What you say tells a lot about you

We were at the bank.

"We" was my late best friend's daughter, whom I love, and myself doing yet another round of paper work. I've been kidding that I supply the mouth with the French words while she does the English.

The amount of money in the bank is miniscule, but they can't release it without knowing the funeral home was paid. That and enough other paperwork to kill a medium-sized forest full of trees.

For expediency, I'd written a check for the full amount for all the funeral expenses. Compared to costs in Switzerland and the US it too was also miniscule. 

It's what you do for family of choice when you can and I had no worries that it would be returned when it could be (and it has been). Even if it hadn't been it would have been the right thing to do for such a dear friend's family.

However, the bank manager was confused that my name was on the paid bill which had been faxed through by the funeral home.

"Are you a daughter?" he asked.

"No."

"Another relative?"

"No."

His mouth fell open. He moved forward in his seat. He stared at me.

"WHY would you do THAT?" he asked. His tone was the same as if I had decided to burn thousands and thousands of euros after being released from a psychiatric ward.

"Because I'm a wonderful woman, and she was my friend," I said. I was joking about the wonderful woman not about the friend part. 

That his comment was inappropriate was one thing. For another it says a lot about his character and relationships.

I can't imagine that he would ever go out of his way for a friend or maybe it's worse. He doesn't have any friendships that go deep enough where helping one another out is normal.

 

My Christmas shopping is done

I am not a Scrooge. I like giving gifts, even though I hate shopping. Thus when I run across things during the year that I know people on my Christmas list would like, I pick them up.

My ideal is to have all shopping done by Nov. 1. That way I don't have to enter a store at all in December nor do I have to fight crowds and get into the have to find something just to have something to give. This year I'm late.

Llara, who will be with us for Christmas, has already had her major gift, but I have picked up things for her stocking over the year.
 
I knew what I wanted to get Rick as his gift but wasn't sure where to buy it. 

I'd spotted it the last time I was at Intermarche, but we were together. Today we were both there because he needed a USB key. We're leaving for Ireland on Monday until Dec. 23rd and having to go back to the store again before is not acceptable and it may be too late when we get back. Bad enough we were in the store twice in three weeks.

We agreed to separate and he promised if he saw me to stay far away.

I grabbed the gift and the last remaining stocking stuffers. I was able to hold them in such away that if he did see me he wouldn't know what they were...of course I had to be careful that the store personnel didn't think I was trying to steal them.

On the checkout conveyor belt the man behind me told me I was using three next client signs. 

I explained the box was a Christmas present was for my husband, who was in the store, and I was hiding it in case he came too close.

The checkout girl sold me two plastic bags so I could hide the gifts quickly. 

Christmas shopping done. Timing 10 minutes including waiting in line.

Now I can truly enjoy the holiday season which I love: a real tree, decorating, sharing time with friends, good food, the music.

 

Are you being tracked

Dear NSA

I see there is something to check is people are being tracked on their mobile phones.

http://amibeingtracked.com/?utm_content=bufferf0cb0&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer

Then there's https://haveibeenpwned.com/ 

You must find this annoying, dear NSA as people try and stop you from invading their lives.

As for me, I'm not in the US, and although my lovely husband bought me a smart phone, I wouldn't dream of using it. My dumb phone is good enough when I remember to turn it on every few months.

You know I'm not a Luddite, but you can find out as much as you want about me by checking through my webcam.

Meanwhile, when I'm out I can deal with people face to face and there's no email so important it can't wait till I get home.

Have a lovely day.

Creative decisions

In my novels, I usually have two story lines: historic, modern.

I write them in separate documents. Then I put each chapter on a card and try and mingle them properly. 

There have been times except for the last couple of chapters that the actual placement isn't all that important.

In those cases I take the majority of the cards, historic in left hand, modern in right and shuffle them as I would a deck of cards.

Then I copy and paste the chapters making a word document.

Thus, after finishing The Broker, this morning, I was pleased to read this in his author's notes. "I had the great luxury of tossing a dart at a map of the world to find a place to hide Mr. Backman."

