No explanation necessary

Two weights gone

I got rid of two weights.

The galleys for Murder in Caleb's Landing have been corrected and sent back to the editor.

The new manuscript for Murder in Argelès has been sent off to the acquiring editor at my publishing house.

YES YES YES

Candy visits

I burst through the door to run catch the bus just as a little Westie wanders into the yard. Dogs are seldom loose.

Reopening the door I call to my housemate.

We shoo the pup into the house.

"Munchkin?" My housemate asks.

"Out."

We don't need to say where is the cat, or can you find the owner, or run catch your bus or anything else. We just know what the other is thinking. She nods, shuts the door and I make the bus with under a nanosecond to spare.

Once in the tea room awaiting my writing student I call her.

"I called her owner," my housemate says. "They didn't know she got out and will down to get her in a few minutes. Meanwhile she is eating up Munchkin's food."

I have not asked Munchkin her opinion as she looked in the window to see Candy gobbling down her Friskies. Maybe it is better if I don't.

Things

things that made me happy before 10 a.m. today.

Waking to the smell of spring rain through my open bedroom window.

The delicate pink roses on my desk for their beauty and for their celebration of the remission for a person much loved by this household.

My vitamins whose colour match my bedspread.

The cool sweet taste of cantaloupe.

Munchkin's purr which seemed amplified by a rock band's equipment.

I can hardly wait for the next hour.

And in the next hour I realistic the eidting of the galleys of Caleb's Landing are almost done and Murder in Argeles is within finishing distance of a final proofing.



And my friend Rose sent me the most incredible photos of three baby robins from eggs to flight taken from her window. The mother robin had her nest near flowers making the photos works of art on top of nature's art.

The ultimate luxury

Washing the floor with champagne. Okay, we meant to have a celebration feast of salmon, shrimp and champagne, and okay, so a glass spilled and that meant the floor had to be washed but there is something wonderfully decadent thinking the kitchen floor was washed with champagne n'est pas?????

Feeling smug

www.mercer.com/qualityoflivingpr#City_Ranking_Tables

Feeling smug...

The best cities to live in list is out and Geneva, Zurich and Bern all are in the top ten.

The first US city on the list is number 31 Honolulu, and the city of my roots Boston, is 37. I will admit when I left it some five years ago after a holiday and with my daughter planning to move, I had doubts if I would ever wander across the Common, gaze at Paul Revere's statue, wander the red brick Freedom Trail, haunt the halls of the Boston Public Library again. But it is and always will be part of me and I will never watch a Boston Legal or an Ally McBeal when I see a shot of the Longfellow bridge, that I don't go ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

A can of dreams

I know this looks like an ordinary tin can...but inside you will find Euros and Swiss francs. They look like ordinary money, but they are more. They are dreams.

Years ago, my step mom and dad played a lot of gin rummy. Both were card sharks that if they wanted to could go on a professional card playing circuit, but they were happy as a salesman and school secretary. The loser had to put 10 cents in a kitty. The games paid for holidays in Hawaii, California and a bunch of other things.

When I told my housemate this, we decided to start a kitty using this can. Instead of winnings, I threw in two CHF whenever I didn't go to a restaurant for lunch. Her contribution was when she didn't go out for coffee. We added money in dispute. Usually those discussions are like this...

I owe you...
No you don't.
Yes I do for...
No you don't.
Yes I do, don't you remember?
No...
Put it in the can

At first we used it for special meals, until we hit on the idea of taking it for our get-away trips. The first time we used it was in Iceland so once the tickets were paid for it seemed as if everything else on the trip was free. Thus the can has emptied and filled emptied and filled and fed us well in various other places

Right now it is filling for our October trip to Northern Germany. I can taste the hot potato salad now...

On the first day I went to the outdoor café set out in front of the town hall, enjoyed the fountains, the warm air, and my first diabolo frais of the season. I corrected the galleys of Murder in Caleb's Landing and felt very Hemingwayish and Fitzgeraldish.



The commune of Puteaux, which touches La Defense has these signs showing local sights. The Mayor goes out of her way to make the place beautiful. Heavily populated with a mixed population including many Arabic people, it has not suffered the same problems as some other areas with similar populations. Small businesses thrive, there are many activities for all. The name comes from the word for quagmire and the commune was first settled in the 1100s.



In the commune where my friend lives, Zoe and her friend Artur stand on each side of the crossing walks in front of the schools, a visual reminder that it might not be a good idea to squish a student with a car.



We went to the antique flea market in Porte de Clingancourt. It was set up much like the souks in Damascus. At lunch all the vendors sat down and tables and had a pot luck lunch (they would have called it a Canadian meal). It would have been rude, although tempting to ask for a sample. The puce has been around since the late 1800s.





Over night all the cars were banned from the Champs Elysée and farmers had turned the busy road into a garden. Trees replaced cars. Perhaps all of Paris turned out. Since the city has an estimated population of 11 million and Switzerland has a population of seven million, it did seem a bit more crowded there than home. Still I am glad I saw what I could over shoulders, through arms, etc.



The toilet stalls at Orly have painted doors. Trust the French to make the mundane beautiful.

Multi lingual

I love living in a multi-lingual world. M. is in her bedroom in Paris talking on the phone in Arabic. I am writing in English and The-ou-Cafe is in the TV in French.

I can understand two unless M. limits her vocabulary to Mahaba,Shukren, Awfon, chai,and habibi.

Life is good.

what goes rip rip giggle

As I read in bed this morning I heard from my housemate's room

rip rip giggle rip rip rip guffaw rip giggle, rip rip rip giggle rip rip laugh rip rip laugh rip snicker rip giggle...

It had to be her catching up her Maxine calendar.

After my foray to the drugstore, I came home to find one Maxine joke on each of the stairs, through the hall leading to my room and up to my desk. A sampling.

Maybe the green eggs in my fridge have been dyed. Feel lucky?

Know why I like chess. The queen kicks butt all over the board while the king hides in the corner.

At my age having Uncle Sam put his hands in my pockets is about the only action I get.

