zebra boots

The woman on the bus was dressed in expensive clothes and carried a shopping bag from one of the exclusive shops. Her hair was stylish, but her face was wrinkled. I suspect that she was quite beautiful in her youth, but she was working to do everything possible to be as attractive as possible

She wore zebra boots on her feet. Not many, if any, women in her age group would wear boots like that.

 I complemented her. Sometimes people don't like to speak to strangers and I back off, but it has led to some fascinating conversations. She was a chatterer.

She got off before I did, and although we'd been speaking French, she said in English, "Have a wonderful day."

The boots raise an issue on age appropriate clothing. I remember the orthopedic shoes and severe dresses my grandmother wore at the age I am now. Never did she leave the house without a hat and gloves. She always wore a corset under her clothes.

Now women in their 70s and 80s dress with a sense of style but then there's the English phrase, mutton dressed up as lamb. I think of a woman in Argeles who, at my age despite a tremendous body, looks as if she could be on a catwalk in the 1960s in her dress. It does not go with her aged face.

I don't want to be mutton dressed up as lamb, but I don't want to look like an old fart either. Certain parts of my body are better not emphasized. But hopefully some items in my wardrobe are both fun and age appropriate.

Would I wear zebra boots?  They might look good with my black tights and long black sweater.

No more tax abuse

For the first five years in Switzerland with a Permis B my employer withheld my income taxes. When I graduated to a Permis C and later became Swiss it was and is my responsibility to save for my taxes.

Although the Swiss forms are fairly easy (about one page each for country, canton, commune) I'm numbered challenged and preferred to have a professional do them. My boss recommended a man, who is more than competent.

Our first appointment we spent most of the time talking about Bill and Monica. We dealt only in French and he quickly dubbed me his  cauchmar, nightmare. Each year he would rail that my accent was still terrible and that by now I should know which forms to give him. Even when I did everything right, he acted as if I were still mentally challenged.

At one time when I didn't get the right form from my bank, he took me to the bank, stood in the middle of the lobby and hollered "Can anyone help this poor, dumb American get the (name of form)?"

His one saving grace was along with his bills I got olive oil fresh from his grove but only some years.

Each year I vowed to change rather than put up with his general ugliness of disposition. I'm not a person who usually takes abuse from anyone. But laziness would prevail until it was too late.

Then when I renounced I definitely needed a US tax specialist to provide the multi-inch final declaration required by the IRS. My housemate gave me her accountant's name. What a delight to work with.

His partner does Swiss taxes and I met with him this morning. Equally delightful. I arrived drenched from waiting for three buses in the pouring rain and was immediately offered a cup of tea. He had prepped from the information he already had.

When I told him I thought things might not be complete, he said he'd email me a list of what I might need and where to get them. He answered several questions and accepted my warning of my numbers problems. We dealt in English, although we could have worked in French or Franglais.

We both agreed that paying taxes is the price we pay to live in a civilized society with good roads, bridges, education through university, etc.

It'll cost a little more but it is worth it.

Anyone in Geneva who reads this and wants a new accountancy who can do both Swiss and American taxes let me know, and I'll give you their contacts.

Meanwhile, no more abuse while preparing my taxes.

Mountains, château, reserves et castors

After a lunch at the restaurant run by the handicapped and  after the sun had been in short supply the last few days it seemed only reasonable to take a short walk in the reserve when the sky was a brilliant blue. Even during the short walk the sun was slipping away, but it didn't matter.

Long ago there was a château complete with moat on this land. The château is long since gone.The wet land had been drained by Reuters and trails ran through the fields.

The mountains were out in all their snow-capped beauty albeit it far away. The air was caressing on our cheeks and birds were trying out for a local choral group.

Then we spied where trees had been chewed down. Beavers. Or in French Castors. J had been there earlier and noticed them as well.

On the short drive home we passed this sign. What we wanted to know was does this limit beavers to 60 miles an hour or 60 trees for their damns.

The Winter of our Discontent and history

I'm writing about the book The Winter of our Discontent, which I'm currently reading. If it were about my life it would be titled the Winter of my Contentment. The book contains not only a different period in time but because of it I reflected on my own life.