I am not the only writer to make creative decisions by chance.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now

Sitting at La Noisette eating Osso Bucco with Barbara's family, my housemate, my husband and a good, good friend.

In the sky was a white cloud with a black centre.

A perfect analogy for the last two weeks. The black is the sadness. The white is seeing so many people come together.

Tribute to Barbara

Il était une fois il y avait une femme au foyer avec trois jeunes filles. Elle voulait une éducation. À la fin de ses études, elle était un doctor, un anthropoligst et un professeur dans une université.

Once upon a time there was a housewife with three little girls. She wanted an education. At the end of her studies she was a doctor, an anthropologist and a professor at a university. 

Il était une fois il y avait une femme qui a vécu en Afrique avec la tribu Lobi. Elle voulait aider les femmes, en particulier les artistes. Elle fait tout son possible pour aider ces femmes.

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived in Africa with the Lobi tribe. She wanted to help the women, especially the artists. She did everything possible to help these women.

Il était une fois il y avait une femme qui a trouvé un petit village dans le sud de la France. Là, elle a construit un direct avec un magasin, les amis, et avec la musique.

Once upon a time there was a woman who found a little village in the South of France. There she built a live with a store, friends, and with music. 

Il était une fois, je pris un bonne amie, le Dr Barbara Hagaman. Elle marchait dans mon cœur et dans mon âme. Elle y restera pour toujours. 

Once upon a time I had a good friend, Dr. Barbara Hagaman. She walked in my heart and in my soul. She will stay there forever. 

The Gospel that she so loved and the director Alain Martin whose voice is incredible sang at the celebration of her life. His songs were "It's a Wonderful World," "Over the Rainbow" and "After Midnight."

People shared their memories of her.

Rick has posted this song that shows the people that were there, the tables decorated with African cloth from her beloved Bukina Faso. Alain Martin's beautiful voice was raised to her memory along with photos of things she loved.  Rick will post more videos in the coming days.

The last photo is Barbara, performing with her choir.

 

Need your grass cut????

One of the residents in Argelès will 
rent you his donkey for 5 euros day 
to cut your grass.

Geneva best city in the world.

Geneva is the best city in the world.

It grew on me slowly. I had lived in Môtiers in Neuchâtel with its 500 people and 5,000 cows, the Jura mountains, the waterfall, the old abbey turned into a champagne cave and Jean-Jeaques Rousseau's home.

I'd moved to Payerne for a short time and after getting a job in Geneva was too much of a commute. I spent weekends there at my former gentleman's friend. Thus I didn't have much time to expend in discovering the city.

Much later when I wasn't spending time in Payerne, did I begin to discover the delights of the city.

Of course there's the beauty of the Alps, the Jura, the lake. There's plays, ballets, and movies in VO.

Restaurants of every nationality.

And there's an unbelievable hospital that I did not want to discover, but was grateful for its incredible system and staff when I needed it.

I became Swiss in Geneva. They took me in as I took them in.

I loved Boston. I love Geneva.

Silver box wars

There are many ways to cope with pain. One is laughter.

My housemate J is famous among friends and family for her brownies. She even outdoes the Argelès brownie lady.

Thus when she arrived from Geneva to give loving support during these hard days she came with a box of her brownies and also cheddar cheese popcorn, another treat that Rick, J and I all love.

Rick however decided to hide the silver box.

"You are not without recourse," she told me and gave me the popcorn.

I was sitting at the table with the popcorn between me and the wall. Rick came up behind me, dropped a kiss on my head and--the popcorn had fallen into his hands.

Thus we've had silver box hunts, rehidings, more hunts...none of deny each other single brownies, but we do not reveal the whereabouts of the box.

Smiling and laughter helps.

Dear NSA

"According to new reporting by the Wall Street Journal, the U.S. Marshals Service—an arm of the Department of Justice—has been using small aircraft equipped with technology that can mimic the functions of cell towers in order to capture the data contained on phones and mobile devices of people across large areas on the ground below." *

Do you know about this?

