After the Artist's Way

Destination: New Home

2012-10-09T03:36:00.001-07:00

... new website, that is. You'll find me over at JaniceMacLeod.com.

Visit my new site and update your links:

And now, a love note to Mr. Blogspot...

Dear Mr. Blogspot,

You've been good to me. I've been delighted with the ease, the SEO and especially your analytics. Merci. But I need something a little more robust for what I've got planned on the road ahead. It's kind of a big deal. I'm so excited I could pee!

Here we go!

Love,
Janice

PS. The day I left Rome, I was so sad that my barista made me this special coffee. And so, I give it to you, dear Blogspot. It's been real.

Blog Fog

2012-10-02T02:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not often at a loss for words. But this last month, I was looking at my blog and not having a clue what to write. I don't generally buy into writer's block. I think writing is a verb and most of the work is in the doing of it. Yet... I had pangs of the block and writing wasn't being a verb.

I did a lot of walking around Paris this month, wondering what my problem might be. Why the slow down? Why the blankness? What is with the blog fog?

At first I blamed the spammers who have flooded my blog with comments, such as:

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Rife, you say? So there was a bit of posting reluctance as I didn't want to feed more spammy comments. I'm kinda sensitive to junk mail.

Ya think?

When there was no one left to blame, I was left with myself. What is it I don't want to say?

Ah, now therein lies the issue. BINGO!

There is something that totally bummed me out this month and I didn't want to talk about it. The news of it actually silenced me. I didn't even mention it to Christophe. I couldn't even say it in English, let alone muddle my way through it in French.

So here it is.

This past month, my grandma moved out of her house and into an assisted living apartment in town. This is good news. Lots of ladies to chat with and wallop in Scrabble (she's goood). Monitored yet private accommodation, "Even though the whole apartment is the size of my sun porch!" This move was her choice and she seems cool with it. All good on that front.

But then I was writing a letter to her and realized that I had to get her new address. That's when it hit me. The address where I have been sending letters to my grandma for years is no longer valid.

That's when I realized she wasn't immortal.

Maybe it's because I'm a MacLeod from the clan MacLeod that I expected immortality. But the fact that I couldn't write my grandma's address on an envelope rendered me silent for a month.

I didn't call people back.
Emails piled up.
I didn't made plans.
I didn't even studied my French language lessons.
I was silent in both languages.

The three weeks off from blogging led to a lot of thoughts about the endings of things. The end of lives, the end of seasons, and even, one day, the end of this blog... especially after the vermin spammers get me excited about a comment only to tell me to visit their site about cheap Canadian meds. (I'm moving the blog over to a Wordpress site just as soon as I can get it up and running. Stay tuned on that front.)

The three weeks has given me time to conjure up new plans.

I added Love Letters to my painted letter series.
I also created a 12-letter collection of Paris Letters. The whole collection in one big envelope. A year of Paris love. The perfect gift for under the tree of your favourite Francophile.

The three weeks has also given me the time to observe something in the moment and let it go. So much of my mind space is taken up by collecting bits of my day to mix into a delectable blog post. But this time, I walked and observed Paris like those people who come here and don't bring their cameras. What were you thinking? And no I'm not sending you my photos. Out of spite more than anything.

Three weeks to process my feelings and give myself the time to let the words flow out rather than force them out so I could get the thrill of hitting Publish.

After sitting with the silence and allowing it to walk around beside me, the blog fog is slowly lifting. I'm accepting a few more invitations and finally getting back to those emails. I'm looking at Wordpress options and reeling that there is yet another new thing to learn. Isn't learning French enough?

I think I'll email my uncle, too, to get grandma's new address. I'm going to send that letter. She'd like that.

So would I.

2 days in Paris

2012-09-10T00:56:00.000-07:00

You've only got two full days in Paris. What will you do? I'll tell you exactly what to do after I berate you for only planning 2 days in one of the greatest cities on earth. What were you THINKING?!?

1. Geographically-desireable monument. You'll get spit out of your hotel and go to the nearest monument: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame or Sacre Coeur. Already you can cross one off your list. Check!

2. Forget eggs for breakfast. You don't have time. You've only got two days! You'll be grabbing a baked good at the boulangerie around the corner. Eat immediately. Swoon. Consider ordering a second. You'll walk it off anyway.

3. Stop for coffee at a café. It's preferred that this be a famous café with seats polished by the arse of Hemingway. Check! The coffee in Paris is espresso. One thimble of strong, thick coffee. It is served with sugar on the side. Use it. If you wait to ask for milk, you'll wait too long. You don't have time! You could have asked for a café creme, which is espresso with a lot of milk. Too much milk. You could have also asked for a noisette, which is the espresso without too much milk. This is preferred. But if you didn't ask at first, you're stuck with the espresso with sugar. You could have asked for an Americano, which is espresso with hot water. Don't do this. You will have paid for hot water and you'll just have to go to the bathroom. Speaking of...

4. Go to the bathroom before you leave the café. You are nomadic now. You don't have time to go back to your hotel no matter how much you want to take some time to self in the loo or sleep off your jetlag. It's your own fault for only planning 2 days in Paris. You will go to the bathroom whenever and wherever you get the chance. If you've paid for coffee, you've earned bathroom privileges. If not, you don't get to go to the bathroom in any ol' restaurant. Where are your manners? Geesh! DO NOT be the person in your group that didn't go when you had the chance, thereby making the group search for another bathroom. You're running out of time.

5. Cross Versailles off your list. You don't get to go. You only have two days and Versailles is a train ride out of Paris and a whole day affair. Sorry. You didn't think that through.

6. Buy a carte for the Métro. This is a book of 10 Métro tickets. It's cheaper than buying them individually and it is a ROYAL PAIN IN THE ARSE to wait behind people in line at the vending machine. US residents: The vending machine doesn't work with your cards. Pick a vending machine that accepts cash. BUT, the ATMs work with your cards. Use cash. It's a cash world here. Mostly. While at the vending machine, click the Union Jack symbol for English. You don't have time to learn another language. Go!

7. Pick an arrondissment. Paris is chopped up into districts and these districts are les arrondissment. If you look at a map of Paris, you'll see the different districts. You'll also notice that these districts are arranged in the shape of a snail.

Borrowed from Paris Breakfast, a blogger who also paints about Paris.

Choose two arrondissment for each day. A quick review:

6th arrondissment... this is also called St. Germain des Prés and the Left Bank. Both names are correct. I bought my first crêpe here. Hot Nutella crêpe in cold February. Bliss. Meander down crooked medieval streets. Locate Shakespeare & Co and buy a book. Get a special Shakespeare & Co. stamp. This is your souvenir of Paris. You're done shopping. You don't have time.