This is an old book, published in 1961, the year I had quit Merrimack College and worked as an insurance clerk at American Mutual to discover within a day or two that university was for me rather than the unthinking filing of closed claims as a career track. 

In Sept. 1961 I went back to university only to Lowell as an English/history major. On the anniversary of Pearl Harbor that year I got engaged to my off and on high school sweetheart.

 
The edition I found was printed in 1964 when I had just returned from Germany, having spent two years with my husband who was in an army band. That was the start of my love affair with Europe. I returned to university much against his wishes, but with the knowledge I needed a degree to be the person I was meant to be.

The book was inexpensive by today's standards. No US price but in the UK it was 5/, New Zealand 65 cents, Australia 80 cents.

A school library somewhere, probably in the UK, had this book in its school library in September 1969. That was the time when I had been left by my soon to be ex-husband and was trying to be a good mother to my nine-month old daughter and had just returned to my job writing newsletters about business development. At that time, working mothers were considered bad mothers. Divorce, although more common than when my parents divorced, still somehow, was not the done thing. It was before women's lib. 

I'd like to think I was just ahead of my time, but during that period, getting through a day was an accomplishment--reflection wasn't in the schedule.

A JM had put his or her initials in the book and it had been sold at one time for 75 pence or so said the pencil marks noted on the upper right hand corner of one page.

Because of its age some of the pages are beige, an uneven beige more to the edges.  (I know we say yellowed, but that isn't a yellow).

The story itself shows a slower time: no cell phones, no Internet. The protagonist walks to work. He grapples with his own failure, however. I can hear my father's voice in the line the father says to his children, "Make sure you turn out the lights."

The story in the book is the battle between ethics and corruption, but not on the massive scale of say Jamie Dimon or Leonard Blankfein, today. Personal corruption on a small town basis does not have the same importance as upsetting the world economy.

The book by the Nobel Prize winner would be a wonderful read by itself, but the condition and history of that particular book adds to the pleasure. And although I love my Kindle, The Winter of our Discontent would never have provided the same pleasure as touching the history, known and unknown of this book itself. 

You can't cuddle over Skype

Years ago a friend in Toulouse and me in Geneva would each get a cup of coffee and email back and forth. It was so long ago my screen was green with yellow letters. My company wasn't quick to upgrade...in fact the then head almost refused to let the webmaster have internet access.  We did work between messages and I always worked more hours than contract, so no guilt of doing personal on company time.

Volumes of emails have gone back and forth between my friends in me over the years...then came Skype.

I've used it for professional interviews, used it to stay connected on a face-to-face basis with friends all over the world. Once a friend and I even showed our breast scars (fortunately No. 2 son was no where near) over our webcams

Rick and I would not have developed our relationship as well as we did with him in TX and me in Switzerland or France. Skype allowed us to talk for hours.

Likewise, I use Skype to keep in touch with my housemate when I'm in France OR even when I'm on the 1st floor (European) 2nd (American) and she is in the basement in the same house in Geneva.

Some messages may be profound reflecting friendship and understanding, but there's also the simple conversations such as:

• "Marro or Mikado for lunch?"
• "Popcorn?"
• "The Chase is on in 5 mins."

Originally when Rick and I went back to Argelès in December, the idea was we would live in the 2-bedroom warren I and I would use my studio nest as an office. Then I had a miserable cold leaving me in bed. Rick brought the laptop down. We discovered we could be together almost 24/7 and enjoy it, but then again when we're writing we are lost in other word worlds.

Now that we are in different countries again we are back to Skypying although no longer for hours on end.

This morning I was working early in bed on my laptop. I saw he came on line. As soon as he answered my call I saw that he was working in bed.

Intimate, yes except you can't cuddle over Skype.

No CNN poll for me today

It is 6:52

I'm in bed with my laptop checking emails and the many news sites.

CNN always has a poll. This is one I won't take. It asks which city has the best shopping: London? Paris?

I have spent a good amount of time in both cities. In Paris, I might buy fruit if I'm staying with my friend or something for dinner. In London I will stand on places like Fleet Street and marvel at what has happened there. I'll walk by the house where Virginia Wolfe lived. In cities flowing with art, history, etc..

