FATCA-we lost

When people heard I was one of seven suing to declare FATCA unconstitutional, they said we'd never get anywhere. I was crazy to try.

FATCA (Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act) is the tool, the US uses to bully non-US banks, investment services and insurance companies into reporting every American ex-pat to the IRS. These organizations have spent billions identifying Americans and kicking them out far more than was ever collected. Americans became toxic customers.

How did the US do it? How did the turn banks all over the world into their private tax reporting agencies?

With a 35% of assets fine if they miss an American and the threat of being shut out of the international monetary system.

These organizations looked at Americans and said, "You're not worth the risk." Opening or keeping a bank account, a mortgage or an investment method became almost impossible.

In some cases it was also impossible to keep a job, especially if the expat had financial responsibilities with the company. The business did not want all their private financial information sent to the US.

Obligatory pension companies with firms, could no longer provide retirement services and the employee had to be let go (or not hired, if it were a potential new hire). Even an American expat treasurer on a local sporting organization or other charity, could no longer serve because that group's finances would be reported to the IRS.

Weird things resulted. The head of an American Chamber of Commerce in one country couldn't have a bank account, for example. Hard to promote a country that is making one's job next to impossible.

Expats found their mortgages called: no banking relationships normal or otherwise were possible.

Marriages broke up when the non-US spouse refused to have his/her private financial information be sent to the US when there was a joint account.

The American spouse would put everything into the non-American's spouse's name so the family could retain a bank account, which was fine as long as the non-American spouse lived and/or didn't walk out on the American leaving him/her stranded financially, which happened with frightening frequency..

Under the auspices of the Overseas Republicans, Attorney James Bopp, Senator Rand Paul and six others including myself sued.The issues included the 14th Amendment, which addresses citizenship rights and privacy issues. Expats were being treated differently from homelanders. Having indepth details of bank accounts reported to the US was not being done to people living stateside. Paul claimed he was denied his right at a senator to vote on the FATCA treaties.

The question of "standing" came up. The court felt that the expats weren't hurt by the IRS but by ourselves. We'd chosen to live overseas. If banks didn't want to do business with us, Tough Sh-T!!! Okay, that is simplified.

Many dual citizens decided being American wasn't worth not having a normal financial life.

Accidental Americans were especially hurt. These are people born in the US, but did not live there. The US is the only industrialized country with Citizens Based Taxation. All other countries practice Resident Based Taxation. Expats are subject to both. In a way the US is stealing money earned in foreign countries that should be used in the country where it is earned so American expats can meet their US tax obligations. As for Accidental Americans, those born in the US, even if they stay only five minutes, are subject to US tax for every cent they earn even if they live to be 100.

The same people who were suing also appeared before Congress. FATCA and other legislation is supposedly to stop:
1. Money Laundering
2. Tax avoidance
3. Drug trafficking
4. Sex trafficking
The implication was the most of the 9 million expats were involved in these things. In reality most of the illegal money laundering and overseas accounts are held by people living in the US, and they have access to banks and investments that their overseas countrymen are being denied. The idea all expats are rich, is false. Most are average middle class people trying to have normal lives.

We worked our way up the court system to the Supreme Court. On Monday, the court refused to hear the case.

We lost, even if we got further than most people thought. There will be another step. We just don't know what it is.

Bad writing

As a writer, what goes into a book, short story or article is usually the Xth version. I rewrite and polish, strengthen a verb, cut an adverb, double check that I haven't repeated something. I will switch paragraphs to make the writing more logical.

This morning, when I woke, I wondered what it would be like to deliberately write badly. Here's what I came up with and it was fun.

1. The light shone on his white, white teeth, creating a new ray of sunlight that beamed its way straight into her heart.

2. Looking in the mirror, she couldn't help but admire her undulating hair, the color of strawberries in the green grocer's gift baskets, falling half way down her back.

3. He knew he was overweight, flab falling in rows like the Michelin tire guy but he had to escape.  So he ran for the first time in the last two decades. Each step created a tsunami of breathing problems, but he continued until he thought he would explode. And then he did explode, or at least that's what the doctor who did the autopsy said when he opened his chest with his silver knife and saw the remains of the man's heart in pink disarray.

4. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not...with each phrase her slim fingers decapitated another petal from the daisy. There were so many petals on the ground around where she was sitting, it looked as if there had been a small blizzard, except the sun was hot and the petals would not melt but decompose. Already they were withering like his love for her. She would continue plucking until one daisy would declare her man's love for her. Otherwise, she would have to kill herself.

My-ex

"My dad's in the hospital," my daughter said as we were chatting on Facebook.

Although I haven't spoken to my ex since 1993, I still wish him well.

It wasn't his fault that I married a man that existed in my mind. He probably married an equally imaginary woman.

And if the divorce was painful, when reality sunk in, I realized that my life was much better. As my daughter was growing up, we did co-parent well. He made sure he attended her concerts, declamations and other big events. Yes, he could have done more, but compared to a majority of divorced dads--and some at-home dads--he was very attentive during her childhood.

We shared her at Christmas, but only after my daughter was grown did she tell me, she would have preferred to not be bounced around but didn't think she had a choice. We blew that one, but I know both of us would have done as she wished if we'd known.

My daughter once asked why we were divorced when we got along so well. He had just been in our Boston condo, went to the fridge to get milk for his coffee. It was one of those long conversations where she sat on the bottom of my bed as I fought to stay awake, but didn't want to lose the moment of closeness by falling asleep.