Do you think it is a good idea?

Are you going to start doing it to add to your current surveillance of everyone.

Love,
Donna-Lane

*From Commondreams.org

Magnets

It's been hard the last few days trying to deal with the death of beloved friend and helping her daughters whom I love dearly deal with the French and paper work as best I can. I don't speak English leagalese much less French legalese. It is not being able to walk down the street without seeing people who want to express their sadness. Doing things in its own way is a comfort.

When one loses someone much loved, it is a reminder to treasure each moment we have.

Our refrigerator reeks of reminders.

Rick and I started collecting magnets where we went. It could be a wander around a fort on the way to Andorra, or the King Tut exhibition. Or it could be something big like several days in Amsterdam or a trip through our childhood neighborhoods.

Everytime I open the frigo, I smile at the memories of happy moments, moments when we debated which magnet was the most representative before discovering the next enjoyable experience.

There is one magnet that doesn't represent a trip together. Rick picked it up at the Neuseum in DC. It is perfect for two writers: "Not tonight dear, I have a deadline."

Only maybe it should be tonight along with the deadline. Do it now, give a hug, look at a cloud, tell a friend you care, just be aware of the wonderful gift of life.

For once in my life I had to give up

It is not my nature to give up.

I think one of the reasons I found a publisher is that the mailman was tired of carrying the manuscript from publisher to publisher and bribed one to publish me.

I fought my way through university, working and trying to satisfy a husband that didn't want me to go.

I do the things necessary to do.

Yesterday after several days of dealing with details of my friend's death, I realised that I did not have the strength mentally and physically to do one more thing. I was supposed to go to the newspaper office to put a notice in the paper, but I couldn't, just couldn't take another step, have another conversation. My head was a jumble of French and English.

A night's sleep has given me new strength. Today we will scatter the ashes, tomorrow there's paperwork, Saturday we will celebrate her life in her style with music and stories.

I am ready once again.

pretending to be normal

Sunday was a beautiful day and we pretended it was a normal day. Rick made bacon and eggs and we walked to the hall where local artists were showing their work.

We saw some artists we knew. We saw some we didn't. We chatted.

My favourite work was a triptych of the Collioure church done on the bent boards of a barrel.

The church is painted so often that I didn't believe it was possible to come up with something original, but he had.

We didn't buy it, but chose a winter water colour. Rick loves to look at paintings of winter as long as it doesn't involve him putting on gloves, a hat and picking up a shovel.

We walked home.

The normal part of the day was over. There was the cat to check, emails to answer, a sign to write and put up in the store window.

At home we ate lunch, watched the Sunday political shows, which almost seemed cheery after the last few days.

The couple hours of normal hopefully will give us strength for the next few days.

the couscous cure

When my dad died, I suspected that the neighbourhood was filled with frustrated caterers as casseroles, pies, salads, breads arrived in quantity.

Last night we had the French version when Fahtia and Miloud knocked on our door with couscous for Wendy, Becky, Lydia, Pavin, Rick and I in quantities large enough to feed at least two regiments of the French army.

They didn't stay. At least it gave me a chance to show Miloud how much I love his painting which is over my desk.

I understand

A letter I wrote to R. Harvey the professor at Villanova University that helped craft the FATCA law. And yes, I am still angry, even though I try not to be.


I understand that you helped craft the FATCA law.

Thank you. Because of you I am no longer American. I had to chose between my birth country and having a bank account. A horrible decision.

I am sure there are others who will thank you for their divorces.

The costs are incredible and I'm sure they'll exceed whatever the US takes in. http://theexpatwriter.blogspot.ch/2011/12/one-of-saddest-days.html

Whenever a group of expats get together it is not if they'll renounce it is when. Most are middle class earning between $50,000-100,000 a year. They've been denied bank accounts, credit cards, debit cards, etc. All have fulfilled their tax obligations to the US which in itself is unfair, especially when they are double taxed on pensions, SS, etc.