Years ago when I was covering a conference in Rome, someone said, "There's great shopping there and named some stores." I had never even thought that I might shop. However, I was looking forward to meeting the professor who translated the 17,000 cuneiform tablets from 3,000 BC and found in the Ebla, Syria dig.

Why wasn't I shopping on the trip? There was nothing I needed or wanted and I knew I could get a Rome Mug for my daughter's collection at the airport.

I can tell you however about a wonderful guide in London, and what a thrill it is to see the Cluny Tapestries in Paris. 

I guess it's a matter of time and energy. Shopping drains me, exploring energizes me.

The photo has nothing to do with the blog

I just thought that the lettuce looked so pretty, that I asked Rick to snap it because I'd left my camera home.

Now the blog

My to do/have done list is unreasonable and I realise I do lots of things that gobble up time.

• I woke at 6 and took the laptop to bed (don't be jealous Rick)
• Wrote three articles
• Caught up on emails business and personal
• Caught up on news -- the world is still here more or less -- go on with day
• Checked FB but with glance not indepth
• Took shower
• Realised no shampoo in shampoo bottle
• Streaked to bedroom for security extra bottle. Glad No. 2 son no longer in house. Read his blog from Peru when I was checking emails etc.
• Warm up in shower
• Wash hair
• Dry off
• Dry hair into Mary Travers(of Peter, Paul and Mary fame for younger people) style. Doesn't make me sing any better although I'm humming Where have all the flowers gone.
• Put on jeans
• Too tight...okay that's it Rick...three pieces of chocolate after meals only. Less snacking. I love those jeans.
• Send Rick list of healthy foods
• Put on makeup in case George Clooney shows up asking for directions
• Check out mountains from balcony...no mountains, rainy foggy.
• Get email from accountant PHEW okay to cancel today's appt. Fri. will be fine.
• Take blood pressure and anti esophagus attack medicine. Think I hate taking medicine. Think I'm glad these two exist.
• Pick up clothes from last night
• Pick up bag full of papers to throw away that I tripped over and scattered.
• Make bed --remember how Japanese Chin Amadeus unmade bed after I made it every morning. Wished he were here to do same
• Wish Munchkin were here to curl up on bed and purr.
• Not sure how Amadeus and Munchkin would get along.
• Wish Llara were here and rushing to work, although that has never happened.
• Decide to stop wishing and be glad for the things that did exist and promise myself to enjoy the things that are now.
• Make breakfast. DO NOT SPILL oatmeal.
• Do spill tea leaves
• Use Penguin timer and giggle.
• Watch video Rick has sent me with his GD hair. Lovely good morning from him.(GD this has become a household term for bedhair but I know your hair later in the day is beautiful.)
• Go back upstairs. It is now 8:53

To do list for rest of day

• At least three looks at website for indepth analysis (major major project) for newsletter. About 60 of 300 are done.
• Send out marketing on last newsletter
• Send Publishers Weekly review of Murder in Insel Poel to all Delaware independent bookstores. Doing it alphabetically by state and hope it encourages them to add to their shelves. Delaware will be quick. A major project to hit all indpendent bookstores in US.
• Finish newsletter articles and send to partner to mark up and edit
• Work on Murder in Schwyz
• Go to Marro for lunch at some point
• Go to drugstore to pick up prescriptions
• Go to post office to make sure my Swiss ballot is counted
• Buy bananas
• Watch Max Keiser
• Work on taxes
• Prepare forms for health insurance
• Watch The Chase
• STOP using this blog as an excuse not to get things done.

The Penguin Golden Egg Award

I'm a nightmare to buy gifts for because I have so much already and that combined with my deliberate decision to live in small spaces that I want to be clutter free. This attitude means my friends are amazingly clever. That they bother at all, always moved me deeply.

Both my daughter and housemate have resorted to annual Christmas gifts of penguins and their imagination in ferreting out the unusual borders on miraculous. Today I will wear a sweater with a penguin on the back and I have penguin slippers, penguin salt and pepper shakers all from my darling daughter

However, my housemate's Christmas gift, found after Christmas has to take the Penguin Golden Egg award for being the best over the top penguin gift for the year 2013. 