I asked her to look at the differences in the way we each lived: suburbs, city, international travel, barely any travel, music a major part, music only a part, etc. Anything else, was really between her father and me, our immaturity at the time of marriage, etc.

As time has gone by I can see my first marriage (my learner-husband as one woman' called her first husband) was a good thing. I transitioned from child to adult, I learned to test myself, I fell in love with Europe and mostly--I have my daughter. Had I stayed married, I'd still have my daughter, but I would have stayed in Reading and done and seen only a fraction of what I've done in my life.

My divorce allowed me to lead the life I was meant to live.

Her father stayed overnight in the hospital for tests. He is about six months older than I am, although I still picture him like the last time I saw him. When I think that at 76, he is an old man, I have to remind myself I am not a young woman. Notice the phrasing there. I refuse to use the three letter adjective I used for the man I married 56 years ago to describe myself. I prefer the five-letter word.

I hope my ex continues in a happy, healthy life. And like I once I said to him, "Thank you for giving me our daughter and my freedom."

Patrick

My first professional job was in downtown Boston. I was also a single mom.

Money was tight. My total spending money was 25 cents per day after all my other expenses. I would take my lunch and buy a Coke, which I would sip slowly to make it last. My alternative for a dessert would be to go two days without Coke then buy something like a brownie or a piece of apple pie.

I did have a boyfriend, who sometimes bought my lunch at the cafeteria on the ground floor of the Sheraton Hotel headquarters overlooking Boston Harbor. The prices were relatively low and the food was good, especially for a cafeteria.

The cashier was a retiree, Patrick, bald, working toward chubby and always smiling with an encouraging word for everyone. The cash register was modern for the early 1970s.

We began to notice if our lunches were $4.50 (for if I watched pennies, my boyfriend watched his nickles) each Patrick would ring up $8.00. At the time even $4.50 was a good price for meat, potato and a veg. When we looked at the slip and began to hand it to him, he shook his head.

Chatting with him daily, before we carried our trays to a free table was a treat. Weather, the Red Sox, a TV show, my daughter, my friend's five kids, his grandkids all became subjects for brief exchanges delivered with huge smiles that made even the toughest day a little brighter. We liked our jobs but we were often stressed with amount of work and deadlines.

We talked about our unofficial discounts. In one way it seemed dishonest or at least aiding and abetting dishonesty. My boyfriend at the time was divorced and supporting an ex-wife and five kids. His generosity to me was appreciated. I eased my guilt by thinking, I wasn't the one getting the reduction.

On days, when I ate alone, I bought only my Coke. Patrick charged me 25 cents.

We tried to estimate if he undercharged each person going through the line 50 cents less, how much was Sheraton losing, $50 to $100 a day? My take home pay at the time was $105 so the loss was high in my financial sense of reference. Yet 50 cents a day off, every nine days, was almost a free meal.

Patrick was such a sweet man, we didn't want to turn him in and argued the situational ethics.

Maybe he really needed the job to supplement his social security.

Maybe he had a sick wife at home.

After about 11 months, Patrick told me he was taking a vacation, going to New Hampshire to visit his daughter, his grandson.

He never came back. We learned through the grapevine we had established with Sheraton employees who rode the elevators with us that when Patrick was away, the receipts went up so much, the management did some investigating. I don't know if they ever pressed charges, wanted the money back or what happened to him.

We didn't know Patrick's last name and there was no way to trace him.

I wondered why he did it when there was no financial gain to himself, Did he have a food Robin Hood complex?

Compared to the horrendous cheating that goes on today, the bank frauds, the hedge fund capers, the poisons used by manufacturers our crimes were minimal, but they still weren't right. And as much I want to think of myself as an honest person, I can't claim 100% honesty.

It does make me more tolerant of people who step off the path for good reasons, less so than the major crooks who out of greed ruin people's lives such as phony Wells Fargo Accounts. No one is dead or physically injured because of Patrick

But being a little bit in the wrong is not comfortable even if it were not the road to ruin. Nor do I feel better knowing others do far worse things. I want the world to be better than that...better than me.

Unintended consequences

The phrase "unintended consequences" has the connotation of being a bad thing, but it doesn't have to be.

For 11 years I lived in the "international ghetto," that group of flats where many of the UN and NGO people from all over the world lived for whatever time they were assigned to Geneva.

I was not about to be isolated so, like my father used to do, whenever a new person moved in I would leave them flowers in front of the door and/or invite them for coffee.

The result has been many dear friendships that go beyond our time together on the 6th floor.

In more cases than not, communication continues even after almost two decades of separation. Easter messages from the Couple Czech are treasured, visits when possible to the Indian family happen and once there was even a meet-up in Edinburgh where the daughter is a student.

In one case my neighbor has become a family member of choice and her family an addition to mine and vice versa.

The first time I left flowers in front of her door, she was on mission (the international jargon for being on a business trip). The second time she took them in.

A Jack Russell that I was babysitting decided to check out her apartment when he saw her door open, resulting in a conversation.

One night, she needed help putting an Ikea table together. When done, we signed it. That table is now covered with embroidery thread in my daughter's Boston apartment.

Meals became shared, keys exchanged so we could leave food in the other person's refrigerator when they were coming back from a trip, TV shows watched, support given, adventures done. Her family's visit from Damascus and my daughter's visit from the U.S. deepened the bonds. My visits to Damascus and Syria makes the current situation extremely painful. Pain can be the price for loving.