Others have suffered because their spouses don't want their financial affairs to go to the US since it never touched US shores.

Supposing you were born in a different state? Maine for example. Would you want every cent you ever earned be subject to Maine taxes while you are paying taxes where you now live? Would you like your local banks to deny you services because you were born in Maine? And Maine banks won't serve you because you don't live in Maine.

This law has damaged hundreds and thousands of law abiding citizens.

I won't be nasty and wish terrible things on you, although it would be tempting. It will be enough if you realise the horrible, horrible damage you've done to your fellow citizens

It's all the translation...

Last night I was trying to send an email in French to the man who will sing at the Barbara's Celebration de sa Vie.

I wrote.

Ca va pour vendredi sauf pour 14h quand nous avons un rendez-vous avec la bank. Je comprend la doleur. Nous avons l'aime aussi.

The iPad changed it to this.

Ca va pour venders said pout 14h quand nous avons un rendez vous avec la banque. Je compris la doleur nous toys l aimons.

When I rewrote it continued to try and decide what I really meant. dit became fit for example.

I have enough problem in writing French without the iPad's help.

They are still burning witches

(Note: This was written before the death of my friend last week.)

 The headline read "Paraguay: woman accused of witchcraft burned alive"

A45 year-old indigenous woman was burned alive in Paraguay for witchcraft. this week.

It is nothing new.

Law codes going back to Ancient Egypt and Babylonia have included provisions for witch burning. Even the Code of Hammurabi, sometimes touted as the first modern example of a law code, contained provisions for igniting witches.

More often than not witches were women. Although no one knows how many people have been executed as witches, here's some stats from ancient times.

• 331 BC, 170 women killed (it was in connection with the spread of disease--I guess the hysteria was similar to the Ebola of toad.
• 184 BC, 2,000 alleged witch were killed
• 182–180 BC  3,000 more executions again surrounding an epidemic

Did the Church try and counter the ignorance?

No, they propagated it at various Councils

• 306 Elvira
• 314 Ancyra
• 692 Trullo
• 785 Paderborn
• 794 Frankfurt

The Council of Lombard says, "Let nobody presume to kill a foreign serving maid or female servant as a witch, for it is not possible, nor ought to be believed by Christian minds."<sup>[

Not everyone was pro witch execution. Pope Gregory VII (1080) and King Harald III of Denmark stopped the witch burnings, 

Popes were not in agreement. Pope Alexander IV in 1258 said, no to witch investigations but by 1257 Pope John XXII said go ahead, run a good Inquistion.

In 1487 Pope Innocent VIII approved of Malleus Maleficarum available in English on Amazon, which says about the book "</sup>
 
"The Malleus Maleficarum (Latin for "The Hammer of Witches", or "Hexenhammer" in German) is one of the most famous medieval treatises on witches. It was written in 1486 by Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger, and was first published in Germany in 1487. It was the culmination of a long medieval tradition of treatises on witchcraft, the most famous being the Formicarius by Johannes Nider in 1435-1437. The main purpose of the Malleus was to systematically refute all arguments against the reality of witchcraft, refute those who expressed even the slightest skepticism about its reality, to prove that witches were more often women than men, and to educate magistrates on the procedures that could find them out and convict them. (Quote from wikipedia.org)"

In 1490 the book was banned by the Church.

<sup>After a series of witch trials in the 15th and 16th centuries witch burning and trails became less popular. Germany was one of the leaders in freeing the world from witches. The picture at the top of this blog was from 1585 in Baden, Switzerland.

Like all good lawmakers the Witchcraft Act of 1541 in England wrote regulations for witch punishments.

Of course, America can boast about the Salem witch trials, which were caused by malicious teenagers.

Often the witches were old women or women who annoyed someone. Evidence could include turning someone's butter rancid.</sup>






A report by the UN Refugee Agency estimates that thousands of people worldwide are accused of being witches every year. The UN says they are often abused, cast out of their families and communities and sometimes killed.

ordinary vs. un-ordinary

The sky above the marché is the ordinary blue of Southern France that inspired the Impressionists. It is an un-ordinary blue for the rest of Europe at this time of year.

