and came to my rescue.

Thanking him profusely I went to the back of the line, but everyone insisted I go to the head of the line (probably repayment for the entertainment).

Then came The Question. "Are you English or American."

I know, I know, I shouldn't have but I replied, "I know you'll find it difficult to believe, but I'm Swiss."¨

Normal looks of consternation before I added "But I grew up in the U.S., my parents never spoke French with me and I learned the language late."

Of course my mother never spoke French to me: she never learned it. My father left Canada too young to really become proficient in French and my grandparents who were francophone I seldom saw because my mother didn't like foreigners. When I took French in University the professor spent three semesters on the first ten pages in the book but we learned about his life, his adventures, etc. It was an easy B and allowed time to concentrate on other subjects.

I told the man who helped me, he was un ange, an angel.

The smiling clerk collected my money and said, he wasn't too sure about the man being an angel. The others in line seconded, thirded, fourthed etc. the opinion, but they did agree he was nice to help me.

I thanked everyone wished them all a bonne journée.

The weekend

Colmar
Beaune
Freiburg
Lyon
Lausanne

The city names were listed on the whiteboard while my housemate and I decided where to spend the weekend after our original German trip had been deemed impractical. We discussed the merits of each and all had a certain appeal. The decision was going to be based on a drawing from a bowl.

So what won?

None. The chalet in the Alps of Valais.

The idea of walking mountain trails accompanied by birdsong, a goat cheese fondue, reading, DVDs of Monk and Boston Legal while a fire burned in the fireplace taking the chill off the spring nights seemed far more pleasurable than rushing around looking at sites. But then again, I’ve been in Damascus and UK recently and will feel like playing sightseeing again. But this weekend walking along the forest path, I knew the rapture of just living.

Soap on a Spike

In old Swiss tearooms and restaurants in the toilets, they often have what I call, soap on a spike, usually bright yellow that makes one want to eat something lemon. As traditional as the soap, this tea room had a very unSwiss whimsical toilet seat. Whimsy and Swiss are not usually paired words.

Another Sunday Another Votation

When I dropped the latest ballot into the mailbox, I sighed in relief.

The ballot won’t be counted until next Sunday, but this time the explanation booklet that came with my ballot package only left me more confused. Even the listings in the back of how the many different political parties felt about the issue wasn’t much help. I reviewed all the publicity boards that are strategically placed throughout the town and discussed it with my housemate. Finally I felt confident enough to fill out the ballot, sign the signature card and drop it in the mail.

Some of the issues that most countries do not give citizens a chance to vote on:
1. Should insurance cover alternative medicine?
2. Should citizen juries give way to professional judges?
3. Should school children be given grades for deportment?
4. Should biometric passports be obligatory?

Being Swiss can be hard work, but I am so grateful for the opportunity.

Bet this is the first Avatar you've gotten

H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y S U S I E ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !*


*Was out before you went to work so I couldn't call, but I didn't forget

LYLM

Twittering trying

I've ignored Facebook and Myspace figuring that I didn't need the distractions and political old me, just doesn't like their privacy and ownership policies.

The Twitter came along and hearing news casters talk about their twitters, I was tempted but with the newsletter and novel, did I need one more computer interuption?

I use this blog primarily as a writing warm up although sometimes it is pre-planned with photos and my delightfully thinner and younger avatar DL2. Other times it is let the fingers hit the keys like now. Character limitation doesn't go along with it.

However during the day, I've often had thoughts that if I could only find my pen I could jot down.

So I'm experimenting with twitter, and still not sure, but then I haven't mastered the ins and outs yet. Still the background colour goes well with my bedroom, although it will clash in Argeles.

Anyone who wants to follow try dlnelson7

On verra.

The sheep herding experience

I've taken tons of management courses each with a certificate which went straight into the bin, however, I intend to keep my sheep herding certificate.


Come back sheepy sheepy sheep...Oops that's not the call..Ourway our way...no its comeby comeby...don't head butt me...dogs, lie down aye LIE DOWN, walk in, steady comeby...get em out of here...oh, the dog did what I said, the sheep went in the direction I thought they would...hmmm maybe I do have another career choie.