I don't know if I'd mind having my identity stolen. Hack, let the bill collectors talk to somebody else for a change.

Recycling is just common sense, which is why most people don't do it.

Drugs helped me smell the new grass

I opened my new 60-tablet prescription that keeps E. Sophie Gus under control to discover there were only 30 in tablets in the package. I caught the bus to the next village grumbling this was NOT what I wanted to do this morning. As I always do I mentally ran over my French, making sure my verbs and genders were ok in my head to make sure I would be as clear and correct as possible.

No problem with the language. The pharmacist happily replaced the box.

I decided to walk back home despite the wind. The sky was blue, the mountains and lake gleaming, the vineyards are pushing up their vines and then I smelled the first fresh cut grass of the season, a seasonal variation of stopping to smell the roses.

And I gratefully owe the experience all to drugs...

It was sooooooooooooo easy

I'm a change saver...

Change put me through grad school. Change takes me on holidays. Change means I save a couple of thousand or more each year.

Change also gives me headaches when I take it to out OCDered postman. He needs to check, recheck, check his checking. I would not be surprised if he bit each coin to test its mettle. Once he called me on the telephone because after yet another check he found me 10 centimes over.

Today I had about 300 CHF in change to deposit. As much as I want to support my local PO, I couldn't face it. I took it to the PO in Vesernaz. The woman smiled, slapped each roll on the scale, found one packet had 10 centimes too much, gave it back to me, wham bam the money was in my account.

Equally fast she slapped stamps on two envelopes without checking my handwriting and pushed through a payment for tickets for a play I want to go to next month. The entire thing took less than three minutes.

No sighs, no pained expressions at the idea something might be terribly wrong and bring down the entire Swiss postal system.

Bonne journée, she said. It was.

There are tears for many reasons

I found tears washing my cheeks last night, not out of sadness but of pride and joy, watching N. do her solo Indian dance. The flawless performance had all the magic of the classical form of dance that I have come to love over the years, but seeing this talented young woman, whom I've watched grow from te age of six was truly a delight.

Tapas Surprise

It was going to be a night in, until my housemate decided to drive No. 2 son back into the city.

Her "Wanta come?" led to me being in the car in minutes. The spring night was extra beautiful even if the sunglasses-qualifying rapeseed fields are now green. There are enough flowering trees to emotionally feast on.

When we approached the Jet d'Eau, the sunlight was behind it and in front were the masts of boats sticking up like the spikes of a marching medieval army.

In another block a tree in full leaf replaced the spikes. The Jet d'Eau still shimmered. No way could we stop for a photo, having to be satisfied by sealing the moment in our memories.

The evening was too beautiful to just drop No. 2 son off, so a walk and an apero in the old town seemed a much better solution. After last week's cold, people, probably tired of huddling houses, were out in cafés. The fountains were gurgling. Even the cobblestones appeared to be happy. The top of St. Pierre, Calvin's church towered over the century-old houses.

At the Demi Lune the next logical step was a plate of tapas to go with the apero.

Why is it that nothing special can be so very special????

Homecoming and more

The day started with a chai latté...the opening salvo on a wonderful, wonderful day full of gifts that cannot be touched but exist in my heart.

For over a year I had not been at the Geneva Writers Group. With all the Florida ups and downs, sitting still for a workshop was more than I could take. The GWG has nurtured my writing for over 17 years. I once had a boss, who ended up in a psychiatric ward, when asked if he wanted to go to a workshop in his field, said, "I already know everything there is to know." I don't care how many books I publish, I can always learn a bit more about my craft.

Never, ever have I done one of the GWG workshops that I have not come out inspired. This one was no exception.

Walking into the Press Club where the group meets, I saw so many faces of people I like and respect have spent time with but haven't over the past few months as I sort out this and that and that and this and and and.

There were not just the traditional kiss-kiss-kisses on alternate cheeks (one cheek gets it twice) but hugs then the wonderful phrase "X is here." Another writer with whom I've shared writing with and is now living in another country, was standing in the outer room, surrounded by people as delighted as I was to see him. One of the problems in Geneva is that people you like move (are you listening Mighty Mom?) but then the good friends turn up in an email, on the phone and best of all in front of you.

The morning was just one series of gifts.



Lunch at the Café du Soleil, the oldest brasserie in Geneva: my daughter insists we eat there immediately after she's landed in Geneva and even wants me to make reservations when she has ordered her airline ticket even though the flight might me six months in the future.. She says she isn't in Switzerland until she's been there. After the cold of the past week, eating outside, talking with other writers, and having my usual demi salade de lentilles tiede avec roquefort...ahhhh. More gifts.





Was it my imagination? What were people in Catalan hats draped in Catalan flags doing in front of the Three-legged chair at the UN? I had to ask.
"For independence."
"Ah, I said. I understand. I live part time in Argelès."
Immediately I was taken to an official from Perpignan. We talked about the thousands and thousands of refugees that found themselves on the beaches in 1939.
"You should have been here earlier. The plaza was filled. Now we are just cleaning up."
I walked on to the library and had to stop for at a the glacier for a cornet avec deux boules, pistache et café.

At the library I ran into another writer I had not seen for too long. Although the exchange was brief, it was still just another reason to be happy.

It had been a wonderful day.

Test sleeping an afghan

I laid out the squares for the afghan that I knitted on the winter garden table to decide on the final arrangement. Munchkin decided to do a test sleep on it.

If anyone had told me Friday

That on Saturday I would be watching a cricket match and understanding it, I would have questioned their sanity. But that's just what happened at an unexpected sleepover at friends and I loved it.

My tree

Okay, it really is the ILO/BITs tree, but today I found myself in my old stomping grounds and decided to walk back into town just in case the tree was in full blossom. When I used to work at IEC and the tree was in blossom, I would walk by it every day, even in the rain, because I loved the plethora of pink. Sometimes I would even stand under it just to be enveloped in the colour. And even when the peals fell to the ground,they made a thick, pink snow.