The village, once walled, has narrow streets with centuries-old stone houses. The commercial centre is in the centre with the same architecture.

The marché has the ordinary buzz as people buy their vegetables, meat, cheese, clothes, belts and flowers. But the merchants and those that live there are have un-ordinary expressions on their faces.

The Algerian artist drinks coffee with two friends. All three men have sober expressions, red eyes. "I'm praying for her," our artist friend says.

I repeat the words I have said so often they are almost a recording. "There will be something next weekend. Her daughters are arriving Tuesday at the latest. It was instantaneous. She was at the doctor's office. She was talking. She was gone. We will let you know."

The last three days have been a muddle. People come in and out. Calls come from all over the world. Mouths are even better than the Internet. I get a call from the UK, within three hours of it happening, the mutual friend alerted by the hotel owner down the street from my friend's store and home. The summer people learn, call, email their disbelief.

Fathia sits on my couch crying. "She was like my mother," she says. "I will bring couscous when her girls arrive." We were all going to eat couscous together when a date could be found. That was before. 

Rick continues to place tea in front of whoever is sitting on the couch.

The sausage seller, his stand across the store, tells me he can barely get through the morning as he packages up three different sausages for 10 Euros for a waiting customer. "She was an icon."

Another mutual friend offers to help with the paperwork. 

I see others whom she knew. She knew the village. Again the same message... "There will be something..." To those whose faces I know but not their email or telephone I say, we'll put a notice in the shop window."

Ptah II, the obese white cat is not in the window but in a carton when I enter the shop for the first time after. I am one of the cat committee who feeds, combs and pats him. We've done it before when my friend was travelling, only this time she won't be back.

"What about the cat?" is almost always asked. He used to sleep in the store window amid the English books, African Art and clothes on display. One of the books is my novel. He too is an icon in the village.

Different members of the committee will go in until Wednesday afternoon when the waitress from La Noisette will take him...if she can find a good home, she will. If not, he will become a member of her family.

I dread going in. I have a key. It was ordinary to let myself in, pat Ptah II, and call her name. Today, tomorrow, forever, there will be no answer.

Rick is with me. It is his loss too, although to him she was a new friend. Her immediate reaction when I introduced a person from Texas, a state that espouses the conservative values she abhorred, was horror. However, they became friends. He called her Babs. They went off on errands together, talked together, laughed together. He helped her where and when he could, and she in turn gave us her blessing.

When Rick cooked for us, he always took her some and she teased that all his cooking had tomatoes in it. She loves tomato-based dishes.

When the phone stops ringing, when our flat has only us in it we try and do the ordinary things: watch a DVD, hang up the laundry, put and take out dishes from the dish washer.

Yesterday we decided to eat lunch at Bartevelle. Their ordinary meal is always extraordinary. Stephanie and I exchange a few nods of understanding. We cannot talk in the bustle of the diners.  Her adorable daughter Margaux comes down at the end of the meal as she often does.

I am so tired I can barely walk home. I take a nap beginning around 3. I wake to watch Max Keiser--ordinary. I go back to bed to read.

Ordinarily I have many white nights, sleeping maybe two hours, waking for two or three and sleeping a bit more before I get up early.

I sleep through to almost 5:30 this morning. I still am in yesterday's clothes.

I get up to write this. I am a writer. If enough words flow through my fingers, maybe the pain will flow with them.

Losing still

The doorbell rang when I was in the shower. Rick came to tell me Babette and another woman were there.

Babette owned the local green grocer. She never came to the house. Dressed in pjs with my hair wrapped in a towel, I knew instantly from their expressions something was wrong.

"Barbara est morte," Babette said.

I first met Barbara in the late 1970s. It was a hot day and I was sitting with a friend on our stoop of a brownstone-type house on Wigglesworth Street in Boston. This couple that were moving in a couple of doors down were carrying case after case of books. Anyone with that number of books we wanted to know. They had designed cases so when they moved the cases could be set up immediately with the books still in them.