5th arrondissment... my hood! AKA The Latin Quarter. Here, you'll find the Sorbonne (famous old university), the Pantheon (famous dead writers are here), the church next to the Pantheon (steps in Midnight in Paris) and the restaurant kitty corner from the church (first restaurant Julia Child had dinner in Paris in Julie & Julia when she smells the fish and says, "Mmmm, butter." And Rue Mouffetard, which is the ultimate cool market street. Walk up and down saying, "Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour" to the merchants. You'll feel like Belle in the opening song of Disney's Beauty & the Beast.
4th arrondissment... the Marais. Do not miss this place. This is the old Jewish quarter, which had very dark days that you'll see in war films I don't watch anymore. They haunt my dreams. Now, it's the gay hood, which means it's awesomely hip and pricey. Thank goodness the gays came along and made things more fun and pretty. Enroute to the 4th, go to Notre Dame. It's free and max 30 minutes to walk around. The long line to get in is quick.
18th arrondissment... Montmartre. This is where they filmed Amelie. Go to Sacre Coeur church, follow the crowd to the square and gaze at the amazing paintings being done right there in front of your eyes. Beware of pickpocketers. NOTE: If anyone engages you in conversation, the likely want to sketch you or rob you.
7th arrondissment... the Eiffel Tower. Photos. Check! Take Batobus boat to the Eiffel Tower and you've toured the Seine at the same time. Check! Check!
1st arrondissment... the Louvre. Quick highlights includes the Mona Lisa, the Italian paintings, the Egyptian area and the Napoleon apartments. The Napoleon apartments are key if you've listened to me and crossed Versailles off your list. You'll see the gold and opulence of royalty without leaving the city. Check!

Now get going. Go!

A woman at the café sips a celebratory glass of wine

2012-09-03T23:07:00.001-07:00

A woman at the café sips a celebratory glass of wine. She finally found the lamp. The last piece to make her living space complete. She thought to go into Jeff de Bruges for chocolate, but Jeff will always be there and she's still working her way through a Cote d'Or at home.

Being a resident of Paris means not rushing around to buy trinkets. But when I went home to Canada on vacation, that's just what I did. Crest White Strips, Sharpies, my favorite pens and Advil by the bottle. You can buy Advil here but only in packs of 8. With Christophe's heavy lifting at work, his recent finger-door slam and my multi-hour urban hikes before the callouses, it seems we were always at the pharmacy.

I walked up Rue Mouffetard for a quick tête-à-tête with Christophe. This is our afternoon conversation. "Tu vas ou?" he asks. Where are you going?

"Le Marais," I reply.

"Saussisses et choucroute pour diner?" he asks.

I nod.

A quick kiss and head up the street. I'm not bounding at my usual gait. A combo of legs that haven't done this uphill walk in awhile and a general ho-hum. I cross to Rue Monge and pass Cardinal Lemoine métro station. I like the name. It reminds me of red birds and lemons, which reminds me of a vintage postcard. I ignore the truth, that the station and street are named after a priest.

I stop at the light and gaze at the flowers at the corner shop. I need to replace the ivy that decided to reincarnate into a household with a greener thumb. The light turns green. I carry on. The rain begins two streets down at the next flower shop. Across the street is Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet church. I love this church for a few reasons. First, it's lit with chandeliers, which provides a serene glow. Second, the old ladies who sit inside still cover their heads. I don't know any protocol beyond my own, so I, like the other young ladies, don't bother covering my scandalous locks. And third, when meditate on the divine inside this church, I feel like I get somewhere fast.

The rain is coming down harder as I stand on the corner deciding whether to buy more geraniums or go into the church. A meth head makes my decision. He helps an old lady up the stairs to the church door, then badgers her for money until she's safely inside.

I walk on.

I turn at Rue des Bernardins. There is a good Italian restaurant on this street. It's closed with a sign on the door. I read the sign. They are closed for the month and they wish me a pleasant summer. Many businesses fermé their doors for the month of August. Tourists who come in August are missing most of the show.

I cross over the first bridge and walk behind Notre Dame and her sexy buttresses. The second bridge takes me to the Île Saint-Louis with its long, narrow streets of tourist glee. The third bridge brings me to the Marais. Immediately the vibe turns to a deeper shade of cool. A man walks buy with white earphones dangling from his ears to his pocket, leaving his hands free to play air guitar. A gay couple walk by hand in hand. Their matching T-shirts read, "I need a girlfriend."

By now the rain is coming at me sideways. My sandals are wet and squishing with every step. I stop at the next light and contort under my parapluie to put my sweater over my dress. I cross the street and arrive at a home decor store and walk in to get out of the rain. There I find the lamp, the final piece. To celebrate, I go to a nearby brasserie for a glass. I order without anxiety and complete comprehension. Success!

Before my glass of red arrives, I give directions to two people. It seems everyone wants a fallafel on Rue de Rosier.

It's all coming together.

I open my journal to find a source of my melancholy, of my general malaise. As I write it out, I realize it's not me. It's the place. It's the end of August and the new school year is about to begin.

It's the pause before the push.

Paris Letters aka Gobsmack Inducers

2012-08-30T01:23:00.001-07:00

Since opening my Paris Letters shop on Etsy in January, I've sent over 500 letters all over the world. Whoot! Apparently people like getting fun letters in the mail, especially people in Canada, the USA and Australia. The letters also found their way into Canadian Living. I'm amazed and humbled by all the nice things people say, too. Just today someone wrote:

“You are an amazing artist and writer.”

Nearly bawled. Thanks. And someone else wrote:

“Nothing better than to come home to a beautifully written letter from Paris.”

And yet another:

“I'm just gobsmacked (in a good way)! This idea is fresh and amazing and fun and gorgeous.”

I love that I induced gobsmacking. I like being a gobsmack inducer (in a good way).

And it occurred to me, dear reader, that you may not have seen my painted letters.

Feeling neglected and perturbed. *Sighing heavily*

Sorry about that. Now you have the complete collection from January until now... with a few other randoms thrown in. If you're moved, feel free to slap them up on Pinterest, share them on your usual social streams, twat them... er, I mean, twit them, etc.

TWEET! Get. With. The. Times.

Er, yes, tweet. And if you're feeling especially moved, you can subscribe to the Paris Letters, which will be different than those shown below, but of a similar ilk.

Ilk... strange word.

Agreed.

The moment you order, I'll race to mail yours out. Unless I'm sleeping. In that case, I'll mail it out right after my coffee. Sleep, then coffee, then mail your letter. That's the best I can do. That's how I roll.

Voila!

You can also subscribe a friend who could use some sweet snail mail from Paris. Order now at my shop: http://www.etsy.com/shop/janiceartship

Recipe: Beef Bourguignon... with photos!

2012-08-26T15:19:00.001-07:00

People go bananas for beef bourguignon. It's a fancy name for beef stew. Julia Child's recipe is the most famous and the version below is based on hers. This recipe is guaranteed to help you win the affection of friends and family. It's also handy for getting you out of sticky situations. When I came home with a blender the other day that was WELL BEYOND the budget, I whipped up some beef stew and all was forgiven and forgotten. I also got a bonus back rub. Score.

The dumplings are optional but delightful. And Julia doesn't mention them in her book. My mom gave me the recipe. She's good that way.

Canada Tour 2012

2012-08-23T08:32:00.001-07:00

British Columbia: A working vacation

2012-08-21T13:20:00.001-07:00

You know how you describe people to others in a way that you would never do it to their face? You're not being mean, you're just being... accurate. For instance, I've described people to others like this:

"Michelle, if she were a bird she'd be a canary."

"Alisha. She wears beige and has a quiet grace about her. Or maybe she's just tired all the time. Something heavy about her eyelids."

"Doug... Hot sauce on everything. Web guy."

"Joe... show hair."

"Adam... he's... a... slow... talker... but he's not mentally ill.... just... a... pauser."

Everyone nods. "Yup. I know who you're talking about."

If you had described me two years ago, you may have said, "Janice... wears dresses all the time and always complains about not having enough vacation days."

I was so known as being the person in the office that complained about the meager vacation policy that people came to me for advice on how to plan their own vacations. How can they accrue more days faster (you can't). How can they negotiate for more time off and less money (It had never been done at this particular office). How can they get to Europe and use as few vacation days as possible (Leave on a Friday night after work but before a long weekend, return on the following Sunday night and be jetlagged at work = 9 days away for the price of 4).

