Good News

France24 is carrying as running headline that Costa Rica has withdrawn from the School of Americas Torture School How much of the American Press will pick that story up? Int'l Campaign Launched Against U.S. "Torture School" Gustavo Capdevila GENEVA, (IPS) - Peace activists from the non-governmental School of the Americas Watch (SOAW) will tour Chile, Peru and Ecuador in August to persuade the governments of those countries not to send any more military personnel to the training centre in the U.S. state of Georgia. Activists were enthusiastic about the results of a similar mission in recent months to convince the authorities in Venezuela, Bolivia, Uruguay and Argentina. The former School of the Americas, now called the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation (WHINSEC), still bears the stigma of having trained thousands of military personnel in the techniques of repression, personnel who were subsequently involved in the bloodiest dictatorships in the region during recent decades. Research has shown that the United States instructed thousands of Latin American officers, NCOs and soldiers at the School every year. Upon graduation, these military personnel returned to their countries and perpetrated crimes against the civilian population, U.S. Catholic priest Roy Bourgeois, the founder of SOAW, told IPS. An SOAW delegation will implement the Latin American Initiative to convince governments and grassroots organisations in the region's countries of the need to permanently close the WHINSEC, which has been based at Fort Benning, Georgia since 1984. The School, initially established under another name in Panama in 1946, moved out of Panama in 1984 as part of the agreement transferring sovereignty of the canal and its surrounding zone, formerly under U.S. control, to the Panamanian nation. Bourgeois, a veteran of the Vietnam War who left the U.S. Navy to become a priest of the U.S. Maryknoll religious community, said that SOAW activists had returned in high spirits from the first tour of Latin American countries to promote the campaign against the School of the Americas. In Venezuela last year, the SOAW delegation met with President Hugo Chávez. A few weeks after the meeting, Caracas announced the withdrawal of its military personnel from the Fort Benning training school. An SOAW mission travelled to Bolivia this year and was received by President Evo Morales, who promised that Bolivian soldiers would be gradually withdrawn from the U.S. training centre. In Argentina, Defence Minister Nilda Garré announced that the government will order the return of military personnel taking courses at the WHINSEC. "The following week we went to Uruguay, where the minister of defence, Azucena Berrutti, told us that her country would make the same decision," said Bourgeois, although as it is, Montevideo has not taken up places reserved at the school for Uruguayan armed forces for several years. "Following this tour, we are very hopeful that these countries will withdraw (from the School), also because of what is happening in many Latin American countries which were formerly close allies of the United States, or rather, subject to Washington," he remarked. Bourgeois was present at the Mar. 24 ceremony in Buenos Aires commemorating the 30th anniversary of the coup d'état of 1976, which led to a brutal military dictatorship, responsible for thousands of deaths and disappearances. The U.S. priest listened to Argentine president Néstor Kirchner's speech, in which he declared that "never again" would such things happen. Bourgeois asked himself if they really "could happen again." The school is a threat to the promise made by the Argentine president, was the pacifist's deduction. The Maryknoll priest's doubts are based on his certainty that "the aim of the school is to keep the military in power." The WHINSEC is a threat to democracy, human rights and human dignity, he warned. In addition, they resort to deceit, as in the case of the war against Iraq, Bourgeois said. "The Pentagon (U.S. Department of Defence) lies about the school. They say it teaches democracy. How can you teach democracy from the barrel of a gun?" he asked. SOAW plans to carry out a third tour later on, to Mexico, Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala, with the same purpose of encouraging these countries to give up using the former School of the Americas. Bourgeois thought that Colombia, on the other hand, was a "very difficult" case, because most of the students at Fort Benning are from that country, which is living through a half-century-old civil war, fuelled by the lucrative drug trafficking business. Colombia is the third largest recipient of U.S. military aid, after Israel and Egypt. "Getting Colombian President Álvaro Uribe's approval (for SOAW's cause) is a very complicated issue, because over the last four years Colombia has received about four billion dollars from the United States. They are not going to risk that flow of dollars to close down the school," he predicted. Bourgeois traveled to Geneva to attend sessions of the United Nations Human Rights Committee, which on Jul. 17-18 examined the report by the United States on its compliance, in policy and practice, with the provisions of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. Bourgeois wants the committee, which is charged with supervising implementation of the Covenant, to look into cases of espionage committed by U.S. authorities against SOAW leaders and activists. Our peaceful demonstrations are monitored by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) "under the guise of counterterrorist action," he stated. I have come to the U.N. Committee with the hope that international pressure will stop "unwarranted espionage on U.S. citizens protesting peacefully against their government's policies," he said. "We know they are unlawfully tapping our telephone conversations, even though official records acknowledge that our movement has a long history of pacifism," Bourgeois maintained. The spying is occurring because any person or organisation in the United States that criticises the government's foreign policy is "seen as an agent of subversion, agitation and perhaps even terrorism," he said. And it is known that soldiers from other countries trained at the Fort Benning school "will go back to their countries and become the agents of U.S. foreign policy," the priest said. "They protect the economic interests of the United States in those countries," he added.