It was the start of a long friendship in three neighbourhoods in two countries. We saw each other through all the things that life had to offer from her guarding my two dogs for 30 days before they could join me overseas, to her talking me through my mother's dying to my helping her with her move to and from Africa, and my supporting her emotionally through her various adventures.

The most recent was turning her into Dorothy of Wizard of Oz fame  complete with pigtails so she could sing "Over the Rainbow" at the show. To make a 78 year old a teenager was a challenge but we did it in between laughing so hard that we had to stop to continue. Such fun.

She was not a woman to live a classic life although she started out as a traditional, conservative American woman.

With three daughters and a bad marriage she put herself through university until she earned a doctorate. As an anthropologist she saw things differently and words like "cultural clothing" "Curse on my underware" became natural. She opened intellectual doors for me.

To my daughter she was a role model that one did not have to follow a traditional path.

Her attempts to become a one-woman peace corp bringing money to African women artists did not develop as she wished but she did help some women, many women as much as she could. If she had any frustration in life it was that she couldn't help as many people as she wanted.

She was the doyenne of the Argelès gospel choir. Even in her 70s she began cello lessons and took up the piano. She loved music.

Yesterday I wrote in a blog that I was tired of losing people. There have too many too close together.

Mostly she was a family member of choice that I loved deeply. No,  won't use the past tense. Because she's gone does not mean that the love has gone away.

Rick expresses his pain and tribute http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.fr/2014/11/the-phases-of-death.html 

I love the French Health Care System

I'd been experiencing some discomfort in my side. As a cancer survivor with an overwhelmingly good imagination, I was thinking the worse.

Since it will be a few weeks before I'm back in Geneva, I went to the French doctor that Rick and I see when we are down here. 

Those who fear socialized medicine and long waits...well I did have time to read a half a magazine before he saw me. I never got to the George Clooney wedding photos.

He probed, listened and manipulated etc. "It's your sciatica," he said. He explained. It made sense.

Cost 23 Euros or US$28.

I left with a prescription for my esophagus medicine (3 months), something for my diarrhea and a cream.

Cost 15 Euros or $20.03 at today's exchange rate. If I were on the French health care system I will get 90% back. As it is my Swiss system will pay less for everything than on month of the esophagus medicine.

Easy, comprehensive, competent.

I know life is terminal

But too often this fall I've heard of friends or acquaintances who have died.

It started with a couple whom I used to go to the movies with in Perpignan who had moved California. It was sudden. A collapse on the floor leaving her husband devastated. An email with the subject line "horrible news" was a warning of the contents.

I understand neighbour Janette's death at 103. 

Then there was the mother of the-brother-I-always-wanted who died. I'd spent time with her in Môtiers and we had a Christmas card relationship. She was in a prison camp in WWII. Age made her death normal.

My cousin, who had not been well for years, also gave up the fight.

Then today on Facebook the  wife of a former vendor and later boss who is younger than I am. Not a friend but a memory of a woman rushing into the office between her work and juggling her family, something as a single mom I could identify with.

On a less personal level there was Robin Williams.

Maybe because I had a brush with cancer that reminded me of my own mortality combined with how happy I am and how wonderful my life is, that I don't want it to end. It is not fear.

I know that death is even surer than taxes, and with age it is normal to lose friends, but I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE IT!

Seeing red is an understatement

I'm usually calm but giving up my American nationality, which was one of the hardest things I've done. Thus when I came across this article by a Prof. of Journalism  no less, who had no idea of the hardship laws like FATCA have caused, I had to respond both personally and here. It will help calm me down.

As a journalist myself his lack of awareness of what he is writing about is an example of extreme incompetence at best is shocking.

HE HAS NO IDEA of the havoc caused in the lives of expats who are denied banking services where they live and in the US. How do you live without a bank account, credit card, debit card, car loan, mortgage?

HE HAS NO IDEA about the accidental Americans who were born in the US or born of US parents never lived there, will never live there and must pay US income taxes on every cent, centime, farthing, kroner, etc. that they will earn to the US government.