How can how can how can how can...

If you wanted a vacation tagged onto the long American Thanksgiving weekend, you had best asked for the time off by April since you'll be denied if someone beat you to it. You see, not everyone could be gone from the office at the same time.

My old boss had hung a giant calendar on the wall outside my office and would mark down all the approved vacation time. Then she would cart my nervous colleagues over to said calendar who were still clutching their Vacation Request Form. She'd point, "See here, there are already two art directors out that week. We need you here." Dejected, they'd slink away Charlie Brown-style, cancel the plane tickets they already bought, take a few TUMS and come over to my office to process what just happened.

I had a door, tissues, a hatred for vacation policies, and a counseling degree so they knew they had a safe space to talk. They'd vent. I'd nod in agreement. I'd tell them where they went wrong and how they can improve their tactic for next time.

I was a Vacation Request Coach.

The vacation policy was BY FAR the biggest reason I quit my job. With only two weeks vacation per year, with one of those weeks going toward family out-of-town events like weddings or Christmas, I was left with one week per year to recoup and see a slice of the world. It just wasn't enough time for health or happiness.

But now, my life in Paris is kinda vacationy all the time. Sure I'm writing and working on my painted letters biz, but there is a lot of free time for daydreaming and reading in the shade of chestnut trees. So when Christophe had the month of August off and wanted to take vacation, I didn't think I actually needed one like I needed them in the past.

But that didn't stop me from taking one. We took off for a mountain lake in British Columbia with friends who have a sweet cottage on Lake Windemere. When I arrived, I dropped my bags in my room, gave the grounds a gander, then picked up my iPhone to check my email.

No bars.

It's gonna be one of those vacations. Digital diet, here we come. You may recall last August when I took a digital diet in Poland. It didn't go well.

But this time, I decided to keep busy with other things. Canoeing, hiking, fishing, lounging, chatting with friends... all those things you actually imagine doing on vacation. I don't know many people who dream about one day going to a cottage just to be able to get online.

But it sure is nice. Though I had angst when I couldn't update my blog or share photos, I was also free from the stream of thought that plagues my days. How can I sell more letters. How can I get into magazines. How can I pump up the paintings.

How can how can how can how can...

When the questions stopped spinning in my head, the answers had room to appear. This week, I'll be adding a few more projects to my painted letter series, sending out a few pitches and writing more than the occasional tweet.

It was a vacation that worked. Now, people will say, "Janice... wears dresses all the time and travels a lot. Lives in Paris as an artist."

Awesomesauce.

Lake Louise, Alberta with Christophe.

Polyvore: Paris at home

2012-08-03T18:58:00.001-07:00

I started playing around with this fun little Polyvore site. A kind of collage making site. You can find items online and make a collage out of them. Then if someone sees something in your collage that they like, they can click on it and find out where to buy it. Neat idea.

I found out about it through the Stats page at my Etsy shop. Turns out a lot of people are coming to see my painted letters because they saw them in a collage over on Polyvore. Score.

Some of the collages are inspiring works of art. So I figured I'd give it a try.

So far things aren't going my way. As is the case with most things that are new. Oh self-judgement, you are an unkind bedfellow.

There is a lot of shuffling around of items in order to make the collage and everything is still hanging out in space. See below. Plus, the Search feature is strange. I searched "dress" and there were zero results. Obviously, it's something I did wrong since I'm the first one I judge in these types of techo-learning situations. It couldn't possibly be the computer. No. It's got to be me. And while I'm at it, I'll judge the water and the ozone layer, which ultimately is a judgment on mankind, which comes back to me and how I should recycle more or use less or something.

ANYWAY....

After eons and a good dose of self-judgement, this is the living room scene I created. Pretty bleak, folks.

How is it that people can make feature films and all I can do is manage this tiny sparse living room?

Paris at home by janice-macleod on Polyvore

Sofas, sofa beds & beds for next-day delivery in the UK | sofa.com
sofa.com

Everett Upholstered Chair
westelm.com

Arteriors Gold-Leaf Iron Floor Lamp
neimanmarcus.com

RECYCLED WINE BARREL SIDE TABLE | Recycled Wine Barrel Side Table is...
uncommongoods.com

Costa Black and Silver Scroll Frame
artgalleryframes.com

Fun mail from Paris: 12 letters
etsy.com

Secret sauce for taking great photos with a phone

2012-07-24T00:56:00.000-07:00

It's true. I use my iPhone to take almost all my photos. Why? Because if you learn NOTHING from this post except one thing, let it be this:

The best camera you have is the one you have with you.

And the one I always have with me is my iPhone.

I laugh at the tourists in Paris that have giant cameras slung around their necks. Yes, these giant cameras can take great photos, but they are heavy and after 8 hours of winding through this medieval town, even carrying a few extra coins starts to get heavy. So the next day, they leave their camera at the hotel. And that's that.

These days, there are so many great apps for smart phones that regular pedestrian photos can be turned into great shots. Sure, you can't zoom in like you can with the big fancy cameras. And the resolution is crap if you plan on printing your photo bigger than 8 x 10. But seriously, how many photos will you print? Let's be real.

I say, print something that will look good with what you've got. Print a series of small photos that work well as a collection like my new favorite Paris photographer, Nichole Roberston of the blog Little Brown Pen, author of Paris in Color and The Paris Print Shop on Etsy.

She is a pro photographer with a pro camera. But you can make stunning small size prints with your iPhone shots, too. More info on this photo.

This is how I create pretty shots with my iPhone.

Take photos with the regular ol' Camera app that came with the phone. It tends to load faster than other camera apps.
Import the photos into the Camera+ app and edit. Some people swear by taking photos in Camera+ because there are other fun tricks, but I like the speed of the regular Camera app.
Save the photo in the regular Camera app to import it later into your computer. You can also post to Facebook and Twitter from Camera+ but I like to have all my final photos in one place and that place is my Camera app and later my iPhotos library.

(These tips were provided by my friend Chris O who is a photo-taking wizard.)

Optional collage options:

For collages made on my phone, I use a photo collage app aptly called Photo Collage.
For collages made on the computer after I've imported the photos, I use a website called Pixlr.

Enough instruction. Let's see this method in action.

Before

After

Before

After

Before

After

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After


Before

After

Before


After

Before

After

Of course, photo taking is always more about the eye of the photographer than the lens of the camera. And it's also about taking a slew of photos. Taking many photos of the same thing is key. A slightly different angle can make all the difference between regular and awesomesauce. For example:

Regular.

Awesomesauce.

This may seem like a lot of work. All these steps. But the method is easier than you may think. I tend to walk around Paris and snap shots with the regular Camera app on my phone. Later, when waiting for the movie to start, the train to arrive, the coffee to brew, I whip out my camera and import a few photos into Camera + or Photo Collage. After a week of fiddling with my photos on and off, I import the slew of them into my iPhoto library and start fresh for the next week.

Go forth, young Jedi. May the camera be with you.

On being vulnerable

2012-07-14T11:39:00.002-07:00

There are things I'm afraid to tell you.

There has been a movement slinking around the blogsphere. It's not new and I'm behind on blogging about it because I've been too busy posting pretty photos of my life in Paris on Facebook.

