Knights and Dishes or a Hodgebodge Blog

The two subjects don't have a lot to do with each other, but since they were things I've thought about in the last 24 hours I'm putting them in the same blog.

The Patrinomy Festival is over. For the past week, people in medieval costumes have been wandering around the village playing music, jousting, putting on plays, serving food, etc. There was a special Musical mass and other fun. At this time of year, the celebration is more for residence than tourists who have gone back to Paris, London, Dusseldorf and Amsterdam, etc.

Passing the antique shop this morning, I noticed a new set of dishes. I love dishes. In my imaginary farm house I change my dishes weekly and set beautiful tables (after all since it is imaginary, cost is unimportant). However with antique dishes, I wonder who ate off them, what was discussed as someone cut into a slice of beef. What was the favourite meal of the family who used the dishes. Did the kids squabble about whose turn it was to wash or did a servant do it?

I'll never know and I know it is time to stop writing the blog and get back to my newsletter. Still I glance over at my own dish set, bought at factory outlet in Maine some 22 years ago and shipped over to my apartment. I've always loved the pattern and I know what meals have been served, the good conversations with guests, or the quiet suppers on a tray in front of the telly.

Someday, maybe someone will wonder who ate off these dishes.

It is good to be humble

2008 was my no buy year.

2009 is my French year, when I have worked almost daily to improve my grammar and pronnunciation (the first is working better than the second). Prior to starting I was comfortable reading newspapers and books and listening to movies and television. There were friends I only communicated with in French and that included my former boyfriend of 14 years. He spoke almost no English.

But having learned it hapharzardly there were holes in my knowledge, which is why I have been torturing myself with private lessons, a university course and daily exercises. I wanted to write it more coherently. I wanted my verb tenses to match reality.

I'd felt I'd been making great progress until I bombed into the health food store, a dark place run by Pedro with whom I've danced at street dances and exchanged information about be bop, jitterbugging and other music and dances fromt he 20s, 30s and 40s.

He looked at me strangely when I asked him if he had any airplanes avions. He put his arms out and ran around the store like a small boy. He stopped and picked up a package of oatmeal avoine and cocked his head, one eyebrow raised.

Oui, I said, a word I've never mispronnounced. As an old friend once said when she made her bed for the first time in several weeks, "That's once in a row."

Sometimes I wonder

I admit it. I talk back to the news. Sometimes I get so angry I want to kick in the TV, but since i'm too cheap to replace it, I resist.

It's fun talking back. Three women on French television had oversized glasses (something I've always worn). Shows I was with my time, after my time, before my time and with my time. More important, I make my own time. If I like it I don't care if it is in or out.

Saw a list of all US health care insurance company CEO salaries and it came to a couple of billion dollars. Advertising came to several billion dollars. All that money and NONE of it had anything to do with curing an actual person. When they ask where the money will come from, there's two places.

Afghanistan: We are spending billions, allegedly to keep terrorists from a safe haven. Seems like terrorists in the past have held up in apartments and houses all over the world. Even if Afghanistan is the msot peaceful, best democracy in the world, will we wipe out all houses and apartment buildings because terrorists can live in them? Terrorists don't need a country.

There...I feel better. Time to get dressed, take my snazzy elather pants and suede skirt to be hemmed, check out the marché and buy some fruit and veggies. Chicken salad for lunch with lots of crunchies.

Thank you Mary Travers

For all the pleasure listening to you sing.

Thank you for fighting for the causes I believe in with a voice that reached more people than I could.

The Congressman and the shoe thrower

I wrote Congressman Rohbabacher today on his remark that Iraqis weren't grateful (see comment below). I also have reprinted the shoe thrower's remarks which best describes why they aren't (from The Guardian) grateful.

9/11 was terrible. The attacks lasted one day and not for even an entire day. America was attacked, NOT BY A NATION WITH A POWERFUL ARMY, but by a few individuals. Iraq suffered under Shock and Awe for weeks, then years of ongoing military action by an occupation force.

Their infrastructure was destroyed. Rebuilding was done by American companies that benefited while the Iraqis went without work. They should be as grateful to us for othe war as we are to the 9/11 terrorists for taking down the World Trade Center.


Rohrabacher to Iraqis: Be More Grateful!
"I have never heard one word of gratitude from the Iraqi people about the 4,300 Americans who lost their lives," the Republican Congressman exclaimed.

The Shoe Thrower talks about his country in war.
I am free. But my country is still a prisoner of war. There has been a lot of talk about the action and about the person who took it, and about the hero and the heroic act, and the symbol and the symbolic act. But, simply, I answer: what compelled me to act is the injustice that befell my people, and how the occupation wanted to humiliate my homeland by putting it under its boot.
Over recent years, more than a million martyrs have fallen by the bullets of the occupation and Iraq is now filled with more than five million orphans, a million widows and hundreds of thousands of maimed. Many millions are homeless inside and outside the country.
We used to be a nation in which the Arab would share with the Turkman and the Kurd and the Assyrian and the Sabean and the Yazid his daily bread. And the Shia would pray with the Sunni in one line. And the Muslim would celebrate with the Christian the birthday of Christ. This despite the fact that we shared hunger under sanctions for more than a decade.
Our patience and our solidarity did not make us forget the oppression. But the invasion divided brother from brother, neighbour from neighbour. It turned our homes into funeral tents.
I am not a hero. But I have a point of view. I have a stance. It humiliated me to see my country humiliated; and to see my Baghdad burned, my people killed. Thousands of tragic pictures remained in my head, pushing me towards the path of confrontation. The scandal of Abu Ghraib. The massacre of Falluja, Najaf, Haditha, Sadr City, Basra, Diyala, Mosul, Tal Afar, and every inch of our wounded land. I travelled through my burning land and saw with my own eyes the pain of the victims, and heard with my own ears the screams of the orphans and the bereaved. And a feeling of shame haunted me like an ugly name because I was powerless.
As soon as I finished my professional duties in reporting the daily tragedies, while I washed away the remains of the debris of the ruined Iraqi houses, or the blood that stained my clothes, I would clench my teeth and make a pledge to our victims, a pledge of vengeance.
The opportunity came, and I took it.
I took it out of loyalty to every drop of innocent blood that has been shed through the occupation or because of it, every scream of a bereaved mother, every moan of an orphan, the sorrow of a rape victim, the teardrop of an orphan.
I say to those who reproach me: do you know how many broken homes that shoe which I threw had entered? How many times it had trodden over the blood of innocent victims? Maybe that shoe was the appropriate response when all values were violated.
When I threw the shoe in the face of the criminal, George Bush, I wanted to express my rejection of his lies, his occupation of my country, my rejection of his killing my people. My rejection of his plundering the wealth of my country, and destroying its infrastructure. And casting out its sons into a diaspora.
If I have wronged journalism without intention, because of the professional embarrassment I caused the establishment, I apologise. All that I meant to do was express with a living conscience the feelings of a citizen who sees his homeland desecrated every day. The professionalism mourned by some under the auspices of the occupation should not have a voice louder than the voice of patriotism. And if patriotism needs to speak out, then professionalism should be allied with it.
I didn't do this so my name would enter history or for material gains. All I wanted was to defend my country.

When I left Argelès in July, I did not leave it neurotically neat as I usually do. In fact, not only had I not bothered to clean, I dumped all my shoes on the floor.

The reason?

To force me to do my fall cleaning immediately when I returned.

Wouldn't you know? A charming young couple, to whom I had offered the place a while before took me up on the offer. I warned them about the condition, hoping they wouldn't think that this was the way I lived normally.

When I returned after my stay in Geneva, and walked up the stairs, I saw their arrangement of my shoes in a perfect circle with a lovely gift in the middle. (not to mention helping me get rid of a manifestation of moths that seem to be plaguing the village.)

Thanks, J&K, you're wonderful. I definitely got the better of the deal.

I don't dare use the N word...

White caps of the lake during the bise. Taken from the bedroom balcony.

Dinner is a snack plate of local cheeses, sausages and wine after a day of
construction and catch up

Although the photo is dark, The Munch has curled up on No.2 Son's lap

because the last time I used the word ormal (I won't put the N on it) 24 hours later I was in another country.

However, I resisted the temptation to kiss the earth at Cointrin and Cosier when I did get home. I celebrated the bise, ate with my housemates, appreciated the cat, started to get caught up on my work and my writing, ran errands, etc. etc.

Now I am about to switch to Argelès for the next few weeks and hope I can establish a good writing/working routine, see friends down there before heading back to Geneva for the winter.

I am not leaving things to chance or merely touching wood as I pass. I'm rubbing my entire body along it.

So many times what I need is in front of me

I will admit leaving Florida was both a joy and sadness. I could hardly wait to escape the heat and the environment, but I hated leaving my mother. Many of the people I had talked to were nice but from another planet to everything I hold near and dear and enjoy. Watching C-Span had left me feeling down and thinking the US is no longer capable of solving its myriad problems.

I had an aisle seat and crammed into the two seats next to me were two oversized men. One was reading The Bible.

Oh no, a religious righter, I thought.

Okay, once again I was reminded not to prejudge. The three of talked the entire trip. (the other man was on his way North for the funeral of his 97 year old grandmother).

The conversation was the first in depth talk I'd had since I left Switzerland. I refuse to put the term Liberal on the men, because labels are part of the problem, but ethical, caring, intelligent, insightful, knowledgeable and most important hopeful in a realistic way on what can be accomplished at many levels of society.

If there is a god or goddess of healing, he or she placed those two men there for me. I am not sure I brought them anything, but I will try and function the same way to someone else someday.

Channelling Mighty Mom

SO many times in the past two weeks, dealing with an elderly Mom who just didn't understand I kept asking myself "How would Mighty Mom" have handled this. Thus my Mom's house has decorated envelopes, cute lists, etc., baskets to collect stuff that we can go over on future telephone calls.

Also after listening to MM talk to Emma and The Mouse, I think of how I'm going to explain something in not only the right way but the best way.

Thank you Mighty Mom.

Thank you

I cannot begin to thank you all for the phone calls, emails and support that I’ve gotten since I had to go to Florida. Hearing your many voices was especially touching and I know you understand that I can’t go into detail when we talk but we are making progress. Time on the internet is limited to library hours which are in themselves limited.
I count myself blessed that I have so many caring friends who are reaching out to me. Your friendship is giving me more help and strength than any of you can imagine.
I apologize for the group message. I’ll get to you individually as soon as I can.
I am still hoping I can get back to Europe on the 10th. But I suspect I will be adding Florida to my Geneva/Argeles cycle.

The Price of Love

A lizard, no bigger than my little finger runs by the library window. I am using the internet anxious to get my newsletter done for my clients, the work sandwiched in between other chores. A few minutes before a large lizard, who would have won a part in a Grade B movie called the Monster that Ate Englewood, had ambled by and last night my mom and I were on safari for the baby lizard that lives behind the fridge. He does not want to be evicted.

I am grateful for the air conditioning. This heat makes me nostalgic for last week’s Geneva’s milder canicule when my housemate and I fantasized about winter, with the need for coats, fuzzy socks. The humidity is energy zapping, when I cannot afford not to marshall my strength for the many chores I need to accomplish.

Last night we ate at Howard’s filled, with oversized people and oversized meals. Some of the diners feasted their eyes on two little girls. The family is the only one in this large restaurant under 65. Also missing are any black faces, any language but English, any meaningful differences.

“Are you sure this is all right?” My mom is anxious; worried that she has uprooted me from another continent. We have spent the day working through various problems. Her frailness saddens me as much as her worry.

Around me are ghosts of my father, my aunts and a favourite uncle. I have come to Howard’s on various trips to Florida to visit my parents since they moved here in 1975, albeit the owners have changed and prices have gone up including the Early Bird Specials.

“It is wonderful,” I say.

The waitresses are loud, call everyone honey and sweetheart, a far cry from the soft Madame and Monsieur I am now used to.

I appreciate the waitress, who shares my name. She knows what my mother wants for a meal the same way Patricia at La Noisette in Argelès automatically brings me green tea in the morning and doesn’t put Chantilly on my coffee ice cream with chocolate sauce.

I also appreciate doggie bags, rare to non-existent in Europe, and look forward to another two meals out of our crabmeat stuffed baked shrimp. It has nothing to do with the children are starving in China theory of waste on which I was raised. The food tastes wonderful.

As we drive home we pass cookie cutter strip malls, one after another with the same stores. We pass deed restricted housing developments equally undistinguishable.

At my mom’s the birds have gathered in the back of the house as they do each night. One by one, as if directed by some air controller, they take off for the island in the lake to settle for the night.

We watch the Kennedy Memorial on television. It will seem strange not to have him as my Senator. Whatever his personal failings, he voted like I wanted him too. I’ve been to the Kennedy library, and the church where the funeral will take place is in my old neighbourhood. I remember a few Christmas Eve Midnight Masses there. I have read about the old neighbourhood in The Boston Globe where they talked about Flann O’Briens where we ate Sunday night Pub Grub and the ethnic diversity, which I love(d) being part of.

The Boston Patriots are playing next. My mom oohs and ahhs over Tom Brady. It has been a long time since I’ve watched American football, although I’ve read about the Pats many Superbowl victories with a smile.

The activities are a respite from the work still before us to try and improve her quality of life, new memories after years of only good memories. She is my stepmom, a woman who forgot to read the ugly stepmothers manual. I am the only surviving child of a mixed family that never had his and her children just “our kids.”

She falls asleep, and I see not an elderly woman, but the beautiful young woman who was always there for me. I do not want to be here dealing with these issues. I do not want to be anyplace else. I realize that this is the price of love and it is a privilege to pay it.

I should never have said it

As my roommate and I rode downtown for sushi, I made the mistake of saying "this is the first normal work day in seven weeks, I'm getting back to a normal life."

WRONG!

Tomorrow I will be on a plane to Florida because of an emergeny with my mom. I'm not sure what to expect when I get there. I'm not sure how long I'll be there. I just know how lucky I am to be able to go at the drop of a phone call.

Nature's symphony

In bed last night, nature played a sympathy with wind, rain and thunder, conducted by lightnin illuminating the slats between the Rolladen.

Consistency can be overrated

Starbucks often makes me shudder (despite their espresso brownies and chai), another example of corporations overtaking a real culture replacing it with the artificial.

Yet, today I found myself sitting in the Rive Starbucks waiting for a writer friend my daughter's age. Jimmy Durante was sinking Inky doo, or how ever you spell it, in the background making me feel as if I were in a time warp as well as a national warp. Any number of teenage girls to young women seemed to be dressed in a uniform of short short dungaree shorts and white tops fastened with a belt. A couple of young men in business suits and expensive briefcases looked as if they were pretending to be adults.

My friend arrived and we spent the next couple of hours in a wonderful discussion of everything from writing, to politics, to national differences. There are only a few friends that I have that have both the American and Swiss/French experience to understand both while admitting we are outsiders in both cultures. And the longer we spend as "internationals" the harder it is to find people who understand us. Those who do, become real friends, whether they are Swiss or American.

We discussed those around us and their "uniforms" and she said in NY it seemed in Starbucks the employees were black and the customers white with only a few exceptions. This women, trained as an anthropologist, often has insights that ofen opens my eyes. This lead into class differences in the US and Switzerland, the acceptance of immigrants in both cultures (US no, Swiss yes) and on and on and on.

The time together ended too soon. If I were inconsistent in being willing to spent time in a Starbucks, I can live with that, but next time we meet, which will be several months down the road maybe we'll got Auer's, with its special family recipe hot chocolate and locally made croissants... The place isn't important...the sharing is.

A cat is a cat is cat

Would a cat by any other name smell as sweet?

Munchkin takes refuge in the cool earth of the rosebush pot during the canicule.

There's a Strange Man in the House

My roommate called upstairs.

Strange man? Her voice didn't sound panicky at all.

I rushed downstairs to find her number 2 son dressed in a suit ready for a wedding. Jeans, shorts, bathrobe are normal but a suit?

What a pleasure it has been watching him go from sulky teenager to lovely adult with or without a suit.

The dream

It was at a university and I was rushing to catch the lecture given by Ernest Hemingway. The hall was the type with the students' seats rising upward like an amphitheatre with the professor, or in this case, the writer down below. We were at the back and to the right.

I whispered to a friend even though I didn't like his writing he was doing a great job for a dead man.

The next lecture we were waiting for the English celebrity Randy Sparks. (There is no Randy
Sparks) A young kid came out riding an animal train. He had a Bob Hope type nose and later he was talking to us in the audience. He was Randy Sparks Jr. and his father had black hair graying at the sides. (checking dogpile.com I did find out there was Randy Sparks who was a new Christie Minstrel). The father had the same nose.

Then my Scottish friend May and I were sitting int he lower left hand corner,s he was a couple of rows behind and we discussing buying concert tickets for ourselves and two friends. We weren't sure whether to get inferior or superior seats and those were the words inferior and superior. We decided to get two and two and then let them chose but we were willing to pay extra even if they weren't.

The missed shot

Every time that I leave my camera home, I discover the most wonderful shot. Monday when walking through the park, the wall of sprinklers were framed by trees and highlighted by the sun. I had to stop and just watch the light play on the water. Today this was second best.

Mystery metal men

Strange metal men are appearing throughout the city. Like the cows a few years back, the decorations vary. I have no idea why, but it is fun.

The last class

In my ongoing war with the French language, there was a truce in the battle with one part of my three-week intensive French course at the University of Geneva. The professor who taught the section on French sayings was not only funny, his humour made it hard to forget the lesson. Our last class was also his last class, because after 40 years of teaching he is retiring.
Not content to just walk off the stage, he wore his Swiss T-shirt, waved, the flag, had us stand for the national anthem (I’ve forgotten the words since the day I had to sing it as part of my swearing in as a Swiss citizen). Obviously frustrated by the interruption of cell phones in his class over the years, his last act was to have us all have our phones go off at the same time.
His last moment in the classroom was marked by applause and a standing ovation.
If all professors taught like he did, there would be less ignorance in the world.

And then to come home and find a lovely plant, a matching card with a photo taken by my housemate from my housemate with a congratulatory note along with a message that we weren't going to switch to French at home, even though we do use it frequently. Also appreciated was how close she matched the flowers to my duvet cover.

As for my French? The war is ongoing but I'm a few more skirmishes to the good.