summertime blues

while i have no means to travel, and i have major writers burnout due to long, excessive work hours and commutes into suburban terrains, and i don't have much money, i am trying to discover some new hobbies. or perhaps just rekindle old ones i should say.

1. exercise. i've always lived as a pedestrian and haven't thought too much about exercising with the exception of an occasional yoga class here and there. but i have developed an at-home and outdoors workout system for myself which i shall tell you more about after i lose 20 pounds or so. may the force be with me.

2. art projects. i recently took a quick inventory of store-bought materials and found objects i have collected over the past decade or so. it was like stepping on a land mine of my former creative self. one which was quickly buried in settling dust of......hmmm....life.

these two are substantial beginnings methinks.

dear little blog,
i will keep you 'posted.'
ba-dump-bump.

roots

i tried to explain to the old ball and chain during our drive back from milwaukee the other week why it is that i love traveling so much.

and i was having troubles finding the right words. hmmm.

i love the flavors, aromas and general essence of a new town. not only the architecture or restaurants or shops but mostly, the people.

so much of our souls are rooted in our early dwellings. our surroundings. as an attempt to keep up-to-date for my current job, i listen to radio quite a bit. as i listen to this kid rock song (haha), singin about 1989 along the northern beaches of Lake Michigan as he is sampling Sweet Home Alabama i think how ironic...why isn't he sampling the Nuge instead? Where are all our roots, man?

And it got me wondering, how many people are sitting around everyday wondering about somewhere else?

I have no idea what the answer is to such a question, perhaps I should take a poll on that one...but I will leave you with another sampling of another 2005 French Breakaway travel entry.

Saturday, October 29th, 2005

11:13 am - ahhhh...paris paris paris

I've completed my first week of living like a Parisian. Holy Toledo. I wish I had camera eyes like in that creepy movie... I finally found a net cafe...in the Latin Quarter. uuugh. I hate net cafes...not very inspirational places. There are people all around me, from all over the world, either researching things to do in Paris or checking their email and there are those two robotic men behind the counter controlling it all. So I leave my suburban homestead each morning, walk a few metres and catch a bus, where a nice portugese man greets me every morning. I ride to the local SNCF station, sit on the train for 20 minutes, surrounded by a melange of strange African languages that I have never heard before, wake up to the Eiffel Tower on the left and arrive in the center of the city. I have no sense of direction in the circular flow of things in Europe...I am accustomed to the grid-like structures of modern-day American cities, thus I have purchased a compass and have honed my intuitive skills even further. I am Rudolphe the red nosed reindeer. Guess I look like I know what I'm doing because people ask me for directions all the time. If only they knew... I have befriended a few fun pals from all over the place. A gal from Pasadena, a boy from Trinidad, and Spaniard, a Texan, an Algerian and a Parisian. Imagine that. My first day here I met a 65 year old Parisian man who offered to buy me an apartment in Paris so I could stay here. Hmmmmmm. WEIRD! Then there are the Japanese business men on the CHamps-Elysees who want to give me 1000 euros cash to go buy things at Louis Vuitton to help them smuggle back to their boutiques. Then there are the men in Montmartre who grab your face and want to paint you. I haven't come up with a good comeback yet but I'm working on it. They're really irritating. It's all just too weird. Everything. But oddly enough, why do I feel more at home wandering these streets then I do in the USA? Speaking of the USA, it's quite a controversial thing to be an American in the world these days. It's like a one nation, Under a Picnic Shelter, chowing down on BBQ ribs, while the rest of the world is on the swingset, famished, getting wet in the rain. I don't think people realize what we've become. I just don't think people really realize. Good thing people think I'm German. I guess. It's been fun walking and exploring and wandering aimlessly here. Makes me believe in destiny again. I stumbled across Ernest Hemingway's apartment in Paris. I can't wait to get back and write my little heart out. Or maybe I won't come back. Or maybe I'll just get a job as an international flight attendant. Or maybe the US government will answer my prayers and give me money for school. Or maybe I'll marry a frenchman and exist in provincial french life the rest of my years here on earth. Or maybe I'll become a revolutionary and start a new political party. I don't know what the outcome will be, but Paris is the place that makes me feel good to be alive....

milwaukee, wisconsin, usa

yesterday, eric and i took a drive north to milwaukee. the Fonz pulled into the parking spot next to us and said 'Aaaaaaaayyyyy. You wanna hop on back and visit Mr. C with me?'

'Sure, Fonz,' I replied. 'But what about my husband?'

'Follow the burnin' rubber, E. I got some friends I'd like you to meet.'

So I hopped on the back of the Fonz's bike, borrowing Pinky Tuscadero's neckerchief to tie up my wild rock-n-roll hair, and Eric revved up the engine of his Little Honda. Off we went...

We rolled past Summerfest, passing assorted roadies walking the streets of downtown Milwaukee, stopped and had a coffee at the Milwaukee Art Museum Ship, and waved to Laverne and Shirley as they were leaving the brewery.

A cop pulled Eric over with his Illinois plates and all and started hassling him about his speed. The Fonz got out his comb to smooth his hair and walked up to observe the scene firsthand.

'Aaaaaaaay, officer. Are you givin my amigo here some trouble?' scolded Fonz.

The officer replied in an all-too-familiar voice. It was Squiggy, and his teeth started chattering in the cold shadow of the Fonz. Squiggy apologized profusely to Big E, and we were back on the road before too long.

When we arrived at the Cunninghams' Joanie and Chachi were setting the dinner table, Mrs. C was in the kitchen, and Mr. C was hanging his Shriner hat in the closet. Our tummies were rumbling when....








Just kidding. The Fonz and the Cunninghams and Laverne and everyone else were nowhere to be found yesterday. It would have been nice, as Milwaukee had a bit of a sleepy feel to it. But that place has lots of potential.

As I commented to my husband on our Lake Michigan Circle Tour drive home (aka the scenic route back to Chicago), if I had shitloads of money like so many ridiculously rich folks in this world have, I would put it all into reviving cities. Milwaukee had a lot of charming building facades, some ghostly charms all about it and that lakefront of theirs is a beauty to behold.

Just imagine if the ridiculously rich spent more time reviving old parts of American cities instead of building homes too large to navigate without a map, what an amazing country we could have. It's like we'd be living in a perpetual art museum, with a whole world to curate.

Walking around pockets of assorted cities with boarded up windows and out-of-business signs everywhere is really starting to degenerate a certain aspect of my own spirit.

Oct. 22, 2005

Here is another entry from my last big voyage:

Saturday, October 22nd, 2005

8:45 am - I love Paris in the faallllll...