She now lives in Paris with her new husband. I live in the South of France and Geneva with my new husband our brother-in-laws of choice as we call them. We don't have the same drop-in luxury as we did on the 6th floor, but the level of caring is there and when do we manage to be in the same place it is as if we had just had breakfast together that morning.

When I bought those two bouquets of flowers, I never thought the unintended consequence would be a deep, deep friendship and a sister-of-choice.

Third Culture Adult

I have written a series of mysteries about a Third Culture Kid, Annie, who spent her first few years in Massachusetts and then moved with her family to Amsterdam followed by moves to Stuttgart and Geneva.

Although she quickly adapted to the language she always felt like an outsider and wanted "to go home" to the States, but when she went to the University of Massachusetts, she discovered she didn't fit in there either.

Over the course of the novels, Annie finds that her experiences and her multi-languages make her who she is and that person is okay. It isn't necessary to be part of a closed set of rules.

Although people have accused me of being Annie, I am not. I don't have her languages, she is much younger than I am and far more technical. I wouldn't mind being Annie, but I'm not.

Living in Geneva I know a lot of Third Culture Kids. On the bus I hear fathers talking in one language to their kids, the offspring answering in another and from their animation, I know they understand each other perfectly.

It has been almost 30 years since I left the States. I have taken Swiss nationality (it did nothing to improve my accent) and given up my American. I've also lived in Germany and in France.

What am I?

Let me use the French word melange, a mixture. My core will always be New England Yankee, a gift from my grandmother as much as the culture, although she transmitted the value system that is a part of me.

There are customs and attitudes that have also entered my DNA from the other places I've lived. No matter where I go, to a certain extent I am an outsider. At my age, I should be one of the mamies, the grandmothers of the village who gather on benches and chat. Yet, I have been far better educated academically and traveled the world, while they have stayed within a hundred kilometers, if they have traveled that far. It is not that I'm better. They have a wisdom, I can learn from.

We can talk and share about our daily lives, news of the village. I can't tell them about my planned trip to Nova Scotia to see my dad's birthplace or our upcoming conference in Stuttgart where I want to walk the streets where I once lived. It is enough to say we are going on a trip. We have a series of one-way references and that is okay.

Wednesday we saw a wonderful documentary about Switzerland, my adopted country. I am proud that they accepted me, proud of their democracy, which is not without flaws, but works more than it doesn't. I love the traditions from the fondue to the days where decorated cows are paraded to pasture, flowers in their horns accompanied by people in native costume. Yet even if I were to wear the costumes and walk behind a cow, I'm still the outsider.

When I go back to the States, I have no problem to walk through the foreigners line. But so much seems strange to me, stranger than walking behind a flower-bedecked cow. It is if I am in a dream with all the images being fuzzy. I am an outsider.

Depending on where I am, I will follow the table manners and the politeness of the country. I will try and understand and follow customs where I don't clash with accepted society without ever compromising my inner self.

I know who I am--a Third Culture Adult, an International--and it's okay. 

Photo at the top. My Annie Clock, made by the talented artist Pauline Stonehouse. This is the way I've always pictured Annie. Pauline brought her to life.

Springing and Sprunging

Spring hasn't sprung no matter what the calendar says.

Usually at this time we are in shirt sleeves, sipping tea or coffee outdoors in a café.

Two nights ago it snowed in Perpignan, at most a two-time-in-a-decade occurrence.

The Tramantane is howling. Winds are around 77KPH according to weather.com.

The temperature is hovering at 10°C but it feels much colder because of the wind.

I hesitate to complain as my daughter in Boston awaits the fourth nor'easter in a couple of weeks. The rest of the East Coast residents are battered down.

Europe also is shivering.

I love winter, wind, snow...In December, January, February. 

I am now ready for cherry trees such as the one at the ILO in Geneva and daffodils and long café sits in the sun.

Photo credit David Ryan/Boston Globe

 

has been

When I was pregnant it seemed like everyone was interested in my health, weight and general well- being.

Then Llara was born, and like Jack Kennedy who said he was "the man who brought Jackie Kennedy to Paris," I was the woman who brought this chubby-cheeked baby into the world.

People who never visited me, came to see the baby, including parents of my friends who also never visited before.

I could live with being a has-been among my friends and their folks, for I was in love with the baby.

Rick and I talked about getting a dog for five years or so. We wanted a rescue dog, a female, older too.

When we went to the rescue center, one of the workers put a 12-week old male mongrel (Yorkie, griffon and many other things) into my arms. It was love at first lick.

We are spending the winter in a centuries-old French village with narrow streets, where it is almost impossible to walk without greeting neighbors and chatting.

Sherlock quickly replaced the normal questions or comments with "Il est très mignon" and other exclamations on his cuteness. I wasn't jealous. He was overdosing on his cute appreciation as was I. It never bothered me that he received about 98% of the attention and my attention, the remaining 2%, was more about how he was doing. I could report a good pee and poop report, how he sat on command etc.

However, now when I walk down the street alone when I'm heading to do some errands that would take too long with Sherlock, I don't hear, "Ca va?" "Bonjour" or any of the other French chit chat.

My neighbors spy me and the first question is "Oú est Sherlock?"

Like a few decades ago, I can live with being a has-been to an adorable five kilos of wiggles and fur.

Happiness

Several times a week on Facebook I post what made me happy that day or at least the last couple of days.

Yesterday there was so much happiness that it was much too much for a post.

The day started with breakfast at Mille et Une, who added a fruit plate: apple, mango, kiwi and tangerine.