Left or right

It has nothing to do with politics. Usually, when I head for the lake as a reward for a good writing day, I go right. I never knew there was a left (although those that know my politics, may be chocking at this point). I discovered a road that in the six years I've lived here I didn't know existed. Before you think I am totally stupid, the road is hidden behind the boatyard. I discovered among other things these beautiful dandelions, and even though most people think of them as weeds, I find that beautiful, not to mention how good the leaves are in salad.




I discovered a grassy bathing beach under the trees, that I must remember if I am here on a hot day.



I wonder what wife of this man is like to capture such an accolade? I assume the person who put up the sign is American, not just because the sign is in English, but because it so unSwiss.




I would love to meet the person who put the logo of a luxury watch on a beaten up old garbage can.




And I stumbled across a memorial to a pilot who had landed their. The monument is dated 1911????




There was this very strange mosaic fly outside a very normal house.

Meanwhile the birdsong was beautiful and the smell of flowers in old and new houses was florist shop strong.

Left is good.

on a home

I came across this in the latest Good Housekeeping quoting Oprah Winfrey.

"What makes a house a home...that it's a precious gift to give yourself daily. What can be more important than the space where you live and breathe and thrive, surrounded by memories and treasures that fill you up?"


Well I certainly feel that way about Argelès. There is nothing in there that I don't love and there's not even a paper clip that I don't want there. And in Geneva? In my space this is true, but I can also delight in the warmth of the rest of the house where my housemate has stored up her family memories.

Earth Day Anniversary

Twenty years ago today we scattered my mother's ashes.

I put my two Japanese Chins in the car and stopped for my girl friend who was giving moral support. She was waiting for me on the stoop of her Boston townhouse and was dressed in sneakers and jeans. "Emily Post couldn't tell me what to wear to an illegal scattering of ashes of a women I didn't like on Earth Day."

I seldom write poetry, but that day produced this

Scattering Her Ashes

Clumps of sodden earth
cling to our boots.
The forest whispers,
whines.
A brook, too full,
complains,
falling over itself.
A bird,
trills a prayer for
no more rain.

My brother, carrying the
cardboard carton,
goes first.
As he pushes through brush
he forgets to hold a branch.
It hits me like another one
forty years ago
in a different wood.

We come to a meadow with
last year's grass
engraved in mus.
He lays the carton
on the ground.
"Here."
Inside a plastic bag.
We each take a corner.
The wind catches the powder,
lifts and plays creating a mini cloud
too close to earth.

I think
how much power
that powder once held.
How little power now.
Done.
We walk back
trapped
in our ancient silences.

home again, home again

Home again, home again
jiggerty jig jiggerty jig jiggerty jig jiggerty jig jiggerty jig jiggerty jig jiggerty jig jiggerty jig jiggerty jig

Okay, so last Thursday I couldn't get back to Genève from Argelès because of the train strike in the South east of France. Even had I wanted to drive it all rental cars were long gone. The option to have someone drive me to the border take a train to Barcelona then fly back to Genève also wasn't an option, thank you very much Iceland.

Now, I wouldn't dream of comparing my situation to those at an airport, with no room left on their charge cards and no idea how they will get home. I was cozy in my apartment, eating tapas at Les Flowers, sitting in a café, writing as normal. And compared to having to get to a sick relative fast missing some of the Visions du reel film festival doesn't even begin to register on the tragedy scale.

However, when a neighbour with a second home in Argelès let me ride with her to the train station in Mâcon, where the TGV comes through twice a day and is not on strike I jumped into the car and the 600 km. flew by as fast as the bright spring scenery.

The train was at 16:46. We arrived at the gare at 16:31.

There was a line but by 16:40 I had arrived at the window.

Fermé. The sales clerk closed the guichet.

The train pulled in.

My friend rushed from the car with my computer and suitcase. I ran up to the conductor.

"I don't have a ticket because the man closed the window. I got stuck in Argelès with the strike." I knew my French was perfect for once in my life. Glory! Glory!

"Do you have your old ticket."

My pocketbook has multi pockets, I fumbled and fumbled and fumpled some more. I think someone was adding pockets, but finally I found it.

The conductor took it and scribbled something on it. "There's a place in car 2. The train is full because of the volcano."

My friend followed me and we waved goodbye and I was on my way to Genève. At last.

Jiggerty jig.

silver linings

I am leaving for Geneva. Although the trains in the South of France are still on greve, a neighbour here with a second home is heading for Macon. From there I have a chance to catch the TGV to Geneva. They are not on greve, although they may be crowded between the end of vacation and no planes flying.

The alternative of flying out of Barcelona is obviously not an option. Of course there are share a ride choices, which would have been the next alternative.

Compared to people stuck in airports and out of money, I have nothing to complain about. I suspect the airports who are saying they may open in half a day, tomorrow, etc. I wonder if they have looked at the volcano that it is still spewing ash. I wonder what would happen if like during the last eruption i8t goes on for two years how it will affect the world. It will change it as we know it.

Not being able to get to the States for family emergencies is admittedly uncomfortable, but the silver lining came from my friend Barbara--what if you were visiting the States and couldn't get home...?

Silver linings abound.

Greve

If I believe in the value of workers' strikes then I must be prepared to put up with the inconvenience...

Thus I am in Argeles and not on a train to Geneva today, because of the train strike. I won't be going to the film festival...(hopefully will makeit by next week)

A neighbour is going to Macon on Saturday, and there's a chance I will be able to catch the TGV to Geneva Sunday or Monday in time for an Indian education fund raiser Monday night.

Am I upset...?

Not really... I will enjoy the extra time in Argeles, get caught up on my newsletter, do a bit on the novel...

And although I would prefer to be in Geneva, all I have to do is to think of the people who were killed in China, are homeless in Haiti, are unemployed and I realise that a greve is not a problem at all, maybe just a minor inconvenience.

Defying?

On Meet the Press yesterday David Gregory asked why U.S. allies and friends are DEFYING us?

Defying? There are 190 countries give or take in the world. Why should any of them obey or defy us?

How arrogant.

Maybe

Today I was overswept with feelings of contentment, almost a tsunami of contentment. And it is more than ignoring the S word (see blog below).

Maybe it was the wonderful lunch at Flowers of magret de canard in banyuls sauce... or the walk in the sunshine afterward past my favourite purple flowers.



Or maybe it was wandering around the marché talking to misc. friends or stopping in Barbara's store and seeing a happy Ptah II recovered from the removal of his cement hairball in his intestine surgery. Or talking with the two young Belgian girls who have fallen in love with Shakespeare...



Maybe is was gazing at the river (with water still), clothes outside the washing shed and the mountains. I have my usual I-don't-want-to-leave-Argelès-I-can-hardly- wait-to-get-to Geneva dichotomy. Living two wonderful lives in one is happiness plus.

or or or

Or maybe it doesn't matter and it is enough to be happy...

Things I'd rather to do than write a synopsis

OK. Murder in Argeles only needs a synopsis before I send it to my publisher Five Star. What I would rather do than write a synopsis.

1. Go to my dentist.
2. Go to my Gynie.
3. Wash the tile floor on my hands and knees without a pillow under my knees.
4. Drive in Paris at rush hour.
5. Go without chocolate for six months.
6. Recite French verbs for three hours.
7. Recite German verbs for three hours.
8. Get drenched in the rain.

I thought about saying spend the summer in Florida, but the synopsis wins out on that one.

Certain age??? Me???

“You women of a certain age do well,” Anja said.
We were sitting in the sun in a café: the Danish journalist who started the migration of Danes to Argelès, her daughter and husband and me. It was after Easter dinner, after theIR family had played miniature golf. We were all trying to see as many people as we could over this weekend when some of the summer crowd was here.
Although my daughter keeps saying “My Mom, retired? Hah!!!!” I find it hard to think of myself as a woman of a “certain age” but I am.
I look at my friends who vary from their 20s to 90s, but those in my bracket indeed do fit that term.
It is not derogatory at all. Most of us think this is the best time of our lives. Oh yes, there are aches and pains, but they were always there in some form: a cold. Flu, measles, a fall ice skating, etc.
My friends are busy painting, singing, learning new things. Two have walked a pilgrim trail, one is helping war victims in Bosnia.
I think of the time I have to write, to develop my business, the freedom to go where I want, when I want with only financial limitations, which were worse when I was younger.
And if there are problems helping my mother at the end of her life, it is also a privilege to pay her back for all the support she gave me (I must remember I wrote this when I am banging my head against a wall).
We women are lucky to live in a time that we can do so much. And we are lucky to be able to share it with each other. Certain age? Certainly!

Review of my new novel

Family Value. Nelson, D. L. (author).

Apr. 2010. 324p. Gale/Cengage, hardcover, $25.95 (9781594148736).
REVIEW. First published March 2, 2010 (Booklist Online).

The house at 392 Chestnut Street is a duplex occupied by the DiDonatos and the Marshes. Life isn’t perfect for either family. Jay Marsh, an attorney, is dealing with his dying, estranged adoptive father. Jay’s wife, Carol, a probation officer working with juvenile offenders, oversees a kid who has become a neo-Nazi, and Carol’s whole family is put in harm’s way. Tony DiDonato, an unemployed college professor, has turned to salvaging and refurbishing furniture. His wife, Laura, a safety engineer, has found out that her company’s dangerous chemicals violate the law, but if she turns the company in, she’ll lose her much-needed job. Nelson has painted a sympathetic portrait of families with problems and issues—many of them major. Her keen eye for detail makes this novel a richly textured, realistic view of the modern American family.

— Shelley Mosley

The saying just ain't so

One housemate relaxes on her holiday

There is a saying that fish and guests stink after three days, but in the week-long visit of my Geneva housemate, it is definitely not true. Despite my tiny flat we had the same ease of doing what needed to be doing between good meals, laughter, DVDs and a serious conversation or two. Maybe because although we spend far more time in Geneva, she could never be a guest, just a valued friend.

Storm damage

The plan was for a Sunday without budging, staying in sweats, reading, writing, listening to music. But when May called and suggested lunch at a restaurant, I was out the door almost immediately.

We went to the beach which gave us a chance to see storm damage, house-high piles of tree branches, waiting to be carted away. Compared to Haiti, Chile or Fiji this is minor, but the poubelle container speared with a palm I found amusing. I wondered how many poubelle containers it would take at one branch per can?

A great day...

"Tu est belle, comme toujours," Joel, my olive dealer told me as I bought several types for the impending visit of my Geneva housemate. Joel is full of it but fun. The marché stands were set up between the melting snowbanks.

At La Noisette, I saw several people I hadn't seen for a while and there was no choice but to have a chocolate chaud with them. Good thing, because one of my friends is off to Sarajevo for a third time. She donates her massage services to war victims, which has proven to help with the aftermath of the hell they lived through.

Then there was the women's film festival: four films and dinner.

YELLA: A German film about an ex abused wife in east Germany seeking work in west Germany.
So-so.

RACHEL: A documentary made by a French7Israeli Moroccan about the death of Rachel Corrie, more meaningful because of the civil process starting in Israel this month and brought by her parents. The debate was not, mainly because the audience was solidly on the side of the Gaza and Palestine.

Dinner followed by A musical interlude honouring the life of Jean Ferrat who died that day.

CAFE TRANSIT: An Iranian film. A widow refuses to follow the custom by marrying her brother-in-law and opens a wonderful café.

Sunday is the fourth film and international effort about a Somalian nomad girl who runs away rather than marry.

The dinner served at long tables where people, all strangers, quickly included me in their conversation. The man next to me wanted to make sure I knew exactly what I was eating and the history of the wine.

Apero with a white wine sangria, olives, chips etc.
Endive, apple, cheese, walnut salad
Beef Burgundy (melted in the mouth) with pasta
Mousse chocolate
wine
water
A second dessert was offered after the last film but I did not go.

All this was put together by our local film association made up of volunteers. The total cost 23 Euros (US$31, CHF33)

Although there's many ways to celebrate a day in March and just being alive this was a great one.

Corporation Running for Office

I wish I voted in Maryland where Murray Hill, Inc. is running for office.

Yup, Inc. Murray Hill is a corporation. Since the Supreme Court has ruled that corporations have the same rights as people, isn't this the next logical step.

Would the Honorable Junior Senator from Texas, Mr. Exxon please take the floor?

Great video of our carnival etc.

http://www.argeles.tv/videos/carnaval-2010-3-21/-

And this week is our feminine film festival four films from different countries including one on Rachel Corrie, an Iranian, a German, and Somalian plus dinner for all of 23 Euros.

Doctors are on strike...they want to get 13 Euros per appt. in place of 22. And of course that is covered by insurance for everyone.

The snow is melting but there are still many unplowed streets.

It's going to snow tomorrow

My Swedish and French neighbours were sitting around my table, the remains of a raclette in the centre as we finished our dessert.

Sylvie announced the meteo for Monday. Her partner Alain shuddered. He had lived in Haiti for years and is definitely a warm weather person. The two of them and their dogs had been gone a year, taking their boat across the Atlantic and back.

Bjorn and Kristin, were no happier, having come down from Sweden to work on their future retirement home and to escape their own too-long winter.
When the rain pounded on my roof, Alain, the ever hopeful one, "It is too warm too snow."
Sylvie placed her faith in the meteo report she had heard.

Thus, this morning, when I woke, the roof across the street was white. Now compared to living in New England, nor my daughter's recent imprisonment in her apartment in Washington DC with dwindling supply of ice cream, the snow is nothing. But for the south of France, it is a big, big deal.

Thus today will be a writing day. I have some corn chowder on the stove, the score from the Double Life of Veronica is filling my flat with haunting music, and my New England/Swiss soul is happy.

Note: The angels are for you Rose.

New book cover

I have the cover for the book that will be published in the fall. My first mystery. It does capture the New England feel.

"I was born in that house"

I was ambling down the street with one of the mamies, one of the Catalan grandmothers. We ambled because she had a cane to help her poor hip. Even the word amble might convey more speed than we were making. It was a bit of shock for me to discover although I thought of her as an elderly woman, a grandmother of the old fashioned rocking-chair type, she was only a couple of years older than I was.

The mamies have always been a part of Argelès for me. They are old women in house dresses and aprons, gray-hair pushed into buns. They often put their chairs on the street, knit and talk in fast Catalan. Sometimes they gather on benches near the beauty salon to share their lives.

One by one, the mamie told me the history of the house. Where the Swedes are now redoing their house, a fisherman with a long beard lived. Soldiers of all colours occupied the house next to where Jean-Pierre and Babette operate the little grocery store. The Danish journalist's house was very tiny, she said, still is and a man lived there all alone. He wasn't friendly, but he had a long beard too. I learned who was great with a needle, and who had well-behaved children, who taught and who lost children during the war.

When you live on a street with houses 400 years old, there is a lot of history that will never make a history book. The street is very international now: Danes, Swedes, Swiss, English, French, Catalan and a German.

The mamie pointed to another house. "English bought this one. They might need friends. You should say hello."

I will, not because they are English, but because this is a village where we know our neighbours. For years, the Catalans were not sure about the newcomers, but once our flamboyant Danish film director threw a street party the atmosphere changed. Mixing varies, but it is impossible not to share something with everyone be it a cup of tea at La Noisette, a move at the theatre around the corner, or a conversation with another woman as we amble home with our baskets of vegetables we bought for lunch. I doubt, despite the demographic change, if if is that much different then it was in this woman's childhood or 40 years ago when some of the houses were built.

I love having my moment on this street.

High Noon or 09:38

John Wayne was no where to be seen and do not forsake me oh my darling did not sound, just the street cleaners horn, loud enough to disturb the rest of those in the cemetery 10 blocks away.

The houses on my street were built between 1400 and 1700 and although the facades have been done and the insides probably changed a few times each century, the street is still narrow. Built to allow space for people and sheep, there is space for only one vehicle at a time, and not a wide one at that.

Argelès is fanatic about cleaning its street, and thank goodness it no longer uses the vomit-producing lemon scent that clogged the sinuses and made chocking the only alternative. Still the machine comes around regularly.

The car belongs to my neighbour Yian, a young man despite having a bit too much testosterone, has a very sweet side. We have a sugar-borrowing relationship, although he is more apt to borrow and I am more apt to use his muscle for lifting stuff. I have noticed it is only the locals that will park on the street. The others will drive up to deposit packages then take their cars to the river or the library parking lot, a short walk away.

Yian was in no hurry.

The street clear was.

More horns.

More raised voices.

Horns, voices, horns, voices, horns, voices and a growl or two.

The street cleaner inched the machine towards the red car.

Yian gave in.

Cut and print.

hmmm

So much confetti on the street, the pavement isn't visible
Kids in costume
Floats, loving made locally
Bands
Horses with riders
It must be carnival.

I do love these local fêtes, locally arranged and just part of the joy of living in my village.

No big thing

But there was something wonderful about wandering out this morning for fresh baked bread, beautiful broccoli, a nice chat with the butcher and the green grocer. Such a sensible way to live and eat.
The village is the middle of carnival with its costumes and parades as well.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The Reading

http://www.hotel-templiers.com/gb/sommaire.htm Les Templiers, is a restaurant in Collioure, with paintings lining the walls, some from impressionists who had no money to pay for meals, or so the legend goes.

Last night I got a chance to read from my novels to a lovely mixed-language group, but I also got a chance to wear the T-Shirt my daughter gave me for Christmas. In case you can't read it from the too dark photo, it says, "Be careful for I'll put you in my next novel."

Maybe Llara thinks that because in The Card, there is a smart mouthed blond teenager, and she was once a smart mouthed blond teenager.

Or should I stay smart fingered? There was the time back on The Riverway in Boston and I was busy writing. Finally, I was ready to get my hero and heroine into bed after constant delays.

The phone rang.

I answered it. When I came back, I found on the computer screen, the smart-fingered blond teenager had added the line "Not tonight dear, I have a headache."