Morning light

We are coming up to the longest day. I love waking as the light is breaking. Although my windows are covered with quilted curtains, the skylight gradually turns from blue-black to gray. Items in my room appear first as shapes followed by the details. The rock wall made with stones placed there 400+ years ago begin to show colour: greys, browns and even a dark rose. For centuries they must have looked at grain (for that is where food was once stored) or unused items from a time nothing was discarded. I wish they could talk about what the people who lived in this house have felt.

The day breaking also reminds me the silliness of ownership. The earth is millions or billions of years. Man exists individually maybe 100 years, but most much, much less. How do we really think we can possess anything?

When the light is full, a hirondelle, a swallow struts across the glass, the feet making little clicking sounds. I get up to start the day.

Canal Plus and Cannes

I do not understand my TV cable service. They shifted stations around. For the month of February I had Canal Plus, a series of stations with great movies. Then they went off except one for a couple of hours. Okay. Because I live in Geneva I am not willing to pay extra for when I am in France especially all year round. Basic service yes, extra no.

Now they stations are back and happily just in time to watch the opening of the Cannes Film Festival. They ran short clips from the entries, a good insight what I want to see in the future.

A good morning

8:03 As I walk out my front door, my Catalan neighbour comes up to me waving his hands. He has a full head of white hair and has told me how he makes his wife breakfast every morning and how he loves her more than anything although they have been married over 50 years. He speaks so fast I have to ask him to slow down. Then he points to where a table USED to be holding some of his plants.

Rue Vermeille, my street, is considered the prettiest street in the village. Plants in planters line both sides of the narrow street and overhead wisteria and some red flowering plant make archways of colour and shade canopies.

However, this morning, several of the plants and their holders are missing. He drags me to where I once had two Spanish rectangular pots. Only one is there. I had bought them across the border in Bisbal, a factory outlet town for Spanish ceramics. Thank goodness I had only paid 5 Euros for them. The two big blue pots that flank my front door and are the same colour are still there, one over flowing with pansies, the other with patients still not in bloom. Other plants on the street are missing. A Catalan old lady is stomping up and down angry that someone took her pot of peppers and her pot of spinach that was just ready to be picked.

It is the second robbery on the street. About three weeks ago when I was still in Geneva, someone stole several of the black garbage cans. They left the ones with the yellow top for paper and plastic recycling.

8:15 I excuse myself to have breakfast at La Noisette. Today is marché day and I like watching the vendors set up their tables. Michel offers me the paper to read and it talks about Sarko's swearing in today and the beginning of the Cannes festival. Michel is a nurse in Perpignan and another regular. I see several of the English, who treat Argelés much like retirees treat Florida. I am one of the only ones in my family whose first words were NOT “When can I move to Florida.” I have never wanted to live in a retiree environment, although many of them are very nice people. I gravitate more to the artists who are still doing stuff...yes stuff...stuff that means something to them not just going from social event to social event and using the téléphone arab (gossip and grapevine)

Franck sets my hot croissant and baguette, tea and orange juice down. The butter is sweet. I know most of the people and I don’t get a chance to read my book L’étudiant étranger.