Our Swedish friends joined us and told us of the vernissage at the Salle Marianne where they had bought a sculpture before it opened and suggested we join them for the real exhibition.

 I was entranced with a sculpture by the Burkina Fasso artist, Kossi Traoré, who was exhibiting of a mother holding up a child which showed the joy of both.

Rick bought it for me. It meets two of the three criteria for me to own anything: beautiful and a memory.

We went to the Short Film Festival in a nearby town. The festival had selected 38 shorts from the 800 submitted from 78 countries. We watched 13 and scored them on the form given us. What fascinated me was, with one exception, our scoring was very different. The reasons were a pleasure to share adding another depth to the showing.

We also discovered a cultural center and exhibits that we hadn't know existed. Something else to explore.

Then home to a quiet night with Sherlock.

Each moment of the day was a tickle to the senses, an experience. But the best part was I with someone I love and someone who stimulates my imagination, makes me think, laugh.

Poubelle

My husband really should appreciate me. I am easy to please, although sometimes he doesn't believe when I ask for something, I'm serious.

We go back and forth a lot between Southern France and Geneva, taking anywhere from six to eight hours with stops. I travel light, one small suitcase (the kind that fits in the overhead) and my computer. In fact that was all I needed for a month in Edinburgh, but that's another story.

He loads the car full with his stuff. During the trip, we add food wrappers, empty water bottles, and all kinds of stuff.

Even on small day trips it seems the bad trash fairy fills the car.

Since we first started making the trips by car (pre-Rick I only trained it) I wanted a trash can (for the poubelle) so all the detritus was in one place.

He thought I was joking when I kept saying, we had to get a mini-trash can for our poubelle. Since he does 95% of all our shopping and the stores in Argeles didn't carry small poubelle cans, the discussion went on, not as a nag, but as sidebar so to speak.

Then this week he bought me my desired gift...see photo above.

Some women want expensive jewelry, diamonds, rubies or pearls. Some want furs. He made me ecstatic with a trash can for under 10 Euros. However he did mention my desire for a $45 million plane. A Falcon 6X might do nicely for our many trips between the south of France and Geneva as long as it has a can for the poubelle.

He has a dueling blog at http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.fr/2018/03/easy-pleasy.html

History unfolded

Sometimes there are books that are irreplaceable. I originally bought The Complete Works of the Mayflower Pilgrim by Caleb H. Johnson to do research for my novel Murder in Caleb's Landing. It was a limited edition and back in the 90s I paid $125 for it. Similar books by Johnson are now available at Amazon.

I've kept the book, not for cozy bedtime reading, but it is fun to open to any page for an insight into another time every now and then.

"I understand from Mr. Prence, who had it from an Indian of good esteem amongst them, that the Narraganansetts (sic) prepare for war, that the Mohawks have promised to aid them with a thousand men in the spring." William Bradford

"They lay a false charge upon the churches in affirming 'that Christian vigilance is now may exercised towards such as are not in church fellowship.'" Edward Winslow

"These people are not (as some have thought) a dull of slender-witted people, but very ingenious and very subtle." Thomas Morton about Indians.

"It pleased God to take away, by death, Mr. William Paddy, who was a precious servant of Christ." Nathaniel Morton.

There is a section of the wills with inventories.

Mary Ring left to her son "all my brass and pewter." She also left him her bed and two white blankets.

Samuell Eaton of Middleberry left:

• 3 cows
• 2 two-yeer (sic)old heiffer and one, one-yeer old.
• 2 colts
• 2 mare
• a horse
• undisclosed number of swine

He also elaborated on his tools, ground Indian corn. He must have been wealthy for his day. His debts were a fraction of the value of what he left behind, although by today's standards he would be poor.

Matthew Slade wrote to Sir Dudley Carleton about a missing William Brewster.

And then there is "A PARTICULAR ANSWER TO THE Manifold Slanderers and Abominable Falsehoods contained in an article called Simplicities defense against Seven-headed Policy: Wherein Samuel Gorton, desperately dangerous to his Countrymen the English in New England and notorious slanderous in what he he hath Printed of them. This is not a catchy title but probably a 1600s version of fake news concerns pre-Internet.

As a modern writer, I want to edit, edit, edit, the flowery language and standardize the spelling.

The respect I have for Johnson in bringing together all this material has no limit.

Snow day

As a kid growing up in New England, waking to snow meant staying in bed and listening to the no school announcements. Because they were read alphabetically, and I lived in Reading, it was a long wait to be able to snuggle back under the covers with a non-school required book.

Then later in the day my brother and I would build snow forts. My grandmother would heat maple syrup and pour it on the dish of snow that we'd scooped up and given to her. It hardened into a great candy.

My mother would set up jigsaw puzzles in front of the fire. We had to do the border before we could do the insides. Sometimes there was a story log, where stories were told or read while a log burned.

My daughter had a much-reduced waiting time to learn Latin would not open. We lived in B for Boston. Read after the Actons, Arlingtons, Belmonts...

Now school closings are on line.

Although Switzerland photos often include snow-covered Alps and people skiing down mountains with a background of chalets, Geneva itself does not often get heavy snow or even snow. I lived here three years before there was even a dusting and that was on Valentine's Day while I was eating in a Japanese restaurant.

A couple of years ago while I was undergoing chemo, there was enough snow and I had enough strength that with my husband we made a snow rabbit on our patio.

Thus yesterday, when our Rick parted the curtains to take Sherlock for his first walk of the day, we were delighted to see a white world compared to the green and brown one visible when we went to bed.