HE HAS NO IDEA of the double taxation on everything but the first $99,000 of salary. American citizens abroad pay taxes where they live and in most cases they are higher.

HE HAS NO IDEA of the problems it has caused in multi national households including divorces because the non American spouse does not want his/her banking information subject to US scrutiny, especially when that money never touched US shores.

HE HAS NO IDEA that one pays to give up their nationality, over $2,000 if a person has under $2 million in assets. One house in Switzerland will put someone over that threshold fairly easily then the rate starts at 15% of all their assets.

HE HAS NO IDEA how much it costs to have an accountant file US taxes because a mistake can lead to fines of anywhere from $10,000 to $500,000 for incorrect reporting. Thus his argument that greed causes Americans to give up their nationality may apply to a few but not the majority. Personally my accountant earned 3x what I paid in US taxes.

If he did know and still wrote that piece than he should never be allowed near a journalism student.

If I were a journalism major in his school, I would change schools because such sloppy journalism comes from the top.

The animals reunite.

Petite Cougar was surprised when Scooby II, Honey Bunny and Herr Hare walked in the door last night. You may remember that when Rick and DL took off for their two months of travel, Scooby II snuck into their luggage. He knew they were going to see his father, who he longed to meet.

Petite Cougar sent the bunnies to look after the wayward youngster. She did not want to meet the dog that done her dirt leaving her with the troublesome kid, who she adores but gives her headache after headache.

Scooby II received big hugs from his mom, but that didn't stop her from giving him a long, long time out. He promised not to sneak off again, but he did ask where Rick was going to store the suitcases, so maybe his promises are not solid. It did look like his paws were crossed when he made the promise.

The trip down

Once again--and I wouldn't even begin to guess at the number of train trips between my Geneva and Argeles homes that I have made in my lifetime--we made it door to door.

Unlike many trips the three trains were all on time. The Swiss should run all train systems where a late train can make the newspaper vs. the systems where schedules are suggestions. At least other countries have train systems.

The middle leg, Lyon to Perpignan, with the train's final destination being Barcelona, had an interesting number system. It was double. Also, the seats behind us were 1C and 1 D also 13 and 14. In front of us 3C and 3D and 33 and 44. Singles? Tens?

Since the train was run by both the French and Spanish systems, I assumed no compromise could be reached on the numbering system...or they planned to put two people in each seat.

A young man came up to me. He was in seat 23, my seat...However his ticket was for car 7 and I was in car 8. There was no seat 23 in car 7. No problem. The train wasn't even half full.

I do remember the time I had reserved a bed for the Paris Argeles night run in car 11. Only there was no car 11. The conductor was snotty and told me of course there was...marched off with me running behind her for her to discover, I was right. I may have sat up all night, but the SNCF did issue me a free ticket for my next trip.

In Nimes, there were two flocks of birds swarming, each staking out territory in a huge tree.

"I wonder how many there are?" I asked Rick.

"471 no make the 472, I missed one," he said.

No matter his mythical count nor Hitchcockian films it was fascinating to watch until our train pulled out of the station,

The sun winked goodnight to us as we passed Narbonne

We made it with much too much luggage (Llara you owe Rick bigtime for taking that suitcase of yours.

It was great to be back. What a surprise to find our patio's flowers were in full bloom and food provided for neighbours so we'd have something to nibble in case of extreme hunger.

Life is good, very, very good.

Aging brains and study over load.

Today a study came out stating that working irregular hours ages the brain.

However, being multi-lingual helps cognitive facilities.

So what happens to the brain of a man who speaks 7 languages but works irregular hours?

I love to eat. I love food that is good for me according to a lot of the studies. However, if I ate everything that was suppose to prevent this or that disease, I would do nothing but eat all day long.

Then I would have to read studies about obesity.

Maybe I will just live day to day and enjoy life.