Check out www.bordercollies.co.uk

Celebration

Although I don't usually complain (except to myself) for the past 18 months a compressed disk in my back has left me in degrees of pain from discomfort to Oh-my- God-I-can-barely-move. Complaining bores others, bores me and reminds me of the problem. I've been told that surgery has less than a 50% chance of improving it. So I pretend it isn't there.

Yesterday was a more uncomfortable day than usual. I concentrated on finishing editing the Galleys to Murder at Caleb's Landing, making fool (a Syrian bean dish for lunch) and treating myself to a call to Mighty Mom. I was wondering what it would be like to feel normal again.

This morning I woke and something didn't feel right. No pain. Nothing. Rien. Nada.
It took me a few minutes to be aware of what was right...

I don't know how long it will last, but it is a cause for celebration. Not only that today is my Coke day, so off to Marro with Julia of the twenty pages, a good lunch and a Coke.

Life does not get better than this.

pack rats vs. throwers

I'm a person that keeps almost nothing and have been destined to live with pack rats all my life. I suspect my ex-husband still has his Nehru jacket and maybe the duck costume that he used in a dance recital at three.

Saying that, I admit I have often replaced things I threw out to discover I needed them.

My present housemate is a pack rat (one of the nice things about living with a pack rat is that they have things that I have thrown out and need). With a bee in her bonnet she decided today was the day she would begin to cut down on stuff. The first thing she found was a hotel freeby shower cap.

She doesn't use them.

I do.

Thus her first attempt was destroyed.

The guilty party...

I lost my internet connection and my housemate and I were trying to get it back.
"I know this is the right code," she kept saying.
We tried it upper case.
Nothing
We tried other possible codes
Nothing.
Meanwhile Munchkin was purring on the bed.
I looked at my laptop.
The wifi on button had been turned off.
Then I remembered the cat walking across the keyboard. She must have shut it off.
We tried the code.
The internet connected.

Buying Beads Damascus 1 of 4

In the souk, tiny stalls sell everything and we needed to stop to buy beads so my hostess could add them to things she was making. She explained to me how you developed relationships with the souk owners and how one man wouldn't sell her a red pillow because he knew what else she had bought and it wouldn't go together. Souk owners who know their customers well will also call when they have something special.
Many of these souks have been handed down for generations within the same family, but with the latest generations the sons have been sent off to get MBAs to maximize the business without losing the touch of the bazaar.
The Damascus souk goes back centuries. This time I noticed that the roof had been replaced. Previously it still bore the bullet holes from the French occupation.
Watching the man carefully weigh out the beads, I asked if I could take photo and he was more than happy to pose for his good customer.

Scenes from the old town Damascus 2 of 4

Seed shops: In the old town there are wonderful seed shops where the seeds and nuts are laid out to taste prior to making a selection or rather selections. I brought honme roasted smoked pistacho nuts, but there is not one that isn't wonderful.




A car is reflected in the window of a restaurant which advertises its meals on the on outside.






The doors in the old town are beautifully carved.



Making Bread: The dough is flattened like pizza dough, put on the cushion, and the man holding the cushion by a cloth handle slaps it into the wall of the oven where it cooks for just a few seconds.

Decorations Damascus 3 of 4

This was a visit of decorations. Friends and family came together to make the decorations for a baptism and above my hostess and niece decorate for Easter. The child at eight is trilingual in Arabic, French and English although she is a bit timid about using anything but Arabic.

Daily Life Damascus 4 of 4

If you look closely in the bottom right hand corner there is a pair of nesting birds. My hostess says each year the nest is occupied. I took the photo from her balcony holding the camera at an angle to catch the wide sill where she has plants that shelter the future family.