It is a tea timer. 

Fresh leaves can be placed in the tea ball or a tea bag can be hung from the beak. The tea is dunked in water, the time is set.

Then zinnnng...it rings, the beak comes up and the tea has brewed at exactly the desired time to exactly the right strength. 

Wonderful!*
Formidable!*
Wunderbar!*

The penguin bowling set to the right was the first penguin gift from my housemate. Now that the tea is brewed maybe the bowlers want a sip.

*Covers all house languages.

More on hugs and a pat or two

A few days ago I wrote about hugs. In Switzerland and France the cheek kisses are used. Hugs are rare

Thus at the Geneva Writers Group Conference when I saw an American friend we hugged. PSJ standing behind her asked if he could have one, then someone else did and someone else, and then later someone else later said, "I saw you giving hugs, could I have one."

I remembered back to the Escalade when a woman who looked like I imagined my main heroine in my murder mysteries giving free hugs.

Hugs are good things.

I was wearing my red fuzzy sweater, which I bought at the marché for a whopping 10 Euros. It's warm and silky. Several people asked me if they could pat it.

I feel well patted and well hugged and also pleased at having spent the day with many writing friends.

He once was somebody's baby

It was a dark and stormy day...

I was on the way to the Geneva Writer's Conference, the last day. The first day I spent travelling from Argelès and miracle and miracle, the two trains were on time--leaving and arriving.

I needed Swiss money and the Eaux Vives bus stop has a UBS. The run from the warm bus to the warm ATM room was just a few steps.

Behind the cash machines, a man was on the floor asleep. I decided to use the outside ATM.

The song folksinger Christine Lavin song popped into my mind, and it made me glad that whoever he was had a warm place to sleep.

Somebody's Baby

from Good Thing He Can't Read My Mind

Somebody's Baby
Words and Music by Christine Lavin
Copyright 1988, Flip-A-Jig/Rounder Music

I was standing on 6th Avenue at the corner of 53rd Street
Waiting for the bus
Token in my hand
Thinking about Dinner and what I would eat
That's when I saw him all dirty and ragged
Begging for nickles and dimes
I got on the bus
Rolled away
But one thing stayed in my mind.

He once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced him on her knee
Do you think she has any idea
What her little boy's grown up to be?

I was walking through riverside park
On a beautiful afternoon
Telling my neighbor about the vacation
I planned to be taking soon
That's when I saw her all dirty and ragged
Drinking a bottle of wine
I turned my head
Walked right on by
But one thing stayed in my mind.

She once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced her on his knee
Do you think he has any idea
What his little girl has turned out to be?

In the back of a checker cab stopped at a light
Heading toward Broadway
To see the latest critically acclaimed
Pulitzer Prize winning play
That's when I saw them outside the shelter
Forming a ragged line
We pulled away
I didn't look back
But one thought stayed in my mind.

They once were somebody's babies
But somewhere their lives went all wrong
Next time you see them don't think the worse
Why not try to think of this song?

Mamies

Mamies are the old women in Argelès, usually Catalan, who have been here all their lives and have been friends from the cradle.

They sit outside their houses on the street and chat, watch their grandchildren, snap beans. Or sometimes they meet at benches.

They usually wear house dresses and aprons. Fashion passed them by.

Each year there are less of them. I suspect now some are younger than I am.

Most have little formal education, but their wisdom makes up for it. I never thought that we had a lot in common although we have all raised families. It doesn't make me feel superior, but I did think my world view having done extensive travel and theirs which may be limited to Catalonia is different.

Still I was surprised when Lydia and I were writing and one of the Mamies was in the tea room. She and I often talk, usually about what she is knitting or my handwork projects when I find her sitting outside her house.

Her grey hair is in a ponytail. Her dress is like all Mamies except for the bright pink and grey sweater.  I complimented her on her sweater.

"It's 40 years old," she told me.

We said it looked new, which it did.

We weren't surprised she was in the tearoom. What came next was the surprise.

"You know I write every day." She mentioned her journal. "Sometimes I take a picture of the mountains, or something I see. I write about that." 

Just like Lydia and I.

Hugs vs. Kisses

I didn't come from a huggy-kissy family except for crisis time. Somehow having a crisis just to get a hug doesn't make much sense unless you're a drama queen, which I'm not.

As an adult I ran into a family and a friend that was very huggy and I loved it. A hello hug, a good bye hug, a have a good day hug, sorry it was a sh-t day hug, a tell me about it hug, thanks for the cuppa, a hug for hug's sake...any reason for hugs worked. Men-women, women-women, young-old, same-age it doesn't matter.


Fast forward to moves to France and Switzerland the two cheek (right/left France) and three cheek (right/left/right Switzerland) countries not just in place of hugs but in place of hand shakes. Men even will kiss if they are in the same family or exceptional friends. I like that too.

But I miss hugs although Son No. 2 and Rick give great hug, the kind you can snuggle into.

Yesterday I met with a very talented young writer/artist from the UK who now lives here. We did the two kiss thing but perhaps because I'm heading back to Switzerland I almost did the third kiss. It usually takes me a couple of days to do the kiss-switch when I change countries.

We talked about the kiss cheeks.

"No hugs," she said with a note of sadness in her voice.

"I miss hugs," I said.

We had our drinks, our talk, a few laughs, a good catch up on our lives and left the tearoom. As we started to saying good bye we leaned forward to begin the kiss cheek routine.

A second later we had a good hug. Felt great for me. I hope it felt great for her.

Woman in prayer

Place:                 La Noisette
Items:                 Pen, notebook, Moccachino (thanks Llara for introducing me to them)
People:               Lydia and myself
Assignment:      Write about a woman in prayer

Marie-Claude's knees hurt as she knelt in the centuries-old church. She glanced at her watch. Seven and a half minutes to go..."Hail Mary full of . . ." don't let my mind wander "...full of grace..."

A man walked down the aisle . ..  "blessed art thou . . ." He looked like Jean-Paul, her non-dearly departed husband ". . .among women . . ." Where was she? . . . "The Lord is with  . . . "

Damn. She thinks, damn doesn't belong in the middle of her rosary. ". . . Where was she again? Oh yes, ". . .thee. And blessed be the fruit of thy womb . . ." Jesus. Not Jesus as in "blessed be the fruit of thy womb, Jesus" but in Jesus she had a cramp in her leg and it hurt like hell.

She refused to stand and walk on the leg. Her penance for hating Jean-Paul and for hastening his death was to go go church every day and say 15 minutes of rosary.

"Holy Mary, Mother . . ." Damn that leg hurt. Probably Jean-Paul, buried outside the church was cursing her ". . .Mother of God. Pray for us sinners . . ."

Marie-Claude looked at her watch. Time was up. Tomorrow, same time, same place.

She limped from the church.

'Ey Professeur

When I rediscovered Rick after 24 years of not seeing him in Geneva's Starbucks he was very, very corporate looking:

• Short hair
• Suit/Tie
• Contact lenses
• Clean shaven

When he was still in Texas, he asked what I thought if he grew a beard. I thought it would be wonderful.

He has beautiful graying hair on its way to being silver. I asked what he thought about letting it grow. "You'll look more like a French intellectual," I said while thinking silver fox.

He did. Then he stopped wearing contacts except when he was playing golf. His eyes lost the red and their beautiful grey stood out.

The suits went for jeans, sweaters and scarves. Altogether much better than the corporate look, although he was accused of looking like a hippie when he went back to Texas.

Last night we were with my French/French teacher and her Italian husband having an apéro in a local bar.

A man who had many too many glasses looked at Rick, "'Ey Professeur," he mumbled.

Hmmm. I would say that the transition from corporate to intellectual is complete.

Bathroom wars

I am not as neurotic in The Warren as I was in The Nest where every bluebird on my dishes had to be aligned and the space between my copper bowls had to be the same. (in my defense, I didn't foister my OCD habits on guests, but when they left everything went back to my normal)  I don't want Rick to be afraid to touch anything, but I still can't help wanting things arranged a certain way.  Thus when he leaves the shower curtain like this

 I do this.