Our original lunch plans with an Egyptian friend had already been cancelled. He wasn't arriving in Geneva until Friday. There was everything we needed to eat in the frigo and cabinets. No need to go out except for the dog.

Thus there was extra reading, some writing and a bit more time to catch up on paperwork. We could watch the Beast from the East, as this storm blanketing much of Europe has been called from the warmth of our home.

Even without forts, maple syrup candy and puzzles, the day was a gift of calm and beauty.

My former housemate who did go out has a blog on a snow day in Geneva http://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.ch/ a different perspective.

My husband has a different point of view http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.ch/2018/03/shoveling-s.html

Encounters

The warmth of the bus was welcomed after Geneva's icy cold. I sat next to a young woman.

I adore public transportation bus and train. In Geneva with its traffic hangups it is often faster than a car. Sometimes I find the most interesting people and if I don't there's always the window to inspect the scenery city or country.

This young woman was disabled, but worked 35% as a secretary. She confessed to being afraid of tornadoes and dreamed of being a doctor. Having just finished work, she was finding time to visit her granny who had a stroke. "Most people can't understand Granny, but I can." We spoke mainly in French, with a smattering of English. 

She asked me if I were English and accepted my explanation that I was born in America, but was Swiss, and learned French starting at 48 when I moved to Neuchâtel.

We talked about following dreams and even if one never reached their goal, trying was an experience one might never have if they didn't try.

We both descended at Rive and crossed the street. At the French macaroon store, she went right, and I went left to catch the next tram.

I had a single seat the rest of the way, but felt warmer than the weather deserved for a brief friendly encounter, with a person who had dreams and the hope to take some steps toward achieving them while being aware the chances were slim.

 

Teachers and guns

It's been eons since I've been in high school, and as most teens I had things to worry about such as math tests and would Rick (my first husband not my second) was going to ask me to the junior/senior prom. Would the blue sweater in the store window I saw on the way to Torre's for a sundae with the chocolate spilling over onto the silver saucer, match my blue plaid skirt.

I never worried about a gun man shooting up my school.

Now the idea is to arm teachers. I couldn't help but wonder what those wonderful men and women, who opened the world to me, would use for weapons.

Mr. Spenser taught Latin and coached the senior play. I wonder if would have selected one of the Roman Army weapons.

I bet Mr. Aldrich, who taught U.S. History would like a Revolutionary War rifle.

Sally Stembridge taught English. She was thin with short, red curly hair. I can picture her strutting down the hall with a Glock on her hip. Athletic. I can just see her at the firing range, goggles and headphones hitting a bullseye every time.

Zimmy, Dr. Zimerman, taught me biology, chemstry and anatomy. Despite being in range of retirement she was a very with-it lady. I bet she would go for a AK15.

And when Mr. D'Orlando, one of my all time favorite teachers, taught Shakespeare, I bet a crossbow might be his weapon of choice.


As I write this, I find the idea of any of them armed as ludicrous.

Tea

Love In A Cup of Tea

Whenever I stayed over at our Indian friends, the husband always brought a cup of tea to his wife and to me in bed before we started the day. Such a considerate, loving gesture. I wasn't jealous as such, but I realised that some lucky women had husbands who brought them tea in the morning.

At the time I had no desire for a husband-- tea or no. I was happily single. Of course, Rick appeared in my life for a cup of coffee, which turned into a fondue and a lifetime together and I was happier when I didn't think that was possible.

I never told him about my Indian friend and his cup of tea. And I don't know where it started but now every morning, Rick brings me a cup of tea and a biscuit. Since we've had Sherlock, the biscuit has to be placed higher on the nightstand, especially those with chocolate.

We may read in bed for a short time, check email, talk. Whatever happens once we get up, it is just a little bit better knowing my day started with love and consideration.

Has been

I am a has been.

In my village we can walk everywhere including to buy fresh baked bread, meat, sit in a café, go to the doctor.

Sometimes progress is slow, because neighbors and friends stop to talk.

Those days are gone.

Most of the time I walk with Sherlock our new mixed-breed puppy. The greetings, usually start with Sherlock being called, patted and cooed over. After a time they will remember like Jack Kennedy brought Jackie to Paris, I am the one who brought Sherlock to the street and greet me with Bonjour or Bonsoir depending on the time of day and I will be asked about his progress.

However, it is getting worse. I was out yesterday and left him home. I saw my neighbor who came up to me and instead of her usual "Bonjour" it was "Ou est Sherlock?"

I told her he was at home.

I'm not jealous. The dog is too cute. Let him have his day in the sun. I am okay with being a has been.

No identity crisis here

In my teenage and early adult years, it was almost a rule to have an identity crisis. I forgot to have one.