Off the road

I'm busy paying bills and doing the last odds and ends before I leave for Argelès where we'll be for three weeks prior to going to Ireland for three weeks. I was thinking of all the places I've been this year from my Swiss base.

• Malta
• Andorra (2x)
• France (Argelès, Paris, Toulouse, Carcassonne)
• Spain
• Russia
• Germany (Stuttgart, Köln)
• Italy (Rome, although that wasn't intended)
• Netherlands
• Canada (Montreal)
• US (Upper State NY, Long Island, Cape Cod, Boston)

Trying to get the writing done in between enjoying each place has been a challenge. On the other hand, there isn't an experience I would want to eliminate.

I never expected to fly a flight simulator nor did I expect to spend time on a houseboat in Amsterdam. One of the great things about life is the unexpected fun.

Next year I hope to try and spend more time in my two bases, Argeles and Geneva with less travelling.

Do I hear laughing?

Chinese buffet and Japanese Chins

Today we went to France for a Chinese buffet. These statues always remind me of the Japanese chins that I have had in my life.

• Bébé
• Willie
• Vixen
• Amadeus
• Mikado

Put a gold paint on them, they could probably get a job in a Chinese restaurant in place of the statues.

And speaking of paint, my daughter did paint Mika and Amadeus pink, blue and yellow to create an Easter patchwork dog.

Sent, arrived, on time

The manuscript for Murder in Schwyz and the synopsis has just been sent to my editor. Rick tweaked my synopsis, bless him, the last thing that had to be done. 

I kept my promise to my editor...Nov. 1 I said, Nov. 1 it was.

The final proof copies for Murder in Ely arrived by Fed Ex yesterday.

I've returned to writing Murder in Edinburgh.

Rick, Julia (her cover photo) and I will celebrate at lunch.

Everything is on schedule. As a friend once said, "That's once in a row."

Dear NSA is this true?

Michael Price, counsel in the Liberty and National Security Program at the Brennan Center for Justice at NYU School of Law, has a disturbing article up at Salon.com.
Turns out, he bought a new "smart" TV, but is now afraid to turn it on.

You would be too — if you read through the 46-page privacy policy. The amount of data this thing collects is staggering. It logs where, when, how and for how long you use the TV. It sets tracking cookies and beacons designed to detect “when you have viewed particular content or a particular email message.” It records “the apps you use, the websites you visit, and how you interact with content.” It ignores “do-not-track” requests as a considered matter of policy.
It also has a built-in camera — with facial recognition. The purpose is to provide “gesture control” for the TV and enable you to log in to a personalized account using your face. On the upside, the images are saved on the TV instead of uploaded to a corporate server. On the downside, the Internet connection makes the whole TV vulnerable to hackers who have demonstrated the ability to take complete control of the machine.
More troubling is the microphone. The TV boasts a “voice recognition” feature that allows viewers to control the screen with voice commands. But the service comes with a rather ominous warning: “Please be aware that if your spoken words include personal or other sensitive information, that information will be among the data captured and transmitted to a third party.” Got that? Don’t say personal or sensitive stuff in front of the TV.

From the Daily Kos.

Guess I'll stick with my dumb phone and dumb TV.

Roots

No one will think at my age my red hair is natural. However about 15-21 days after colouring it white roots appear on the top of my head. The back of my head sprouts darker roots.

I HATE ROOTS SHOWING. Makes me feel like an over-aged, under-payed hooker hanging out in Paquis (red light area of Geneva).

I see Carrie on Homeland who always has roots. Doesn't she have a minute between protecting the US from terrorists to go to the hair dresser?

When my roots show I don't just feel sloppy, I feel slovenly, like I should have a cigarette hanging from my lips and be dressed in food-stained clothes.

I started life as a blond which darkened.

In my twenties by hair was every colour from white to black (literally).

In my mid twenties I decided I was meant to be a red head and a red head I've stayed and probably will stay. 

Today I once again use Oreal 666 (okay 66.6 but it was a bad marketing choice to number it that way) and so for the next couple of weeks I will no longer feel like an over-aged, under-payed, slovenly hooker.