The idea behind the movement is that the rosy and wonderful versions we present of ourselves online can be far from the truth. So a blogger named Jess Constable wrote some of the other stuff on her site. The vulnerable stuff. The stuff she's afraid to tell you. I found out about it over at Little Brown Pen, and Oprah wrote about it, too. Then I watched Brené Brown talk about vulnerability at Ted. And after all this, my upper back seized up, which makes me cranky and makes me wonder what Louise L. Hay would say about all this. I think my back is telling me, "There is stuff to say, there is stuff to say, there is stuff to say."

So here we go. I'm offloading here and now.

The things I don't want to tell you:

Paris isn't always great.
It has rained three times a day for months.
And I can't make it poetic all the time
Because sometimes it's just cold and wet.
And when it doesn't smell like piss, it smells like smoke.
Aphids ate my geranium blooms.
I don't even want to get into that metaphor.
I heard you need to spray geraniums with soapy water.
There are still no blooms
But there are suds when it rains.
It'll have to do.
My rainbow bubble blooms.
Fragile and filling in while the buds simmer.
I think my hair is fine, but my Swiffer tells me
It's getting finer all the time.
I get overwhelmed by the number of photos I take.
I feel pressure to handle it all.
Skype is good but it's not that good.
My niece said yesterday
"the connection is down."
She's six and she's right.
I freak out about money.
How to make it, save it, mend it.
It's one of the many snags in my soul.
So much to see and do
So much to pay for.
I wonder about my painted letters
And think, c'mon, really? Letters?
This is how you're going to get it done?
I have to breathe deep to find the strength
To reply with a quiet, "yes, and stop talking now."
The French language continues to distance.
When will I turn on the TV and understand?
I think I'd understand the same if it were on Mute,
Especially with dubbed-over American cop shows.
I often feel mute when I walk around the city
But at least that TV show looks like a period piece
With a backdrop of bridges and statues and carved doors.
I jump a lot from sounds in my walls.
The invisible fleet scratching along the floorboards.
But then he walks in, looks at me and says,
"You love me still?"
And I look at him, nod and say
"When did you learn the word 'Still'?"
He's learning. I'm learning. We're getting there.
But for today we are here.
We crack open our beer and cheer another day.
May we be so lucky to do it all again tomorrow.
The good, the bad and the rainy.

Reading: Wild by Cheryl Strayed

2012-07-08T09:12:00.001-07:00

After reading Cheryl Strayed's memoir Wild, about her hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, I will never ever again complain about my feet hurting. In the opening scene, she describes the moment when, half way through her hike, as she is sitting at a vista overlooking a mountain range, her hiking boot falls over a cliff. Irretrievable, she has no choice but to continue on without it.

It reminded me about a day last summer when it rained so hard in Paris that my well-worn walking shoes literally fell apart right there on my feet, right there on the street. I was lucky. I ducked into a shop and bought a cheap pair to get me home (The shopkeeper was likely horrified by my nude, dirty, wet feet). Cheryl had to hike for days until a replacement pair arrived at a lone outpost along the way.

Feet are a miracle. I've done more than my share of urban hiking over the last year. At the end of big hike days, as I lay in bed sifting through the daily harvest of photos, I wonder if my feet will ever heal from the ache. Sometimes my feet pulse with pain, the fresh blisters sting and the bottoms burn. Then there are the times I feel something crunching inside. Then I think I've really done it now. I've done something irreversible. And fall asleep worrying for my poor peds. But when I wake up, my feet are pain-free and I'm ready to take to the cobblestone streets once again.

Miracles, I tell you. The feet are miracles.

The pharmacies of Paris have entire walls dedicated to foot care. Blister bandages and Dr. Scholl's products are available around every corner. And on park benches, you'll see shoeless ladies looking at their bare feet as they open their newly purchased boxes of bandaids. Two words: Ballerina toes. Yikes.

But we can't help ourselves. Paris is the most lovely, most walkable city in the world. Just today I walked down a street I'd never seen before. I was rewarded with another piece of street art from one of my favorite street artists.

Despite my extensive urban hike training, after reading Wild, I have no interest in hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. One reason: She named her backpack Monster.

Non merci.

Everyone is an a$$hole

2012-07-05T03:11:00.000-07:00

But mostly the post office.

I have this sick fascination with the post office. I think the postal service is nothing short of a miracle. I can write your address on an envelope, slap on a stamp, slide that bad boy in a box on the street and it gets to your house. Your house, which can be anywhere in the world. Your house, which can be a gazillion miles away from my house. And it costs less than a cup of coffee. Less than a CHEAP cup of coffee. We're talking the SMALL coffee at Tim Hortons. We're talking Dunkin' Donuts, people.

It floors me every time.

I'm so enamored with the postal service that I create painted letters to send to people in the mail. This is how much I love letters, envelopes and stamps. I even worked in advertising for 102 years and wrote letters on behalf of Fortune 500 companies so I could be close to letters, envelopes and stamps.

Sick fascination. Sick.

When I was a kid, summer mornings were spent in eager anticipation of the arrival of the mail. The Canadian Tire flyer: AWESOME. The seed catalog: DOUBLE AWESOME. And the year I was part of the Quik Fan Club? TRIPLE AWESOME.

So when my sister mailed me a package here to Paris and I didn't receive it, I went to my local post office to inquire. This is a monumental effort, of course, because I have to deal with all this speaking French. But, my sister sent my mugs from my old apartment in Santa Monica and a chocolate brown blanket that will hide all my coffee dribbles when I curl up in it with my morning brew. AWESOME!!!!

My hand was shaking when I gave the lady my printout from Canada Post that stated the package was somewhere in France, sitting alone, waiting for me. She typed in the tracking number and informed me that yes, the package had arrived. Yes, it sat for two weeks. No one claimed it so they sent it back to Canada.

I said that no one had sent me a notice to let me know when it arrived and where to pick it up. She shrugged.

She effing shrugged.

She handed back the Canada Post printout. Then my hands were shaking for a different reason.

Merci you m@#$W#$$EWRQ$#TFF#$%$#!!!

I walked away seething. And of course, during all this I had Santa sack of my painted letters to send out for the July mailing. I was going to take them on the BatoBus river boat to the Eiffel Tower because I heard they use a special Eiffel Tower stamp to cancel the letters sent from there.

This is what I do. I will take a whole afternoon, drag a massive bag across the city JUST so readers can see that Eiffel Tower stamp. And I do it because I love this service, I love sending letters, I love the post office. Love, love, love it all.

But all I could think on the boat ride was that everyone who ever had anything to do with letters and the post office was an asshole. That France itself was an asshole.

I even called God an asshole.

And just to be super all-encompassing yet non-denominational about it, I called the universe an asshole, too.

Because clearly the universe fucked me over for a reason and there is a lesson in this somewhere. It's probably my fault in some way. Probably could have been kinder to someone or done something extra. Probably didn't have enough love in my heart. I probably should have used more floss and fewer Q-tips. Or maybe I was being asked to say goodbye to the mugs from Santa Monica and the life they represented. Was I being asked to move forward into this new life?

When I arrived at the Eiffel Tower, I stood under the big brown beast, looked up and thought one thing, "Eiffel was not an asshole." I took a breath and walked my big bag of letters over to the little postal box, which is the gateway to getting these letters literally around the world. "This postal box is not an asshole." A guy sitting nearby smiled at me as I slipped handful after handful into the box. He had a nice smile. "He's not an asshole."