I am also aware that I am identified many ways  through other people and in various roles

• Dorothy Sargent and James Boudreau's daughter and Norma Boudreau's stepdaughter
• Florence Stockbridge Sargent's and Walter Gordon's granddaughter 
• Marie Bourque and Edouard Boudreau's granddaughter
• J. Boudreau's older sister
• Cousin to too many to name
• Aunt to Kim Boudreau and grand aunt to Gavin and Garrison, whom I've never met
• (many names') friends throughout my life from many different eras and places
• Rick Nelson's wife and later ex-wife
• Llara Kay Nelson's mother
• Lawrence Eagle Tribune cub reporter
• Clerk at insurance company
• Nursery School Teacher, Kelley Barracks, Möhringen, Germany
• Clerk at a Greg's dry cleaner
• Student at Merrimack College
• Student at Lowell Teacher's College, later UMass at Lowell and many other names B.A.
• Student at Boston University
• Student at Glamorgan University (Wales) M.A.
• Secretary Adamian Law, which quickly convinced me I did not want to be a lawyer
• Part owner of Have a Happy, local bridal magazine
• Writer National Fire Protection Association, Sales Prospector Services, Harris Stamp
• Marketing/PR/communications Polaroid Credit Union and Digital Credit Union, IEC
• Publisher of CU Newswire
• Adjunct Prof. at Webster University
• Partner/Lover to several men in long-term relationships
• Housemate to Bill, Susie, Julia
• Wife to Rick Adams
• Author of 11 novels and two non-fiction works
• Editor of books from other writers
• American, ex-American
• FATCA fighter and the woman who vomited
• Swiss citizen

I've lived in:

• Reading, MA
• Boston, MA 
• Bluefield, WV
• Waltham, MA
• Lowell, MA
• Epping, NH 
• Hampton Beach, NH
• Stuttgart, Germany
• Toulouse, France (Castanet)
• Argelès-sur-mer, France
• Môtiers, Switzerland
• Payern, Switzerand
• Grand Saconnex, Switzerland
• Corsier, Switzerland
• Collonge-Bellerive, Switzerland 
• Edinburgh, Scotland (only a month)

What does it all mean?

It means that I've filled up the years I've been given with interesting, enriching days in so many ways and only rarely do I crawl into bed and think, "That was a waste of time." Usually I run out of day before I run out of things to see, do, learn, feel, smell, taste and enjoy. But tomorrow is another day.

Mimosa

Mimosa -- One of the joys of spring is mimosa. The trees in full bloom look as if the sun dropped from the sky.

I also love mimosa in my house. The scent is delicate a small whiff of happiness.

Pentagon Papers

THEN

At 16 I was a cub reporter for the Lawrence-Eagle Tribune. I was fascinated by the process and loved to watch the the type being set, the presses running. I loved covering my hometown of Reading. I remember breaking a story about something the Selectmen did wrong and the next time I was at a meeting, one of them yelled at me.

I started to cry. One of the other Selectmen, said, "Go easy on her. She's just a kid." I was embarrassed because I cried even though I was proud of telling the truth about officials doing something wrong, no matter how small it was.

THEN AND NOW

Rick and I went to see the Pentagon Papers, the French name for The Post. The scenes of the press room crowded with reporters typing out stories, linotype and presses running were like flashbacks.

The story of the Pentagon Papers was also a flashback because I had followed it eagerly in the news. It was the end of my innocence when I realized how much many governments, Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Nixon, Johnson  had lied, how many people had died Americans and even more, Vietnamese.

The Americans who died thought they were defending their country. They weren't. They were defending politicians who didn't want to be humiliated by losing a war.

The revelation that the U.S. injected itself into the 1954 Vietnamese election, just reaffirms what I've been saying that if Russia interfered with the 2016 election, it was no different from the U.S. interfering in other countries' elections.

The coziness of people in Washington between press and leaders seems the same.

The Washington Post risked everything to bring the truth to the American public. Tom Hanks at one point in the film said the purpose of the press is to serve the governed not the government (the idea not the exact quote).

Not much has changed. The government is still lying to the public. Young men and now young women are going off to fight wars based on lies. The U.S. is still interfering in other countries' governments sometimes behind the scenes sometimes with bombs.

As the folk song "Where Have All The Flowers Gone" says, "When will they ever learn?"

Rick has a dueling blog at http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.fr/

RIP

It was a good 15 years ago and I was shopping at Co-op, a Swiss grocery during my lunch hour. The store carried household stuff, too and I as I headed for the cash register, I saw a fitted sheet, of red terry cloth. There were no other colors, but I thought it might be warm in winter and cool in summer.

I was right.

As a minimalist I try to have as little possible, so that sheet was used almost nightly UNTIL . . .

. . . Sherlock.

This was the male puppy we ended up out of pure love at first sight instead of an older female dog we were looking for. One should never go into a rescue center with exact expectations.

Although he had his own bed, Sherlock decided that sleeping between my husband and myself was a good idea. In the cold room he buried under the blankets.

Puppies chew.

The sheet ended up with holes. Although I mended them, it happened again.

I have said goodbye to my sheet. A new one is on the bed, but it is not terry cloth.

Sigh. RIP and thanks for all the lovely nights.f

Ironing

I am not domestic.

I do not necessarily love ironing.

At the same time I want my home to be neat and welcoming and I like the feel of my PJs, t-shirts and sheets ironed more than wrinkled. I do Rick's too because I want him to have the same pleasure.

Thus I clean, neaten and iron.

Our flat came with an ironing board.

Sort of.

It was narrow and wobbly.

My cheap heart never wants to replace something that works.

However, once we got Sherlock, I was afraid he'd bump into the board and be seriously hurt if the iron fell on him.

My solution was to wait till he slept or was out for a walk with Rick to iron.

My husband had a different solution. He bought a new ironing board, one color-coordinated with the flat. It included the rest, which makes it safer. It is also is wider making ironing easier.

I was raving about it to my husband not just to let him know that I appreciated his thoughtfulness. I felt like I was doing some kind of advert as I listed the board's merits, and a bit silly. 

But when I went to bed last night on clean, ironed sheets in clean iron pjs, life was good.

Thoughts and Prayers

Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers

The mealy-mouthed politicians mumble those words after every shooting. Or take a few seconds to tap them into a tweet. Thoughts and prayers were promised for 9 school shooting alone this year.

