Well Deserved Vacations

I was able to sneak away for a few days and visit Montreal.  Loved it so much.  I walked and walked and walked and explored and meandered and ate and walked some more and spoke a wee bit of French.  Visited the Rodin exhibition at the Musée des Beaux-Arts.  I ate a few bites of poutine, because I felt obligated to do so.  I drank a Quebecois Beer.  Ate some crepes and found a 16 month Le Petit Prince wall calendar.  Oh and a Stone Roses tshirt.  Not that they're Canadian....

Vacations are ESSENTIAL to mental well-being.

Back to the grind again.  Next vacation isn't until February.  I can do this.

Dreams.

We hear so often from so many people in this day and age how we should relentlessly fight to achieve our dreams.  Reach for the stars!  Reach for the moon!  Never give up!  I'm all for that, but it's the daily in-the-meantime thought processes that give me a headache.  Not only introspectively, but among those artistic people I encounter daily.

Sometimes I think people misconstrue these Dream Big messages.  Obviously working hard and diligently toward one's goals while never giving up is important.  But there is another reality.  Sometimes people have to juggle their dreams with a realistic paycheck.

In the pursuit of dreams, some people are neglectful or disrespectful to the other duties that a 'day job' requires.  There is an element of immaturity or self-centeredness that blinds the dream-seeker while they perform what they possibly deem 'menial' tasks.  I think that's wrong.  I don't think it's what adults should be teaching younger ones as they pursue dreams.  I believe one should appreciate EVERY opportunity and learn what one can from EVERY experience.  As the journey continues, enhanced perspectives nurture growth and enlighten The Path with every lesson, no matter how small.

Dreams require great patience, and in this day of instant gratification, some aren't willing to wait.  The days in and days out of our journeys will only frustrate  us if we can't learn to appreciate and savor every moment.  Maybe I've had way too much psychotherapy and have grown too too grounded for my own good, but there's a lot of crap to sift through out there.  I'm finally learning how to sort through all of it.

I gots the fever

Despite getting a flu shot this year, I've been hit with a fever.

TRAVEL FEVER that is.  I wanna go somewhere.

I'm happy I was able to travel a bit when I actually had paid time off.  I went around the U S of A a bit.  I adventured in Paris and Normandy and the Alps.  I voyaged to Londontown and Wales and the Lake District.

I also wandered this strange little place called Manchester.  I met a Mancunian man in a galaxy far, far away and he showed me around his hometown.  I came very close to MOVING there.  But life happened and things got in the way.  You know that whole c'est la vie thing and all that.

But I still reminisce about that grey little town.  There was a particular familiar feeling I had in that town, not really knowing what it quite was.  A sort of déjà vu perhaps.  Or was it a blending of arts and music painting a familiar imagery for me?   I really don't know, but maybe it's more than coincidence that much of my favorite music is from Manchester, UK.

I am reading Morrissey's autobiography right now, and just 50 pages into it, I feel a sense of familiarity as he describes a drab Dickensian landscape.   I can't quite put my finger on it or place the right set of words to explain those who connect with melancholia from time to time.  It's like it's a 'place' that one sometimes travels to naturally.  And sometimes you cross paths with another who has been to that peculiar dark place.....just like it's a random town in the world you've both stumbled upon by accident...

I would love to physically travel to more new towns where I can stumble upon a different, new landscape.  There's so much more world for me to see.

musical interludes

Wish I were in Paris.

http://youtu.be/uYTl1YA_uHQ

Howdy from Texas...

Oh Lordy, Lordy.  I have done my fair share of supporting independent record stores over the past few days.  My brother, mother and I have been driving around Texas supporting local businesses as far as the eye can see.  We hit Cactus Records in Houston, Waterloo Records in Austin, Superflys Lone Star Music and Hastings in San Marcos and there will be more.  So far, I've picked up Wavves, Big E's Lone Star Record Hop compilation of today's best Texas Rockabilly, Rock Rock Rock French Rock 1956-1959, Wayne Hancock, used Jesus & Mary Chain, Jim White, Peter Tosh, an old Love and Rockets, Chill Arabia. Richard Ashcroft, France compilation, Paul Weller, Los Amigos Invisibles, and Los Straitjackets.  Whew!  We hung out at Gruene Hall, have wandered Austin and all bought Have A Willie Nice Day Willie Nelson t-shirts, ate lots of BBQ and are now headed down to the Gulf of Mexico to visit my dear grandpa.  Time always flies by so quickly on these trips.   Sniff!

printemps...the first day...

I ran a few errands this March Chicago morning.  Bundled up in my down-filled coat and hat and gloves and insulated Merrell boots.  On the first day of spring.  Part of being a Chicagoan is talking about the weather all the time with strangers.  Seriously.  Especially as everyone shivers together at a bus stop.  It frustrates us so, but we are all so inclined to keep on complaining about it and bonding over the overall discomfort.

But good news--tickets to Tejas are booked for mid April!  Eighty degrees, here I come!  I used to spend every summer in Texas visiting grandparents so I always feel a little smile coming on every time I get on that plane or in the backseat of my parent's car.  My dear grandfather Tex is still going strong and I need to spend some quality time with him.  He's always complained about my life choices--about my decision to NOT get a driver's license even though he gave me his old car, about my decision to leave college with only an A.A. in French, about various career choices and extended travel jaunts I've made.  But he's proud of my work at the bookstore and says it's my 'best job yet.'  I know it's not the most glamorous of positions nor do I have the drive to move up the corporate ladder, but it suits me.  I know my bosses expect me to gain more skills and take on more responsibility, but my anxiety prevents me from doing so.  I suffer from anxiety, extreme at times, and it hinders me.  I wish there were a way to effectively communicate this in my next review...especially to prevent being slammed and criticized for not advancing.  Why don't people understand that some people are comfortable and will continue to do well in a mid-level management job...that not everyone MUST move up and up and up until they are the leader supreme?  It's not that I'm unmotivated...that's not it at all.  I'm just more comfortable with a small team to lead in a specialty department that I love so well.  Anyway, I am very much looking forward to a week's vacation and escape from all the politics.  Beaches, family, Austin, Snoopy's in Corpus, Benjamin's Surf Shop, San Antonio, talking to Grandpa...it will be fantastic.

I picked up more movies at the library.  Mongol, Tideland, The Crazy Stranger.  I talk about movies and music and books a lot at work and can give pretty decent recommendations when asked.  But as far as writing reviews for these things, I dunno.  I can appreciate many creative undertakings--these art-makers can do things I can never imagine myself accomplishing.  They have discipline and skill.  While some works I appreciate more than others, I just feel a little funny about being a critic.  I have too much respect for creative folk.  These are the people who can make magic happen.  All of these works enrich my life in some strange, fantastic way...

roadtrip to cleveland

i took a few consecutive days off from bookslave-land and hopped in the passenger's seat of my mother's car and drove 7 hours to cleveland, ohio.  we saw the rock and roll hall of fame and the cleveland museum of art (which was amazing and FREE!) and the house from the Christmas Story movie.

we drove the toll roads through northern indiana, through toledo ohio and saw all the landscapes that are permanently etched into my mind.  farms after farms after farms.  cornfields, amber waves of grain and not much more than that.

 (john rogers cox's gray and gold 1942)

these visuals growing up are what made me ponder and think and wonder and, essentially, chip away at boredom.

hours in the schoolbus, winding around old country roads for an hour to and from school, my mind jumpy and anxious for the next time i'd see something spectacular and amazing and new.

open lands.  vastness.  solitude.

until you arrive into the next big midwestern town with a museum or two and you peer at sargeant pepper outfits or zztop drums or mick jagger's jumpsuit or flavor flav's clock.  and in another building you see thousands of damien hirst's dead butterflies and another roomful of shining armor and impressionists and realists and more rodin sculptures and another excerpt of picasso's blue period you missed in paris and just when you though monet made you yawn you discover something different....

and then you're back in the cornfields all over again. with plenty of time to think about what just flashed before your eyes.

and then, if you're not in a rush, you can take the scenic route back to chicago through amish country.

and when i get stuck in that cornfield again, i reflect on these trips and assure myself that life does not breed constant chaos.  it's just a perpetual journey through cornfields to cultural deluge and back again.

i'm not sure where i fit into the grand scheme of things nor where i belong, but i always know that kind of cornfield thinking will see me through.

OHIOOOOO!

NYC sous la pluie....

It rained every day for one week straight.

I reckon the theme of this trip was 'No Plans Allowed.' I had plans to spread out a picnic blanket in Central Park and work on my novel. I had plans to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island. I had plans to take the bus to Atlantic City to win one million dollars.

The morning of Atlantic City, Ryan bro-bro and I woke up early and headed to the cornershop to board our bus with the old gamblers. We even had matching outfits that day and were looking forward to finding gaudy sparkling Atlantic City visors for a thousand more photo opportunites of sequined pizazz. But the owner found us outside and told us there was a 'problem' and that we needed to hightail it down to 179th and Broadway to catch the bus. We hopped on the subway, never a thought of discouraging words passing though our minds, and found our fellow travelers waiting outside the Dominican cornershop.

When the bus driver arrived, there was a long pause as we saw him walking back and forth through the tinted windows of the bus and rearranging passengers. He opened the doors with a look of discern on his face and announced, "I have some really bad news. I can only take four of you. There are only four seats left."

There were about eight pushy old ladies who shoved up close to him and he was forced to select the Biggest Looking Spenders.

A big old New York City Waaaaaaaaaah, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah seemed to rattle the George Washington Bridge and Ryan and I hung our heads low and shuffled into the cornershop for our $34 refund.

Regardless of losing out on my millions, I managed to have a grand old time anyway. I'm a fly-be-the-pant-of-my-seats kinda traveler anyway and it's all part of the big adventure of life, n'est-ce pas?

Some highlights included:

* August Osage County, a play originally from Chicago's Steppenwolf, starring Phylicia Rashad. Wonderful performances, though it's closing in two weeks.

*Vieux Farka Toure at the Highline Ballroom. A spirited Malian guitarist, son of Ali Farke Toure. If you have an opportunity to see an African performance, I guarantee you spirits will be lifted. They may sing of sad topics but rarely will you find a minor key.

*Screening of a Youssou N'Dour documentary "I Bring What I Love." A very important film for all Westerners to see...follows his journey of pushing boundaries in Senegal for singing about his Sufi-Muslim beliefs and proceeding to win a Grammy.

*Walking across the George Washington Bridge at night in the wind and rain singing Bon Jovi as we entered New Jersey.

*Attending the Mermaid Parade at Coney Island.

*Endless wandering.

Then I come home to Michael Jackson mania. Regardless of your opinions of how his life became a farce of the media, what a spirit. I hope they bring him back home to Gary. Build a new Graceland there.

Back to work....

Packin' my bags...

New York City will be New Yuck City as my Gruesomes family*
raincloud follows me out east. But I shall prevail. If I could just
figure out how to pack my funky rainboots without having to check a damn bag...

Got the newly refurbished Mac laptop to transport with me
this time around so here's to some happy writings...soft breezes of nutty observation... and happy travels...

à bientót


* Refers to the Addams Family/Munsters-esque version of the creepy neighbors in the Flinstones.

Philadelphia cont.

It was a whirlwind day and we squeezed in as much as humanly possible in an 11 hour period before our bus took us back to 42nd St.

Philadelphia Museum of Art had some great pieces in its collection. A quick run whizzing past the Impressionists
galleries complemented all the stuff I've seen over and over back home at the Art Institute and glided through in Paris. Lots of wacky Marcel Duchamp pieces. And my favorite silly painting...that Joan Miro 'Dog Barking at the Moon.' I don't know why I love that one so much.



Of course it is common tourist tradition to run up the steps on the museum à la Rocky. Behold the bronze statue in the upper right photo. I bet that little girl posing never even saw the movie. Funny what statues make people do.

I would definitely go back to Philadelphia. It was a strange city to classify, as we had discussed with some student friends of my brothers over dinner that night. It has its history, but then it felt like Detroit in some parts. It had that fantastic food market (what was that called??), where you could order Amish-prepared apple dumplings or BBQ or, of course, cheesesteaks. But then it had as many homeless beggars as Chicago does, yet in a more concentrated area. I could only imagine Philadelphia's homeless population carries an overt disgust for its anthem of 'Brotherly Love' day in and day out. When traveling, there's always a lot to be told from the eyes of the city's homeless...

note to self: must watch that tv show people are always telling me to watch 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.'

Philadelphia

I had never been to Philadelphia before this trip. It awoke an urge to go visit our nation's historical towns again, most definitely. I was 4 when I did Washington, DC, but I sadly remember a Burt Reynolds film being shot in my grandparents' condo complex more than I remember being inside the White House...

Here I am in the wind (again) in front of Independence Hall, where the Constitution of the United States was signed in case you don't remember.

It's also two days before my hair was chopped by a student at bumble & bumble hair school in Manhattan. He did a good job, but I can't get it to look as cool as he did that day so I guess you'll have to wait for a shot of the new 'do...

Anyway, back to our nation's history.

Over there is the Liberty Bell. They had a strange modern museum building built around it, not at all like in Back to the Future. You have to go through intense security to get inside. Ryan (my brother) and I stood around it for a few minutes and had the giggles because we were the only blatant Americans standing there in the item of purest essence of our nation's history. There were a group of Indian families posing for group portraits in front of the Bell, some Greeks (I believe that was their language) doing some posed gestures for the camera, and a Chinese bus tour group making their way in as we squeezed our way out. It was interesting to experience. Here stood my brother and I, each 1/4 French, 1/8 Osage Native American, 1/8 Irish and 50% American Mutt, next to all of these other global identities. That truly is America in a nutshell.

More Philadelphia to come...

New York City, NYC, pretty mean when it wants to be...

it was a cold and blurry trip.

squeezed a lot in. but MAN was it windy. i felt like the animated Addams Family in an episode of the Flintstones, where the weather just seemed to follow them everywhere they went.

here I am posing near little brother's place on the upper upper west side, George Washington Bridge behind me.

some highlights? art museums, touring our nations history in Philadelphia, FOOOOD, the Strand bookstore, and the girl on the subway.

Ryan and I were headed home for the night on the A train, stuffed full of assorted cakes and ethnic meals and windblown beyond recognition. I glanced over to my brother sitting on my left and caught wind of a knitting project a few seats over, across the way. Knitting always catches my eye because I don't know how some knitters and crocheters can detail such intricacies on mass transit.

I looked up from the piece she was knitting and looked at the woman. I had to try and restrain myself with giggles. At least in the beginning. She was wearing a hat, that she obviously knit. It was complete with cat ears on the top. She was a tall and lanky figure, sitting with her legs twisted and intertwined with each other yet stretching into two seats. She had a pointy chin, thick glasses, and was holding her knitting needles about two inches from her eyes with a strange smirk on her face. Her handbag also had a cat's face crocheted on its front flap, resting on her sprawling pose.

I kept peeking back over to her to catch a better glimpse of her project, until my little brother caught me mid-turning-of-the-head and did a knowing gesture with his eyebrows and I just LOST IT!

It was at that moment I realised she was knitting a sweater for her CAT! I bursted out in laughter so hard and bellyaching and it wouldn't stop!

I quieted down after about a minute straight and breathed deeply.

Then I glanced back over and it started up again, this time lasting about 5 subway stops.

I just laughed and laughed and laughed until I was lightheaded and dizzy and I'd have to catch my breath.

Colombus Circle, expressing past the Central Park stops, 168th...the laughter just kept coming and coming and coming and I couldn't stop myself!

I thought the paramedics were gonna have to come and rescue me from asphyxiation!

I couldn't look at her.

So many character developments were racing through my mind.

She was like a character Kristen Wiig would have created on SNL.

She was the epitome of what happens when you live alone in a big city for much too long.

I was envisioning her having tea parties with her cats in a one-room Washington Heights studio apartment.

All I wish is that I would have been able to control my laughter long enough to snap a shot of her. I hadn't laughed like that in I-can't-even-remember-how-long-ago.

a few days until New York City...

My younger brother has settled into NYC life over the past few years an has seemed to adapt well to it.

I, on the other hand, did not find any sort of peace and harmony to the land when I set off for its landscape over the years. At one point in my very early twenties I even walked around with a stack of resumes, applying for jobs in Manhattan, just to see if something would 'click' for me there.

I found minor frustrations around every other corner, and while they were minor, I ended each day feeling agitated. The turnstile not being calibrated properly so I lost a subway ride on my pass and had to either wait fifteen minutes or go buy another fare. My hotel reservation being overbooked and having to find a friend in Brooklyn for a last-minute place to sleep. Holding on for dear life with a stack of suitcases on a bus to LaGuardia. Ordering a lunch in a busy restaurant and not having any place to sit and eat it properly except out in the cold, walking aimlessly. A jerky shuttle driver dropping me off five blocks from where I needed to meet a friend and then giving me wrong directions as I lugged my suitcase.

But just as minor frustrations occur here and there in any sort of life in any kinda landscape, I still enjoy going back for a visit. I have experienced some equally amazing moments and observed some wonderful sights each visit.

1. Three African gentlemen were carrying their belongings in large cloth sacks and just walking around with wide eyes and dropped jaws inhaling the atmosphere as they stared up to the skyscrapers as they witnessed something never before seen in their new journey in a new land.

2. Being on a 'guest list' for Joey Ramone's 50th birthday party days after his passing and a Little Debbie food fight at the finale, cream-filling splattered all over my hair.

3. A cab driver getting lost in Brooklyn and turning off the meter to find the best route for his weary passenger. Also waiting for me to be let in the building to make sure I'd be alright.

4. Lengthy conversations with strangers in a bar about the drive from the East Coast to the smokestack filled industrial wastelands of Indiana before you see the Chicago skyline.

5. The kindness of the food service employee at the Statue of Liberty cafeteria.

6. Walking around Immigration Hall at Ellis Island.

7. Trying on a crazy dress with cowgirls imprinted all over I could never afford at a cute boutique run by two Japanese girls...

Anyhoo, I am headed to NYC again for an extended weekend later in the week and I look forward to future discoveries.

hibernating

slow news day. again. tried to sit down to work on Great American Novel and nothing but blah blah blah flowed from within today. bitter cold is back. leftovers for lunch today. coffee in hand. kitty sleeping under bed. hubby working all day, open to close.

could talk about billy corgan, my new customer. or slumping music sales. but blah blah blah.

when it's a slow news day, i whisk myself back to France.

Journal entry from Fall 2005, my last Parisian excursion. new commentary following.

aie aie aie
such a strange time to be here in paris. globalisation slammed right up in your face. fires burning. social unrest. capitalist hierarchies. wealthy nations not comprehending why third-world natives want to grow in lands of opportunity. i guess this is it. the future. no more hope, just a lot of war blowing up all over the planet. this can't be it. this can't be our reality. somewhere there's gotta be a light.

when i get back stateside i think we need to band together and spread some love, kids. where are all the hippies? where's all the action? did we get lazy and just decide to spew our opinions on the internet? there is a big friggin world out there and, babies, i'm right in the middle of it, and i don't really think it's time to laugh and fantasize and play in imagination-land anymore. America is no longer disneyland, Wile E. Coyote has finally caught Roadrunner, and Starbucks has invaded Paris. The world is morphing back to a Pangean state, but it's people are not. I like to laugh and roll around in the balls at Chuck E. Cheese and ride bumper cars at the fair just like everyone else, but it ain't funny anymore...

I've been sitting on the steps of the Parisian opera house each nite before I catch my train back to the fiery suburbs, just watching the world pass before my eyes, and after a million Americans stop by to ask me directions to the Eiffel Tower, I'm tired. Really friggin tired.

By the way, I need a job. Anybody hiring? I'll go anywhere.

---

I found your journal (from Amanda's) and was just catching up on your great adventures! You are having the wonderful time you knew you would and learning more about your soul - that is a good thing! I am sure you will find just the right time to start writing. You can be the female (hah!) David Sedaris of Paris. Maybe you should find him to see if he needs an assistant? That would be a great job for you. Good luck with the adventure and I will keep looking every day for more fun. Take care - Love Teresa

Several years later, and with a new president in tow, I feel rejuvenated. Running off to France for five months is not an option at this time, but participating in Obamarama global overhaul is.

Inspiring.

Discipline.

I have been trying to devote a little time each day to a concrete writing submission project, but I fall down on the job each time. I'm not going to beat myself up over this. I work a ridiculous work schedule, never have two consecutive days off, and if I do have free time I like to spend it with my husband. It would be fantastic to find myself an agent and receive some spectacular publishing house funding to concentrate solely on W-R-I-T-I-N-G, but I am well aware of the reality of 'luck' and find refuge in the mere fun of it all.

As I sift through candid writings from days of yore, old travelogues and travelblogs that were originally written as a correspondence to all the family and friends I've met along the way, I cringe at times when I remember the thoughts I had at the moment of the original writing. Again, I pull from the months in France in 2005. This was written at the moment of the so-called Parisian suburb riots, incidentally only 3 towns away from the one I was in, and at a time when I had absolutely no idea where my life would be taking me even one week from that point.

You re-read your own thoughts and relive those particular experiences and laugh at how silly everything seemed. But you also slowly smile and thank God for allowing you to choose your own adventure....

Monday, November 7th, 2005

1:05 pm - Creators, Creation, Media and Everything Else Out-of-Proportion

It's been a bizarre few days. I just heard from the folks back home and everyone was scared that I would somehow get lost in the Paris riots. I've watched it slowly grow, from the first few burnings being covered on the french news, to the eventual coverage by the BBC satellite tv at my cousin's house, to the concerned American family members and their kooky coverage back home. Kinda ironic how a little news story a week or two ago spread like a wildfire around the globe and is now out of control. I have walked and climbed and scaled these city walls and I haven't even smelled one whiff of fire. You know what? There are a million other things going on in this city too. I went to the Louvre yesterday because it was free and they moved the Mona Lisa to a nicer room and got rid of that scratched acrylic panel and replaced it with a very tall piece of glass. Also, the Information Desk at the Louvre is on strike. Everyone here in France goes on strike! Immigrants flock to this country because the social benefits are incredulous. I watched a tiny little nation's people protest around the Bastille to bring attention to their atrocious government and the loss of their culture. They had music, a bunch of loud percusions and you could hear it almost all the way over to the Seine. Today I was roaming and sat down on a bench near the Arc de Triomphe and some Arab women asked me if I could give them some money. The first one cursed me when i shook my head no. I explained to the second one that I also did not have any income and she blessed me as a sister in her language and the others smiled around me and did a two-second prayer vigil around me or something. They flirted with French security standing nearby and everyone laughed and they went on their way with their daily beggings. Globalism is here. Il faut melanger. C'est la vie. I wandered around the Pompidou Centre and looked at an incredible modern art collection, not organised chronologically or by school, but by socialist themes. The last rooms were war, death, voyeurism and prostitution. I left feeling rather melancholic, as if that's ALL we have to come together and create right now but mass chaos everywhere, but there was one last room right by the Big Bang entrance, which was nearly pitch black, you had to walk around a dark room with strangers and search for the guiding lights, featuring five film installations of particular cosmic happenings in the astral skies above. Five Angels for the Universe. Great, a little optimism never hurt anyone, perhaps misdiagnosed as naivete often, but pray tell, where exactly ARE these five angels and when are people going to start listening to them?

Rainboots.

And so vacation is over. I didn't make it to Savannah after all. Maybe next time. With the exception of stumbling around St. Augustine for a day, I did nothing but lounge in a raft in a backyard pool taking silly cellphone photos of my big toe with the tropical lagoon as a backdrop. I don't quite think my toe is ready for its internet debut, so this photo will have to do.

I had to go through extra security and full bag search upon my departure from Florida. The culprit? The spoonrest I bought at a Mexican pottery shop in that bag I'm holding in the picture. They thought it was a weapon. It was not. It was a resting spot for the weary spoon that stirs my winter porridge. But I'm glad those kids are doing their job.

The flooding at O'Hare was like nothing I had seen. We were delayed for several hours and then circled the city twice, over the waters to Michigan and back, up to Wisconsin and around again. I tuned into the cockpit audio and thought to myself, boy, what a horrible air traffic controller I'd be. The Lufthansa pilot coming in was the only one using cool words like 'Roger' and 'Over and Out.' This disappointed me. Upon arrival, the stench and dripping ceilings of the lowest level of the airport were SUCH a lovely welcome home and the Blue Line was completely flooded over and the husband couldn't get to the airport to pick me up due to thigh-high waterlogged roads in his path. The CTA built an ark of chewing gum and popsicle sticks, however, and a shuttle bus took us to the next available station. Nothing like seeing rowboats along the side of your urban streets. And all the flooded cemetaries....

Very strange weather indeed.

And then nothing but sunshine.

Tomorrow is autumn. Officially. This is my favorite time of year....

discovering the usa

There are still many pockets of the USA i have yet to discover. I was lucky enough as a child to have an itinerant set of grandparents who seemed to move all over and spend a year or two in various locales before settling into southern TX. They lived everywhere from Washington DC to Saudi Arabia to the hills of Tennessee. Combine those extended relatives who were scattered like dandelion seeds across the plain states, the desert southwest, Florida, Mexican border towns and California and you had yourself one fine national roster of family-permeated hostels. My childhood memories are filled with those of family roadtrips, backseat license plate bingo, strange rocky coasts, watching my dad talking to locals as they proudly discussed their homesteads, curios shops off the higway, an Indian chief in Oklahoma, a perpetually-carsick little brother and fighting over the music selections.

I am in the midst of planning a trip in a few weeks to visit an aunt, uncle and cousins in the South and am most ecstatically looking forward to discovering a place I have not yet stumbled upon: Savannah, Georgia...

While I don't quite know who reads this blog, if anyone, please do let me know if you have any memories or must-sees to share about Savannah.

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