I bought a postcard to send to Christophe because he's not an asshole either. And he'd like a fun postcard. Plus, I wanted to test the theory of the special Eiffel Tower stamp. They only had a vending machine where you could buy a stamp to put on your postcard. Instead of giving me a pretty stamp, maybe even something Eiffel Tower-ish, the machine spit out this looker, which is a fine stamp if you're sending something to the gas company, but hardly something you want to slap on the back of a postcard:

ASSHOLES!

Majoring in les tourists

2012-06-29T01:31:00.002-07:00

"The Mona Lisa is the most recognized painting in the world."

"The Eiffel Tower is the most recognized monument in the world."

"France is the most popular tourist destination in the world."

"Paris is the most popular city for tourists in the world."

These are just some of the facts and figures I've been spewing over the last few weeks. June is high season for tourists in Paris. First my uncle and aunt arrived with another couple. Then my mom and my aunt arrived.

These people are all from rural Ontario, Canada. Traveling usually means hopping on a plane, finding your way to Arrivals and locating the guy with a sign with your name on it who will cart you to a resort where you will stay put. There is nothing wrong with this. But it doesn't train you for the skills required of behemoth cities like Paris.

Paris is no resort town. This is Balls-out-find-your-way-or-be-lost-forever Town until you get the lay of the land. "Did you know there are over 300 Métro stations in Paris?" Bonne chance.

For the last two weeks, I would arrive at their hotel and lead them through the city, whipping out superlatives along the way. Paris is the biggest, has the oldest, and is the most popular in just about every category. When they'd ask something I didn't know, I'd shrug and say, "Google it."

The Left Bank area of Paris is soooooo good about making tourists feel like they are getting the true Parisian experience. The berets, the big moustaches, the surly lipped waiters... it's all there. And the souvenir shops! I had no idea they had great stuff. I've bypassed them all up until now. But with the family in town, we had our paws in everything in those shops. I even bought an apron with a French kitty on it.

At the onset of their vacations, I did some casual interviewing on the Métro as they stood gripping the bar and trying the plant their feet as the train squealed around bends under the city. I ask questions because I need to know what they want to major in while in Paris.

Paris has a lot to offer and you have to declare a major when your here. My friend Huey declared iron as his major and photographed ornate gates during his two weeks here. My friend Alan, a movie buff, majored in movie sites and in particular, Midnight in Paris. He also spent every night wandering around Paris thinking up ideas for his new writing project.

Waiting for the 1920s on the famous steps in Midnight in Paris.

Since I live here, I'm taking a general Bachelors Degree in Paris. Some semesters I study art at the museums. I took a few weeks to study different street artists, too. For ages, I was enamored with Space Invader. Finding one of his art pieces around the city was like finding an Easter Egg. Now I'm into the street artist who literally paints on the street, as seen in this photo:

But after I read Paris in Color, I majored in finding matching colors and slapping them together.On the day I took the photo montage above, it was a black and white day. Some days, it's lemon yellow.

Or a rainbow theme:

Sometimes I major in food, too.

With a particular focus on dessert:

Hello, nata, you beautiful thing.

Or the skyline:

And music. This is my friend Paul Freeman who was here in town opening for some dude named Chris Cornell.


Listen to Paul's music if you know what's good for you. The lyrics make my teeth tingle.

While my uncle was here, we majored in monuments. They only had three days, so we madly rushed through the city checking the biggies off the list: Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe. CHECK! CHECK! CHECK!

My mom and aunt were here longer so we majored in shopping. I made them see at least one touristy thing each day, but once that was "over with," we got back to trying on summer frocks. The French are good at dresses. Holy Lord.

My mom fell on a cobblestone street one day and needed 9 stitches in her knee, so that day we majored in the French social system. It didn't cost her a dime and they even provide a Métro ticket to get her back to the hotel. She was a trooper. Once the Advil kicked in, we were back to frock finding. But this time, walking arm-in-arm:

But now that they've all gotten safely back on their planes, I'm going back to majoring in my favorite subject:

Ooh la la la laaaa

2012-06-10T11:10:00.000-07:00

I'm here in Paris plugging away at learning this language. Still.

I'm still befuddled by most of what people say. I still listen to my French language podcasts, still meander my way through my online courses and still flip through my offline books. I still write out the conjugations of verbs and still I wonder if it helps. So many of these verbs that are perfectly understandable on the page are completely imperfect when uttered in the real world. Especially the imperfect tense.

Back in school when I was taking French with other English students, I was a star. When we were learning only what was put on the page in front of us, my French was not just pas mal, it was stellar. Even my professor said, "Janice, you speak beautifully." But then he followed with, "Now if only you could understand what you were saying."

Here, out in the real French world, they don't stick to the text book page. They could say ANYTHING and I have to RESPOND IN FRENCH in REAL TIME.

Getting my hair cut is a rehearsal in front of the mirror at home. Don't want to eff that up.

Buying a summer frock starts first with trying to remember how to ask if I can try it on.

And to ask for the price of something? Oh forget it. If it's anything over the number 69, I'm screwed.

Seventy is literally translated as sixty-ten: soixante-dix
Ninety is four-twenty-ten: quatre-vingt-dix
Ninety-nine is four-twenty-ten-nine: quatre-vingt-dix-neuf

And even though it sounds complicated, it's not complicated here in the comfort of my own learning space. Here, I'm a super star student. But as soon as something costs anything that sounds like a really long number, I flub up and just keep handing over 20s until they are satisfied.

Often they ask for exact change. The French love exact change. When I understand what they've asked for, and if I have it, I hand it over. Other times I stick my nose in my change purse, pretend to be scrounging through my coins, and say non, désolé (no, sorry) which is really me saying "No, sorry. I haven't got a clue what you just said. Just give me my strawberries and let me get out of here, mmm k?"

I pull out the non, désolé a lot. If someone on the street is trying to hand me a paper about the latest elections, I say non, désolé. If they are trying to get me to sign a petition for AIDS, Amnesty International, Green Peace or whatever group is standing around with clipboards wearing the same colored shirts, they get a non, désolé. A lady asking for spare change? Yep. You guessed it. Non, désolé.

Dear French citizens: You're getting the non, désolé until I can understand what you're saying.

I'm learning to not judge people that appear rude. They are probably just trying to learn the language.

Today, a lady handed me a song sheet because her and her friends had set up a sing song outside my apartment by the fountain. I gave her my non, désolé before I even realized what she was handing me. She replied Il faut (roughly translated, It is necessary or You must!) and she looked disheartened by my hand gesture that accompanied my non, désolé.

It was a song sheet. So I could sing songs. With a group. By a fountain. IN PARIS!

So I've got to lighten up on my non, désolé-ing.

Sometimes people on the outside remark about how lovely and easy my life is here in Paris. Try getting alterations at your French tailor and you'll realize that living in another country before you get the hang of the language is hard. (She says as she writes in the dress she altered herself because fuckiti'lljustdoitmyself)

Most of the beautiful bookstores in Paris are tragique. Each book is an ocean filled with ideas and adventures I can't begin to understand. There are characters I could love inside those books. I just know it. But, alas. Will we ever meet?

I'm not even funny in French. I'm not even my usual flirty flitting about self in French. I'm simple in French.

When Christophe was learning English, he discovered the word Boobies. He laughed his head off and proceeded to use the word in fits of giggles for weeks after. He thought it was the funniest word ever. Boobies! Ha ha ha! Boobies!

I wonder if I sound like a 5 year old when I speak French.