So what are in those thoughts?

• Can they imagine the mother finding a dress with which to bury her dead daughter?
• What are the father, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts and uncles doing?
• Do they even know the names of the dead?
• Their hopes?
• Their strengths?
• Their weaknesses?

And how much do they pray? Will they go to the denomination of each victim and pray? Light candles? Kneel by their bed at night? Make donations?

Without action, their words are meaningless, so much drivel. The next time the same words and the same results...nothing.

I wish everyone would send a politician who uses this meaningless phrase and then do nothing send them a check for a campaign contribution in the amount of THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS.

Oops!

Goal 1: To take the little yellow train, Le Train Jaune, up the mountain to Fort Romeu

Goal 2: To introduce Sherlock to snow

Method: To be up at 5 to leave by 6 to arrive at 8 and catch the 8:30 that arrives around 11. Spend and hour and go home.

Reality: Woke at 5 and drove out of Argelès by 5:48.

• Arrived at 7. It didn't take two hours.
• Found a bakery and wandered the walled city that has existed sine the 1098.
• Went back to train station.
• Bought tickets.
• Waited for train.
• It didn't come.
• Went back into the station. 
• Girl pointed out on schedule 8:30 train only starts in April.
• Next train would get us home too late.

 Decided to drive up to Fort Romeu to enjoy the beautiful scenery from the car.

Stopped about half way up and let Sherlock play in the snow after he was car sick. He appeared to enjoy it.

Turned around and came home still enjoying the snow-covered mountains.

Stopped for sushi (me) and hamburger (Rick).

Had a wonderful time.

Rick has a dueling blog at  http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.fr/

food joy

If my husband had given me a $10,000 diamond necklace, it would not have meant as much to me as having lunch at Bartavelle, the excellent restaurant around the corner from where we live.

It was a fixed valentine's menu with lots of fish, something he is neutral about to disliking, even if Bartavelle's preparation of things he usually wouldn't touch takes him to neutral to almost liking. 

But the last course was lobster, my favorite food of all time. As a New Englander living in Geneva and Southern France, lobster is a rare treat. Knowing that he was happy to treat me.

Some of the courses included things I can't eat such as scallops. The owners know that and, without us asking, made substitutions.

As for the lobster itself, I devoured it.

The desert shown at the top of the blog was a work of art. The outside was a type of donut paste and the flavor was pineapple. Even if it looked like a work of art and even if I was full, I was able to consume the whole thing.

This was a gift of caring, far better than any diamond from a diamond of a husband.

Travel Fatigue

Rick went to Milan last month on assignment followed by an assignment in Paris the following week. To someone, who might, if they are lucky, will get to Paris or Milan once in their life time, it sounds exciting.

I could have gone, but stayed at home.

When I was growing up in Reading, MA with a mother who felt going two towns away put me in danger of falling off the edge of the earth, I had to laugh at myself when I was living in Switzerland in the 90s. I had been traveling on business and I was really looking forward to a couple of days at home. Doing the laundry seemed like the most wonderful thing in the world. It also meant I could stop buying clean underwear because I didn't have time to wash my clothes.

I was living in Motiers, Switzerland at the time and then I had to go to the UK on business over the weekend. Long gone were the days as a teen, I wished that I had need for a suitcase. Long gone was dreaming over maps.

Business travel is not exciting. I still remember a conference I covered in Warsaw. If you give me colored pencils I can probably recreate the rug at the Marriott because that was all I saw. Lovely rose flowers on green.

Fun travel is a bit different. We've been hither and yon the last five years including:

• Rick fulfilled his dream to play St. Andrews.
• Three weeks in Westport Ireland
• I "met" Eleanor of Aquitaine.
• We've slept in a bubble in Austria. 
• I showed Rick where I lived as a bride in Stuttgart.
• We stayed on a canal boat in Amsterdam. 
• There was a whole month in my second most loved city, Edinburgh allowing us to wander around Scotland, a beautiful, beautiful country filled with great people and history.

I loved every minute of  it.

On the other hand, sleeping in the same bed for weeks at a time, being able to say yes to a dinner invitation next week knowing I would be home and having a routine is also wonderful.

Some readers may shake their heads and think I'm whinging. I'm not really. I love what I've done, where I've been.

And it doesn't mean I want to stop traveling. Elton John is playing Montreux during the summer 2019. Rick hasn't seen Vienna. There are friends I want to visit in Copenhagen.

Although I've probably spent six plus months in Paris over the years, I have family of choice there and hopefully the Seine's flood will not wash it away. There are still museums to visit and cafes to sit in. Just walking the streets pretending I'm part of the Hemingway crowd has never gone stale. And if Rick covers a conference in Stuttgart, I will want to go and walk in the gardens by the Altes Shloss and maybe feed the swans like I used to do.

Once when my daughter was a student at Mannheim University and was in the UK at the same time I was doing a distant learning in Wales we discovered we were in the same country for an overlap of a few hours. We met for lunch.
A Massachusetts friend said, "You lead such a glamorous life."

I didn't tell him our lunch was not at some quaint pub but at Burger King in Paddington Station.

But between a new puppy and love of my home, traveling less is high on my bucket list...but then a chance comes up to go to (fill in the blank) and I get my teddy bear suitcase packed and am headed for the car, train or plane.

Brownie woes and joys

My former housemate makes the world's best brownies. What a joy to be writing away and have the smell of baking chocolate waft up the stairs. She often made them as gifts, but left enough for the house. Sometimes, when I came back from a trip, I would find brownies on my desk.

The second best are made by Catherine, the Brownie Lady, who sells her wares at the Argelès marché on Saturdays. She also bakes other goodies, minced pies, different fruit pies, savory tarts. In the winter her husband's homemade vin chaud is beyond yummy as guests at our Tree Decorating Open House attested.

We would buy four and ration them out during the week usually while watching a DVD. Ice cream, chocolate sauce was optional.

The last couple of weeks the weather had been too bad for Catherine to set up her stand.

We are going through serious brownie withdrawal.

Thank goodness Rick found a package of brownie mix bought at the American store in Collogny. It was Ghardilli. He will make them today.

Hopefully, they will be able to tide us over until Saturday's marché.

FATCA damage

I am in the process of putting together testimonies of people who have been hurt by FATCA in anyway from denied employment to losing banking access, a marriage breakup, renunciation, etc. The stories will be collected and I intend to self publish it and send it to every congress member.

I want to make sure they at least have the story of the damage they are doing to their fellow countrymen in their offices.

You can remain anonymous if you wish.

Email me at donna-lane.nelson@wanadoo.fr

Sherlock 0, Pigeon 5

Sherlock went into crouch position. His back legs trembled much like a cat waiting to attack a mouse. Sherlock had seen his mortal enemy, the white pigeon.

The bird would taunt him, walking back and forth in front of the glass door to our house while Sherlock would bark and scratch at the glass.

Now we were out on the street and there was no glass between him and her. It was early, early, early morning. The sun was still waking up.

Alain was setting up his sausage stand for the day's marché. The egg-onion-garlic-herb lady was already set up on the other side of the narrow street. No one else had ventured out into the cold.

Sherlock lunged. The pigeon flew a few feet out of reach. Sherlock lunged again. The pigeon put just enough space between her and the pup to frustrate him. 

He returned to crouch position. The pigeon continued to strut. It was if she had measured his leash and the distance between them and added a meter.

"Il n'a pas de chance," I said to both vendors who were laughing at my puppy.

"Mais il a de l'espoir," the woman said.

The pigeon continued the game three more times then flew onto a nearby ledge. Sherlock sat his eyes following the bird.

I was right -- he had no chance. So was the woman -- he had high hopes.

Assange

This is the worse case of "shoot the messenger" ever.

"There's an R in Paw?" Rick asked after I mentioned Sherlock's paw. "Is that where they go?"

Okay, more teasing about my Boston accent. We have had some real misunderstandings about it. Like when I said I was going to the yarn store and he thought we had a Chinese store with the name Yan.

And then when I was with college friends, he said they had a problem understanding them. I said, they talked like I did. 

His response, "I know."

When on a tour with many Bostonians or at least people who lived in the area, he said he knew we were in the right part of the breakfast room, because all he heard was my twang, although I don't call Beantown's accent a twang.

He suspects that somewhere there is a trunk filled with the letter R left over from all the cahs, Hahvard, wohlds, wohds, etc. spoken that I bring out for insertion into words that never were intended to have an R sound.

That's wicked cute.

Driverless cars

Rick's printer threw a temper tantrum. It refused to print word documents but would print the test page.

"That is why I won't ride in a driverless car," I said.

He looked at me. 

I went on to explain.

All the things that don't work now with too great a regularity:

• SFR and Bluewin TV transmissions
• A switching device on a train track that doesn't switch (UK accident)
• Glitches in regular computer programs
• Phones where we can't get a signal
• Car recalls for all kinds of problems--why should I believe they would take better care of a driverless car.
• Lying -- such as VW's standards fraud

I am not a Luddite. I love technology that makes my life simpler. But more often it adds to the complications.

Then I think of all the conditions that could bring down the car's system.

• Hurricanes (more often these days)
• Power failures (The US electrical grid is in rough shape)
• Fires 
• Tornadoes
• Earthquakes
• Regular thunderstorms
• Hacking
• Human mistake (attack alert in Hawaii?)
• Updates when going 95 MPH on a highway

It is ingenious how they have made traffic lights signal to the driverless cars. Even if the electrical grid is working well, all it takes is one kid with a stone to put one of those lights out of commission leading to chaos.

Cars do have some great new stuff, such as letting a driver know when something or someone is too close. But the driver should be in control if he's not reading, talking on his phone, or had too much to drink etc., all of which a driverless car would not do. One driver can create a bad accident, but imagine if the driverless system goes berserk for any of the reasons above and all the cars are out of control. Or the system shuts down. Or the software that runs the car pulls a temper tantrum as Rick's printer did.

Nope. No driverless cars for me.

Red Flannel Hash

As a child growing up I was always excited when we had a New England boiled dinner, not because I loved it so much (although I did) but because it was followed by red flannel hash.

I am enough of a New England Yankee to pine for some of the childhood foods: New England Boston baked beans, Brown bread, clam bake (without the clams but with the lobster, corn,) Indian pudding, etc. All were made with love by my grandmother.

I've never been able to get the corned beef in Europe. It may exist but I haven't found it.

For those that don't know, a New England boiled dinner the meat is boiled with potatoes, turnips, onions, cabbage and carrots. Beets are cooked separately.

Although there is usually enough for two to three more meals as is, the leftovers in our family were always turned into red flannel hash.

However, my husband discovered canned corned beef hash, Although he is beet phobic, on his day to cook, he divided the hash into two and loving chopped the beets and to add to mine.