8:50 The marché is set up. The table next to the café is piled three two feet high with artichokes, about the size of a normal balloon. The centers are open and filled with iridescent purple spikes. I know from experience how meaty the leaves are when dipped in vinegarette and pulled through my teeth, but I pass. Today I am looking for melons.

The olive dealer, who offers marriage and romance despite having a wife and twin daughters, with his selections is busy proposing to another woman but winks at me as I pass by. I still have olives from Saturday.

At the boulongerie the line is short. The smell of yeasty bread baking floats around us. There is a sign that tells me about le coeur Catalan and I ask about it. The woman describes the honey and apricots in the bread and I tell myself to go tomorrow. They are selling it for the holiday, although I can never remember whether is it Ascension or Pentecost. France has more holidays in May than it seems normal days.

9:05 I stop at Pedro’s for tofu burgers made with mushrooms. He is a shy man and it took years before he spoke to me.www.virtourist.com/europe/argeles-sur-mer He is still unhappy that the writer described his shop as esoteric in the write up with the photo on the website above. We discuss the exhibition at the Gallerie Marianne where poets described the paintings done by local painters.

Back at the house I put my purchases away to get to work, grateful I make my own schedule. It has been a good morning.

Music stories

Music Story No 1.

I was taking a pair of too-tight brown shoes worn less than once and a backgammon game (I have another) to the charity shop and took the short cut through the building with the hall where the elderly go for lunch each day. This time music rang through the hall. An organ grinder dressed in a red and white striped crew neck jersey and a straw hat looking like he had been attacked by Yves Montand or Maurice Chevalier led the group in singing old French songs. I paused at the door and listened. I knew some from watching the variety shows on television.

An older man painfully made his way to me. “Entrez-vous,” he said.

I did, and despite being considered as part of the troisème age, the audience were anywhere from ten to thirty years older. I might be sprier but they could out sing me.

Music Story No. 2

He had a red clown nose, a drum on his back with Teletubbies La La and Po hanging off the back. A harmonica was suspended near his mouth and each step he took caused his cymbals to go ting ting ting. The English artist stopped him and said, “Musiques, s’il vous plait.”

The street musician complied and soon they were chatting in basic French. The English artist stood a bit taller each time the musician understood and taller still when he himself understood. The artist’s progress in French has been slow and he is unsure of himself, so anyone who speaks to him slowly and in simple terms he considers a gift. Finally the musician started to move on.

“A bientôt,” the artist said.

“See you later,” the musician replied.

“You speak English?” the artist asked.

“Of course, I am from Scotland,” the musician said.

Choosing verbs

I know why I adore my life. It was a busy day wrestling against time to get my newsletter out www.cunewswire.com and setting up interviews. However, I took three breaks, one to wander around the marché, one to have lunch at La Noisette (easier then cooking and washing up) and a third to meet with a rather new but dedicated writer who lives nearby. I traipsed to at La Noisette for a second time. Everyone should have a neighbourhood tea room around the corner.

We sat in the shade, the sky a royal blue, the 700-year old church across the street in various shades of ochre.

Sophie, the waitress as disgustingly beautiful as ever with her Catherine Zeta-Jones hair and Sophia Loren lushness, delivered une boule de café glace with chocolate sauce and one cappuccino.

The writer and I talked and talked about her new writing group, writing projects, my writing and a workshop I am planning.

However, I knew I was with a kindred spirit when she described a woman, not as beautiful, tall, thin, funny, but as someone who chooses good verbs.

The mirror

I have a friend in New York with whom I disagree on much and agree on much and we laugh at the differences but with respect. One of the biggest is that she takes shopping to an art form and I’m shopping phobic, although I admit double the pleasure of a sweater she persuaded me to buy this past summer in a specialty store in a medieval village. (I won’t tell her that shopping in a specialty store in a medieval village doesn’t have that much to do with shopping and a lot more to do with sharing of time and fun). She likes to hear when I go over to what I call the black side of consumerism so this blog is dedicated to her.