So the gray skies have arrived and il pleut dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la ville. Up until this point, the weather has been gorgeous in upper Normandie...a few showers here and there but still delightful enough to sit at a sidewalk café once the sun yawned and stretched its arms. It's been like a grandes vacances, but on Monday morning my reality shall ebb and flow some more toward my new morning train/bus schedules with all the workers as they rush from the suburbs to that mystical magical place known as Paris. It's been amazing, sharing dinners in different homes in the small villages of France. Some of the elders who have lived harmoniously in the petites villes without ever stepping foot into Paris haven't seen an American since La Libération. I arrived in a house last night for a dinner invitation and I thought if nothing else comes of this trip, last night's conversation made it all worthwhile. When I walked into the home, my head hit the trim of the doorway. I stepped in the kitchen and the refridgerator was chest-high. The stove and sink hit me mid-thigh, and all of the people scattering around to greet me with kisses had to stretch on their tippy toes to reach me. I was a giant. I felt America-sized. I'm not that tall, really, but I had to rub my eyes and make sure I wasn't on candid camera or had fallen down yet another rabbit hole in life. It was fine once we sat down with our apéritifs but it only added to the constant surrealism of the days I spend in France. I swear I could open the screen-less window in my bedroom and a little robin redbreast would perch on my finger and sing just for me. Anyyay, the woman was almost 80 years old, and she sat down next to me and told me she went to school with my grandma. She played with my hair and touched my face all over, dangled my earrings and studied me. I thought for a second: this must be what famous people feel like. It was like she just couldn't believe I was sitting in her living room. She had crocheted a beautiful piece for me almost a decade ago upon my first arrival in France, which sits on my dresser among all my pretty perfume bottles. There had been a divorce since I was last here and the blood lines had seperated and technically, these were no longer members of Ma Famille, but I accepted the invitation anyway because it just seemed like the most diplomatic thing to do. Midway through the meal, it began. Now, these folks, my elders, were either just beginning their adult lives or trying to enjoy their youth under Nazi occupation. It's not something that is spoken of very often, French civilisation was rebuilt and restored to its origins, but the stories start to unfold when my rare appearance presents the opportunity to discuss. So do you know how your grandmother met your grandfather in Petit Couronne? It usually begins as a simple love story but each time it is told there are new developments, a repressed memory resurfaces, or the story changes itself altogether. Yes, my grandfather stormed the shores of Normandy with US Army paratroopers and combatted the land to this little town where my French grandma was living. The town had been ransacked by bombs, there are tales woven of entire families gone the next day, either taken away to concentration camps or their houses bombed. There are tales of questioning on the streets by the Nazis, of escape routes to Vichy, of sheer pandemonium that is very painfully and scarcely unveiled by the elders. But then the Americans arrived into town. They were staying in a grande maison, and the mother of the woman sitting next to me last night at the dinner table used to go down to gather cigarettes from the American soldiers for her son who had been imprisoned. In return, she did all their laundry, including my Grandpa's. That painted a picture for me...this woman next to me in her late teens, hanging American GI uniforms and undies and socks to dry in her childhood home's backyard. The stories are all so rich, scattered and nearly lost, and I couldn't do them any justice right now in these unsung words, but the tears that were shed last night around the table and the statement made me feel hopeful with that one staple of French culture, that they really really appreciate the glory of life, how to live it, their own patriotisme, and that simple yet overlooked expression that the Religion of Love, not WAR, is really the only solution. Nope, I couldn't do the stories any justice, but that I'm really glad I learned French and was able to experience them as closely as possible. Maybe if the whole world all did the same thing, just simply sit down every night for a two hour meal with family and friends and talk and share and laugh and cry, then we wouldn't be so lost in our current motivations. Bon weekend à tous! current mood: wooo baby this café is strong current music: i love paris - screamin jay hawkins version

Former Life in France

My grandmother grew up in Rouen, France. She moved here after the war with my American paratrooper grandfather soldier a year or so after D-Day. I spent some quality time there and did everything touristy I could possibly do in that town. I walked the town left to right, north to south, up and down for days on end and walked around trying to imagine my grandmother's life there as a young teen with Nazi soldiers all around. Then I wandered into this quirky little museum right off of the Place du Vieux Marche and wrote a bit about it here:

Tuesday, October 18th, 2005

9:37 am - The Fifth Element of the Universe

So Joan of Arc. Jeanne D'Arc. La Pucelle. The Maid of Orléans. The first female renegade of the land. La terre, si tu veux. This town I've been living in is the site of her torturous death. They've got this fire pit and a cross in a plaza here, marking the precise location of her burning, the dungeon tower where she was held prisoner, a museum, a church built in her name. The fine arts museum features painting after painting of her battles, a high school, a major avenue, even a gift shop in l'éspace du Vieux Marché with Joan of Arc snowglobes. I have my Joan days, where I visit all of the monuments and learn about her life. I sometimes stop and sit to watch what kind of audience she still attracts. I've done the wax figure museum in three languages now. My favorite part is when they demand her to sign her name to the papers upon her trial and she will only sign with a cross. All the men become irate, fearful, impaired in judgment and it's a mere power struggle of the sexes. A story shrouded in mystery and skepticism, it's her conviction of belief in a God that truly made her the French heroine. It pains me that scholars try to defy these convictions, that modern psychology attempts to level out that mysterious unknown with mechanical human labels... I don't quite know what the balance is, maybe it is that of science fiction, only what art may reveal, but I do know that not much has changed since Joan of Arc days. We're still waging war on the consciousness of man. What else is going on in the world these days? Can't they just show us new puppy pictures on the news? The monk doing sand paintings? The kids playing Kick the Can down the street? There's something to be said about our daily creations and what fills our collective mind everyday, and somehow, if we could, just bring it down a notch, another notch, another notch, then things might not be so, hmmmm, intensified. On that note, I'm gonna go pick out a pastry at the boulangerie, sit in front of the Cathedrale, listen to the accordian some more and count the number of girls wearing cowboy boots. I seriously never thought I'd return to France to find fabulously frocked french fashionista cowgirls everywhere.

going backwards a bit

i spent some time in France a few years back. about 5 1/2 months in late 2005. i had been working directly under a really mean lady-owner of a growing artsy company and didn't feel compelled to make a career of it, i was dating someone at the time who was not my cup of tea, and i had a pretty revolting set of experiences in my mid-twenties which prompted a need for a fresh beginning. i was between leases, had saved up a lot of money, paid off many debts and was ready to go.

my relatives overseas have always been extraordinary curators of my worldy whims and entertained the idea of spending more time with them to 'see what i could find.' i worked on some translation bits for my musician cousins' production company in the Alps and worked with 3-year olds on art projects at my cousin's Ecole Maternelle in Haute Normandie. and i wandered.

the next few postings are a resurrection of an old travel blog i had kept while i was overseas. i recently located the blog again and want to preserve it here.

Monday, October 17th, 2005

8:28 am - Il était une fois un ciel menaçant...

So I'm going to give this thing a whirl. Years have gone by in the bottomless pit of the internet (the warped dimension that it is) and little has changed. I'm nearing 30, I still have no solidified career to speak of, I had been diagnosed with multiple psychological disorders from which I opted to run, I took their pills (both the red and the blue), and now I'm house-sitting in Haute-Normandie with three French cats who play jazz music with their catnip toys. Life really isn't so bad, once you get the hang of the neurotic flow of traffic around the Arc de Triomphe and you realize a baguette is not just a baguette, but a staple of an entire culture. It will always be that way, a world of impatient drivers in a hub of chaos, the body of Christ sitting limp in the passenger seat...late for dinner again...so we might as well band together, this world and me, and figure out a way to at least make it F-U-N. Yes, I quit my job in Chicago and ran to my relatives here. I love Chicago, don't get me wrong, but somehow life there was beginning to seem as contrived as the Broadway Musical of the same name. There was a staged act, a prison sentence, puppeteer lawyers and an assortment of glitzy musical acts. Sha-ZAM! Still to this day, when I tell any European which American rampart I hail from, the initial response is And while I once frequented the Green Mill which was once operated by Al Capone, I can assure you that the gangsters have left the building and have been replaced by expensive cover charges, gimmicky tours, Starbucks, Lettuce Entertain You restaurant chains and any other America-sized idea of a good time. That's just it, you know, America is like the next size offering at Starbucks. Tall, Grande, Venti, and America sized. These are your options in America. For my friends outside the USA, at Starbucks coffee restaurant chain we stand in enormous lines and wait to order complicated espresso beverages. Orders go something like this: In France, we find a seat in the café, a waiter comes around, we order un café, it's a small little pinky-sized drink and it takes us two hours and intense worldly conversation with others to consume it. I suppose there is Passion in both cultures... America's bordering on obsessive compulsion, France's dwelling on individualities... but where are all the people in between supposed to go? current mood: contemplative current music: Nosfell's Mindala Jinka