The parts of a Damascus stay I enjoy the most are the daily life. Whether it is breakfast of olives, tabuli, veggies, cheeses, pita, tea or sitting around eating seeds and sipping hot maté through silver straws, nibbling seeds and chatting with neighbours most of whom I've met before, it is the time with people that make these trips so worthwhile.
It is the special dinner with Riaz (spelled 100% wrong) while a peach fluffy kitten meowed at my feet. (I did share)some of the seasoned meat in pita and cut into strips. He is one of those people I say have peelability, that no matter how long you know them you find new depths.
We ate near the tower where St. Paul escaped, and Riaz filled me in on the excavations that had been done since my last trip and told how they city was now using the old Roman piping system they'd found under the many layers that have accumulated over the centuries. Only later did I find out that he and my other friends used to patronize the owner when he had a restaurant in a different part of the city.
I'd met him years before on an earlier trip when he arranged a tour around the country for me. Then on a second trip he helped me visit all the scenes for a future novel going into places in the old city I would never have discovered on my own and told of the history that will make wonderful details in the book. And he visited Geneva and both my housemate and I rated him a five star guest. Our time was limited because he was going out with a group but somehow he managed to show up at the Turkish Air gate for a quick goodbye hug. The next time I see him I want to ask how he got by the multi check points, the paperwork etc. Or maybe I will just wonder.
And I got good quality time with Yara. I first met her at Christmas 1999, which we call the Christmas of the ARAs. We had Llara and Yara the whole period and short stops with Sara and Tara. Nothing like a one-on-one talk in a coffee shop before going back to her house. She has become a wonderful young woman and teaches in Thailand so to have her there was a bonus.
Of course I had a second meal. That day I ended up being invited to five meals while I saw other people from previous visits.
And I met a new friend of my hostess, an artist. We wondered in the old town down an alley to his atelier where he had just bought the spinach, cheese, and thyme pies that were still hot as we talked about the creative processes used in writing and painting.
Then there was a huge family/friends party at a restaurant complete with a singer who sang French, American and Arabic songs. He was a big man with a gray ponytail held with an elastic and a dimple. Some of the people I met for the first time were surprised I liked Arabic music, saying most foreigners don't, but I do enjoy it even if I didn't recognize the songs the same way I know Joe Dassin's or Frank Sinatra's.
And there was the trip up the mountain with Osama, another person I'd met in Geneva who was hometo visit his family.
And of course my host family, the family of my former neighbour who make me almost feel as if I am a family member-I am still not allowed to wash dishes but I can take them to the kitchen and I can restore the couches from beds in the morning so there is progres. We've done things together in Geneva and Damascus in the visits in both directions. If there is a limit to their warmth, I have yet to discover it.
And lastly...if I ever build a new bathroom, I will install the Damascean toilet system with the hose for washing bodily parts just utilized then patted dry with minimum use of toilet paper deposited in a special container. Maybe I won't go so far as the special container and will stick with the flush system, but I do like the hose idea.

A woman is saving to buy cardboard for her roof

Several years ago I asked people to give to my favourite charities in place of giving me presents for several reasons:

1. I try and keep possessions to a few treasured items.
2. I lack space
3. I feel I am extraordinarily wealthy in terms of possessions compared to most of the world.
4. My friends go crazy trying to figure out what to give me.
5. Others need help far more than I need gifts no matter how creative or thoughtful.

Fast forward to a walk I took today through my village. At the place where people throw away trash a man was tearing up cardboard that filled the back of his Mercedes.

I thought back to a story I had just written about a World Council of Credit Unions Matching pilot savings programs in Mexico where people put a few coins in the credit union regularly for six months. At the end of the period the savings are matched by donations. One of the women in the program is saving to buy cardboard to patch her roof. What a contrast and I told him about it. He probably thought I was crazy.

So I am asking anyone who intends to give me a gift this year for any reason, don't. Instead give me something that will make me far happier and help someone go to the dentist, buy a sewing machine to start a business, buy uniforms so their children can go to school. That would mean more to me than anything else I can think of. Here's more about the program.

MatchSavings.org is a campaign of World Council of Credit Unions (WOCCU), a non-profit organization to support the growing international movement of credit unions and other financial cooperatives. WOCCU established MatchSavings.org in October 2008 to help educate people living in poverty about the benefits of saving and to provide them an incentive to get started. Your gifts help match the savings of an individual in a remote community who has never before had a savings account.