It's not all bad. For instance, I learned something fascinating in French today. You've likely heard the expression Ooh la la, which roughly translates to Wow, Oh My, Oh Dear. But it has another meaning. I've heard it a lot today when people were haggling over chandeliers and dyed feathers at the antique fair that erected itself around the corner. Buyers were saying Ooh la la la laaaa, which translates to Are You Fucking Kidding Me With This Price? Then the potential buyer offers up another number (which I didn't catch, naturally) and the seller pulls another Ooh la la la laaaa, which translates to You Can Go Fuck Yourself And The Horse You Rode In On If You Think I'm Selling That To You For That Price You Crook.

And later today, watching Christophe watch EURO 2012, he stood and said Ooh la la la laaaa!!!, which translates to WTF Kind Of Call Was THAT You Arse Ref!

And the best part of this language lesson? I already know how to say Ooh la la la laaaa and it works in many instances.

Ooh la la la laaaa (translated, I'm Onto Something And It's Goooood.)

Top 5 Coffees in the World

2012-06-06T01:26:00.000-07:00

Coffee... come to mama.

Before I was living and writing in Paris, I was nomadic, traveling the world in search of everything beautiful and tasty. So naturally, I spent a lot of time sipping coffee in cafés to rest my weary feet and refuel for the next leg of my journey. In this time, I've found five coffee establishments worthy of my love. And the awards go to...

The Best Coffee Of. My. Life. Award goes to Downes Grounds at the Waimea Farmers Market on The Big Island of Hawaii. The coffee was so fresh that it tasted... alive. It was the first time I dared not mess with perfection by adding cream or sugar. Do yourself a solid and order it online.

The Best Coffee/Atmosphere Combo Award goes to Sant Eustachio Café in Rome, Italy. This jet fuel has been growing hair on the chest of Romans for ages. The best part of this coffee, aside from the strength of the brew itself, is that it's served in the famous Sant Eustachio yellow mug in a piazza. And this piazza is in the shadow of the Pantheon. Could you feel more Italian? I think not.

The Strongest Coffee Ever Award goes to the home-brewed coffee of Poland. Imagine being invited to a Polish grandmother's house. She serves you coffee with the grounds brewing the coffee as they sink to the bottom of your mug. There are no filters for these bitter underdogs of Europe. Back when Poland was still being held by Russia's communist grip, they didn't have much in the way of appliances, namely coffee makers. So, ground coffee went straight into a glass of hot water. Once the grounds sank to the bottom, your coffee was ready. Horrified by seeing my grounds inside my glass, I reached for cream. And when I poured it in my coffee, the brew didn't change color. At. All.

The Most Eye-Popping Caffeine Award goes to the collective of cafés in Paris. Parisians refuel constantly throughout the day with thimbles of espresso laced with sugar. You can walk into any café, tabac shop, bar or restaurant and get a quick fix for a Euro. Whenever I hear a mass of car horns, I know it's a traffic jam created from someone parking their car IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET to run into a café for a quickie. Honorable Mention goes to La Maison Angelina in Paris that offers up hot chocolate so thick it almost stops your heart.

The Coffee that Tastes Like Home Award goes to Starbucks. Wherever I go in this big world, I know I can walk into a Starbucks and travel back to wherever I'd rather be. Because let's be honest, traveling is hard work and sometimes a girl needs a little gentrification of the neighborhood to get a decent chai tea latte. That green Starbucks sign is a beacon that leads me to someone who speaks English and can provide me with directions around town and to a non-scary restroom. Honorable Mention goes to Peet's Coffee & Tea, which has fantastic coffee but only has store locations in the USA.

Speaking of Starbucks, there is one around the corner from my apartment. I know I probably shouldn't, what with Paris being a café culture, but I think I will. Mmmm.... coffee.

In Prague. This had to happen.

A Jubilant Diamond Jubilee

2012-06-04T04:19:00.000-07:00

London is sooo into me.

Every time I visit, Londoners unravel their strings of flags and roll out red carpets. Last year, they had a big wedding while I was there, and this year, they gave a 21-gun salute and went all out with a boat parade. Oh, and the queen had her Diamond Jubilee. 60 years of showing up on coins, waving and dressing in monochromatics. Good job, your majesty.

My timing is impeccable, if I do say so myself.

A few highlights of the Queen's big weekend...

Waiting for the parade.

Looking for a throne in Victoria Station.

Ran into these black beauties.

The biggest collection of nutcrackers I've ever seen.

She looks good in red.

Just as well that the UK didn't win Eurovision this year. First, Engelbert Humperdinck is a tough sell. Second, with the Diamond Jubilee AND the Olympics, London is having a costly year. No need to host another shindig. Dig?

But offloading royal paraphernalia might help.

"Hey Janice! Didn't I see you here last year?"

Representin'

Flags ahoy representin' too.

I thought about picking up my copy but I had packed one book bag for 5 days away, which required precision packing. I would have had to hold it under my arm for a week. Still, I was tempted.

The celebratory biscuit collection was consumed onsite. Yum.

Rosé-coloured glasses

2012-05-26T00:24:00.001-07:00

Paris summer: Warm breezes, open-toed sandals and gallons of rosé.

This is the first warm weather week in Paris. Flowers are nearly falling over themselves, hanging out windows, their petals lapping up the sunshine they haven't tasted for months. Ladies in their summer dresses are sashaying up the streets and down through the Métro. I have seen many polka dot undies wedged into some jiggling bums over the last few days. Those ladies don't realize how transparent their dresses really are, or they forgot to wear their slips, or they are French and that's how they roll.

And then there is rosé.

Hello, dear.

You'd expect to see a few young girls sitting on patios drinking this blushing bride of wines. Rosé, before I knew better, was what people who don't drink wine slurp back at weddings. It's wine-lite. It's sweet, cold and... did I mention sweet? And after a few sips, there is a sense that this grape Kool-Aid is a bit... off.

In the USA and Canada, we wine lovers scoff at the stuff. You're having White Zinfandel?! But here on the streets of Paris? Rosé is an honored beverage, a perfect transition from the reds of a cold winter and the refreshing whites of a hot summer. And Parisians are clip-clopping in their shiny new open-toed sandals to the nearest bar to partake in this printemps pleasure.

Even big burly men with bellies out to *here* maneuver themselves into sunny seats on crowded patios to sip dainty glasses of rosé while conversing about the new president, women, Greece and that whole mess. Je crois this and je crois that. "I believe" everyone has a different opinion on everything in the Eurozone, but we all agree that rosé is where it's at when it comes to summoning sunshine.

Rosé is a refreshing young wine with hints of floral and grapefruit. And it's light as lace. It has become so popular here that in 2008, it surpassed white wine sales. This is a big deal. The French aren't into change. At all. But they seem tickled by this pink potion.

Pretty in Pink.

The lady friends and myself managed to talk our way through two bottles the other night. Our apéro, which is the delightful interlude between the work day and dinner, turned into a full night of gabbing and spearing olives with little toothpicks.

After a wobbly walk home, I sat on the edge of my bed replacing the blister bandages on my feet and sighing with satisfaction. Summer is here.

People who make me up my game

2012-05-18T10:01:00.001-07:00

Upping my photo montage game.

Three days after returning to Paris, I received a call from my local bookstore. My new book was in.

I was breathless.

"Yes, yes. I'm coming right now. Hold on!"

I nearly ran, I was so flippin' excited.

I ran into the bookstore Kramer-style. "I'm here! I'm here for my book!"