 And when he leaves the towel on the towel warmer like this.

I do this. 

I feel better when things are aligned and neat. He always has a right to buy a book on How to Cure OCD and present it to me for Valentines Day.

On the other hand I love that he rearranges our wonderful new red blanket in a different way almost every day. His imagination is only surpassed by his patience with my idiosyncrasies. I can only use the "I'm a writer, therefore I have a right to be a bit weird" so many times. Of course, he's a writer too, so I'm duty bound to match him in patience and understanding.

And to top it off, this is the arrangement of the shower curtain Rick did the morning after he read the this blog.

I like it. And then today after I showers I found this...

I'm so glad I married him.

Faux amis

Although in most cases if an anglophone can't think of the French word, if they take an English word and give it a French pronunciation, they have a fighting chance to be right. When it doesn't it is called a faux amis, a false friend.

In most business transactions with Rick, I am the official translator which works more often than it doesn't.

Today we picked up the new old car and went through the usual downpour of paperwork. I swear the world would have more forests if the French did not require ten copies of innumerable forms for even the most routine transaction. 

I half expect to have to show my electrical bill and identity card to buy bread.

"Ici, votre tampon," Remi, the man who sold us the car said as he pointed to a square on the form. Besides owning the garage, he is also the landlord of one of our good friends. I trust him.

Rick does pick up some French. He heard the word tampon.

"I thought you were past that," he whispered as Remi went to the printer in the other room to make yet more copies.

"It's a stamp I said." I should have thought to tell him the business would need one, because almost everything needs to be stamped. One might get metacarpal syndrome from stamp, stamp, stamping each official paper.

We now will use our wheelbarrow to roll the papers down to the Mairie where the car will be registered to us, but tomorrow morning bright and early Rick will need to order a stamp with the following information on it.

1. The company's name
2. The company's address
3. Telephone numbers
4. Registration number for the company

We are hoping either the Mairie will accept the papers without the stamp (ha) or the stamp will not take months to get here. We do have 15 days to accomplish all this. If we miss the deadline then the car will have to have another control (inspection).

A tampon wasn't what he thought it was, but he has another vocabulary word.

Different Strokes

They say opposite attracts. Rick and I've proved it.

His papers for the last few months

My papers since the turn of the century.

No right or wrong...just different. Viva la difference.

Pete Seeger 1919-2014

Thank you for all the years of listening to your music.

Thank you for
Where have all the flowers gone
Turn, turn, turn
If I had a hammer
The Weavers
Every song you wrote
Every song you sang

Less thanks for "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" because my brother played it over and over and over and over in 1962 until I thought I would go crazy...but the French version "Le lion est mort ce soir" by Pow Wow made me appreciate it again.

Thanks for standing up for what you believed.

Thank you for fighting for clean water.

Thank you for being an ethical model.

Thank you for believing the world could be better than it was.

Thank you for being.

Three photos just because

I had to wonder why they left one branch. 

Is there a story? 

Did the trimmer fall? 

Did the saw give out?

Was dinner ready?

All the branches that provided shade now are resting at the bottom of the tree.

Why shouldn't trash bag holders be bright, colourful and fun?

Fleas x2

It was a spur of a moment decision when Rick said, "Let's go to the dog show in Perpignan."

The entrance sign said no dogs allowed pictorally, which was ignored by the dogs that were pouring in the entrance. You can't have a dog show without dogs, and they obviously couldn't deceiver the sign.

Fortunately there were no Japanese chin or Pomski puppies for sale. The puppy desire ran high as we walked the aisles.

I tried so hard to get a picture of this dog's fluffy butt, but she kept turning around--maybe hoping for a biscuit or posing because she thought she was so beautiful, which she was.

However Rick captured the rear shot. I also suspect the dogs were all so squeaky clean fleas were in short supply. Catch his blog on the same events. 

Having nothing to do with dogs with or without fleas was the candy vendor...guess who, and she doesn't have red hair, gave into licorice.

When we left flea hall we walked across the street to a huge flea market. I saw a turtle neck for 1 Euro. I'd blown 5 Euros on one the day before.