Fortunately no headache at the reading.

Changing Lives Again

Here I go again changing from Geneva to Argeles,
From chai lattés to Franck's chocolate chaud,
From lunches at Mikado and Manno to Cayrou and Les Flowers,
From buses to walking,
From roaming a country to roaming a village,
From spending more times with writers to spending more time with artists,
From a lake to a sea,
From Alps/Jura to Pyrenées, Corbieres and Alberes,
From a large cozy house to a tiny cozy studio
From shopping at Migros to marchés

But what stays the same is writing (although Experiment is not going well) be it fiction or newsletter, sharing with others and loving it all.

Someone stole the lake

As I do every morning, I wandered into my housemate's room to look at the lake and the mountains from her balcony. One of the typical views above I snapped when I first came back from Washington. The houses are always static, but the trees, flowers the face of the lake and the mountains vary.

However today there was no lake, just a sheet of gray after the houses. Whoever stole the lake, please bring it back.

Play/work balance

With the newsletter out of the way having worked all day Monday, I scheduled a play day, starting with appreciation of the rocks that my housemate uses in her vase. The tulips had dropped their petals and the rocks were in the sink. What a pleasure to see the shades of beige and brown, feel their smooth surfaces. A last sushi trip before I go to sushi-less Argelés, and discovered I had left my money at home. Fortunately No. 2 son bailed me out.

I ambled into Sherlock Holmes only to almost walk out, probably the second worst movie I've seen. Song of Norway wins the worst movie. It was so bad I enjoyed its badness. Ah well, I will get an espresso brownie, I thought, but as I left the theatre the No. 27 bus was there, a miracle. I hopped on and planned to get the brownie at Rive. At Rive, the bus was there. The universe was against me having a brownie. I can live with that.
Over the weekend My housemate and I escaped the Geneva cold and grey. We trained through postcard perfect snowy mountains to Lugano. We are used to bilingual French-English living. However, our Italian is limited to raviolo, risotto, lasagna, prego. Her German is fluent, mine is mini-functional but we managed with lots of laughter between all the languages. We took boat rides and bus rides...we explored an antiques mini marché, we meandered through a park admiring all the statues. The blue skies and above freezing temperatures were wonderful. The picture above is a gate to nowhere, and I got a chance to add to my cow photo collection. Click to appreciate the originality.

So tomorrow I face paper work for dumb stuff like taxes, and setting up an email account for the woman serving as my associate editor with the newsletter and and and...

Not a complaint...I like the play/work combination.

Reprinted from Tom Dispatch--a bit of sanity

Hold Onto Your Underwear: This Is NOT a National Emergency

by Tom Engelhardt

Let me put American life in the Age of Terror into some kind of context, and then tell me you're not ready to get on the nearest plane heading anywhere, even toward Yemen.

In 2008, 14,180 Americans were murdered, according to the FBI. In that year, there were 34,017 fatal vehicle crashes in the U.S. and, so the U.S. Fire Administration tells us, 3,320 deaths by fire. More than 11,000 Americans died of the swine flu between April and mid-December 2009, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention; on average, a staggering 443,600 Americans die yearly of illnesses related to tobacco use, reports the American Cancer Society; 5,000 Americans die annually from food-borne diseases; an estimated 1,760 children died from abuse or neglect in 2007; and the next year, 560 Americans died of weather-related conditions, according to the National Weather Service, including 126 from tornadoes, 67 from rip tides, 58 from flash floods, 27 from lightning, 27 from avalanches, and 1 from a dust devil.

As for airplane fatalities, no American died in a crash of a U.S. carrier in either 2007 or 2008, despite 1.5 billion passengers transported. In 2009, planes certainly went down and people died. In June, for instance, a French flight on its way from Rio de Janeiro to Paris disappeared in bad weather over the Atlantic, killing 226. Continental Connection Flight 3407, a regional commuter flight, crashed into a house near Buffalo, New York, that February killing 50, the first fatal crash of a U.S. commercial flight since August 2006. And in January 2009, US Airways Flight 1549, assaulted by a flock of birds, managed a brilliant landing in New York's Hudson River when disaster might have ensued. In none of these years did an airplane go down anywhere due to terrorism, though in 2007 two terrorists smashed a Jeep Cherokee loaded with propane tanks into the terminal of Glasgow International Airport. (No one was killed.)

The now-infamous Northwest Airlines Flight 253, carrying Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab and his bomb-laden underwear toward Detroit on Christmas Day 2009, had 290 passengers and crew, all of whom survived. Had the inept Abdulmutallab actually succeeded, the death toll would not have equaled the 324 traffic fatalities in Nevada in 2008; while the destruction of four Flight 253s from terrorism would not have equaled New York State's 2008 traffic death toll of 1,231, 341 of whom, or 51 more than those on Flight 253, were classified as "alcohol-impaired fatalities."

Had the 23-year-old Nigerian set off his bomb, it would have been a nightmare for the people on board, and a tragedy for those who knew them. It would certainly have represented a safety and security issue that needed to be dealt with. But it would not have been a national emergency, nor a national-security crisis. It would have been nothing more than a single plane knocked out of the sky, something that happens from time to time without the intervention of terrorists.

And yet here's the strange thing: thanks to what didn't happen on Flight 253, the media essentially went mad, 24/7. Newspaper coverage of the failed plot and its ramifications actually grew for two full weeks after the incident until it had achieved something like full-spectrum dominance, according to the Pew Research Center's Project for Excellence in Journalism. In the days after Christmas, more than half the news links in blogs related to Flight 253. At the same time, the Republican criticism machine (and the media universe that goes with it) ramped up on the subject of the Obama administration's terror wimpiness; the global air transport system plunked down millions of dollars on new technology which will not find underwear bombs; the homeland security-industrial-complex had a field day; and fear, that adrenaline rush from hell, was further embedded in the American way of life.

Under the circumstances, you would never know that Americans living in the United States were in vanishingly little danger from terrorism, but in significant danger driving to the mall; or that alcohol, tobacco, E. coli bacteria, fire, domestic abuse, murder, and the weather present the sort of potentially fatal problems that might be worth worrying about, or even changing your behavior over, or perhaps investing some money in. Terrorism, not so much.

The few Americans who, since 2001, have died from anything that could be called a terror attack in the U.S. -- whether the 13 killed at Fort Hood or the soldier murdered outside an army recruiting office in Little Rock, Arkansas -- were far outnumbered by the 32 dead in a 2007 mass killing at Virginia Tech University, not to speak of the relatively regular moments when workers or former workers "go postal." Since September 11th, terror in the U.S. has rated above fatalities from shark attacks and not much else. Since the economic meltdown of 2008, it has, in fact, been left in the shade by violent deaths that stem from reactions to job loss, foreclosure, inability to pay the rent, and so on.

This is seldom highlighted in a country perversely convulsed by, and that can't seem to get enough of, fantasies about being besieged by terrorists.

Institutionalizing Fear Inc.

The attacks of September 11, 2001, which had the look of the apocalyptic, brought the fear of terrorism into the American bedroom via the TV screen. That fear was used with remarkable effectiveness by the Bush administration, which color-coded terror for its own ends. A domestic version of shock-and-awe -- Americans were indeed shocked and awed by 9/11 -- helped drive the country into two disastrous wars and occupations, each still ongoing, and into George W. Bush's Global War on Terror, a term now persona non grata in Washington, even if the "war " itself goes on and on.

Today, any possible or actual terror attack, any threat no matter how far-fetched, amateurish, poorly executed, or ineffective, raises a national alarm, always seeming to add to the power of the imperial presidency and threatening to open new "fronts" in the now-unnamed global war. The latest is, of course, in Yemen, thanks in part to that young Nigerian who was evidently armed with explosives by a home-grown organization of a few hundred men that goes by the name al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.

The fear of terrorism has, by now, been institutionalized in our society -- quite literally so -- even if the thing we're afraid of has, on the scale of human problems, something of the will o' the wisp about it. For those who remember their Cold War fiction, it's more specter than SPECTRE.

That fear has been embedded in what once was an un-American word, more easily associated with Soviet Russia or Nazi Germany: "homeland." It has replaced "country," "land," and "nation" in the language of the terror-mongers. "The homeland" is the place which terrorism, and nothing but terrorism, can violate. In 2002, that terror-embedded word got its own official government agency: the Department of Homeland Security, our second "defense" department, which has a 2010 budget of $39.4 billion (while overall "homeland security" spending in the 2010 budget reached $70.2 billion). Around it has grown up a little-attended-to homeland-security complex with its own interests, businesses, associations, and lobbyists (including jostling crowds of ex-politicians and ex-government bureaucrats).

As a result, more than eight years after 9/11, an amorphous state of mind has manifested itself in the actual state as a kind of Fear Inc. A number of factors have clearly gone into the creation of Fear Inc. and now insure that fear is the drug constantly shot into the American body politic. These would include:

The imperial presidency: The Bush administration used fear not only to promote its wars and its Global War on Terror, but also to unchain the commander-in-chief of an already imperial presidency from a host of restraints. The dangers of terror and of al-Qaeda, which became the global bogeyman, and the various proposed responses to it, including kidnapping ("extraordinary rendition"), secret imprisonment, and torture, turned out to be the royal road to the American unconscious and so to a presidency determined, as Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld and others liked to say, to take the gloves off. It remains so and, as a result, under Barack Obama, the imperial presidency only seems to gain ground. Recently, for instance, we learned that, under the pressure of the Flight 253 incident, the Obama administration has adopted the Bush administration position that a president, under certain circumstances, has the authority to order the assassination of an American citizen abroad. (In this case, New Mexico-born Islamic cleric Anwar Aulaqi, who has been linked to the 9/11 plotters, the Fort Hood killer, and Abdulmutallab.) The Bush administration opened the door to this possibility and now, it seems, a Democratic president may be stepping through.

The 24/7 media moment: 24/7 blitz coverage was once reserved for the deaths of presidents (as in the assassination of John F. Kennedy) and public events of agreed-upon import. In 1994, however, it became the coin of the media realm for any event bizarre enough, sensational enough, celebrity-based enough to glue eyeballs. That June, O.J. Simpson engaged in his infamous low-speed car "chase" through Orange County followed by more than 20 news helicopters while 95 million viewers tuned in and thousands more gathered at highway overpasses to watch. No one's ever looked back. Of course, in a traditional media world that's shedding foreign and domestic bureaus and axing hordes of reporters, radically downsizing news rooms and shrinking papers to next to nothing, the advantages of focusing reportorial energies on just one thing at a time are obvious. Those 24/7 energies are now regularly focused on the fear of terrorism and events which contribute to it, like the plot to down Flight 253.

The Republican criticism machine and the media that go with it: Once upon a time, even successful Republican administrations didn't have their own megaphone. That's why, in the Vietnam era, the Nixon administration battled the New York Times so fiercely (and -- my own guess -- that played a part in forcing the creation of the first "op-ed" page in 1970, which allowed administration figures like Vice President Spiro Agnew and ex-Nixon speechwriter William Safire to gain a voice at the paper). By the George W. Bush era, the struggle had abated. The Times and papers like it only had to be pacified or cut out of the loop, since from TV to talk radio, publishing to publicity, the Republicans had their own megaphone ready at hand. This is, by now, a machine chock-a-block full of politicians and ex-politicians, publishers, pundits, military "experts," journalists, shock-jocks, and the like (categories that have a tendency to blend into each other). It adds up to a seamless web of promotion, publicity, and din. It's capable of gearing up on no notice and going on until a subject -- none more popular than terrorism and Democratic spinelessness in the face of it -- is temporarily flogged to death. It ensures that any failed terror attack, no matter how hopeless or pathetic, will be in the headlines and in public consciousness. It circulates constant fantasies about possible future apocalyptic terror attacks with atomic weaponry or other weapons of mass destruction. (And in all of the above, of course, it is helped by a host of tagalong pundits and experts, news shows and news reports from the more liberal side of the aisle.)

The Democrats who don't dare: It's remarkable that the sharpest president we've had in a while didn't dare get up in front of the American people after Flight 253 landed and tell everyone to calm down. He didn't, in fact, have a single intelligent thing to say about the event. He certainly didn't remind Americans that, whatever happened to Flight 253, they stood in far more danger heading out of their driveways behind the wheel or pulling into a bar on the way home for a beer or two. Instead, the Obama administration essentially abjectly apologized, insisted it would focus yet more effort and money on making America safe from air terrorism, widened a new front in the Global War on Terror in Yemen (speeding extra money and U.S. advisors that way), and when the din from its critics didn't end, "pushed back," as Peter Baker of the New York Times wrote, by claiming "that they were handling terror suspects much as the previous administration did." It's striking when a Democratic administration finds safety in the claim that it's acting like a Republican one, that it's following the path to the imperial presidency already cleared by George W. Bush. Fear does that to you, and the fear of terror has been institutionalized at the top as well as the bottom of society.

9/11 Never Ends

Fear has a way of re-ordering human worlds. That only a relatively small number of determined fanatics with extraordinarily limited access to American soil keep Fear Inc. afloat should, by now, be obvious. What the fear machine produces is the dark underside of the charming Saul Steinberg New Yorker cover, "A View of the World from 9th Avenue," in which Manhattan looms vast as the rest of the planet fades into near nothingness.

When you see the world "from 9th Avenue," or from an all-al-Qaeda-all-the-time "news" channel, you see it phantasmagorically. It's out of all realistic shape and proportion, which means you naturally make stupid decisions. You become incapable of sorting out what matters and what doesn't, what's primary and what's secondary. You become, in short, manipulable.

This is our situation today.

People always wonder: What would the impact of a second 9/11-style attack be on this country? Seldom noticed, however, is that all the pin-prick terror events blown up to apocalyptic proportions add up to a second, third, fourth, fifth 9/11 when it comes to American consciousness.

So the next time a Flight 253 occurs and the Republicans go postal, the media morphs into its 24/7 national-security-disaster mode, the pundits register red on the terror-news scale, the president defends himself by reaffirming that he is doing just what the Bush administration would have done, the homeland security lobbyists begin calling for yet more funds for yet more machinery, and nothing much happens, remember those drunken drivers, arsonists, and tobacco merchants, even that single dust devil and say:

Hold onto your underpants, this is not a national emergency.

Checklsit for weekend in Lugano

Escape cold of Geneva CHECK Lugano was 6 degrees warmer and sunny
*Enjoy scenery from Train CHECK, snow covered fields and mountains
Eat in dining Car CHECK yum
Explore city CHECK
Take boat ride CHECK
Check out Last Supper by DiVinci pupil in old church CHECK
Watch Olympics CHECK (and to see Garou sing CHECK CHECK CHECK)
Eat Risotto CHECK
DO NOT TURN ON A COMPUTER CHECK
Come back mega content CHECK



*thank goodness I am back where train, buses etc make cars optional.

The raclette/chestnut solution

My daughter who has been house bound by record snowfalls in her Vienna VA flat since the weekend, would scoff at our paltry couple of inches of snow cover, but with the temperature plummeting to -6° centigrade it is cold. With the bise it turns the temperature to (OH MY GAWD!!!)

Still layered, I ventured out today to meet up with a writer friend over a chai latte and a blueberry muffin and the conversation was worth every shiver. Then there were errands to run leaving me bone cold.

Solution? Hot roasted chestnuts. They warm the hands and tummy. Then tonight it is perfect weather for raclette...

Cold weather does have its good side.

DL

Garou ahhhhhhh

I am far too old to be a crazed teenager screaming for a star. I never did it. I didn't scream for Elvis or the Beatles. Not that I didn't like them. The term bobby socker (teenagers who screamed for singers or actors in the 40s and 50s) is long gone, but there are two men I would like to sit down and talk with. One is George Clooney and I do mean talk here.

The other is Garou, whom I have adored since he lumbered across the stage as Quasimodo in Notre Dame de Paris. Videos of his singing "Belle" and the other songs from the musical are all on youtube.

For Christmas I was given his new CD Gentleman Cambrioleur (gentleman robber). Gone is much of the Joe Crooker gravel and in its place is almost a piano bar singer. He would stand up to the late Bobby Short http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=bobby+short&search_type=&aq=f, Sandler ahttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAGrItMPC2ond Young http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtl-we32QOw&feature=related or Bernadette Peters
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gl40NIfA_I&feature=PlayList&p=1112C8FE8E61FCBD&index=0&playnext=1

A combination of songs and interview is at www.youtube.com/watch?v=LljQM5fK6G8&feature=PlayList&p=90DC4DBEADDEB6C0&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=34

Maybe I could manage a little scream, but definitely a long ahhhhhhhh when I listen.

Loading teh DVD for fun

Everwood, the latest series of choice for my housemate and me. We settle in with goodies (shrimp, veggies, dip, me in my snuggie, she in her flanket. Munchkin, the cat selects her lap, which is good because I am knitting my afghan which should be ready by next winter.

The disc finishes, and my housemate uses the remote to open the DVD.

Aha!!! Munchkin jumps down and looks.

For the fun of it my housemate closes it.

Fascinating Munchkin thinks.

For several minutes, the cat is more entertained at the opening and closing of the DVD door than we were in the series itself.

triple whammy

In my beloved apartment at 394 The Riverway in Boston I did not have an electric blanket but an electric undersheet that turned on before bed time in winter took snuggling under the covers to an Olympic gold medal high.

I never even thought to look for such a thing in Switzerland.

Coming back to Switzerland imagine my delight to discover that my housemate had not only found them, but had purchased one for each of our beds. But it offers two more joys.

Put PJs flat under the duvet and over the sheet and turn on the heating mat. Not only is the bed toasty, but when you change in the cool air of the house, the warming both physical and psychological starts immediately.

When my back hurts (yes Mighty Mom the exercises do help and I do them regularly), it acts as a heating pad.

It's triple whammy...