He didn't ask me what book it was. He grabbed it from the top of one of the many piles on his desk and handed it over. He knew what book I wanted because I had stopped by two days in a row. I "happened" to be in the neighborhood and was "wondering" if my book was in yet. I even "happened" to veer Christophe down a small alley on our walk that just "happened" to be the fastest way to the bookstore. Just to see.

I snatched the book from him, bid a swift adieu and headed to the nearest café, which happened to be a Tabac shop. Little known fact: Tabac shops in Paris are some of the best, most lovely, haunting, beautiful cafés. And there are no tourists in them. It's a good place to hide.

I could have bought it on Amazon, but I considered ordering it through a bookstore an artist date. The book in question:

Holy frig its good. The author, Nichole Robertson, spent many a leisurely lingering afternoon snapping photos of Paris. She works in the neutral background of Paris and finds colors that pop. Then snaps them and mashes them together for a photo montage that makes my teeth tingle. So good. There are no cliché touristy Paris shots, just fantastic images of daily life.

She gives a nearly-daily dose of the good stuff on her blog Little Brown Pen. And if you feel like stalking her further, you can do so at her Etsy shop.

After absorbing each and every page of this book with my eyeballs bugging out of my head, I walked toward home. It was as if I was struck by enlightenment. Colors popped. Flowers, candy, chairs and scooters revealed themselves as vibrant as toys. I tried snapping shots like in the book. I realized just how many shots and how much exploring it takes to do what Robertson did with Paris in Color.

Upon returning chez moi, I checked my email and found yet another brilliant poem by Samantha Reynolds from Bentlily. She endeavors to write one poem a day. When I see her new poem, everything else stops. She's a cup of hot tea on a rainy day. She makes loving poetry easy. And every poem leaves me sighing with satisfaction. She does to poetry what Robertson does to color.

These two make me want to up my game. Bring it.

Oh it's brought.

Who said that?

An ode to cabbage roll lady of my youth

2012-05-14T05:45:00.000-07:00

So I'm in Budapest. I'm not knowing much about the place because oblivion is how I roll. As I'm starting to take in the culture, I'm noticing something... familiar.

I grew up in Norfolk County in Ontario, Canada AKA the baked goods capital of the country. Oh yeah, you want a cookie? I'll make you a cookie that you'll never forget... or rather, I'll have one of my sisters bake you a cookie that you'll never forget, because delegation is also how I roll. The county, like the rest in Canada, is made up of immigrants. My community has a healthy mix of Belgians, Germans, Poles and Hungarians.

So at the cultural events of my youth, like my favorite social event of the season, the Catholic Woman's League Bazaar, there is a mash-up of the cuisines of various eastern-veering European countries. And that means a lot of savory (but slightly bland) food. So I generally gravitate toward one particular culinary delight: Cabbage rolls.

Yumbo.

Long ago, my mom gave up making cabbage rolls. Thank goodness. Toothpicks don't taste good. She delegated the cabbage roll job to a lady named Liz who runs a cabbage roll making business. I suspect she makes nearly all the cabbage rolls in Norfolk County.

She's often seen sitting in her car in the church parking lot. Another car rolls up. They hand out cash. She hands back a bag wafting of cooked cabbage. On occasion, my mom has gotten a call from one of my aunts early on a Sunday morning, "You going to church today? Liz is ready with my order." And there I am, leaning into Liz' car like a seasoned traffiker, hauling out the loot and carrying it away under my arm. Salivating.

Back to Hungary. I tried an authentic cabbage roll to see how it measures up against those of my youth. And get this: They taste EXACTLY the SAME as the cabbage rolls of Norfolk County.

A world away. The same. Astonishing.

The mild tang of the cabbage, the savory meaty filling, the overall aroma of stewed tomatoes. And a mysterious concoction of spices. Bravo Hungary! Bravo Liz!

Liz and her cabbage rolling is... pure magic. She's got a gift. So while I was traipsing around Budapest with a cabbage roll sloshing around in my belly, I couldn't help but feel, that though I was half a world away, I was at home.

F&*cked on a train to Budapest

2012-05-08T06:08:00.000-07:00

So Vienna. Nice and all. Mozart. Swell.

But there are always those travel memories that trump any memory of pretty statues and lovely music. And the memory that blot out Vienna happened the day we hopped the train to Budapest.

We bought our train tickets at a vending machine at the train station as was instructed by Mr. Unhelpful Information Man. But our spidey sense was on high alert so we found a real ticket agent to confirm that what we bought was correct.

Because vending machine tickets? I don't know. Sketchy.

Yes, he assured us. The tickets were completely correct. He even handed us a schedule of departure times. Ever so helpful.

But you know what happens next, right?

You know that half way to Budapest, after I'd settled into my seat, Mr. Austrian Ticket Man informed me that these were the wrong tickets.

Oh yes they were.

First, I said with my eyes bugging out of my head as he was leering over me, "We ARE going to Budapest, right?"

In rough, gruff English, he said. "Yes, yes. But these tickets are for another town to Budapest. They are not leaving from Vienna."

Why on EARTH would I buy a ticket in Vienna to go to Budapest from a city that isn't Vienna? AND the vending machine had one option to Budapest. That's the ticket I bought. And I used the English version on the vending machine so don't give me any of that lost-in-translation crap.

I looked over at Christophe who speaks five other languages other than those required for assistance in this moment. Beside me was a lady who had three kids in the seat behind us (Mommy open this, mommy open that, OMG). And there was a quiet gentleman sitting across from her reading a book and minding his own business while this ticket issue was happening.

In my helpless English, I was trying to ask Mr. Bossy Ticket Man how we can solve this situation. We, the sinister bad ticket purchasers. And he told me that new tickets would be 60 Euros, which was separate from the 30 we already spent. 90 flippin' Euros??!??!?! And I'm not even going to translate that into the US dollars I'm living in over here.

That's when mom next door pushed up her sleeves and went to town on the ticket guy. She started yapping to him in German, complete with dramatic hand and arm gestures. The flap of her underarm was flying like a flag in high wind. From what I gathered, because I'm bilingual in flab flap, is that I shouldn't have to buy another ticket in addition to this wrong ticket because it's the fault of the train station vending machine or ticket agent or entire country of Austria or even the recession for all I know. It certainly wasn't the fault of moi. Innocent doe-eyed moi.

The ticket agent looked at me and said, "Can you come with me, please."

Holy fucking fuck.

He was taking me away from the pack, and especially from Mamma Wolf.

He escorted me... with all eyes following... to a quiet area between the cars where he could explain my folly in slow English. I replied back in rapid English, which I hope conveyed that I was apologetic for the mishap yet not wanting to lose the battle Mamma Wolf started fighting on my behalf. I can't walk back to her with my tail between my legs. Basically I wanted to keep rattling on and annoying him for as long as it took for him to give up and leave me alone.

And it worked.

Applause around the world!

But, he warned, that though he was letting me go, there would be a Hungarian ticket agent on the other side of the border so I'd have to fight this battle again.

When I returned to the seat, tail wagging, I explained everything to Mamma Wolf then looked over at Christophe who was waiting impatiently for the translation.

They say the best way to learn a language is on the pillow, but I think the best way to learn a language is when you're flipping out.

Then I waited an eternal hour for the next round with the Hungarian Ticket Dude.

And when he arrived, I handed him the tickets. He sighed, looked at me. I looked back. What? There's nothing wrong here is there Nice Officer of Hungary.