I bought a new mirror for over my fireplace. Did you hear that all the way to New York???? I confess not only did I buy it, the second I saw it I couldn’t imagine not having it, but then again it does fit one my criteria for a possession, it is beautiful and so original.

The mirror is round with a five inch leather frame. The interior edge is cut to reflect the design, which includes elephants and jungle plants. The colours of blue and green with touches of rust for fruit match the other colours in the flat. The clock that was there was moved to the side wall over the couch, the tapestry designed needlepointed by my daughter that was where the clock now is was transferred to the place where a copy of a grave rubbing of a medieval noblewoman bought decades ago on a trip to the UK was and that was put in the outside hall next to my front door.

However, I do make have to make it clear to one and all that these are Democratic elephants cavorting on the mirror not Republicans. I will be flexible on some things but siding with the war thugs in Washington would be impossible. I swear as I went to bed last night one of the elephants on the mirror whispered to me “Don’t forget to call Nancy Pelosi’s office on Monday and tell her that she can’t cave on the timeline

Vide Grenier

In France 1 May is a holiday. and I returned to Argelès to make sure I didn’t miss the Vide Grenier (empty attic) which is a giant flea market mostly with people selling their own stuff and a few professionals thrown in. I had no idea it would be so big. The area normally covered by the marché was full of blankets with everything from a carved apple to a stuffed zebra, some junk, some nice stuff. The Vide Grenier covered all the main streets and ran along the river and took up the parking lots.

As a non-shopper I loved browsing hoping for a copper fry pan that was tin-lined, no luck. If I had found a Clarice Cliff vase I would have been thrilled. No luck.

However I bought two replacement Chinese ceramic spoons to replace one I broke for 1.5 Euros. One broke before I got them home.

For 9 Euros I bought 10 wine glasses with blue stems to replace the mishmash I have been using and they co-ordinate perfectly with my dishes.

I did not look at all the places, it was too much. I suspect there were at least 500 sellers. And that doesn’t count the those selling kebabs, sauscissons, chickens, crêpes, waffles, etc.

I had planned to do another quick tour at the end of the day to pick up the Lilies-of-the-valley that are traditional sold on the first of May, but looking out at the red tiles of the house across the way I see they are wet. I suspect people are putting their wares in boxes and folding their blankets and their attics won't be empty once they get home and put the stuff back.

The blues

No not music, not sadness, but refrigerator. I stupidly forgot to leave the frigo door open when I shut off the electricity and when I opened it blue mould (a rather nice shade at that) covered everything. I quickly shut it again.

I concentrated on getting the wifi and TV working (it takes a while before the cable kicks in after being off for several weeks), my suitcase unpacked and made the executive decision to wait until morning. I wasn’t hungry (and after seeing the mould wouldn't have been even if I had been) since my friend Barbara had, as is our tradition, fed me. This time it was lasagne instead of the promised goat stew because the goat cheese man hadn’t delivered the goat. Chris, the artist whose house is www.virtourist.com/europe/argeles-sur-mer photo 7, joined us. He had lifted my suitcase up the three flights of stairs. My back thanked him.

Sleeping seemed a much better alternative but it is not a solution to the blues (mould). The next morning, I was ready to tackle the job. I doubt if my frigo has ever been so clean, and that leads to anything but the blues.

The mystery colour

Three times within the last 30 hours I’ve had the same discussion about a flowering tree. The flowers look more like feathers, the problem is the petal are a colour that has no name. I’ve heard it described as a very light salmon, white with a dab of orange, pink with orange mixed in, mauve and pink but none of them really works. It would almost be worth it to buy a set of oils and try and mix the colour, except that still would not give it a name, but at least I would know what went into it. What there is no debate about, is how pretty the trees are.

Michael Korda's Photo

The 20-year old Michael Korda book had been culled by the library and I picked it up from the pile under a sign that said, Take A Book. His photo was on the back. He was dressed in suit and tie and leaned against the side of an open door.