During this launch phase, WOCCU is working with one partner credit union, Caja Yanga, in the state of Veracruz, Mexico. Caja Yanga sends employees into rural communities to introduce the credit union and the financial services it offers. The communities rarely have a financial institution of their own, so the credit union's visit is the first opportunity people have to open a savings account and access loans and insurance at affordable rates. Caja Yanga offers them the opportunity to open a six-month matched savings account to get started, which is where you come in.

When you make a gift through MatchSavings.org, your contribution is transferred to Caja Yanga to match the deposits of individual savers like those you meet on MatchSavings.org. The savers decide from the start what their savings goals are: improve housing, finance education, expand their microbusiness or pay medical bills. They commit to depositing a set amount when the credit union staff member visits the community each month in order to receive a match on the principal amount they save. After faithfully saving for six months, the individual may withdraw the savings plus interest and receive your match.

Yanga credit union in Córdoba, Mexico. Caja Yanga is situated in the coffee and sugarcane growing region of Veracruz state in southeastern Mexico. The credit union was established in 1988 and serves more than 40,000 members from rural, mountainous areas of Veracruz.

As part of a WOCCU program supported by the Mexican government's Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock, Rural Development, Fishing and Food (SAGARPA) through its Proyecto de Asistencia Técnica al Microfinanciamiento Rural (PATMIR) project, Caja Yanga is one of 55 credit unions in Mexico to bring its services—by motorcycle, boat or by foot—directly to poor people living in hard-to-reach, marginalized communities. The credit union is oftentimes the only affordable place people can start a savings account or take out a loan in these communities.

Join us in the grassroots effort to alleviate poverty through saving. Match a poor person's first savings account for housing, microbusiness, health or education.
MatchSavings.org | save for change

$30.00 USD$50.00 USD$75.00 USD$100.00 USD
Housing
Microbusiness
Health
Education

Julia and Rose, this is for you

And of course anyone else who wants to read it.

After almost five years in Geneva, I FINALLY decided to decorate my room. Mighty Mom, you saw the old one, so you can see the changes. Mainly I wanted to get the tapestry of the women with the dog that Llara embroided and the painting my grandmother painted (she never had an art lesson) plus the tapestry shown earlier on this blog up on the walls.

I mean you can't rush these things.

And we all know I am colour neurotic. And Rose, I was able to make all the selections in under 45 minutes so I didn't have to spend must time shopping. Whew...it wasn't my no-buy year alone that kept me from redoing the room. It was the dislike of shopping in general. But once I started I couldn't stop until I had everything I wanted.

Almost everything on the walls had pinks and blues. My favourite colour is dusty rose, so when I spotted the duvet covers within the first few minutes of entry into Manora, the rest was easy. I found the drapes within another ten minues although they weren't readily visible.

Then finding the sheers was easy.

A quick tour around the Manora household area and I found the tiny little roses to sew on the bottom two patterns of the sheers. The tassels match the roses on the sheers and in the duvet covers. But the thing I love most is the huge sticker of the flower in place of a headboard.

For a moment I was tempted to buy these huge candles that picked up the colour of the drapes and have a fine line exactly the colour of the tassels for the top of the book case. (Llara here is where you roll your eyes) BUT I priced them and what I wanted was over 300 CHF. I compromised with just one tiny one next to the alarm clock.

Besides I have two models of buidlings that the sons of this house made on top of the bookcase. Both of them occupied this room at different times, and I kinda like the continuity of having them represented in my room.

Now that my Changing Rooms moment is over, I am really enjoying the colours. Dusty rose makes my eyes happy.

I am ready for April 1

What anglophones call April Fool's Day the francophones call...fish of April. I have no idea why, but I'm armed with my rod and ready.

A dog's tail.