And that's when Mr. Reading His Book In The Corner The Whole Time put up his dukes and started laying into the Hungarian Ticket Dude in Hungarian about how I shouldn't have to pay more and it's the fault of the VENDING MACHINE IN VIENNA FOR CHRISSAKE.

Or at least that's what I gathered from the jiggling flap under his jaw.

The ticket guy replied in Hungarian with, basically, "Hey bro, from here it's only an extra 20 Euro."

Mr. Reading His Book translated this to me in English. Apparently, we were far enough down the track that he was only going to make me pay the difference from here, which was a mere 20 Euro.

I nodded to Mr. Reading His Book. He nodded to the ticket guy. I handed over the 20. He moved on.

I turned to Christophe to translate. He shook his head no and said, "I understand. We won."

Vienna's Golden Age

2012-05-04T07:07:00.000-07:00

There are some things in life I wish I knew early on so I could have already been giggling and snickering for years. All that giggling WASTED because I missed a day in History class.

For instance, why didn't I know about the Hapsburg inbreeding. Had I known, I could made fun of it and slid in one-liners for years to come?

While on a tour of the Habsburg estate in Vienna, I learned how this major royal family of Europe split in two in 1556. One part went to Spain and the other went to Austria. The Habsburgs of Austria became known for gaining political power not by wars but by marrying off their kids to other royal families.

Bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria, nube.
Let others wage war, but thou, Oh happy Austria, marry.

And you know why? Because the Habsburgs in Spain got so into marrying each other that they got in a rotten mess of DNA. A bunch of horny uncles were marrying nieces, and cousins were boinking cousins, which eventually resulted in this looker:

Charles II of the Spanish House of Habsburgs is said to have had an enormous wonky head, his jaw stood out so far that he couldn't chew, his tongue was so large he couldn't speak, he couldn't walk and his intellect was similarly disabled.

But what makes me snicker is not this unfortunate DNA science experiment, which was't his fault. These royal heirs are also rumored to have distinct tails and a severely droopy lower lip.

One of the most famous examples of a long-lived trait is known as the “Habsburg Lip.” This distinctive elongation of the jaw and droopiness to the lower lip-which made the Habsburg rulers of Europe such a nightmare assignment for generations of court portrait painters-was passed down intact over at least twenty-three generations.
-- James Watson & Andrew Berry’s DNA: The Secret of Life

So the Habsburgs of Austria said, "Um, let's marry other people so we don't have babies with tails."

And then there was a whole bunch of years of uninteresting royals.

Until this beauty came along:

She is Empress Elisabeth of Austria. She could be confused with the Queen of Hungary because she was both at the same time.

Which crown will I wear today? Hmmm. Choices, choices, choices.

At 15, she was married to Franz Joseph and was in a bad mood about it for the rest of her life. She had a few heirs as was instructed by royal pressure, but motherhood wasn't her thing. Neither was marriage. Or eating. She spent a great deal of time starving and traveling without hubbie and the tail-free cherubs. Eventually she was stabbed by a nutcase in Italy and that was the end of her.

When Franz Joseph died after his 68 years of reign, his grand-nephew Karl took over. Archduke Franz Ferdinand was supposed to take over but he was axed by a Serbian nationalists. This act started World War I.

And after World War II, the winners said, "Hey Karl, you're out." But Karl was all "As if!" but really he was out and that was the end of that.

And that concludes our Short-attention-span history lesson about the Habsburgs.

Vienna's Golden Arch

2012-05-03T02:10:00.000-07:00

Our tour of the imperial cities of Europe continues.

We hopped a night train from Prague and were spit out at a random train station in Vienna, Austria, at 6 a.m. This was not the main station. There was no central station vibe like when you walk arrive in Grand Central Station in New York or Union Station in Toronto. This was just a platform. Without an information booth. Or signs in English. Or maps. Or (gulp) anything.

Standing on the platform, looking at the street, wondering which direction was which, I had but one thought:

"I should have thought this through."

Or even bought a map of Vienna prior to this moment.

I had done some research on touristy things to see and do in Vienna. But the map? Oops.

These are the moments that test a relationship. It's really easy to lose your nerve. By now, Christophe and I were both caffeine-deprived and had spent the night on a train. Not in a sleeper cabin either. We woke all night. Twice by gruff ticket men, but mostly by paranoia that we would miss our stop or lose our wallets.

So we started walking in one direction. Based on instinct alone. And that's when we saw the golden M. Not an M for the metro station, which would have been helpful. We found the other M that was even more helpful.

McDonald's.

Now, if you recall, I spent a good deal of time as a vegan back in my California days. I had a healthy position about McDonald's and the harm it was causing the environment, health and every street corner in major cities around the world.

But this morning in Vienna? McDonald's was coffee, a clean bathroom and free WiFi. Oh my stars in Heaven did I ever love McDonald's in this moment. After a few coffees, a few trips to the restroom and locating ourselves with my maps app, we figured out how to get to the hotel. (My iPhone's 3G didn't work in eastern Europe. Who knows why. I blame AT&T even though I broke up with them last year.)

Soon we were on our way with a drawn out map of how to get to our hotel. When we arrived at the our hotel, our room was ready, even though it was only 8 a.m. Sweet!

Actual restroom sign of our hotel. Yippee!

A few hours later, after a shower, nap and study of the free map provided by the hotel, we were off.

A brief history of Vienna for those with attention-deficit disorder.
Vienna is the capital of Austria and home to Mozart, balls and Mozart balls.

Gimme another one.

Like most European cities smack dab in the middle of western and eastern Europe, Vienna has had its share of wars and malleable border lines. For a long time was part of the Holy Roman Empire. Later, Napoleon came along and bossed everyone around. Eventually Hitler came to town to boss people around further and put a serious dip in the population. And in the middle of all this, there was a royal family, the Hapsburgs, that sometimes did, and sometimes did not, boss people around.

But seriously, what you really want to know about is the wienerschnitzel.
It's veal breaded and deep fried. Who ever thought this was a good idea? It tastes like cardboard. But goes well with beer.

After burping our way through the streets of Vienna, we stormed another castle. This time, the home of the Hapsburgs. In the next post (because we're all attention-deficit) we will find out what makes this royal house famous. From the inbred droopy lip (!!!), to Rapunzel-length hair of a famous queen, to the color yellow.

Burp. I need to pee.

Prague, my pretty

2012-04-30T05:15:00.001-07:00

Prague can make a crazy photographer out of anyone. Here are my top 40 photos of this jewel of the Czech Republic.

S-s-s-s-s-spadina bus, the spadina bus!

Oh the Toronto Transit Commission is gonna be jealous.

How to feel small.

About $10.

Yup, pretty much like the illustration on the coaster.

Kafka statue... makes a girl blush.

Absinth anyone?

Fish eating dead skin off feet. Non, merci.

Communist art about brotherhood and working together. Except that guy in the middle who is stealing the bread.

Burb-fest 2012.

Bruuuuuuuuuuuce!

Another Bruce.

Sleeping it off in the middle of it.

Fruit Loop coloured buildings!

My favourite photo.


JM and the K-Man

Astronomical clock.

St. Christopher. My favourite saint.

This had to happen.

How long do I have to hold this lamp in front of the hotel?

Drunk 20-somethings clogging the escalator just long enough to miss the train. Arse-holes.

Prague, you can never tear us apart

2012-04-26T22:45:00.000-07:00

The best advice I got from Prague was from INXS:

Watching the video and seeing the ornate streetlights, old brick buildings and the famous Charles Bridge got me pumped for Prague.

But INXS, there is room for improvement: