Sleeping in Clinton's bed?

Did I sleep in Clinton’s bed?

Or Merkel’s?

Or Putin’s?

It’s possible. Rick and I are staying at the Seehof Hotel in Davos and during different World Economic Forum’s all of the above and many more world leaders have slept here.

The goal was not to sleep where a famous person slept. Rick is playing in a Swiss Hickory Golf Championship and having seen how beautiful the area is on TV, even if Richard Quest sometimes blocks the view of the mountains, I wanted to come. He says he prefers when I come along with his travels. So do I.

Add to the scenery, the golf, the escape from the heat, we happily bundled ourselves, including Sherlock into the car at 6 in the morning for the five-hour drive across Switzerland in the rain and mist.

No where in Switzerland have I ever been disappointed by the beauty.

The hotel is lovely, our room huge (I checked to see if Clinton, Merkel or Putin might have left something behind that the cleaning people might have forgotten. Nope!!!!

What we did find, water and food dishes for Sherlock, a bed and a towel for him. When we ate at the restaurant, the waiter brought out a bag of dog treats for him. The sketch on the label looked as if it were a drawing of him.

So I may not sleep tonight where Clinton, Merkel or Putin laid their heads, but if I look at the bed now, where I will be sleeping, I see Sherlock. That’s good enough for me.

Did I sleep in Clinton’s bed?

Or Merkel’s?

Or Putin’s?

It’s possible. Rick and I are staying at the Seehof Hotel in Davos and during different World Economic Forum’s all of the above and many more world leaders have slept here.

The goal was not to sleep where a famous person slept. Rick is playing in a Swiss Hickory Golf Championship and having seen how beautiful the area is on TV, even if Richard Quest sometimes blocks the view of the mountains, I wanted to come. He says he prefers when I come along with his travels.

Add to the scenery, the golf, the escape from the heat, we happily bundled ourselves, including Sherlock into the car at 6 in the morning for the five-hour drive in the rain and mist.

No where in Switzerland have I ever been disappointed by the beauty.

The hotel is lovely, our room huge . I checked to see if Clinton, Merkel or Putin might have left something behind that the cleaning people might have forgotten.

They hadn’t but what we did find, water and good dishes for Sherlock, a bed and a towel for him. When we ate at the restaurant, the waiter brought out a bag of dog treats for him. The sketch on the label looked as if it were a drawing of him.

So I may not sleep tonight where Clinton, Merkel or Putin laid their heads, but if I look at the bed where I will be sleeping, I see Sherlock and Rick. That’s good enough for me.

Holiday choices

Nothing would ever get me through Disney gates. On the other hand, my choice of holidays would probably bore others.

Photo By Bjørn Christian Tørrissen - Own work by uploader, 

http://bjornfree.com/galleries.html, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12708091

I love to explore. Wandering through a city, looking at the plaques talking about the past in that spot, standing at the tombs of William the Conqueror, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard the Lionhearted, walking the battlefield of Bull Run to me is an introduction to the past, the real past, not Hollywood's concept of it.

I can find unusual buildings, little restaurants that tickle my taste buds, find unusual plants (whose names I'll never know, but they make me happy to look at them).

My type of holiday had nothing to do with the corporate world and its propaganda.

Many of my friends share my strangeness. One holiday some of them have taken is the Camino de Santiago (Way of Saint James), recreating the medieval pilgrimage. Some of my friends did it for spiritual reasons others because they like walking and cycling. Those that complete a minimum of 100K are given a certificate and a shell.

In 2018, 327,378 people completed the trail.

According to legend St. James remains arrived in Spain from Jerusalem and are buried in Santiago.  The shell comes from the story that his body was lost at sea and when it was washed ashore it was covered in scallops.

The trail is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

My first friend to do it was an anthropology professor at BU. He was in his 60s and his adventures made for more than one evening's entertainment.

A woman friend from Argelès was also in her sixties when she made the walk. One of the things I remember is how quickly she eliminated non essentials. Shampoo became her everything soap.

From time to time I thought about doing it. Sorta my own Chaucer's Tales, Spanish style. It has never happened, which probably means I didn't want it enough.

That doesn't stop me from enjoying others talking about their adventure on the trail.

Dogs, couples, packs

Getting Sherlock from the rescue center changed our couple into a pack. It is now the three of us.

Rick is alpha dog, I'm beta and we tell Sherlock he is the omega dog despite his attempts to increase his status.

We delayed getting a dog for a long time because of our travel schedule. When we discovered www.TrustedHousesitters.com  the excuse was no longer viable, so off to the rescue center we went for an older female.

When a three-month male was put in my arms and he kissed me, that was it.

The pack now sleeps together. I spoon my husband a lot less. He is spooned by Sherlock and I spoon Sherlock. Everyone roles over. Sometimes Sherlock tunnels under the covers. Most of the time he is snuggled up to one of us. Isn't that what packs do?

We watch DVDs and Netflix together. We watch him throw his Kong around. Lap/nap time is routine.

When he does cute things, he checks to make sure we are watching.

We've learned his vocabulary of different barks and mumbles and he's learned ours. The word stay is followed by sigh. Marchons Marchons and he circles and gets excited about his walk.

My daughter says he's pampered not spoiled. I'm not so sure when Rick spoon feeds him eggs cooked especially for Sherlock. Seems he liked them better that way.

And trips to the beach and forest where he can run zoomies are a must.

We are happy to be part of his pack. But the alpha, beta, omega positions will continue as is in our pack.

Home vs. House

VS

We were eating breakfast with Danish friends. They live in the UK. The subject of house vs. home came up. They mentioned that many of their Brit friends think of their houses as investments first and as homes second.

For my first house with my first husband, we had to pass the old lady test. She was in a nursing home and wanted to make sure nice people were in the house. As a young couple expecting their first child, we passed. Little did she know that a few months after moving in, we would be divorcing.

That was never a home. It could have been. A new kitchen and bathroom, replacing the ugly red floor tile, it might have looked like a home where I could nest. But nesting with unhappiness is next to impossible. I did have two happy moments each day: mornings seeing my daughter's smiley face over the bumper guard and at night when I showered and let the hot water melt some of the tension.

We made $3,500 on the house, a fortune in 1969.

My second house was a handyman's nightmare, bought at rock bottom prices with two housemates. About five years into restoration, I wanted my own place (read finished). Bought for low five figures Several decades later, it sold for seven. I did get my portion of the value at the time.

I bought a condo that was definitely my home. I loved its bay windows, it's eat-in kitchen and the alcove where I wrote. I would still be there, if I had not moved to Europe. I sold it at double the price. I felt no joy in the profit. Selling it meant a new life, but I had impregnated every square inch with happiness.

When I bought my Nest, an 18 sq.mt. loft studio on a beautiful narrow street in Argelès, France. It was a coupe de foudre. Half way up the stairs, I knew that it was it. I never planned to move. If I wanted to sell now, I would quadruple my money, but it wasn't an investment. Everything in it, is carefully chosen. I never plan to sell. Hopefully, someday my daughter will call it home.

I was right. Happiness was embedded in every brick, tile and beam. When I loaned it to people (I would never charge because money should not be made from happiness) I asked if they had a disagreement take it outside. I didn't want anything negative there. No, I am not a new age person.

Had I not reconnected with the man whom I would marry, I would still be there. The studio was too small for two.

Now we use it as a guest room and rent a bigger flat that is indeed a home. We've carefully selected almost everything in it, some times at vide greniers, sometimes at depot ventes. As I walk through the rooms, my eyes settle on happy memories. Each day we make new happy memories.

I had a friend from when I lived in Germany. She married an American. When they were building a house, she wanted the kitchen counters a little lower. Like me, she is undertall. The builder warned it might hurt resale. She didn't care. She had years of kitchen comfort. I don't know how potential buyers felt about the waterfall/pond in their bedroom. It doesn't matter. They loved it.

My husband, when he lived in the US, was like many Americans, thinking of investment when he bought a house. He upgraded more than once which meant he always had a current mortgage. Had he stayed in one place he would have had a paid off house. That is neither here nor there, because he moved overseas. He is somewhat reformed in thinking of the importance of home over house.

A home, where you live and love, where you find comfort and joy, where you build memories, is an investment in the quality of life. There's nothing wrong if the monetary value increases, but life is too short not to have an emotional refuge first. Everything else is detail.

Death

I'm reading Philippe Georget, Autumn all the Cats Return, in English. I'd read his previous one in French. I am lazy if I have a choice of languages to read in. I will take the English.

It starts with the funeral of a young boy, killed in an accident. Gilles Sebag's daughter is devastated.

It triggered the memory of the first person my own age that died: Jimmy Johnston.

I'd lost my Uncle Gordon when I was 20 months. My grandmother found him dead in bed when he was 33 from a cerebral hemorrhage. I was told that my grandfather had died when I was four. It did not mean much to me other than I could no longer play with him.

We had just graduated from high school. Jimmy had been riding in some kind of go-cart on the then unfinished Route 93 when a car, which should not have been on the road hit him. He wasn't a close friend but we sat side by side at the back of U.S. History Class with Mr. Aldrich. I remember he had a yellow and white boat neck shirt, a style the administration didn't like.

I had never really thought anyone of my age could die. In 1960 it was still pre-Vietnam when too many of my age group died.

Now six decades later, death is common: friends, relatives, writers, actors, singers, neighbors, politicians have all died.

Great leaders, John and Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Anwar Sadat and and and. There is the shock of turning of the news to learn a bullet has ended the life of another person who was making a difference.

The same in my personal life. Barbara and Mardy...people who shared my heart and soul for decades are no longer available to talk, cry and laugh with.

I think of my own death more since turning 50. With two cancers hopefully vanquished, the preciousness of life is only more dear. Adoring my relatively new husband makes me want to fulfill our plans and dreams for years to come.

Today, I read that Alain Delon has had a stroke at 83. His recording studio was not far from where I lived in Switzerland. We never met.

The planet has existed for zillions of years. We as humans have such a short time a nano-nano-nano-
nano second on it.

Let's make it count.

***
P.S. Georget's book is a good read.

French conversation

I needed to mail something to my daughter today. The post is a couple of blocks away.

They have an automatic stamp machine where you weigh your letter and select location, type of mail, etc. I've used the machine almost since it's installation X number of years ago.

However, the screen type has been fading. The machine is placed so the sun shines on the screen.

Not daunted, I forged ahead. I did remember where each selection was or so I thought until I contorted my body to read the screen.

Hmmm...

My daughter is NOT in Martinique.

Giving up, I went over to a human.

(I won't do the French here, but this was the conversation with the lovely young woman behind the counter)

Me: I had a terrible problem reading the screen.

Her: You are not alone.

Me: The sun is on the screen.

Her: (nods several times). It is "null"!!!

Me: At least it isn't my age.

Her: Don't worry, it isn't your age.

She put the stamp on the envelope and threw it in the outgoing basket. I left feeling younger, at least as far as screen reading goes. If they don't want to adjust the screen, the could turn the machine so it does not facet the sun. Maybe that would be too simple.

New chapter for Day Care

 Like my character Brenda, I realized I was missing something from my first draft. I added it last night and this morning. Of course, there will be many more drafts, but at least the hole is filled and is ready for polishing, polishing, polishing. Brenda is writing a book about these four mothers who have daughters in day care and how they support one another.

I wake in the middle of night. I realize there is an entire something I haven’t done. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am a professional writer, aren’t I?

I’ve been so busy observing and interviewing/observing the women individually or in small groups, I never asked how they happened to become such good friends. There’s the day care connection for sure, but is there some other bond?

I send an email to them all. “I would like to invite you and your daughter(s) to my house for a spaghetti feed at noon on Sunday. Bring toys.” All answer yes within an hour.

I’m not a woman who likes entertaining. Maybe sometimes, I’ll have a friend over for a drink. I like even less preparing a meal. It is not that I can’t cook. I am a good cook when I bother. The food I make for myself is usually on the healthy side and simple. I also rely on the Indian, Mexican and Syrian take-out restaurants in Harvard Square.

Take out did I say? Delivery is even better. Okay, I’m lazy.

However, for this group, I’ll to make a huge pot of spaghetti sauce. An Italian landlady when I was in college taught me. And since these women have been so generous in feeding me, it is the least I can do. A green salad, some French bread from Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square.

Wine?

They’ll be driving back to Reading from Cambridge. Maybe give them the choice. And Coke as a treat for the kids.

I don’t have enough chairs, so I borrow two from my upstairs tenants. Nice thing about being a landlady myself. My reasonable rents, or at least reasonable for the Harvard Square area, guarantees my tenants want to stay on my good side.

That’s not really fair. The second floor tenants are working on Ph.Ds and have lived here three years. The third floor is occupied by two professors, one at Northeastern and one at Simmons. It means they commute across the city, but the walk to the T is about three blocks and they change the Redline changes to the Green at Park Street so there commute is not horrible. They say the love the Square and it is nice not to be near where they teach and run into their students. They’ve been here seven years.

I’m not really friend-friends with my tenants, but we are more than just nodding-on-the-staircase acquaintances. Once a year we have a barbeque in the backyard. When I go to France, they will notify me if there’s a problem and have offered to help whoever is staying chez moi.

I make a mental note to firm up dates with Sue and contact the local universities to see if they have visiting professors who would like to rent my place for a year. If they can’t find anyone, then I will deal with an agency.

The women arrive in two cars. Parking is always at a premium in this area. I have a narrow driveway. The professors are away for the weekend and that leaves room for Anne-Marie’s car. Sally drives to the hotel garage at the end of street and uses their underground garage. I wonder if she and Maura will split the cost. I won’t ask.

“You said to bring toys,” Sophie says. She holds up an airplane. “Lydia wanted to bring at least ten, but Maman said only one each.”

Each little girl shows me what toys they have brought, a hodge podge of things for transportation and dolls.

They’ve spent enough time in each other’s home that they know all the toys and there is some on-going game that they launch themselves into.

“I think the rules change by the minute, but it keeps them quiet,” Sally says.

The dining room is off the living room where I’ve set up a picnic blanket on the floor. We can watch the kids through the arch between the two rooms.

The women automatically help serve. The kids amuse themselves.

Once I bring out the coffee, I ask. “Can I bring out the recorder?” It is an old-fashioned one, but since it works, I’ve seen no need to replace it with anything newfangled. I’m not a Luddite, but I am frugal.

They agree. I push the button.

Me: What I want to know is how you all got so friendly.

Maura: Violet started in day care as soon as she was out of diapers.

Ashley: I had an au paar but after my husband died, I though Maude would be better with other kids.

Maura: My family knew Ashley’s.

Ashley: We weren’t in school together or anything.

Maura: You’re a lot older. (Ashley is the oldest of the women at 44.)

Ashley: Don’t remind me. I could have been Maura’s babysitter, except I never baby-sat. My parents wanted me to earn money, so I offered to weed people’s gardens, shovel snow, cut grass. I even made up business cards.

Maura: My family never hired her. My dad was a cop and he figured that my brother, sister and I could do all that ourselves as a contribution to the family. But our fathers know each other. Her father is a lawyer and sometimes his clients were people my dad arrested.

Ashley: My dad also knew yours because your Dad often was the cop on duty at Meadowbrook events. (Meadowbrook is the local golf club).

Maura: My Dad with three kids and a mortgage took every extra duty gig he could get. (Even in a small town, there are class distinctions. That might be another book, one I’ll never write. I don’t see the women paying any attention to income or educational differences).

Sally: I’m the out of towner, okay one of them. (She nods to Anne-Marie.) I didn’t talk to the others that often because as a teacher, I picked up Grace earlier than they did. I only saw them mornings when it would be a quick exchange of good morning or have a good day as we rushed to get to work.

Anne-Marie: I met Maura when I was looking for an apartment after I left Jean-Marc. She told me about the daycare center. Our au paar was going back to France about the same time and I didn’t have room to house another body.

Me: So how did you build the relationships you did? (They look at each other as if they are trying to remember.)

Sally: I was running late because of an after-school teachers meeting. We were all there are the same time for a change to pick them up. They were engrossed in a game.

Maura: They were pretending they owned a store.

Ashley: None of them wanted to come home. We started chatting. It was me who suggested we eat together that night—nothing formal. I mentioned I had a slowpot of beef stew brewing.

Sally: Boy, did she stress it was nothing special, but it was good. I stopped at the store on the way to her house and picked up a head of lettuce and a bottle of salad dressing.”

Anne-Marie: And I bought a carton of ice cream,” Anne-Marie said.

Maura: I didn’t bring anything. Anyway, the kids continued playing together and the four of us talked and talked. “I can’t remember who came up with the idea of each person taking a weekend to give us all some freedom.

Sally: I think it just kinda evolved. Ashley kept all the kids one Friday night. A couple of weeks later Anne-Marie had a sleepover. Maura, did you suggest we formalize it?

Maura: Maybe. I think so. Everyone agreed so quickly, I bet we were all thinking about it.

Me: However, you support each other in different ways.

Anne-Marie: I guess we do. It is nice to have an adult to listen to you.

Maura: We have ranting privileges.

Me: Ranting privileges.

Maura: When my boss drives me crazy, I can call Anne-Marie. The head of her department is a pain in the ass, so she understands.

Sally: I really have no family. Ashley’s dad took Grace to father and daughter day at the daycare.

Ashley: That was really stupid. So many single moms. (All the women nod). At least they held it on a Saturday.

Me: How often are you all in contact?

Sally: Depending on many things, sometimes every day on Facebook or email. Sometimes we only see each other when we drop or pick up the kids. Often on Saturdays when we pick up the kids, we will end up eating together.

I click off the recorder. I have what I need.

When everyone is gone, I sit on the couch. I really enjoy these women and I have the prologue that I need for the book. Not only that, they left my kitchen spotless.

The phone rings. It’s Barbara.

“Hello, agent of mine.”

“If you can get to New York, next Tuesday, Fransicka Lazlo will meet with you.”

“Who?”

“The woman who commissioned Day Care.

Chive success

I've had a hankering for vichyssoise. Hot weather is a perfect time for it. Thus I headed around the corner to Chez Elisabeth's, a green grocer with the yummiest fruits, veggies and fresh herbs. I bought the potatoes and leeks and headed for another store for the cream.

Oops.

Once home, I realized I'd forgotten the chives. Since the store is less than a two-minute walk away, I headed there, only to discover they were out. "Tomorrow," I was told by Elisabeth's young assistant.

The chives were not delivered when I checked the next day. Plan B was to raid my friend Lydia's chives and plan C was to buy the dried ones at the supermarket, but fresh is always so much better.

I still have fond memories of being a teenager and after everyone was in my bed, my mother and I would clip fresh chives from the backyard, add cream cheese and feast on the mixture spread on Ritz crackers as we watched Steve Allen and later Jack Parr.

Elisabeth the owner took her phone and called her supplier. "Demain," she said.

This morning, the first thing I was back at Chez Elisabeth. In the chive tray, were several stalks of chives secured with an elastic. Elisabeth was talking to a customer, but made sure I knew about the chives.

The French word for chive is ciboulette. It rolls off the tongue with a different musical sound.

No matter what it is called, on this hot day, I enjoyed the cold soup with the fresh herbs.

Thoughts and prayers

Okay...you are in an accident and someone comes by and says "You are in my thoughts and prayers." They don't call an ambulance. They don't give you first aid. They move on. You die You could have been saved had they acted instead of mumbling gobbly gook.

Go home

The president of the US has told immigrants to go home.

I was born in the US in 1942. Since 1993 I've lived in Switzerland, and spent much time in France. I've also lived for various amounts of time in Germany, Ireland and Scotland. I am now a Swiss citizen.

My French, I am told carries a heavy Bostonian accent. I know my English does. Even my German has a problem with the letter R.

I have been both an illegal and illegal immigrant.

The reason I have the good life I do, is an accident of birth both in time and place.

As an immigrant at times I have been treated with disdain. After Brexit, I was told to go home. Once in the post office when I replied, I wasn't from the UK, I was Swiss, I was told that was worse.

Today, when food shopping I spoke to the cashier in French. She told me she didn't speak English. Her tone said, "you should speak French." I replied "I had been speaking French with a mauvais accent, although bad accent didn't need to be explained. That was obvious.

She was embarrassed. I told her that it wasn't her fault, my accent was bad. We did have a conversation in French with me speaking slowly and carefully. We ended up laughing together.

My heart goes out to all immigrants, legal and illegal. We don't know their stories. We do know that their status has as much to do with their accident of birth as mine, which gave me the opportunity to get a good education, change countries by plane, find good paying jobs and having a comfortable lifestyle with far less trauma and suffering that they went through.

With every suffering immigrant trying to find a better life, who walks miles or takes a dangerous ride in a boat, I think, there but for the grace of God go I. 

Encyclopedias

When I was growing up many families had an Encyclopedia in their homes. It was considered a tool to help children with their schoolwork, never mind settle questions that might arise at the dinner table.

Some families made financial sacrifices to make sure there was a set in the house buying or bought the books one by one. Education of children was of major importance.

Those that didn't have a set, had to go to the local library. If doing homework, it meant waiting until the next day or not getting the information at all.

The publishers also put out a yearbook and for an additional price. It made sure the books were never out of date.

I used to like to thumb through the books. I loved the yearbooks too.

The 15th edition spanning 32 volumes with 32,640 pages, was the last printed edition in 2010. And there are questions that sometime the entries aren't as accurate as the old books.

Still, I love reading an article, coming across a name that I might or might not recognize and within minutes have the information I need. A bit like youtube, however, is that often the entry has another name or fact I want to check out and it may take a bit of time to get back to the original article that aroused my curiosity.

I don't miss the bulky books taking up space on my bookshelves.

But the EB is no slouch in modern times. Check out their website www.britannica.com/

Differences

Do not take this as criticism of my husband. I am still giggling to myself at our differences.

Coming back from Vienna and Switzerland we going to stay in The Nest for one night. That is the studio that would still be my retirement home had Rick not reentered my life. We live in the Warren(andpeace), two doors down where there is more room.

I also admit I am a bit OCD, especially in The Nest where everything is exactly in place about 98% of the time.

The reason we were in the Nest was that our housesitters were leaving the next morning (we had just returned from Geneva) and it made no sense to displace them for a night's sleep.

I made careful plans for several days. We would unload the car into the Warren. Put everything in the back room. Rick travels with tons of stuff. I travel with as little as possible.

I arranged to have everything we needed in this tiny bag. Then Rick would only have to carry that and his computer up to the 4th (American) 3rd (European) floor. I could be in my beloved Nest exactly as I like it. Clutter free. Everything in its place. Win-win.

I talked to him about it. More than once. I said I had a change of underwear and toiletries for each of us in the Swiss craft bag. All we could ever dream of needing for less than a nine-hour stay.

Imagine my horror when I went upstairs to see bag after bag after bag of his things plus my computer case. Not all is shown. The table also was also covered. He had unloaded stuff already into the backroom of the Warren.

We have to remember that the Nest is only 18 square meters. That makes places to put stuff hard to find.

Okay, I thought. At least I can clear the table and chairs so when I wake in the morning in a tiny part of the studio it will be beautiful to look at without clutter. I fell asleep, looking forward to my neat area.

I woke.

I glanced at the table and chairs that had been free the night before.

This is how it looked.

There seems to be some rule that neat freaks marry or live with messy freaks. As I said, I couldn't stop giggling. Love is more than neat or messy, but if he converts to neat, I will still love him.

Imagine

It is 2003.

You are an Iraqi women living in Baghdad. You are married. Your sons live nearby with their wives and children. You work as a professor. Two of your daughters-in-law have jobs. A third is a stay at home mom. Your life is not that different from a mother-wife-grandmother-professional woman any where in the world.

You know that Saddam Hussein is not ideal but he keeps the religious fights at bay. Of course, you know better than to criticize Hussein.

Overall life is good.

March 19. You clean up after dinner and go to bed. You talk a little while with your husband about plans for a family meal next week before falling asleep.

Suddenly there are explosions, one after another. The earth is shaking. Windows in your house break. You cling to your husband. He is shaking. This is the first time in 30 years of marriage you have seen him afraid.

Then it is over. You go out on the street and see some of your neighbors. Not all houses were destroyed but many were.

You rush to your eldest son's house. It is still in flames. Neighbors watch. "No one escaped," they tell you. Going to each of your children's homes, you realize half of your family is dead.

You look at your husband and ask "Why?"