The glass panels of the door itself took up about 20% of the photo. Because there were trees filling the opening behind him I knew it was an outside door.
He wore huge glasses like mine. On closer examination I could see tiny lines making squares in his shirt. His resemblance to a horrible boss, a control freak, that I worked for once struck me but did not stop me reading the book.

His head was turned three quarters toward the photographer and his arms were crossed.
I could almost hear the photographer say, “Turn your head Michael. Now fold your arms. A little more toward me. A half smile, no not that much.” The shutter would have clicked and he would have broken from the position and the moment was caught in time for someone to see 3000 miles away and 20 years later.

That set me wondering. Had he just put down a cup of coffee? Was he late for his next appointment? Did he like/love the photographer? Did he change from the suit into jeans and sweater afterwards?

That is what photos do. They stop life. A family can be squabbling, a person arrives with a camera, everyone freezes a smile on their faces and years later, they might remember the day as a happy event. Or some may remember it that way. In most families two peoples’ memories of the same event retold makes the listener wonder if they were talking about the same thing.

In other photos the viewer can imagine the dynamics. Five members of the family are squeezed together, one stands apart. A mother cuddles a child who is stiff in her arms.

I also wonder about photos people keep on CD-ROM. What happens when CD-ROMs become outmoded? Or all the family photos on hard disk get eaten up? When fires destroy a home so often people say what upsets them most is the loss of photos.

I am not a picture taker overall, although I went through a phase of it when I lived on The Riverway in Boston. The number of pictures of my daughter in dresses makes one think that she only wore dresses, but the reality is she wore them so seldomly that we took her picture when she did. Still there are photos of all stages of my life, from being propped up on an overstuffed chair before I could sit, to tossing a salad in a Paris apartment.

Looking at photos of my childhood seem so remote it is like the life belonged to someone else.

Yet in most cases I remember what I did after that photo was snapped. I don’t have to wonder like I wonder about Korda’s actions when he broke the pose. Of course, the other people in the photos have different memories, but that’s okay.

Making choices

The black lab jumped for the stick his master was holding. In reality it looked more like the trunk of a young tree, a good three free across and probably three inches thick.

The master threw the stick as far as he could. It landed in the lake www.corsier.ch/default.asp just towards the end of the dock. The dog joyfully plunged into the water sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine, retrieved it and began swimming back to shore.

About halfway he saw a smaller stick floating to one side. It was less than a foot long and half as wide. He let the larger stick float, swam over to the smaller one, looked back at the bigger one, sniffed the smaller one, looked a last time at the bigger one and then brought the small one back for his master to throw again.

His master called him paresseux lazy. I called him intelligent.

Purple walk to the post

Purple prose, song Deep Purple, Movie and book The Color Purple, "When I am old I will wear more purple" T-shirt and book, purple is the colour of royalty, in Christianity it represents the sin of pride, www.purple.com, porphyrophobia is the fear of purple.

No one with porphyrophbia would have survived my walk to the post today. The colour was everywhere, the deep purple pansies, violets, star shaped wild flowers no bigger than my little fingernail and lilacs. And that does not include the wisteria www.gardenadvice.co.uk/advisor/plants/wisteria/index.html not just one like in the photo on the web site, but over a 100 lantern like globes hanging over a hedge with petals on each varying from almost white to deep lavender, which brings up the many names for purple: violet, orchid, mauve, lavender, aubergine, lilac, plum, wine, grape, amethyst...good Lord, all that for a mixture of red and blue.

Other colours existed, of course: yellow and white headed dandelions (which reminded me I still haven’t had a dandelion salad this year, but I will correct that at noon with a walk in our garden and a pair of scissors) green grass and leaves, and the first leaves were popping out on the grape vines which in the fall will be laden with grapes (coloured purple).

Musings

Yellow
One almost needs sunglasses with the yellow rapeseed fields near the house. Last weekend in the Jura it was fields and fields of daffodils.

Speaking of sunglasses
When I sat with friends in the Jura last weekend I realised that I was the only one without sunglasses and in fact haven’t even owned a pair for decades. Maybe I will pay for it someday, but I stopped wearing them years ago because it distorted and diluted the colours around me and that made me feel cheated of the genuine beauty around me.