As I left the house to do a Migros run, the small, fuzzy black dog sat at the edge of the garden. He had a roll in his mouth. Dogs off leashes and dogs without owners near by are about as common as wooly mammoths.
"Hello," I said. When he didn't respond, I tried "Bonjour." Obviously, he was a French speaker because his tail wagged.
As adorable as he was, he was also scruffy. He had a collar and I hoped a tag. I enticed him into the kitchen. He was content to trade his roll for cat food and water but he would not let me look at his collar.
I am not sure who to call to pick up a stray dog in this commuity. I didn't want to leave him in the house because of Munchkin, the cat. If she were my cat I probably would have, but then you know the saying that you always take care of other peoples' children (or in this case cat) better than your own.
"I tell you what," I said to the dog in French. "You go outside, and I'll stop at the vet's on the way to Migros, unless of course I can convince you to get into the car."
His response was,"Outside, okay. Car? You are out of your ever-loving mind." With the roll in his mouth he backed away.
Knowing he wasn't hungry I was willing to risk he'd be
1. okay until I get back
2. more apt to hang around because he knew there was a meal there
3. really wasn't lost and would find his own way home
In any of the cases I didn't have to worry. Just as I was pulling out of the drive, a car passed going about three miles an hour when most cars approach the curve at 30 anyway. The driver's window was rolled down and a grandfatherly man was looking and calling.
I waved madly.
He parked and came over. "Are you looking for a dog?" I asked.
"A little black one. He's infernal, always disappearing," he said.
The two were reunited.
Half of me was sorry, because I would have loved a dog like that, but again with Munchkin, again with both my housemate and me travelling as we do, a dog is about as practical as making that elusive wooly mammoth a pet.

Almost 25 years in the hanging

THE TAPESTRY

8/86 is in the upper left hand corner. 12/94 is in the bottom right. That is how long it took my daughter to create this tapestry for me. It took me longer, almost 14 years, to get it hung.
I had it on a stretcher in Argeles, but there was no wall where it fit properly. The stretcher came off so I could bring it back to Geneva and I am still looking for someone to put it on another stretcher, but I refuse to wait any longer to have it up.
Now it is across from the bottom of my bed so it is the first thing I see when I wake in the morning.
There are twelve squares in two rows of six, one for each month of the year. My birth month has a water lily on a pad, and the same yellow flowers that were in my vase before I left Argeles. March has violets, my favourite flower. The month where important people in our lives have birthdays have their names enscribed in yarn: even my dog, Albert's name is noted. May is for Susan and iris. Some are no longer with us like my mother, one person has gone out of my life, another is important to Llara's childhood.
When I look at it I find my eyes moisten because in each stitch something else was going on in her life, my life, in our lives.
Part of the time she was pushing the needle through the fabric hundreds of times, deciding on colours, selecting the design we were under the same roof, an apartment on The Riverway in Boston. Part of the time we were in separate countries. During the period between the start of the tapestry and the finish, she went from Boston Latin to Mannheim University. I went from working at Digital to fulfilling my dream to work and live full time in Europe. Many of the evenings when the tapestry was only a couple of squares while she sewed, I was in my Riverway office alcove, a pretty yellow room, writing hoping against hope that someone, some day would publish me.
That tapestry has been in the US, Germany, Switzerland and France and back to Switzerland, travelling more than many people.
I adore you Llara.

HE DID IT AGAIN

My obsessive compulsive postmaster...

I needed to mail two tubes of diaper rash creme to an expectant mother to keep her until she figures out the equivalent here...

I bought one of the cleverly made mailing cartons that the post sells and he explained to me step by step how to put it together, which was exactly like the last 22 times I used the boxes.

I wrote very carefully...he needs to approve my handwriting...but I put the label on upside down. Knowing how many tries it might take to get equally good printing on the label, he carefully removed the address part and turned it rightside up...

Half of me finds him amusing, half of me finds him frustrating and half of me wishes that if everyone did their job thoroughly, we would all have less problems created by shoddy workmanship and yes I know that's three halves.

Leaver vs.leavee

*(Rose, see note on graphic)

The tea room was the same warm decor. The almond croissant was no different. The tea cups still had their unique twisted shape. And the writer sitting opposite was the same one that I had coffees and conversations, or in my case tea with any number of times along with walks and talks. What was different was this was the last time. Tomorrow, the Mighty Family (see Mighty Mom's blog in my list at the bottom) would be airborne on the way to their new home in another country and this was the last time we would have the luxury of a face-to-face conversation. It wasn't that we did it so often, but it was the idea I could pick up the phone and we would... or I might get a bulletin about an alleged male hampster giving birth...or...or...or...

As an international living in two countries and being friends with loads of other internationals I've mastered being the leaver and the leavee. The period of absence can be anything: days, weeks, months, years, eternity. In many cases the leavee reappears. Thanks to Skype, voipcheap, email, blogs communication goes on.

Being the leaver is easier, because the leaver goes onto new things, albeit missing those left behind is real. Still there are new things to do see and feel and the daily reminders are not there.

But being the leavee, the hole the person left gapes wide and deep. One of my friends when I moved to Europe for the second time pretended I was in Rhode Island...That's is truly creative leaveedom. When my daughter gets on a plane no matter how long her stay-- a week to a year -- I come back to see the chair where she sat, the dishes she used, the DVDs we watched and I can feel her presence and it hurts that I cannot reach out to touch her (even if I've gained closet space).

Now that Mighty Mom is gone, I will not run into her at the post or at the Friday marché or see her daughter, Mighty Mouse, in her pink coat, the last in line marching into school. And that leaves one of those holes.

What being both leaver and leavee has taught me, is that time together with friends and family is precious, no cup of tea in tea room, conversation on a ride, accidental meeting, joke shared, story told, walk on the beach, meal eaten, movie talked about, writing shared, should ever be taken for granted. Sometimes just sitting in each other's company is enough. Each moment is something to savour.

So while I celebrate the new adventures the Mighty family are going to, permit me a tear, like the one on the cover of the notebook in the photograph. I can still think being a leavee is a bummer, even as I am grateful for all those who've enriched my life who are no longer in drop-in distance.

*Rose...this is a cover of a notebook I didn't buy last year during my "no-buy year" but when I saw it today I snatched it up. You'd have been proud of me.

Something must be wrong with me

I don't want to be rich. I don't want a big car or even a small one. I don't want a huge house. I don't want a closet crammed full of clothes. I've never been motivated by money (saying that, I do want a colour-co-ordinated roof over my head, enough food, and enough money for an adventure or two). But I have all that.

I've only been really poor once in my life when my ex-and I were living in Stuttgart and his Army pay meant at the end of the month there might not be enough food. Still, since it was temporary it didn't bother me. It was a game to make do...my coffee pot doubled as an iron...macaroni and butter with pepper filled the stomach...walking worked when even a tram ticket cost too much... I would rather not be that poor again.

Since then I've always had enough to provide for myself and my daughter (before she was independent) with a few luxuries. I could have earned more money if I had chosen a different career path, but I wouldn't have enjoyed the work I did. And I won't say that money didn't play a part in some decisions. There was one time I did want to work for a certain charity, BUT the salary was less than my mortgage.

I've been lucky in that I've never worked for an organization that does harm to the world. I could have made more money in advertising than working for non-profits but there would have been more hours and products that I couldn't justify selling. However, if my daughter had needed to eat I would have had to compromise. Situational ethics and all that.

Although I wouldn't mind writing a book that sells millions of copies, I am happy that some people read my books. They haven't made me rich, and rich was never the reason I wrote anything. Maybe I am not ambitious enough. But the joy was in the process of doing and being read is the extra.

The reason for this blog was a conversation with a friend who said that Americans all believe that one day they can be rich and although the French wouldn't mind being rich, they neither expect it nor will they sacrifice certain things to be rich. Probably both premises are partially true and partially false.

What I want to be is content...content with the sun shining on the tile roofs, content with the yellow flowers in my vase (and outside if I didn't buy any), content to have a good writing day, content knowing I've a great kid and lovely friends, content that when the bise blows, I can stay inside...content to crawl back under the covers on a cold morning...

Content and rich aren't opposites.

Maybe it comes down to value systems. I just don't care to maximize my bank balance at certin costs. In fact, I seldom think of it all and maybe I should but then again I have more than enough and I am content. And maybe something is wrong with me but I can live with it.

The Decision

As I wrote I kept debating what I wanted for lunch: should I warm up the asparagus souffle or make burritos. The kitchen was spotless. I didn't feel like cooking.

The decision: go to La Noisette and have a sandwich, sit in the sun, talk to friends and neighbours as they walked by. And no, that is not my Coke. My Coke day will be the 28th back in Geneva, probably at Manana or maye Marros...to be continued.

Thanks Sher

Glory! Glory! One of my favourite bloggers posted a recipe for bagels on her website.

Whenever I fly into the US, visions of Dunkin Donuts stores that sell bagels dance in my head. If I go straight to my destination and pass a Dunkin Donuts and if we don't stop a frisson of sadness goes through me.

Edward's in Geneva serves imitation bagels, hard little things that only whet the appetite for the real thing. No where can I get DD cinnamon/rasin ones, my favourite.

Then Sher posted a bagel recipe on her blog, albeit a regular bagel.

With a little imagination I adapted the recipe to a C/R one yesterday and it worked. All the joys of bread making came back.

In Europe the bread is so good, the need to make it is non-existent and now that I'm not working in a corporation there is no need to knead the bread to release frustations, but the feeling of dough being slapped back and forth and as the gluten is released changes from sticky to smooth, brought back good memories of regular Saturday bread making back.

And the result... Sighhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I took half to an American friend down the street. I was greeted as a conquering heroine...and with a big smile when I refused some of her stash, knowing that I had my own stock at home.

As I write this I have taken the last bite of one and there's still one for tomorrow.

Thank you Sher. (Her blogsite, Four go on an adventure is listed below with other bloggers I appreciate)

Meet Envie

Pronounced ON-VIE, an eight-week old Jack Russell that I met as I meandered along the river. NO, SHE IS NOT MINE!!!

Admitedly this is about the 15th shot of her, but the only one of a complete puppy. The rest are of her ears, shoulder, tail, side as she ran from one discovery to another...a ball of mud with grass that could be tossed in the air, a blade of grass that moved, a leaf that blew by. And we can't forget a stone.

Of course, she'll never replace in my heart my favourite Jack Russell, Phoenix, owned by a former colleague. I've doggy sat for him but not recently.

Phoenix is one bright dog. When on a walk, and he's had enough he'll plunk himself down in front of a bus stop. And if you give him his choice he just may lead you to MacDos or the doggie toy store. Once right after coming back from a holiday in France, he decided to lead his owner to the train station and directly to the quai for French trains.

While I was still working, Phoenix sometimes visited at lunch. My team and I kept tennis balls (he knew where they were) and we would break our routine for a quick game of catch.

Envie has an mistress that loves her and understands that Jack Russells need lots of attention and exercise.

As for the name, it means envy and I will admit falling prey to a bit of envy of having a puppy...but when the Tramantane was blowing last night and I didn't have to make myriad trips outside to train a puppy, the envy went down to the memory of the pleasure of sharing other peoples' pets.

Progress

"When I was a girl, I used to have to go the square and get water for our home,"The 86-year old woman writer spoke to the crowd gathered at the Argeles movie theatre to see a documentary, Quatres Femmes des Roussilion, a documentary filmed over thirty years before. Four women, including this writer who was already a teacher spoke of their individual lives as a shepherd, a driver of a car that took local children down the mountain to school, a young Parisian that wanted a simple life living off the land, a farmer and the women before us who participated in the project. All lived in the mountains in tiny villages. Their lives were hard, but there was a contentment. All had a thick Catalan accent and sometimes it was hard to follow what they were saying.

This event was just once of the many activities, most free, that are the result of community organization in the town. There are movies, forums and buffet for International Woman's Day. There is a class in calligraphy. The last parade of the Carnival will kick off at 21:00 to be followed by a ball.

The woman talked about her life as a teacher and writer. She had been offered payment by the mairie to come, but she refused saying she had enough money, she was just happy to share with others.

"Although I stand before you looking old, my head is as young as in the film," she said before launching into the importance of saving the planet, community sharing, etc. Then she mentioned progress. "When I was a young girl, I used to go to the fountain in the square to get water for my home. Now I go to the supermarket and see people carry bottle weather even though the water in our homes are certified as good drinking water. They add to the pollution of the planet with the plastic bottles, and spend money they don't need to spend. This is progress." Her eyes sparkled as the crowd applauded madly.

I woke exhausted

To my reader who asked if I dreamed, remembered dreams and were things detailed.

I woke exhausted and still hadn't made my flight to Italy. Ooops that was part of a dream. I wasn't going to Italy today. In the dream, I drove to the airport descending the hill from the Corsier Post. It was hard to drive, because the pedals were tiny little squares and I was wearing big clunky boots* which covered both the break and gas peddles.

Instead of turning left for the airport I turned right to stop at my college chum Maggie's ** house. It was huge with billowy white furnitue and windows all around. Her mother, who was chunky, wore the type of apron that the little Catalan ladies in Argeles wear and had short brown hair, came in interrupting us and leaving a publicity magazine on the counter top. Maggie was annoyed but didn't say anything.

As I turned around I heard a rip and my navy blue skirt *** had a tear, not in the seam, but in the fabric. I told Maggie I would buy a new one. In fact I would get an entire new wardrobe in Italy.

I realised I was running really late and still hadn't gotten any money and gave my daughter Llara who suddenly appeared a credit card so she could get a cash advance from a hotel near the airport and I would meet her there. Meanwhile I dumped all my clothes from my suitcase, which was a long navy blue bag with brown leather edging, the kind you take to play tennis or exercise in the gym, and Maggie helped me fill it with chocolate, not good Swiss chocalate but junk candy like Necco wafers and Smarties, but I thought how pretty all the wrappers looked.

I glanced at my watch 8 a.m. and the flight was due to leave at 9. I grabbed a shuttle (it appeared out of nowhere) and ended up at the hotel where my daughter was getting my money. I asked a Salvador Dali moustached bartender who was wiping glasses pointing to the right if he could call me a shuttle to get to the airport. He said it was already there. Llara hadn't had time to get the money, but I took the credit card and said it was okay, I could do it in Italy. It was now 8:10 as I ran for the shuttle I felt panicky that I would never make it through security in time for my flight.

It was at that point I woke, still panicking about making the flight and wondering what I was doing in my PJs all warm and toasty in bed.

Possible explanations for some of the details. For the rest, don't look to Freud or any other shrink. Chock it up to me.

*My new camera has tiny buttons that resembled the pedals and it is easy to push two at the same time.

**Maggie lives in the US. I have been meaning to write her. I have never met her mother

***The blue skirt was part of a suit bought in Maine in 1993 and retired in 2004. I did slit a black skirt the same way on a business trip in London.

Two signs of spring

This is one of the main roads into Argeles. Most of the year the river is dry, but now between rains and melting snows, it is flooded. It is surprising how many cars come through

Mimosa is everywhere.

I GIVE UP

The last time I coloured my hair was before I went to the States for Christmas. I have several neighbours with beautiful silver white hair. At one time in my youth, I bleached my hair white (the roots grew before I left the beauty saloon, so it didn't last long, but I loved the white hair for the 32 seconds it was rootless). Wigs were in at the time so I bought a white wig.

I am also tired for colouring my hair.

"Don't do it," some friends said, including one of the white haired lovelies. It will make you look older, a knitting granny...(I've knitted for years and have taken it up again recently).

"We know you as the red head," others said.

"Think of how many clothes you have that are perfect with your hair," was another comment.

Low and behold as time passed, my roots were silver. IN THE FRONT...The back was dark. I knew if my hair grew out I would look like a genetically challenged skunk, the front half of my head white and the back half dark...

I've redyed my hair and only my avatar in this blog has the look I would love to have...