Speaking of not having stuff…
It also dawned on me my make up shelf is not like other women’s. It is limited to foundation, blush and one box of hair colour: no creams, no lotions, nothing, nada, rien. Maybe it would be different if my mother and grandmother had not passed down good skin genes (as far as dry skin is concerned—the amount of acne over the years turned out to be citrus caused not gene caused). I didn’t need skin treatment I need not to drink orange juice everyday. Saved a lot of money on skin stuff and orange juice, but I doubt any financial advisor would recommend this is a life financial plan.

Indian costumes
After the brouhaha years ago by black women against Bo Derrick for corn-rowing her hair and co-opting their culture, I will admit I was a little self-conscious about wearing Indian clothing. But my Indian girl friend has brought me two wonderful Indian costumes that I now wear for their beauty and comfort. Last night I wore the pumpkin-coloured one (great match with my hair) to the Indian dance recital. I also stayed over rather than risk missing the last bus. This morning after breakfast I was amused that I, the Swiss-American was wearing an Indian costume, and she, the Indian was dressed in ordinary (although they looked great) slacks and a sweater. Neither of us felt our cultures had been co-opted.

Favourite Advert
Tarzan swings out of the jungle onto a Swiss mountain side and stops to milk a black and white cow as he sits on the Swiss stool that by tradition is strapped around his waist. He then drinks the milk. The sponsor is milk of course. I want to gag at that part. Just the thought of swallowing milk cold or warm makes me want to gag. He then smiles, looks out at the Swiss scenery as the cow flies off on his rope supposedly back to the jungle.

Torture
Okay, this blog is a mishmash of topics… Least anyone think I consider my adopted country perfect and my natal country without redemption, an article in the paper this morning accuses the Genevoise police of torture. I can get equally upset and activist in either case. Torture is wrong. Period. At least here the response is to put an end to it. It would be hard to be totally ashamed of both countries. Where could one run? A Cave?

Virginia Tech
I won’t deny how horrible the shootings were. We lost 32 citizens, young people with a future. 32 families will never be the same. The Iraqis have been losing more than that on average daily for five years. John Hopkins, not a shoddy university, estimates over 600,000 Iraqis are dead directly or indirectly because of the US invasion. 600,000 vs 32. Two hours of terror vs. five years of terror. One crazed killer vs. a crazed country.

Voting
For the third time since I became a Swiss citizen, I am voting. This time it is for the local mayor and 2 co-mayors. I did vote although there is no contest. Only three names on the ballot and for the designated roles.

However, my housemate caught me out when I said I wasn’t going to vote my one stock (life insurance company and it is the way the life insurance is set up). She’s right. I will drop that ballot in the mail too.

Jet d’Eau and an Yvoire memory
It is easy to miss a skyscraper high fountain when it is turned off. The fountain was shut off for seven days for maintenance. The last time I was on a boat in the lake (my daughter and I escaped to Yvoire www.yvoiretourism.com/accueil_en.html for lunch and a day on the lake, the boat passed so close that we felt the spray on our faces. The sunlight caught the water making rainbows in the air.

Joke
Tiger Woods, Jay Leno and George W. Bush were all on the same plane flying into the US and all three had forgotten their passports. (Okay it is implausible, I know but it is a joke.) The customs officials asked them to prove who they were.

Tiger Woods took his golf club and swung it and explained how to make a good swing. He was let in.

Jay Leno told a joke then explained how important timing was in comedy. He was let in.

George W. Bush said, “I don’t know anything.”

“Come right in Mr. President,” the customs official said.

Visit the Café du Soleil

It has a website. www.cafedusoleil.ch

I've talked so much about it, had so many fondues and other meals there, met with so many writers there...now you can visit it too.

A tale of two ducks

The Route d’Hermance is one of the main roads from Geneva to France. The villages on each side are bedroom villages (a smaller version of bedroom towns) interspersed with farms, vineyards and horse pastures for the many stables. The Lake and Alps are on one side, the Jura on the other.

Driving back from breakfast at Migros on the Route with my housemate a female duck stood on one side of the road, her web foot posed to walk across.

“I hope she doesn’t get hit,” my housemate said.

Then we saw her partner on the other side waiting.

In the rearview mirror we were able to see the two ducks reunited in mid air heading for the Lake.

The smell of water on Good Friday

I ambled (the pace my sore back is comfortable with) to the lake, a two-minute trip down a small path surrounded by walls of large moss laden grey squares of stone. In one crevice, four violets and their green tongue-shaped leaves were almost at eye level.

Violets have been my favourite flower since I was a child. The hill outside our backyard would be covered with them. My mother and I picked bouquets almost a foot across and put them in our pewter pitcher. Even at four and five I wanted to absorb the colour combination into my soul.

The lake glimmered blue-grey in the muted sun, a Manet day, not a VanGogh day. The Alps were hidden in mist. The lake has a certain smell, a clean smell that words don’t describe. The closest I can think of is the smell of sheets that have been sun-dried. I cannot find the words to describe the smell of mud in New England as the winter frost lets go of the earth.

Yesterday the lake had been dotted with white caps and was Coke bottle green. I learned that the Rhone runs through the lake and during the Bise the water gets churned up and changes colour. The person who told me that said when you fly over the lake you can see the Rhone passing through.

Ducks swam in the water so clear that I could see the ridges in their webbed feet. At certain angles the heads of the male mallards looked deep purple instead of luminescent green.

A few boats bobbed off shore. On one sailboat, the masts nude, a family ate a picnic. The cries of their baby floated across the water.

I found a place to sit and a small white un-coiffured poodle, Maisie, checked me out, found me uninteresting and moved on.

On a normal Friday, I would have been alone, but this is a four-day weekend and families were strolling up and down.

I found a perch and sat and watched at peace with myself and the world as I smelled the water.

The best cities and guilt

Zurich and Geneva have been named one and two of the best cities in the world to live in once again with Vancouver coming in right after by Mercer Consulting who does an annual scoring.

The first US city is at 28^th place, San Francisco, the next is Boston at 36^th, Chicago and DC tie for 41^st, Portland, OR is 45^th.

Once again I shivered at the pride of being Swiss, although I will never say this country is perfect. At least they aren’t under minding world peace and attacking other nations. I am underwhelmed with their Pharma and Banking interests. On the good side they have signed most of the international treaties for things like the prohibition of land mines and child soldiers, which the country of my other passport (COFMOP) has not. I don’t wake thinking that deaths of innocents are being caused directly or indirectly by my new countrymen as I often do with COFMOP especially after watching the news or reading the Middle Eastern papers with their graphic photos showing dead and maimed children. Instead of becoming immune I get more and more upset.

The glimmer of hope when Harry Reid said they might pull war funding next year helps. And he isn’t even one of the senators or house members that I have telephoned over the last couple of weeks asking them to end this war.

Still my American side is haunted in what has been done in my name, and the beauty and peace of my new homeland, does not irradiate the pain I feel at my rich and safe life as others are dying for nothing on both sides of the battle. My guilt at my enjoyment of my life does not stop the enjoyment bringing more guilt. Thus I will make more phone calls and still feel helpless and guilty.

Although the criteria of being one of the best places to live has nothing to do with war machines and military sales, it has to do with quality of life issues such as cultural, health, etc. I assume excitement and robust nightlife were not on that list either.

Casablanca

My hosts barely believed I had never seen Casablanca and set out to remedy the situation immediately thanks to the DVD. The film was made in my birth year and of course some scenes and phrases were as familiar as my left hand (or right).

So settled in with cushions at my back to protect it, I watched. Crossing borders is so much easier today, but what a shame that after all this time we are still fighting wars, sadly with the US as the aggressor instead of Germany this time.

Wonder what Rick would have said about that and would he have let Ilsa get away if this were modern times.

Ebay

I will admit I Google (acutally I use Dogpile.com) myself. I have found review of my books and other strange things.

However, the strangest of all was to see my novel Chickpea Lover: Not a Cookbook being sold on Ebay. Last bid $3.45