Towering Inferno

The Towering Inferno

2013-12-31T12:06:00.000-08:00

When I was 9, I was 5'4”
When I was 13, I was 6'.
I am now 6'1 3/4" - I round it up to 6'2", which annoys my mother.

I had a plethora of creative nicknames since I can remember: Daddy Long Legs (which I didn't think was so bad), Jolly Green Giant, Big Bird, Gulliver (by the more literary kids), Stilts, along with the remarks and the pranks.

When I was 11, in sixth grade, the film The Towering Inferno had been a blockbuster success, and to this day is still considered the Granddaddy of disaster films.

And it became my schoolmates' favorite nickname for me.

I came home one day October 1975 having had enough and reduced to tears. I told my parents about my nickname at school. My father took me by the hand, and said, "I have an idea."

We went down to the garage, where he took down a large rectangular box, and pulled out some paints and brushes.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon and after dinner turning that box into an office building; with windows, bodies falling, on fire... and cut out holes for the arms, one for the head, and the next day, I went as The Towering Inferno for Halloween at school.

The kids took one look at me, and never called me that name again.

Now I kind of have affection for it.

Day 19 - EASTER SUNDAY - Noizay/Château d'Artigny/Tours

2011-04-24T23:28:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm certainly glad I didn't bring much in the way of cold weather clothes... while I miss wearing bulky sweaters and scarves and long coats (oh, London! And I am serious. Call me a freak.), we have been blessed with gorgeous weather overall. And let's just say the rain in Carcassonne added to the scenery and mood of it all.

Our ambition was to experience Easter mass somewhere... and bummer the church RIGHT next door was closed, we were referred to the cathedral at either Amboise, the main town nearest to where we are, or Tours, about 30 min. away. How cool would that be?! Well, we'll never know. At least not on this trip.
Not only is it Easter Sunday, but it's market day in town. And though it's considered a smallish town, Amboise has a BIG market, and apparently a lot of people drive to it. And everyone has to cross over the ONE bridge from the road. So our 30 minutes was eaten up sitting on the road just waiting to cross over the bridge, as all cars, and foot traffic, and bicycles, inched their way towards the market.
Did I mention once again we skipped breakfast so as to help our time?
Did I mention we thought we would get gas before going to church? Seriously, we thought we had this scheduling/getting gas thing down. The Universe disagrees.
Couldn't find the church in Amboise, but did find the gas station outside the big grocery store on the edge of town. Closed.
Unless you had a credit card. With a chip.
And we had to get gas. So we all got upset again, trying to figure out how we're going to get through this one, getting more frustrated with my mother who keeps suggesting to try a different credit card - none of which have a chip, because, WE DON'T HAVE THEM IN AMERICA. Then I get yelled at for yelling, and then my mother comes up with the idea of asking any decent looking person who comes through if they would be willing to use their credit card and we would give them cash. Of course at this point I was so worked up and STARVING I wasn't about to admit it was a good idea. I just thought it made us sound like scam artists. But, what would the scam be, really?
A minivan with a very nice looking family pulls up, gets gas, and my mom pops over and in broken Franglish, pointing to the card, the machine, the gas tank, and the cash in her hand, the man replies in pretty good English, "Yes, of course I will help you."
Have I mentioned that I am now in love with France? And all its people?
Perhaps it was an easy thing for him to do, but keep in mind he and his family now had to wait for us to fill our tank, and yes, we rounded up and gave him a few extra euros, but he didn't have to do that.
And the kids in the back waved goodbye as they left!
So now, with everything closed, and us starving, we sat in the empty parking lot of the huge grocery store, discussing what to do next. We looked up at the entrance and what do you know, there's a McDonald's.
"NO! I won't eat it a HOME, there is NO WAY I am resorting to McDonald's in France! After all the gorgeous food we've had?!?! NO!!"
Well, mom wanted a milkshake. I resorted to a chewy, sticky granola bar to tide me over. We went in to use the bathrooms, then decided we could pass on McDonald's and make our way to Tours, finding a restaurant along the way, or when we arrived.
This is why books are still good to have. Our Red and Green Michelin guides were spectacular, as mother sat in the back seat looking up restaurants. She mentioned a place called Château d'Artigny, which was supposed be a lovely hotel and have a lovely restaurant.
Well.
While Noizay is certainly lovely, um, and this will sound horribly spoiled, but... I wish we had stayed at d'Artigny. But, we didn't know. Noizay is lovely and historical and all that... but it is small, and dare I say... hot! It's HOT. Very little cross-ventilation for the small rooms, and while I don't mind having my windows open, even the dining room is HOT. And when I left my room this morning, the radiators in the hallway were ON!? Eww.
Well, Château d'Artigny is big, and white, and spacious, and just, wow. And the restaurant. Oh, here I go again, with the food. The FOOD, the FOOD, the FOOD! It's just spectacular. And what a way to spend Easter brunch. Made all the morning frustrations melt away, with the wine, the decor of the room, a lovely big family celebrating a mother's birthday, and the service... the maitre'd was above and beyond. Lovely and friendly, and not hovering. Well, he couldn't be, the place was packed. But it didn't feel rushed or busy. Superb.
Next time I'm staying here.
He even went into the kitchen and wrote out the full recipe for the gorgeous Grand Marnier souffle and gave it to my mother.
Had a stroll around the grounds, then back in the car and over to Tours Cathedral. Of course, spectacular, combined with patchy rain storms and intermittent sunshine, and suddenly hearing the organ as we walked through! The organist had come in to practice for evening mass (I presume). What a treat.
Another day, another cathedral. But yet, all different, all special. All with their own individual beauty.
Back to the just-warm-enough-to-bring-on-a-light-sweat dining room in the Château for a much, much lighter dinner. Falling asleep to the wide open windows letting in hopefully nothing but fresh clean air, and the sound of the fountain down below.

Day 18 - Farewell, Carcassonne. Off to Château de Noizay!

2011-04-23T20:47:00.000-07:00

Wow... another long drive, but today a mere 3 and a half hours. Still more hellish than yesterday, as I was mistaken to think we've mastered the Toll Road procedure.
Heartbreaking to leave Carcassonne, but let's just put it on the list of places to return.
We did get up and out early, and it really is a special treat to walk outside to the cobblestone streets, and see NO ONE but the shopkeepers just starting to set up, and a few other guests wandering over to the hotel cafe for breakfast - BREAKFAST!! Yay for breakfast. Of course our last few days of this trip, we finally all agreed, breakfast is a MUST. I've known I am absolutely a breakfast person, but have attempted to pass it up for time's sake (okay, and a bit of expense, as even a 'continental' breakfast, consisting of a croissant, coffee and juice is about 14 euros, which, sorry, is just kinda ridiculous), and the result has been a very cranky girl :) (and cranky family, as my dad's a breakfast person too), so from now on, we've gone back to our original tenet: keep fed and rested. And a gorgeous buffet spread was included, so we indulged in hot eggs, sausage, toast... cheese (of course!), coffee, hot chocolate (no, I didn't have both), yogurt, meusli, croissant... in the tiny cafe in the middle of the road surrounding by the cathedral, hotel, cobblestone streets, and the rain. *sigh* Ah well. Managed to get over to a couple of cheesy tourist shops to get some postcards and a couple of gifts, then to dad's chagrin, my mother and I spotted some interesting rings, and while I chose mine fairly quickly... mom loves to comparison shop, regardless of location, or schedule. Which allowed me time to spot a fabulously cheesy mug (I've developed a reasonable but not hoarding type of habit of collecting mugs from places I've visited; but I do make sure I LOVE the place, and the mug is interesting) - almost like a bas relief of the towers of Carcassonne, with a knight holding a sword, and the green trees surrounding the city. Ha. Cheesy and awesome. My favorite combination.
Sadly, we then had to check out and be driven to our car, and too soon, we were off. But how can I complain, when we were off to the Loire Valley, to stay in a Château for a couple of days. It is difficult to compare, as this is an old, old, building, and the hotel in Carcassonne was very modern in an old, old city... but hey, it's the diversity. This place is the first on my trip where I've finally seen a bidet!! I'd nearly forgotten about them. And all I'll say about that, is I did learn to um, appreciate them when I visited my friend Lizzy in Italy just before moving back from London (stop the x-rated visuals please, it was a conversation, not a demonstration!). Nice bathtub, and though the room is much smaller... I have a large, large bed. *bliss* I have huge, double windows that open up to a courtyard below, a fountain in the middle, and a church to the side, with lovely bells.
No pictures today, as I did most of the driving, and most of the yelling. Ugh, must realize, getting SO upset does not make the situation better.
Yes, the toll road. You know, you would think... never mind.
So far, we've had good 'luck' (see, I thought we finally knew what we were doing) with paying attention to the signs for "Péage" coming up ("Pay Station" ie toll road/booths), we look for the sign that says "Cartes" and put the credit card in, and done.
Nope. No. Not today.
Some places only give you a ticket; you save the ticket, and at the next station, you put the ticket in, and the machine tells you what you owe. You put the card in, and voila, you're done. Back to fitting yourself into an imaginary unmarked lane to get back into the three lane motorway from the 15 lane toll booth.
SO. Put the ticket in, saw the amount owed. Put the card in, and that same annoying, pre-recorded woman's voice from the first time we tried to get gas in Connelles, blurted out from the machine that the card was rejected. Yes, the very SAME CARD we've been using all along. No logic here!
So I push the "Aide" button, as I did before, and before, a very nice lady popped out, opened a drawer, and we paid cash.
Nope. No. Not today.
Today, a young man's voice came on, and in ENGLISH, he said, "Oh, sorry, the card does not work." Gee, really? "Right. So can I pay cash please?"
Guess what the answer was.
No really, just guess!
"No, you have to pay with a card in that line. That line is Credit Card only."
Is your blood sympathetically starting to boil?
"I KNOW, which is why I asked for HELP, and YOU are NOT HELPING ME. PLEASE HELP ME BY LETTING ME PAY CASH."
"Uh, my English not so good."
Ah, NOW it's not so good? Hmm.
"You have to pay cash in the cash line."
"I'M NOT IN A CASH LINE."
"Well you will have to move. I am sorry I cannot help you."
Wow.
I look in my mirror. Five cars waiting behind me. FIVE. As far as I could see.
I took a breath, and put the car in reverse, waiting for the honks, the yells, the arms thrown up the air, the cursing of the stupid American in French...
Nothing.
The driver behind me might have raised his eyebrows, then immediately put his car in reverse. His passenger got out of the car, and motioned the drivers behind to back up!
That was it. Not one cuss word.
I have never been more thankful for the French demeanor then at that moment... and a little bit sad that they must be a little too used to so much bureaucracy.
And, as I backed up, my father, who was desperately trying to remain calm, pointed out the driver in the next station/booth, was now also reversing.
Ah, but wait... it's not over.
I pulled into the cash or credit station (yes, from now on THAT is what we will choose), and then I realized - I'd left the ticket in the other machine.
I was not a pretty girl in that moment.
Nor in the next, when I had to press the "Aide" button again, and of course, got my friend. I tried to speak calmly as I said, "I know it was 7 euros 60. Please just put that amount in so I can pay and LEAVE!"
"From where did you come?"
My dad quietly says, "Toulouse. We came from Toulouse."
"Qua?"
"JUST PUT 7.60 IN THE MACHINE!!! TOULOUSE!! WE CAME THROUGH TOLOUSE!! JUST LET ME PAY AND GET ON WITH MY LIFE!"
Calmly, though less, my dad says, "Now stop it."
And my mother, who never seems to have accepted my statement of "When you insist someone CALM DOWN, that does not work", yelled from the backseat "EeeeeLIzabeth! JUST CALM DOWN."
FINALLY, I look at the machine, and it says "7.60" We put the money in, and away we went.
I will not miss these PÉAGE stations.
And I am sorry I did not represent my fellow Yanks well at all.

We are here; the bellmen are lovely, my room is lovely. It's all mine. For two nights. Down to the dining room for dinner, the to BED. After a nice long bubble bath, of course.

Day 17 - Gavaudun to Carcassonne

2011-04-22T23:35:00.000-07:00

A crime. A crime that we wasted... I'm sorry, spent... THREE hours of cleaning, that we could have spent here, in this magical place called Carcassonne. Oh my word (am I using that phrase too often? Sorry, but... get used to it! I am amazed by so much!), I feel like I'm in the White City (and if you don't know what I'm talking about, shame on you, but for pity's sake, it's a Lord of the Rings reference).
We did all agree it was not worth paying the 60+ euros for a cleaning fee - ridiculous really - for the use of our cabin/timeshare, and I understand we wanted to make sure we wouldn't miss something they could find a reason to charge us for, but MY GOD!! I'm more miffed now that we've arrived in this place, and are LEAVING TOMORROW! AND I HAVE A SUITE!
A crime, I tell you.
My mother not only mopped all the floors, but dusted every shelf, vacuumed every square inch... basically leaving it cleaner than it was when we arrived. And made sure the wife running the place knew it. We waited for her to inspect before we left.
Did I mention it's about a six and a half hour drive from Gavaudun to Carcassonne? No? Okay then, that's good, because it took us seven.
We were also planning on stopping to see the Cloisters at Moissac, but alas, no time.
Thank goodness we've nearly mastered the toll road booths (though I really wish they'd not be smack in the middle of the 4-lane motorway, expand to 15 toll booths, then with no lane markings, expect you to go back to 3, then eventually 4 lanes. Not a good time.
My mother had expressed an interest in Carcassonne, but since it was not in our original itinerary, my father, being the gem that he is, stuck it here, towards the end of our trip (NOOOOOO! It's ending?!?!), and made a special splurge for one night so we could stay inside the walls of the city. Take my word, that is special.
Carcassonne is the oldest medieval city in Europe, and it really feels like fairytale land, though no doubt it was never like that. But it really feels like Fantasyland in Disneyland; I'm waiting for Aurora (k, I'll help you again: Sleeping Beauty) to come around the corner, or better yet, Faramir :) (already referenced, not helping you again!).
Similar to Rocamadour, after some windy roads, and now the clouds have gathered and the rain starts, just for more effect, suddenly... there lies the city before you. And takes your breath away.
Then we had to find our way to the car park (inside city wall hotel guests ONLY, hwar hwar hwar), were met by Antoine, checking guests in the parking lot, who promised his colleague would return for us in 5 minutes... 20 minutes later, he returned with his little vehicle, packed us all in with our luggage, and drove us through the old moats, over the bridge, through the cobblestone streets, to the front door of the hotel... and into the hotel.
And oh, what a hotel. I've stayed at some damn fine hotels in my time, but this, this is just... perfection. And what a treat, anytime, but particularly now that we've come from our cramped (but good location) quarters in Normandy, to our ...rustic... (and good location) accommodation in Dordogne/Gavaudun - which were both timeshares, so it was all do-it-yourself cooking, cleaning (no more talk of cleaning, promise), this is even that much more special.
And thanks to Amex, we got bumped up to a junior suite. EACH. A bathroom the size of my bedroom. Well, nearly. A bathtub I could lie down in. Well, nearly.
I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman; I do. It's all just gorgeous.
And a crime we don't have more time here to enjoy it, as by the time we arrived, we delayed our dinner reservations in the hotel restaurant so we could walk around the city, even in the rain. Not much choice considering we're leaving TOMORROW! Ugh.
Prepared for the rain and cold, we stepped out the front door of the hotel, and walked the five steps to the Cathedral... I seem to have developed a 'thing' for Gothic cathedrals and stained glass windows now. When I look back at my photos, I wonder if they'll all look the same. But they are not. And that is why travel is so important; you can look at as many photos and read as much as you can get your hands on, but nothing, nothing at all, replaces the feeling of seeing it in person.
Out of the Cathedral, past the stand that would sell hot dogs in the US, but here, it's Crêpes avec du Nutella! Even in the rain, there's a line. Up around the corner we see the line of tacky tourist shops with a few specialty shops, made it to the outer walls where Dad and I climbed up to see what we could see (sadly, not a whole lot; no rail to hold onto and the clouds and rain were too much), but the rain kicked in harder so we headed back... to enjoy a glass of wine in the suite (compliments of the hotel), and then immersing myself in THE bubble bath of bubble baths... which I had to force myself out of just to go to dinner.
A five-star, yes over-priced restaurant in the hotel, full of gorgeous food... though I'm embarrassed to admit, I'm kinda over the 5 courses, especially the cheese course. But maybe that's just because I'd rather be exploring this city instead of sitting in the dining room. Oh well. Tough life.
As I'd asked the night maids to bring me more bath gel, I ran another bath, yes I did, and savored it.
NOW I'm ready for a good sleep - in a KING size bed! Coming from a twin with a frame my feet hit, it seems extra huge!
Now where's Faramir?
Or Hugh?

Day 16 - The Market, Penne d'Agenais, Monflanquin, and an empty castle.

2011-04-21T11:33:00.000-07:00

Up earlier, yay! Why? Because we're off to the market!! And mum loves the market. I'm interested, but get a bit tired of the crowds.
But off we went. The GPS had no idea what we were talking about, as the only instruction we had from our 'host' was that we were to park at the football stade, and walk from there, and it was right here on the map he gave us. Um, okay. After ending up in front of a tenement building next to a graveyard, I had the brilliant idea of asking our GPS lady of the local sporting areas, and chose the one that seemed to be near where we were trying to get. Voilà. Soon as we saw a few stray folks walking to their cars on a side street with full bags with baguettes and leafy items, we knew we were in the right place. We parked and headed to the general direction they had come from, and were met with a lovely meow from a neighborhood cat, who was very friendly, and very fat. Suddenly we heard a laugh from a woman, turned, and she had come out of her house and started rattling off in French - very fast French - something about how it was her cat, and the cat was very silly and friendly and fat and always greeted people, and the market might be closed but you can park here and go see... and for all I know she was saying there were mass murders being committed around the corner and our car would be towed if we left it there. But she was smiling the whole time, so we figured we were okay.
Ah, yes, we were in the right place, as we turned the corner and saw the parking lot of the football stadium jammed. Oh boy.
It was busy, but honestly, not too jammed, and you know what? They don't seem to care as much as we Yanks do. No one saying "Excuse me, excuse me..." with hostile undertones, just the occasional soft "Pardon" as they wait for you to move. Actually kinda like the drivers here. Only had one guy honk at me, and well, it was my fault. I kinda missed that stop sign there. Other than that, they do come up RIGHT behind you, which I don't quite get, but they don't honk; they wait for the right moment and pass. No biggie.
Lots of friends greeting each other with handshakes and kisses, lots of dogs, lots of lovely fresh food... and the BREAD. I'll never look at or eat bread the same way again. They love their bread, and so do I. Though we still couldn't find the brioche. But we did find my cheese! Got a reasonable slice of my Laguiole. Love it. Along with fresh broccoli, leeks, tiny turnips, an almond... something pastry for breakfast tomorrow, and ... oh my, the apple... not quite a tart, but that's the only way I can think to describe it. Apples in a pie, but layered and layered with the thinnest slices of filo dough... the guy put some type of syrup in the bottom layer before placing it in the box, then sprinkled powdered sugar on it.
I heard a goose from somewhere, and when I turned, there was a building off to the side with a big open door people were going into, and there was a goose, by the door... in a cage. And I instantly felt horrible for liking foie gras. I have no problem raising and killing animals humanely... but to put them in a small cage for any length of time when they don't know what the f*ck is happening... I'm not okay with that. And I know I don't have control over that, but... I think I've had my fill of foie gras. My jeans certainly have. And when my mother mentioned that she thinks I'm 'becoming' knock-kneed on this trip, and "of course it's because of weight, ALL health problems (like that) are because of weight!" She means well; I just forget time to time her 'obese' glasses are different than everyone else's. But that doesn't stop her from offering me another slice of bread, with butter (you know what? They don't serve bread with butter here, and I haven't missed it at all! We, er, my mom, has to ask for it wherever we are), or the rest of her dessert, or... anyway.
We'll get on the health wagon next week when we're back.
OMG I'll be HOME in less than a week!!! Where's the trip gone?! Ah yes. Lots of fabulous places, but time to return to MY bed where my feet don't hang off, I can pick my own homegrown vegetables, and oh yeah, get back to work! Nothing like starting a new job then take off for three weeks. Hope I remember some of the training I got!
Anyhooo... left the market, headed back towards the car and from the corner of my eye could see a big, black, bear... okay a dog, a big bulky dog, and I knew... it was my other favorite dog, the Newfoundland. I said, "Wow, look at that... bear!" in a complimentary way, and good thing, because the woman holding his leash turned around and said, "Oh heez no beaahr, heez a Neufundlund." I asked if I could take a picture, she said, "Of course! Heeer... Winnie! Winnie look heer!" Well, Winnie kept looking at her, and I couldn't crouch down as there would be the last of my jeans, which are just waiting for the final rrrrrip.
Finally back to the car, trying to walk quickly and quietly so as to not attract the attention of the happy chatty French woman, we got back in the car without incident and headed off to the historical town/Bastide of Penne d'Agenais. Pretty... and mostly closed, so we didn't walk up too much, got back in the car, and headed for Monflanquin, as mother had read about a restaurant there recommended by our 'host.' Hmmm. We pulled up, parked, and were not convinced by the outside of it. So we went across the street into a very pretty and wonderful smelling Boulanger/Patisserie and asked the woman in broken Franglish which restaurant she recommended nearby. She got very excited an animated, and through gestures and slow repetition, we understood le meilleur restaurant (the best restaurant) was just up the road two minutes. So up we went, and not 20 seconds later, we were there. And look! A parking spot! And in we walked through the very busy brasserie of La Bastide des Oliviers, to the restaurant, where a very pleasant woman greeted and sat us at a window overlooking the city.
My dad and I ordered the Vegetarian menu, starting with an 'amuse bouche' of melon 'soup' (all three of us got that), then a chilled beetroot/carrot soup with chunks of goat cheese - brilliant idea! I was worried when I saw it was beets (not a fan), but couldn't tell... followed by a lovely mix of finely chopped vegetables with flat French beans and little gnocci. Mom got lamb, finely slices, with the flat beans and gnocci. She also got a gorgeous little palate cleanser of prune ice cream in armagnac!!! Dude, prunes are cool. Especially here. The woman who waited on us, and I think was also a cook or even the chef, explained that prunes are well loved around here, as they come in all different types, and are very popular. What a shame we think of them so poorly at home.
Dessert - crème brûlée aux pruneaux cuits (crème brûlée with a thin layer of stewed prunes)... mom got crepes with maple syrup and some fancy cherry jelly.
Headed off to see at least one of the châteaus we've regularly passed by... Château Biron, as it was closer to 'home' - and we had to get back to start cleaning (yay) and packing. But I forgot which château was the big empty one with not much to see, and which was a big gorgeous one with parquet floors and marble fireplaces. Well, guess which one we ended up at. Oh well.
There were only a few parking spots along the side of the road as I pulled up, and hey! She's leaving! So I put on my left signal, wait, blocking the car behind me (waiting patiently), the car pulls out, leaves, and just as I turn in, BAM! The car on the opposite side of the road, PULLS RIGHT IN AND TAKES IT! I was stunned into... inaction. I couldn't believe it. But, not wanting to be an ugly American, I took in a breath, wished a pox on her vehicle, and moved on. To a huge empty parking lot a block away, the only drawback being it's yet another uphill walk. Fine. We paid the 7 euros to go in, and were handed a well-worn, wrinkled, slightly ripped, and faded guide in English. After we all got confused as to whether they meant 8th or 18th century, I stopped caring. Mom waited while dad and I figured we might as well check out some of it, so off we went. Ooh ah. Nice views, but that's about it. This big empty room is where the kitchen was, this was where they held tribunals, this was a chamber... and they've all been rebuilt or restored since the original. Umm, k.
As we went back out to meet up with mom to go, a black cat crept around the corner. I bent over to say hello, and it suddenly crouched down to stalk... what? Ah, the couple with the little dog. Funny. Turns out, not so funny. Apparently that cat had something to protect, and would not let up until that dog was GONE. The woman picked up the dog when she saw the intent in the cat, and her IDIOT husband stuck out his foot to block the cat from getting too close - which I can understand, but then he started to KICK the cat! Uh uh! No you don't! I get protection and self defense, but dude, this cat will rip your ankle to shreds, just GO! He reached out his foot to take another swipe, and I thought, I will be an ugly American if you're going to behave like that! I yelled out "STOP THAT" and by then a few people had gathered around to see what was going on and try and get the cat away from the dog in a more humane way. Fortunately the lady from the ticket booth hopped out and opened some side door, commanding the cat to go in, and she did. But boy, I don't think I've ever seen a small cat seriously go after a dog like that. Poor doggie. Just minding his own business. Probably had no idea.
Came back, cooked up our fresh produce from this morning, thoroughly enjoyed that apple tart! Did some cleaning... now to bed, and tomorrow, off to the walled city of Carcassonne! And a HOTEL!!!

Day 15: Bergerac and second best food EVER.

2011-04-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

So really, it's about the sightseeing, AND the food. Food is part of the experience, so no more of this hurry-up-and-eat-so-we-can-go attitude, because, well... that's just not the French way. Maybe for breakfast.
I remember when I first started working at a Five-Star Hotel in downtown L.A., part of our food & beverage education was watching some type of 20/20 program documenting and comparing the differences between the French lifestyle and the American. Uh, just a li'l difference. But let's just stick with the food. It showed French businessmen leaving their offices, strolling down the street, taking a table for two, and enjoying a two-hour lunch with wine, bread, butter, cheese, something fried in oil or butter, full dessert, coffee... then it showed a long line of businessmen in suits on a street corner in NY waiting to by a hotdog from the cart, wolf it down, chug a soda, and get back to work.
Now I get it.
Hey, I've been here before, but it was many years ago, and I guess I just didn't have the appreciation for something like savoring food. Now I do.

So we made it out even earlier today, ten-ish, and drove the 'main' country roads through these lovely little towns, a bastide or two, a castle/château or two, and wound or way to the lovely, lovely town of Bergerac. Nope, nothing to do with Cyrano, but you'd never know that from the statues in town, and a few restaurants and shops bearing his name. We enjoyed the privilege of using mom's handicapped card and the public facilities (yep, CLEAN! Though let's just say when I was waiting for my parents' to use it, some guy ran up and I'm going to guess he didn't see me, but he couldn't wait, so off to the corner of the parking lot, and done! Good for him. I'm disgusted and envious.), and walked along the beautiful Dordogne River on yet another beautiful day. Crossed over to walk through the medieval, half-timbered buildings of the 'vielle ville' (old town), and up to the main square where there's a lovely statue of Cyrano looking up at the window of the St. Jacques church next to the square. I am still trying to find out why.

Last night we had looked up a recommended restaurant noted for its great food as well as spectacular views of Bergerac from above, but I didn't realize how far out of Bergerac it was until we got there. Still only about 6km but after our 2 1/2 hour lunch, we were too tired and satisfied to return. Though we saw a lot, I would have liked to see more. Bergerac also has a 'Petit Train' tour that I'd be interested in going on. Next time!

We pulled up to park next to the restaurant, right atop the edge of the hillside, overlooking vineyards, windy roads, and Bergerac. We were greeted at the door of La Tour des Vents, asking if we had booked, and when I said we had emailed, the maître d' nodded and welcomed us in. I don't think we would have been invited in had we not, as it wasn't full, but rather busy. And wow to the wow to the wow. Another gorgeous meal. Ho hum. Little homemade crackers with ?? dare I think foie gras? to start, then an amuse bouche of whipped green been mousse with a hint of mint and curry, alongside a tiny cracker with a fish mousse scoop.
I figured we're in foie gras country, might as well have a go. And it is so different than I ever thought. Though I won't make it a habit (and from the pictures I've seen of myself and asked my father to delete, it's a good thing!), it is made/created in so many different ways! This aint' your mama's liver! It's smooth, creamy, almost buttery - I had two kinds: 1 marbled (sorry, not sure what marbled it, but YUM), and the other mixed with passion fruit. That's right. Passion fruit. OMG.
Onto the fish I can't remember what kind for the main course, over a terrine of fresh vegetables, then the waiters come around and state very clearly in very fast French what they're about to pour over it... something green and gorgeous.
Followed by the cheese course. Oh the cheese, yes. My favorite turned out to be Laguiole cheese, not quite the sharpness or hardness of cheddar, but a similar flavor... though a bit creamier.
Followed by (drumroll, please): marmelade du poire, creme légère... k, in English: chopped up pear mixed with a light cream, stuffed into a cannelloni shell set upright in a pool of creme anglaise, with little holes around the top, because... then the waiter comes and pours.... hot chocolate over the whole thing and some of it runs out the sides. A work of art visually, and ... palatably? Sorry, can't think of the right word to describe how it was on the tongue.

So yeah. Topped with a view around the dining room. Not quite my Pavé d'Auge, but, I'll take it.

We drove 'home,' clarified with our 'hosts' (so NOT the right word!) what they meant when they said on our first day that we "must clean the cottage for the next guest" - um, really? Like, we have to fully clean it? Not just leave it tidy? Nope. She looked at us and said, "As if you were, you know, to be receiving your guests at your home." I tried not to guffaw. Um, I know this is a timeshare, but... really? Really? My father pointed out we didn't have everything we needed in order to do that (yes, we have a mop and a broom, but no rags, no dusters/cloths), and she pointed out the mop and the broom, and added, "Well it's very different in Europe."
Ah.
I had no idea there were no rags in Europe.
Back to our dusty cottage - seriously, I'm almost tempted to leave it cleaner than we found it just to show them, but I won't - for a bourbon, postcards, a few nibbles later on... and oh yes, must review my music (nearly forgot about my life back home which will bite me in the a** if I don't do some work while I'm away! I'm supposed to have a recital in May!), and... bed.

Day 14: Montignac, Lascaux II... who knew?

2011-04-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

Left by 11am! Drove into the small town of Montignac to buy tickets for the Lascaux II Cave tour (called 'II' because the first, and original, started to decay and disappear after so many tourists came in breathing and walking around, so they closed it off and built an exact replica next door). Tight little streets with no visible parking, so dad dropped me off to stand in the long line, but it had been another long drive getting there, so I was again grateful to see another clean public WC :). THEN I got in line behind an American family - mother and two daughters waiting for the husband to find a parking spot and join them, then was reminded of previous stories in previous years from others about how the French don't know how to queu (stand in line). I always wondered, then how do they get anything done? Forget about Disneyland Paris, that would ruin my whole day!). A French couple had stood in line behind me, and the man kept coming right up nearly next to me - not quite, but just enough to invade my personal space and make me feel as though if I wasn't careful, he'd cut right in front of me. And he was a tiny French man. So I wasn't too worried. Try to cut, mon homme, and I'll just pick you up by the collar with two fingers and place you behind me. At one point I even moved to the side he was standing on as the line moved forward, and sho 'nuff, he hopped right over to the other side of me!
Finally got up to the front, just waiting for the other Yanks to buy their tickets; the mother said in semi-ok French: "2 enfants, 2 adultes" and the woman behind the desk asked "Tour En français ou en anglais?" The mother said, "Huh? Ahnglés, I guess," which confused the woman at the desk, who then asked "Espagnol?" Finally the mother said "No, no, English." Lesson: when in a HIGHLY popular tourist spot, SPEAK YOUR NATIVE LANGUAGE so as not to confuse people!
I bought 3 tickets for 3 adults, English tour please. She smiled, handed me 3 tickets and said, "Two-thirty p.m." Cool. Done.
Except it was 12PM. What to do for two and a half hours? We stepped back out to the street, looked around, a lot of busy brasseries... shall we have a bite here since we're parked and it's only 2km to the caves? No, no, mom didn't want to eat here. Ok, back to the car. Sat in the car, looked in the Michelin guide... no recommended restaurants around here. Hmmm.
Here's an idea: let's drive to the caves, check out the situation, go from there. Ok. Dad had a few granola bars in his bag, so we munched on those (almost seems a crime, given the food we've been eating, but hey, sometimes, it saves the day) and headed for the caves... found a parking spot right by the entrance so mom wouldn't have to walk too far, and ... oh, it's about 12:45PM. Hmm. Let's walk around outside and see what's here. There were a lot of people meandering about, having picnics around the parking area - in the beautiful wooded area... right next to a sign that said "Pique-nique interdit" (Picnics forbidden). So yeah, they pay attention to signs and lines, huh?
Found the bathrooms, er, sorry, toilettes (again very clean, and this time, unisex! Confusing when you've never seen someone of the opposite sex standing in the same line as you), and waited. Couldn't even peruse the gift shop - the gift shop closes between 12 and 2??? Apparently everything does, even at the busiest tourist stop in the area. Well alright.
We saw a sign advertising some aMAZing site up the road, and a restaurant; something about a statue of early man (or so we thought), with a picture of a bear... and a café. Huh? Well, it says a 5 minute walk. Let's check it out. 50 steps later, my mom said "I'll wait here. You go." So we did. Uphill. For ten minutes. And ten minutes more. And found the picture of the bear. On a rock. The rock. Was from prehistoric times? Huh? Ah, the café. One table, maybe two. Both occupied. We turned around and walked back. And walked back. And walked back to the seating areas just outside, the caves, next to the closed gift shop, where people were gathering for the upcoming tours.
A lot of French families gathered; I'm guessing those are the most frequent. I did get a kick out of people-watching, particularly three brothers leaping about playing swords; I was convinced it would end in tears, but it didn't. Came close. Interesting to see what children get away with when mom and dad are half asleep on the piled logs made out to be kind of benches. Older brother taunts middle brother. Youngest brother yells loudly because no one is paying attention to him. Mother turns her head to warn youngest, middle brother whacks older brother with pretend sword (branch). Tense moment of glaring between older and middle brother. Middle brother turns to youngest brother, has pretend sword fight. Older brother sits down. Their tour is called, they leave. Another family arrives, with even younger children, but one older sibling. The little girl is cute, but yaks a lot as she's moving about; she and her (twin?) brother have now set out to climb the mighty log-benches as a challenge, but looks like part of the game is once they reach the peak, they must kiss and cuddle the older brother/sister? (hard to tell from this angle) who is seated there, before descending the other side. Adorable little boy, climbing, climbing, climbing, stopping to say something adorable in French before *kiss*kiss*hug, then down the other side... uh oh, he's lost his footing; almost fell, but caught himself in time, and laughed instead of cried. Call me a silly Yank, but it was so cute hearing him say "Ah, ah ah!" in 'French' as he thought he would fall, and so proud of himself for not falling, a hearty French toddler chuckle. Their tour was called, they left.
Some Canadians sat next to us, started chatting about nationalities and didn't understand my previous experiences when I'd assumed someone was American and they got resentful because they were Canadian. Perhaps not so much now? Only in the Bush days? They looked at me like they had no idea what I was talking about. Not hostile, but... standoffish.
Finally, our tour is called!!!
Went in. Wowza. Never thought I'd find something like this that interesting. Fascinating. The caves were discovered accidentally by a couple of boys rescuing their dog who had fallen down a hole. Crazy! Makes me wonder what else lies beneath. What else do we have no idea of, what else do we think we're so far advanced in but really aren't?
And I kinda dug the fact that our tour guide didn't have all the answers; we can only speculate. We have to admit we don't know everything. Kind of refreshing. This is the first find of this 'era' which is not a record of the time, not a story of history, but admiration and possibly a place of worship, only depicting animals in such a careful, respectful form, and in a way that they look as if they're dancing around you. This aint' no first grade drawing class. They put so much thought and dimension into it - using the juts and curves of the cave walls to give depth to the shoulder blade of a bull, or the legs of a horse.
And we really think we've come so far? Or is it they weren't so ... backward?
Discuss.

We drove back through Sarlat, which is a big, old city with lots of tourists, and lots of beautiful architecture and old cobblestone streets, but we were again aware it would take about two hours to get back, so we decided to just drive slowly around and through the main old street, which almost felt like driving down a sidewalk; part of it was tiled all the way across. It was very, very narrow (yes, even for a European street), and just as I got to the end, full of pedestrians all crowding into a very popular ice cream shop, some a**hole blocked everyone as he was trying to parallel park in the last spot on the street, which was a Handicapped spot... didn't quite make it parallel, but no matter! He put it in park and hopped out, and I was p*ssed. I almost demanded to see his handicap placard or sticker, as I had to carefully maneuver to get around his bad parking job.
Up to the roundabout to head out of town, then mother decided she hadn't seen enough, so can we go 'round again? Fine. A couple of different streets, but not so interesting, so let's go down the main one again, then look off to the right and left. Ok, fine. I've mastered this now, let's go for it. Well guess who was just leaving, with an ice cream in his hand?!!? Grrrr. I wanted to flag down a gendarme and... get him into trouble of some kind. I'm sure there are heavy fines for parking in the handicapped in France just like the US? B*stard. His car wasn't even impressive.
Back up to the roundabout and OUT of Sarlat.
We knew we were close to 'home' when we saw Château Donegil again, and oh, there's Château Biron again, calling to us, calling to us...
Oh, food? Well, as previously mentioned, granola bar was the lunch (not of choice, but necessity) today. Apple in the car on the way back... leftovers at home.
Tomorrow - Bergerac?
Name sound familiar? Turns out... NOTHING to do with each other. Go figure.

Day 13: Cahors - Rocamadour (and I finally slept with Hugh Jackman)

2011-04-18T23:38:00.000-07:00

Yay, up a bit earlier, out by 11ish to head to Rocamadour - our host (the guy who owns the timeshare we're staying in; we'll talk about that later) said it's a jewel of the Dordogne, and a must-see... when he described the many steps going up to a special chapel, I had a sudden flash of The Amazing Race - there was a challenge of having to go up the steps on the knees and count them along the way, giving the correct number to the priest waiting at the top to get the next clue. Anyhoo, I remember thinking the brief snippet Phil gave about the place on the show seemed pretty interesting, so we headed off, passing through Cahors, a beautiful old (c. 800BC) town, most famous for the Pont de Valentré, a beautiful medieval bridge we were told not to miss. As we still had a way to go to our final destination for the day (considering the time, we knew we would only make it to one more place and knew we wanted to spend time there), we parked close to the bridge, walked over to have a good look - pretty gorgeous - use the public toilets (k, 'restrooms' - but I must say, the US is the ONLY place this phrase is used, and from what I get, unless you're snooty upper class, the word 'toilet' is not considered vulgar - but I give this detail because I am mightily impressed with the cleanliness and frequency of these public WC's along most major streets and off of main squares in these small beautiful towns! So practical, so well engineered - automatically sanitized after each use! Where are these in the US?!? But I digress...), and got back in the car, and drove... drove... and drove... and about two hours later, we went around a last windy road and BAM! Had to stop & gawp. Breathtaking. Across the canyon, looking up, is one of the most spectacular views I have ever seen - a city built into a rock, high, HIGH up.
Okay, not the whole city, but a lot of it.

As I was kinda over the whole driving thing, and saw the gate to the city, I grabbed the first parking spot I saw... and thankful again mom brought her Handicapped placard :). We then realized we had to pay for parking, but since we were right there, we did (cheap). I put an alarm on my iPhone giving us a 15 minute warning to get back to the car and move it wherever we ended up that afternoon.

We strolled through the gates onto a cobblestone street, full of tourist shops, but fortunately nto too many tourists - hey, this is Holy Week, and this is supposed to be a Holy Destination! Where is everyone?

I was anxious to check out these famous 216 steps (people used to come in pilgrimage and for penance climb the steps to the top on their knees - with shackles, only dressed in a shirt, and a heavy knapsack on their back) up to the chapel square, but we were hungry, and checking the Michelin green guide, we found the one restaurant highly recommended, the Jehan de Valon, which is adjacent to... The Best Western Hotel!? Yes. A very nice one. Only table available was mostly in the sun, but the breeze was good, so why not; I've got my SPF 15 make up on :). Turns out I'm not happy stuck sitting in the sun. IN shade WITH the sun, fine. I borrowed my mom's sunhat and felt a bit better, and felt even better after we started on the first course of a mixed greet salad topped with warm goat cheese on toast and loads of walnuts, was already fairly full by the time they brought the main course, confit de canard (leg of duck; I know, my vegan/PETA friends have probably defriended me by now, but I will say, I've never seen waht seem to be such happy, free roaming animals around here!), potatoes to die for, and, really? For dessert? Prune ice cream??? with about 10 prunes in liqueur? OMG I actually like the taste of these prunes!
NOW, over to the steps! Ah, but they're not ONE BIG STAIRCASE... starts at about ten, then there's a landing, then about 20 more... I left my parents to go take the elevator up as I challenged myself (and tried to work off some of this duck, cream, buttery goodness food I've been eating) to climb up the steps all the way to the top, and I did! Piece 'o cake, what's the big deal? Though I suppose, on your knees, in inclement weather, wearing nothing but a shirt, shackles and a heavy knapsack on your back it could be a bit more trying. I admit, I was hoping to see a devout Christian or two making the climb in a similar way, but... just a bunch of lookie-loos. Like me.

The steps end at a small outdoor square, with chapels on the right and left, and a famous tomb where a body was discovered who is now known as a saint. It's a bit like a maze, entering one small chapel (the most famous containing the statue of the Black Virgin), leading to another, back out to the square, unless you go up some stairs inside, which then leads to a walkway outside above the square, and you can see even more clearly these beautifully carved buildings built out of the limestone rock. It's all pretty jaw-dropping. I know many people think of France in terms of ... Paris. Or a château here and there, some wine, and Paris. And I knew this country had of course so much more history and things to see, but I've never thought of it so much in relation to ancient or religious history in such detail. But this is again, why I am so grateful to travel.
And hey, we are in ancient territory... along with Rocamadour, the pre-historic cave of Lascaux, which we're due to see tomorrow. Yet another famous site, and until now, something I learned about in a classroom, but never caught my interest much. Now I can't WAIT to see it!

So many gorgeous views from so many spots; I took a lot of photos, then decided to join my parents for the elevator ride back down. Oh, after my phone alarm went off ... in the chapel *red face* Good thing I didn't have an embarrassing ringtone.

Back to the car and decided to go up to the very top where the castle lies. Honestly, not much of a better view, and smaller area to walk around once you're inside. And if you're afraid of heights like I am (insert tall joke HERE, thanks), it's really not even worth the 2 euros to get through the automatic gate. Mom and dad waited in the car as I pushed through the gate to check things out; I was totally alone. Kinda cool, but... don't look down! Once you get up the gangway, uh, stairway, that is. Sort of. One narrow stairway, yes, reinforced on the sides, but still... hit me at about hip height, so I still didn't feel entirely secure. If you turn right at the top, it just goes straight. out. over. the. cliff. I couldn't do it. I did go left, along the side, and managed to get my camera out enough to get a shot of the view of the city, but turned back. Couldn't go any higher. Though it looked like the higher viewpoint was more aimed at the parking lot.

Headed 'home' for home cooked meal we managed to put together on our 3 foot counter space and our two tiny burners... as we crossed over to the other side of the living room to get the silverware (um, practicality, anyone?), then off to bed, in my own bedroom, in my - twin bed. Yah. We had written to them a month or so ago stating we were willing to pay for an 'upgrade' of an extra room for me, and also clearly stated we were all tall and needed more room. Um.
I don't want to be ungrateful, but I can't remember the last time I slept in a twin bed. The futon in the living room would be wider. And sadly, it's in some weird IKEA box with a wood frame, so I can't hang my feet over; every time I move in my sleep my feet hit the end and I wake up.
I'm getting used to it. Next place we go is a hotel!! yay. I did the timeshare gig for a while, but... looking forward to the change. The pillows, though soft, are square. Square? For sleeping? Can't really mash up against the headboard... er, wall, very easily with it. I was never one to travel with a pillow, but the last couple of road trips in the US I did take one, and it was well worth it. So I mashed up a couple of old pillows I was thinking about throwing away into my suitcase (squashed perfectly! So glad I didn't toss them) with my very special Hugh Jackman pillowcase given to me by a dear friend as a 'joke' gift. Okay, not a total joke, but I'm not weird about Hugh... I just adore him :)

And you know what? I slept better!

Day 12 - Farms, Châteaus, Bastides... and prawns.

2011-04-17T13:40:00.001-07:00

Managed to get out the door before noon; hurrah! At 11:15 - enough time to head into the 'big' town of Fumel to get some gas, cash, and a few more groceries for the remainder of the week we are here. Since it's Sunday, we decided not to attempt the gas situation alone, as the booth to pay with a live person is closed, so we ventured to the grocery store, where it was good they closed at 12:30 as we only had time to get what we needed and my mother couldn't browse products and compare prices - always a danger when converting.
Our card was rejected once again, so no sweat, we paid cash, and headed straight for a cash machine, fortunately one just across the road, then ventured back to the cottage to put away our groceries, then rush off to the local restaurant my mother saw that was still open for lunch just down the road. Um. Well, yes it was ok. HUGE portions. I mean, not fine dining by any means, but ... HUGE portions! How do the French stay so ... well, perhaps not fit, but maintain an average weight?? I don't get it. The restaurant was very big and very busy, and in the middle of the dining room, I noticed a disco ball. Eh? Then I noticed the colored lights all along the sides. Hmmm... guess on certain nights of the week they push the tables aside and everyone puts their dancin' shoes on?
We ordered the fix prixe menu - of five courses - I know, we asked for it, but we didn't realize at the time how HUGE the portions would be. We wondered what 'Gambons' was. Some type of ham? Some type of fish? Ah well, we're getting the duck breast, with fresh légumes, so let's go for it. Amazingly, the waitress understood when she asked for her 'pommes frites' (french fries) to be 'double-frites' (double-fried), as she likes hers très croustillant... extra crispy.
Turns out what my mom thought were soggy fries passing by to other tables were in fact, very light green beans. The potatoes were chopped and fried, not french fries. So they turned out nice and crispy for everyone anyway.
I made a very bad choice in suggesting we try the Rosé house wine, just for a change. Bad idea. Not much flavor.
The second course arrived; the Gambons. Prawns. Whole. Almost made me want to go vegan again. Almost. Firstly, I really don't like working for my meal, particularly when there's so little reward. There's more body parts and shell than actual meat. And it's all a bit scary and sad looking.
Grand Marnier Glaceé for dessert; no complaints there.

It wasn't until a few hours later when my mother realized she thought we were headed to the highly recommended restaurant in town, The Cafe (yes, that's its name) and was questioning the owner's taste. Oops.

It was nearly 3:30pm and my parents started to lean towards heading back to the cottage, putting away groceries properly, unpacking, etc., as most places to visit are at least an hour's drive, and by the time we got anywhere things would be closed. Particularly on a Sunday.
I managed to voice my disagreement and pointed out that there were at least a couple of things nearby that the owner had pointed out on the map; particularly the Château de Biron, and Monpazier, a local walled town, called a Bastide, which is known to be one of the more beautiful walled towns in the area.

Off we went! Through these beautiful winding roads (deceptively wide; they look rather treacherous, but when a car passes, eh, plenty of room!), past farmhouses and an estate or two, people cycling, walking, playing in the shadow of the medieval ruins of the town or local castle... and always cows, goats, horses, or sheep out in the fields.
NB - we have passed several dairies along the way in this trip, and NOT ONCE have we seen any cows mashed together, forced to eat corn, or had to cover our noses and say "PEW!" Seems like a lot of very happy farm animals over here.

We wound our way through the streets of Biron, suddenly coming upon the magnificent view of the Château itself. Wowza. Apparently we weren't the only people with the idea of visiting, as the 12 parking spots were all taken, along with a few invented ones, so we decided to continue on to Monparzier and perhaps see what was what when we returned.

A few minutes later we arrived at Monparzier and found an easy spot to park and walk through the gates of this walled city. The sun was out, but not too many people... though on one end of a park just outside the entrance, about four English blokes were stripped down as legally as possible and splayed as best they could to get every part of their bodies sunned. Not a pretty sight, but I get it.

We walked in through the city gates and around the square, stopping to buy a few postcards, and well, a nice dress shop, where I was hoping something might fit. A light loose linen jacket did, so that's good. But...ugh. When I get home, I am back on a strict eating plan. I am sick and tired of things being tight and snug and...
I bought a cool ring along with the jacket, and after mother was trying on things and dad had a rest in the one chair... we continued on, strolling about the streets and into the small church, then returned back to the cottage for some bread and cheese, and a piña colada (from a mix mom saw at the store; it's pretty good!). Finished off with some tarte aux poires (pear tart, NOM NOM NOM) and praline ice cream (even MORE NOM NOM NOM), hot showers... and off to bed.

Goal for tomorrow: out by 8:30AM for the two hour drive to Rocamadour and vicinity. Think we can do it??

Day 11 - Driving, driving, and driving...

2011-04-16T15:00:00.001-07:00

... and finally reaching heaven.

(Not my picture; didn't take ONE today!!!)

Welcome to Dordogne.
After a 9+ hour drive, a toll machine that REFUSED our card (thought we had the toll roads mastered... NOT), and our GPS gal putting us on a windy road that lasted a good 45 kilometers ('fastest' route? really? Uh, no.), we fortunately arrived before dark and got a mini history lesson from the owner where we're staying about the surrounding area we're smack in the middle of.
The Lascaux caves to the North, Bergerac with its gorgeous wines and statue of Cyrano, Armagnac country to the Southwest, caves older than Lascaux to the east, more individual wineries, ancient and medieval castles too many to count, and meadows and meadows, almost all of it feels like a movie set.
My mother has promised to be up and ready before noon tomorrow - though we're in the middle of things, we're a minimum of an hour away from anything we want to go do!
Except for groceries of course, which is the first priority... pray it doesn't take long!

Day 10 - American Cemetery at Normandy

2011-04-15T23:52:00.000-07:00

Fortunately woke up good as new; no fever, no tummy rumbles… ready to go. Though we did cancel our reservation at my favorite restaurant…. oh well.
So off we went at the crack of noon, heading for the American Cemetery at Normandy, which had been closed Wednesday. We had even better weather today, with blue skies and sunshine, and cool temperatures. Though it wasn't too crowded, it was full of students. Fortunately the nice small families whose parents were teaching the children about war and why we were all here today balanced out the noise of the other obnoxious groups of kids who didn't get it. Ironically one group was a bunch of German teenage girls (insert politically and prejudice joke HERE). But overall, moving, beautiful, and overwhelming. From the Garden of the Missing, to the monument that stands in the middle, to the markers without a name, only stating "Here rests in glory, a comrade in arms, known only to God". That brought me to tears more than all the names. I overheard a tour guide explaining that for these specific markers, anyone can adopt one, and they hold the responsibility of coming once a year to place flowers on the grave. And, they must commit to passing it down through their family to carry on the commitment. How beautiful is that?
I only remember with some humor my brother's face and disgust when we last visited France as a family, when touring through an exhibit at the top of the Arc de Triomph in Paris, where they show a brief film about WWII and towards the end said something about "DeGaulle's troups stormed the beaches at Normandy to free France..." Even my jaw dropped. We have laughed about it in shock ever since, but I've never thought about the subject matter much more deeply than that.
This is a part of history that has never interested in me. War, power, bloodshed, battle… no thank you. Well, now I get it. Which is why, more and more as my life goes by, I am so grateful to have traveled to so many places and seen so many things in person. You can read, you can watch on television, you can learn in the classroom, you can hear stories from others, you can view pictures… all wonderful, but… in person is the best way. I get it now. I still don't want to ever watch Saving Private Ryan again, thanks but… I get it. And I give much, much more, sincere, heartfelt and grateful thanks, to those who have served, and continue to serve. Thank you for allowing me to live my life freely. Your courage and valor is beyond anything I can imagine.
I gave my thanks quietly and peacefully as I walked through all the grave markers. Far too many.
We left to drive along the beaches for as long as possible, which wasn't too long, but we did come across a spot at Juno Beach (where the Canadians landed), with a lovely lookout point in every direction, and remnants of the false harbor put in by the Americans. A large statue of Mary overlooks Juno, Gold and Sword beaches (where the Canadians and British landed).
Long drive home, but nearly familiar now, for a LIGHT meal, a bit of packing, and now to bed.
Tomorrow - 8 hour drive. Pray for no traffic!!

Day 9 - FAIL. Pretty much.

2011-04-14T08:34:00.000-07:00

3 people traveling together. 2 older parents and a grown child. The priorities of each differ slightly, as do the ideas of how time works. And that's all I'll say about that at this point.
The IDEA for today was: get gas/petrol, go to the supermarket, go to the post office and mail a small shirt Annabelle left behind. The town with all these things is 10 minutes away. After doing all that, the IDEA was to venture out to the coast in a different direction than we had gone yesterday, and travel along it til we got bored or hungry.
Guess what happened? No really, just guess.
We left our flat at noon. 12PM. MIDDAY. And quelle surprise, to find the post office closed. Lunch. Til 2PM.
No worries, let's go to the gas station. It's right next door to the supermarket. As Annabelle's boyfriend said, "Make sure you use the yellow one for the diesel, just put your card in, pump, and get your receipt." Well how hard can that be? Apparently, hair-pullingly, tears ensuing difficult. I put in the card, it was refused. A very pleasant female voice in French repeated, "Votre carte est refusée. S'il vous plaît le supprimer." ("Your card is refused. Please remove it.") Next card. Next card. Next card. Surely the magnetic strip can't be gone on EVERY CARD each of us is carrying???
Forget it. Let's go back to the desk and ask what we're doing wrong. Since we're here, let's go to the supermarket. Ah, mais non, zees shop eez clozhed az well.
Back in the car, back to the front office. Diana, my parents favorite front desk person, goes into a long-winded explanation about how the magnetic strip doesn't always work, she has that problem too, just pay cash. Pay the lady in the booth at the end of the lane where you exit. Um, no lady was there. Non? But they are there from 9am to 7pm. Um, no, actually, they are not. Well, perhaps try a different one please.
(this is why I don't like her)
By this time, we figured if we head back, everything will be open. Voila. Chose a different lane for the petrol, and the lady returned to her booth. And was not about to leave it to come help us, as though I had found a machine that accepted the card, the size of the nozzle was TOO BIG for the tank?!?! WTF?!?!?
I pride myself on being well-traveled, open to other languages, cultures, and ways of doing things but... I JUST WANT TO PUT SOME F*CKING GAS IN THE CAR! Luckily, a very nice Frenchman (older, married; don't get any ideas) who even spoke some English came over and helped us. We were in the truck lane. That nozzle is for BIG trucks.
Ah. Ok.
Pull the car around, get in behind him. He stays until he sees gas going into the tank, and explains we can pay the lady when we leave. Thank you, our French angel. I hope there are more along the way as needed.
We paid, we went to the grocery store.
The grocery store in a foreign country (or even at home, if it's a specialty shop) is to my mother the equivalent of what an old castle or world-class to museum is to my father, and me. But we know this, so, relax.
Not too long later, we go up to the till, the SAME, EXACT TILL I was at not five days ago with Annabelle, using the SAME credit card, and the machine will not take it. Or the next card. Or the next card. The manager comes over. Doesn't work. He takes us over to another register, where it finally does work. He cannot explain to us why. Fortunately it wasn't busy, so we didn't hold anyone up.
The Post Office, was busy. And small. But, every single person in their said "Bonjour/Au revoir" to every. single. person. I thought that was rather lovely. When we finally got up to the front, the very nice lady said she spoke a little bit of English, and in mixed English/French, I explained I needed to send this small shirt in the cheapest, fastest way possible to England. She understood perfectly, and pointed to a box that said 12€50. Um, k, I don't want to be a converter, but... TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS?? roughly... from France to England? But it's just a hop over some water! Surely? I asked her twice, then resigned myself. Filled out the address, dad handed her a credit card... nope. No go. Nor the next one. Nor the next one.
FINALLY. THIS woman shows us HER card, with the gold fricken chip thingy in it, used in most European countries (yes, I remember now, I had them on my cards in England) and says, "it has to identify with this, or it won't work". I guess smaller town type places are a no-go, as opposed to the museums, big shops, fancy restaurants... and Paris have no problem, as they anticipate world travelers.
So I paid the cash. She confirmed all was good to go. On the way out I asked, "Oh, about how long will that take?"
"Ah, cinq jour."
WHAT?! Five days?? But it's just over there! I nearly wanted to point. Ah, well, I realize she doesn't take it herself, she doesn't decide. I'm exhausted by my frustrations and my frustrations alone are not what I want to remember on this trip.
Then my mother looks at me and says with disdain, "Ee-LIZ-a-beth," as if I'd just said something foul and brought shame on the family.
"Yes?"
"You're going to pay THAT much to send it to her?" (because apparently I decide these things)
"Uh, yes. Seems that's the cheapest choice."
"You'd be better off sending it from home." Yes, yes I would, but I really don't want to carry this thing around the rest of the trip and have her receive it in May... really?
My mother sighs, "Okay."
Silently, we walk to the car. Once we're in, my mother says, "She owes you BIG time."
Later, she renigs, remembering our friendship, ie, Annabelle took a weekend, booked a room, drove to France, bought groceries she left behind... for ME. So I'll pay the 12-50.
We returned to the room for a respite and recoup, feeling much better after some cheese, crackers and beer... and some Charles Trénet I found on youtube... mom and dad had a dance on the tiny kitchen floor. Tres doux.
Then my tummy pangs returned, and though I thought I had them conquered, I did not. I couldn't even eat my fabulous "Cheese Brick Dordogne" for my FOURTH course... ugh, can't even think about it right now, I'm that ill...
So off to bed with a Tylenol PM and hope that does the trick.
Bonne Nuit... and probably not writing again til I fork over the dough for another connection!
Send me healing thoughts please!

Days 7 - 8, Beuvron-en-Auge, Bayeux, Omaha Beach

2011-04-13T23:45:00.000-07:00

So, Day 7 was more regrouping from Day 6. Only ventured to the hotel next door, Le Moulin de Connelles, for another gorgeous meal and fabulous service.

A bottle of cidre, fresh asparagus soup, fresh baked bread with apple chunks and butter...I've never wanted to cry over food before. I can now understand why some people travel only for the food and wine.

Today we set off for a day trip towards the coast, starting with a lunch reservation at what the Michelin guide states as one of the finest restaurants around, and you MUST book a reservation in advance... which the front desk here did not do yesterday, after we had requested. Fortunately, as we left, the woman at the front desk did, and off we went. The Mighty Opel said it would take nearly two hours, but now that I've mastered the motorway and the toll booths, we arrived in under an hour and a half, well before our reservation.
The Pavé d'Augeis set in the middle of a square in the tiny little village of Beuvron-en-Auge, another charming place where if you've seen it at all, you cannot stop hearing the soundtrack to "Beauty and the Beast" in your head, particularly "Little Village" - I kept waiting for people to throw the windows open and yell "Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!"
Initially there was hardly a person in site, and as we parked behind the restaurant, the back door of the kitchen opened, and two black labs came out with a couple of people (never in the US, n'est-ce pas?) and trotted down the street.
We walked around to the front, wondering if it was okay to go in so early... but thought we'd give it a go... and we were the only people there! THE WHOLE TIME.
Fortunately, they didn't hover or make us feel anything but catered to.
The maitre'd spoke perfect English, as did the chef, and both helped me (well, somewhat) with my pronunciation, and let me keep the menu at the end of the meal.
And, wow to the wow to the WOW.
Amuse Bouche was a spinach 'whip' with a portion of fish underneath it - it was like eating air with a touch of fresh spinach - they used one of those gas things like you would for whip cream or whatnot... and then came...
The asparagus soup.
Dude, I nearly cried. I know, ridiculous. You'll just have to go and see for yourself. Chunks of white and green asparagus, with a light whip of sour cream and chives is placed in front of you, then they come over with a hot pitcher of the soup and pour it on top, and swear to god I felt like I was in Heaven and no one told me.
As there were three choices for each course, we each tried one... undecided as to which was the best as they all truly were perfection - boeuf, coq a vin, to my dad's simply cooked plate of gorgeous vegetables.
So um, dessert.
Can you get better than exquisite? This was. The lightest, meltiest, butteriest-without-being-too-rich apple tart (without being too tart) on the lightest, crispiest, base (I won't insult it by calling it a thin graham cracker, it was so much more than that), to the soufflé of passion fruits. Once again, they must've used that gassy thing, because this was light, fluffy, and full of flavor. And with our coffee, a few homemade candies and wafer crackers, with a homemade marshmallow - lemon, strawberry, and a refreshing mint flavor.
We're going back for lunch Friday... he did tell us it will be much busier as the holiday crowd will be coming... yay. School holidays apparently start at the end of this week, so I'm really looking forward to our eight hour drive to Gavaudun on Saturday. *sigh* I'm hoping they'll all be heading in the opposite direction, but for that distance, I don't know how lucky we can be.
We then headed off to Bayeux to see the famed tapestry, something my parents had seen on a previous trip, and I never understood the significance of it. Now I do.
The light rain didn't get us down, even as we struggled to find parking, as Bayeux is again another charming town... and most charming towns have limited parking. We found a lot which required some type of permit, so after a 4-point parking spot maneuver, we asked at the nearest tourist shop, and for 2€50, the woman handed us some plastic contraption all the other cars had, with a disc to slide around to show the time of arrival. That's it? I could somewhat understand as she explained that all we had to do know is leave it on the dashboard. Honorary system? Once you buy the disc thingy, you're good to go? I don't quite get it, but long as we don't get a parking ticket, I like it!
Then made the short walk down to the nearly empty museum housing the tapestry, accompanied by an audio guide that whisks you right around it - "...as we can see at Panel 1. At Panel 4, we can now see Harold... which is beautifully depicted at Panel 10..." Felt like I was running a race a bit. There are 58 panels!
Never thought I'd love history so much. Wisely, they do not allow ANY photography.

Another beautiful Cathedral around the block, so we had to go in at least for a few minutes. Again, I'm not religious, but there is a sense of awe, peace and wonder I get from wandering around these beautiful places.

I decided to be brave and take over the wheel for a drive through town, so my parents could remember where they had walked on a previous trip, and find the restaurant where they had eaten. Fairly easy, though sometimes I can't figure out what the signs mean - but I do know STOP, ONE WAY, and speed limit... so I'm not too worried.

We then found our way to Omaha Beach, where sadly the American Cemetery was already closed (my parents think it might be worth returning to), but we did find a rubble driving bath that goes all the way down to the beach, which was empty, and quiet... and quite moving when standing looking out at the water and the pebble beach, and what took place there so many years ago.

AND THEN... our oh-so-reliable-to-this-point GPS system somehow could not figure out that I could NOT turn right, nor u-turn, nor go around there, there OR there... to get on the main motorway we needed, as oh, I really didn't want to go through a small field and through a wire fence to get to it, thanks. WTF she was thinking, I've no idea. We were all near tears before finally deciding to go the old fashioned route: rely on our paper maps and read the road signs :) (there is a smaller road that parallels the big one we wanted for several miles, er, kilometers), and after a while, finally, an entrance! Two hours later, we returned. And now to bed.

Day 6 - Connelles (Lyons-la-Forêt, Rouen)

2011-04-11T23:12:00.000-07:00

Well. Again, Heléne from the front desk got to visit us (she had come the night before to try and help with the shower), as I couldn't get the pull out bed to… pull out. I was near tears, trying to remind myself, you're in bloody France, be grateful, instead of, does ANYTHING bloody work here?!? Turns out she's good natured and funny, and speaks fluent English. I greeted her at the door in my nightshirt as I was beyond caring… she looked at me and said, "Ah, so you want to sleep now, is that it?" It took me a second to realize, French sarcasm? Really? I'm impressed! She came upstairs, proceeded to do everything I had tried, then started muttering in French. She apologized, and I said, "Oh go right ahead, it sounds better in French anyway. And I totally understand." She smiled and said she wasn't really cursing… then after a few more attempts of pulling, banging, pulling, she took off her jacket, set down her keys and said, "So you want me to get my exercise, is that it?" Love her.
Ten minutes later, we realized the side bars on the frame are so badly bent, they have to be pressed in in order to get by the higher part of the frame, so that the bed can come out. Got it?
Onto the day.
I attempted to make an omelet, which then turned in to scrambled eggs, which then turned into watery scrambled eggs, as the stove heats INSTANTLY and the eggs cooked too fast and started to overcook… then my mother tried to use the microwave/oven combo to simply heat up a croissant, and we ended up with slightly rubbery soggy croissants. Ah well. Still edible.
Headed off at a decent hour to check out a little town we'd just read about, Lyons-la-Forêt, a tiny beautiful town which still maintains its 17th century architecture. A beautiful short drive to it, through endless fields of green, with intermittent fields of bright yellow mustard, it was quiet and almost eerily empty. We parked in the centre of town and walked around a bit, realizing then everything is closed on Mondays. yay. But at least there were no crowds to contend with.
We then headed over to Rouen, to see the famous Cathedral, as well as the town. We had decided we'd eat, then see the Cathedral. As we drove in, we saw a little train going around, called "Le Petit Train". Unfortunately, it took us a few more minutes to park, as dad was not clear on the difference between the SatNav telling us to "bear right," as opposed to "turn right." I don't know how many years it took off his life, but finally we found the Cathedral and a nearby car park, and very fortunately, a lovely lady with an empty cafe who allowed me to use her toilet. I should have learned by now, go when you can. Anyway… rather hungry now, we walked over to the Office of Tourism, who recommended a couple of places to eat, when my mother decided it was going to rain soon so we'd better get in the Cathedral while the light was still good. The woman at the desk said she didn't think it would rain until later tonight, but… it had been decided. Ok, I figured I can hold off another hour. Luckily, no line, no fees, just walk in and take it in. Gorgeous like any old Cathedral in Europe, but also in its own way, with the beauty remembered from Monet's series, as well as its stark high, HIGH narrow archways that look like they go on forever down each side of the main Sanctuary, somewhat reminiscent of the Halls of Moria, with tiny little 'chapels' dedicated to individual saints. I stopped into St. Anthony's for a few moments to say a personal thank you for helping me find so many things, particularly since I'm not Catholic (though I do travel with my St. Christopher medal - still a saint to me! And I do ask St. Anthony for help more often than I care to admit). Also tragic and sad, as so many of the windows are no longer filled with stained glass, but regular glass, as so much of the building was damaged or completely destroyed in 1944… and repairs continue to this day. We made a small donation and lit a St. Rita candle in honor of our friend Rita, who is Catholic, my aunt Evelyn (not Catholic, but liked to light candles in the churches she visited), my mom's best friend Jean, who passed away from cancer over 20 years ago (became Catholic later in life because of a guy… sadly that didn't help and he dumped her), and another friend who is Catholic. €1 for a taper, €2 for a small votive in a plastic cup with the saint on it, €3 for a larger one, and for Mary and St. Jean, €5 if you want to pray to the 'big' ones I guess. There is a beautiful statue of Joan in a larger area with a sword beneath her, and the names 'Maria' below and 'Jesus' above it on her pedestal. Sadly part of the back was closed off, but I could see a line around of saved statues along the wall that suffered some damage during the bombings. I didn't see a sign why it was closed off or what repairs are taking place.
Coming down the opposite side, there is a beautiful marble staircase, reminiscent of Hogwarts' moving wooden staircases, going quite far up. We made our way back down and attempted to ask the women in the gift shop when it's possible to come and hear the organ; they repeated "Dimanche" and then handed us a card with a listing for concerts, but I don't think the concerts involve the organ. I was disappointed the gift shop was so tiny. Aside from a few overpriced postcards, they had a few very religious items such as rosaries and crosses, but I'm not religious enough to buy something like that. I'm sure they were disappointed we didn't buy anything after such a strained effort to communicate about the organ. My mother has now introduced Italian into her attempts to communicate with the French. She's never studied Italian!! She turned around to me at one point and said, "How do you say 'please'? Is it 'per piacere?'" It took me a second as I calmly replied, "No, it's si vous plait… hang on, what? You just said 'please' in Italian?!" Impressive, but now even more confusing.
As we left the Cathedral, we started talking about where to eat. Then we saw Le Petit Train was right there at the square, and checking the schedule, we saw that the last tour left at 5pm. It was now 4:40. Somehow my mom thought we could go to a bistro and eat in 20 minutes. No chance. I was beyond starving at this point, but again, willing once again to forego food in order to take the last tour on the train. They did have sandwich stands along the many pedestrian routes, but each one had a line, so we strolled around and returned for the last tour, which led us around and through streets we would never know were there. The city is reminiscent of Cambridge or Canterbury, but very French; lots of old cobblestone streets, very narrow, lots of history (the recorded tour was in French first, then English, so by the time we understood, we'd passed the site), and so many churches! Notre Dame (yep, same name, different city) ain't the only one! And so much damage still clearly visible from WWII. The French folks on the tour would start chatting when the voice switched to English, so we didn't understand everything. But still fun to sit and be taken around; kinda like Universal Studios or Disneyland.
So NOW we're beyond starving, but as it had turned cold and windy, mom decided it was time to go. A bit of tension as I stated I would like to go back to the main market place, to see the cross more clearly where Joan was burned, as well as the possibility for a restaurant or bistro to eat; surely there would be one on the main square!? Uh. No. Closed, except for drinks, until 7pm. Great. Fine. As we walked back I stopped at a sandwich stand and bought myself a panini au fromage and waited for it to be heated. Life saver. Made it back to the car, figured out how to pay for the parking, and I decided to bite the bullet and drive! I drove us out of the parking lot, onto the street (I think in the bus lane which was a no-no, but fortunately nothing happened), and back on the road through the countryside and mustard fields, where we decided to go to the fancy hotel next door for dinner, which requires a very sharp right turn down the driveway… and they are closed on Mondays. A HOTEL RESTAURANT. WTF. K, I want to be a cool international traveller, not an obnoxious American, so, fine. We asked for a recommendation, and I wound us back up the driveway and was quite proud to make the now sharp left out of the driveway, AND, put the restaurant in the SatNav, AND find it!
Best. Dinner. Ever.
"Auberge de l'Andelle" in Pont St. Pierre, ten minute drive, parking lot, and a dining room to rival anything in Paris or Beverly Hills, without the pretense. We were welcomed by the cutest little cutie French dude, then seated next to a stereotypical French couple, not talking, then whispering when they did. Luckily there was an English family behind them with children, in shorts, and a table of two French couples, talking rather loudly… and then my mom's bane, a couple in the back corner, the woman wearing as low cut a neckline as possible. Voluptuous I would say, "falling out of her dress" is what my mother would say. Anyway, the meal…
We all ordered the prix fixe €32 meal, starting with Terrine St. Jacques, then beautiful trout with a mix of perfect vegetables, all in a perfect sauce, a perfect salad with 'fromage normand' - a puff pastry filled with goat's cheese - no doubt a thousand calories? Though a crime to count calories at a meal like this, right? Followed by a piña colada 'cake' - basically a lemon-type mousse on a light coconut cake, a milk chocolate tart with mocha whip and candy covered almonds, and my personal piece of heaven: creme brouleé au (chestnuts). Oh, mon dieu. All of this accompanied by fresh bread and champagne.
When we ordered, the man asked how many terrines, I said "Trois." Somehow that led him to believe that I spoke French fluently, so I'd like to think Corinne, my French teacher in England (one hour a week, mind you) and my voice teacher would be impressed. I panicked a bit, but once I took a breath and he repeated a couple times, I found myself giving answers in French I never thought I'd know or understand! So go me.
Now I have to go pull out that bloody bed.
Bon nuit!

Day 5 - Connelles

2011-04-10T09:49:00.000-07:00

After a nice lunch, we were setting off to the children's play area, when we saw a leak coming from the bottom of the toilet. Awesome. Further investigation clearly showed caulking was needed. Every time you flushed, water would come out the bottom onto the floor. We told the desk, who said they were fully booked, so they would have someone fix it, along with the shower, until my mom over exaggerated the toilet issue (she was hoping to be moved), then the woman said, "I will move you." My mom took the key to examine the new flat, and decided it was a worse layout than this one. So they did send a very nice repairman who caulked it, and explained with French and mime that we were not to use the bottom knob for the shower.
And now Annie's gone. We had our lunch, then walked along the river and played in the park across the way with Henry, took some hilarious and nice pictures, and as all things do… had to end. They had to get back to the ferry, no doubt which would be crowded on a Sunday afternoon. I love her so, so much. Couldn't ask for a better friend. And she makes me want to be a better friend.
I miss so much not only her, but friendships like that. Just hanging out. Going for a drink. Helping by just sitting and keeping someone company (as she did when I had surgery in England, as well as when I had to clean things out for the move back). *sigh* I realize culturally it's different, but reminds me that true friends don't care about distance or traffic, or having to do something exciting.
Anyhoo… lots of hugs and a few tears, and they were off. And we were off… back to the room, for a long nap. We cooked a nice spaghetti dinner in the flat, watched some BBC (though I got a kick out of watching CSI dubbed in French; here it's called "Les Experts"… then to bed.

Day 4 - Paris to Connelles, Normandie

2011-04-09T22:33:00.000-07:00

Started out lovely as we all arose nice and early and headed downstairs for breakfast in the pretty garden room - croissants, brioche, toast, hard boiled eggs, jams, butter, coffee, juice, cheese, yoghurt… I'm so much happier when I have breakfast!
Unless it's followed by a bumpy ride with a surly cabbie muttering his way through the streets of Paris to get us and our seven pieces of luggage (not all big mind you, and we are three people) to the Hertz office. Then he got even more angry when my dad thought he saw the Hertz office down a street, which then caused the driver to have to go around the block. Um, do you not make enough money from us? Really? He started out mad because he showed up early, didn't tell anyone (we heard him pull him and figured he was for us, but no one said anything), then was mad about the amount of bags… we arrived at the office safe and sound in a timely yet now stressed manner, as the office is tiny, and it was Saturday morning, and therefore… full. I had to wait out on the street with the bags until it cleared out enough to bring them in, then monitored them right by the door as my parents went to the desk to check in and pick up the rental car. Which of course, due to my mother's tenacity and um, strength, shall we say, they were at the desk for about an hour, 'discussing' with the guy why American Express promised us this and that and the other, yet now that we're here, we're being told no, that's not correct. But for 700 more euros it could be. I wanted to walk up and say "Dude, seriously. You don't know who you're dealing with here and sadly you don't know what you're in for if you don't just give us what she's asking for. She'll stay all day if necessary. Please. Before I break down in tears in the middle of Paris, just GIVE US THE BLOODY CAR WE WERE PROMISED!"
I then panicked as I saw the other employees showing people through the front door where they had to walk to to pick up their car. No no no, please don't make us do that, please, we can't walk four blocks with all this luggage and i don't want my dad having to walk over and figure out how to get back here by himself just to put the bags in the car!
Fortunately, a driver brought it 'round and parked it just across the sidestreet… and just in front of a patisserie/boulangerie… that smelled… fantastique! Once we figured out how to open the trunk (only from the back, only when the car is unlocked), and the SatNav (kinda; I'd gone back in to ask, he had a customer but let me ask, THEN was rude by saying "Madame as you can see I have a customer; I will help you when I am finished." B*stard. I asked "About how long do you think you will be?" He shrugged and said, "Well I don't know, he may have questions and I am helping him at the moment; I cannot tell you how long it will be." F*cker. I got dramatic and muttered under my breath and stormed out. Fortunately my acting worked (well, no, it wasn't all acting) as a very nice female employee came out, got in the car, and helped us put in our first destination and showed us basically how to put in the direction and which knob to use (it's not touch screen). Once we set off we realized we didn't know enough to figure out the radio and risk turning the navigation off, so we didn't touch anything.
My mother had disappeared into the boulangerie... and I noticed a homeless man sitting there quietly with a sign saying he was hungry. I grabbed my baguette from breakfast I was saving for the road and gave it to him. I went in and my mother was ordering some lovely pastries. I told her about the man out front and she said, "Well give him an apple. We have a bag in the car." So I did.
A few minutes later, after giving her money to pay for the pastries, my father had read through the car manual enough to feel confident, we turned the engine on again, this time to depart. My mother looked over and said, "Why don't you give him another apple." Third time, one more apple. He did seem appreciative; crazy Americans who won't leave keep giving him food.
And we were off. The woman from the Hertz office had put in our address, and now
a very nice British female voice came on and gave us perfectly clear instructions, including letting us know that there was "…stationary traffic on the A13 for 3 kilometers." Awesome. Apparently no one leaves town on the Friday night; they all head to the coast on Saturday. What was supposed to be a 1 1/2 - 2 hour journey turned into 4 hours. Stop. Go. Stop. Move 3 feet. Stop. Change lanes. Don't change lanes. You get the idea. Fortunately, we were in a very nice sedan, fitting all our luggage in the boot (trunk) very nicely, and it's a new car! 9 kilometers on it when we got it. It's an Opal, which I think is a Swedish car. It's got sensors that warn you when you're too close, as well as headlights that adjust to the road ahead as you drive! Now THAT is bitchen. So at least we were comfortable as we sat. And sat. And sat even longer as we came to the toll booth, which seemed to have no organization whatsoever. Granted, there were signs overhead that we thankfully figured out we belonged in the line that said "Cartes" - as did most people, but on the road itself, there were NO lane markers - so people freely switched back and forth, no one honking as I guess that's the norm. I hate to come off as an ignorant American, but when the logic, or lack thereof, makes no sense to me, it's very frustrating.
Dad had a bit of a meltdown as he put his card in the machine, then I told him he had to push the green button to get his ticket, but because my mother started talking from the back seat as well, he got confused and frustrated. But we all got through it; the arm went up, and finally, off we went on an open motorway… until the next toll gate. But, it wasn't as bad as the first one.
We did see some pretty scenery along the way, even for a big motorway, but I was anxious to get to our destination also as my bestest bestie Annabelle was waiting for me!!!
I had hoped on this trip to pop over to England and catch up with friends, but as time grew nearer, reality got the better of me and I realized there was no way financially or timewise I could do it properly. It would be too rushed and too expensive for the brief time I'd barely be there to say hello, then try and figure out how to get back to meet up with mom and dad without causing them too much stress or worry… so I'd let my FB friends know, and had planned on emailing Annabelle to let her know… she called me about a week before we left to ask when I was coming over. I explained, then she said that Normandy was closer than Paris, so perhaps she could come over to Connelles for the weekend we arrived there?!?!? YIPPEE!!!!
I love and adore all my friends in England, and miss them all terribly, but Annabelle was and has been my rock since I met her. Instant friends; reliable, fun, hilarious, and tall! She helped me through the most mundane times, and shared the most fun times while I lived there. I adore her. And she came to see me!!! And because Connelles is so tiny, she ended up staying at the same property as we are! Though she got a better room - she came out with her boyfriend and son (whom I knew as a baby; I was in London when she had him) and stayed on the hotel side of the property (we're on the 'resident' side as we're part of a timeshare) in a one level, large room with full kitchen, 2 large bedrooms and one bath, and balcony - we've got a split level, with a tiny kitchen and nice size bathroom, then a precarious wooden staircase leading up to a bedroom on one side and sitting room with pullout bed on the other. We've been told twice now that it's simply not possible to move to the room Annabelle was in as it's a totally different company (TOTALLY? Really? Hmm. Not sure about that, but oh well).
Once we arrived I ran off with Annabelle & Co.; we were told there was a little bistro along the river not 5 minutes away, very easy to get to. Uh huh. 30 minutes and three u-turns later, we were eyeing the chickens in someone's garden we were so hungry. Finally we found it; no English spoken, but no matter, the guy understood what a cold pint meant, and after 2, and a nice visit, it didn't matter what food we ended up with (it was fine). A bit later, her boyfriend Chris drove us to a nice restaurant where we had a late and excellent dinner together. Henry (her now 4 year old son) warmed up to me pretty quickly, and I was invited to share his room for the night in the spare twin; why not. I slept fine, and Annie and I stayed up quite late with more wine and more good visit… to find out later that my folks had also stayed up late; not for the same reasons, but because when they returned to their room to take a shower, it wouldn't go off. They had to call the desk, who came out and couldn't fix it, so they had to call the maintenance man, who finally was able to turn it off… after water got everywhere in the bathroom.
We've now managed to find our way to the big supermarket to get some things and returned to have lunch in the room/flat. Annabelle has taken over the kitchen to make us all sandwiches… then she has to leave. *Sniff*

How many people can we fit on the Pont des Arts?

2011-04-08T15:51:00.000-07:00

I mean, my goodness. Paris does come aLIVE at night, with lots of party-ers and open container drinkers. Yes, I'm American, but I did live in London for three years and got used to a lot of drinking (erm, not me personally, but being around it much more), but wow. The banks along both sides of the Seine are jammed with kids, as well as the pedestrian bridge, the Pont des Arts.
Dad and I went for a walk tonight as we hadn't seen The City of Lights full of lights yet! Though it was interesting and beautiful, for the most part, it was also a reminder I've yet to master the settings on my camera, so let's just say I got some 'artistic' shots. Yeah, that's it.
Nearly 1am now and we're off tomorrow; early to rent a car and drive out of this city, which I think I'll let Dad have the privilege of doing. Seems like it's a free for all as long as you don't hit anyone. Granted, they do stop at stoplights, but... not really by choice. It's ca-razy.
Started out at the crack of 11am (hey, it's my parents, what are you gonna do?) and walked over to the Île de la Cité to check out Ste. Chapelle and possibly Notre Dame (I've been to Notre Dame twice on previous trips, but I had no recollection of visiting Ste. Chapelle). We noticed a line outside Ste. Chappelle, but it wasn't too long, so we stepped in. It's always about ten minutes after waiting when you start to think, maybe we should go, but you can't because you've invested a full ten to fifteen minutes of your life, and if you leave, not only will you have wasted it, you will never know what awaited inside. So we went for it. And oh. my. word. It took my breath away. I don't know how I was never here before, but gorgeous and breathtaking don't describe it. Crowded does.
Waiting in line, then going into the courtyard outside of the chapel and waiting in line, reminded me of how grateful I am that in my life I have been able to walk into historical sites and cathedrals without waiting in line (without paying! Just a donation was asked); I have been able to walk through and around Stonehenge, straight up to the Pietà, the statue of David, and the Mona Lisa, and touch them (I never did), and now, long lines, fees, bullet proof glass and barriers abound.
I'm so disappointed in mankind sometimes. These are not signs of preservation, they are protection in order to preserve. I think it's great more people are able to travel the world and see these things, but... must they suck?
There, I said it. Guess I'm a snob in certain areas. So sue me. I don't think it's snobbish to simply understand that it's not okay to talk loudly in a church, you don't walk up to something that's hundreds or thousands of years old and think you can touch it. And I know better than to clap at the end of a movement! But that's a different matter.
After Ste. Chapelle we moseyed up to the big boy, Notre Dame. Pretty spectacular site. We headed down towards L'île Saint-Louisand find some not-so-crowded place for a late lunch. Which took quite a walk. I was tempted by the cafes just at the corner of the bridge, as there was a man on a stool playing the accordion, the sun was in the sky, the breeze was blowing cool air across the Seine, and I thought, this, is, Paris. But the cafes were already jammed, so we walked down a side street and finally found a female chef hanging out in the doorway chatting to someone. My mother, who apparently now speaks Franglish (she attempts French for half a word, switches to Spanish, finished in English, and confuses the hell out of everyone), asked if she was still open. She said "Oui oui!" and motioned us inside, her partner in conversation tipping his hat with a smile and wishing us "Bon Appetit!" And boy, was it.
It was a small dark restaurant, decorated semi-mediaeval with dark wood, coats of arms, and a stone winding staircase up to a second floor dining room. We were apparently the last lunch guests she was having (we're very out of fashion, eating lunch late, dinner early...), but she jumped right in and made the most gorgeous warm - no, hot - goat cheese on toast and green salad, roast chicken with French beans, and though I only had a coffee for desert, the Pavé au chocolat my dad ordered was TO. DIE. FOR.
Not surprising, this is some of the best food I've ever had. Yet it's not fancy, or too rich. It's just very good food!
We walked back over to Notre Dame, and still a very long line so we decided to skip it. We found a taxi and headed over to the Cluny Museum , known for its Roman and antique tapestries and sculptures - some which were hidden during WWII and not found until the '70's! But we spent most of our time in the room that holds the famous tapestry of The Lady and the Unicorn. Never was into tapestries, but this one was pretty special.
Mom was pretty tired of walking at this point (pretty amazing how much she and my dad have walked on this trip), so we got another taxi and asked him to drive us around to the sites that we hadn't yet seen on this trip. We had initially decided in the three days we had here we didn't need to see the Eiffel Tower AGAIN, nor the Obelisk, nor the Louvre, nor the ... or the... been there, done that. Then we kinda felt that we'd be missing out if we didn't at least go by and see it/them. So he took us around, and pulled over so I could jump out and get a shot here and there.
What an amazing city.
I mean I knew this, but... wow.
The last time I left Paris, I was sure I'd never want to come back. And before arriving, I still held that belief. But as I said in my first post, that waitress on the first day was so nice, it was the first of now countless examples that, dare I say it, Parisians are nice! We haven't run into a snotty, anti-American one yet! Instead of being disgusted by my mom's Franglish as they were years ago, they actually seem to get a kick out of it. They explain, they translate, they share. My mom kept asking the chef at lunch about how she prepares food; the woman couldn't get over how much she enjoyed it.
So we drove around the Louvre, I got to see the pyramid which was not there the last time I was... you know, where the Holy Grail is? (ha. Great story, terrible writing. But I digress). Saw the Place de la Concorde, drove up the Champs-Élysées, past the Arc de Triomph, where they were laying a wreath on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
One gorgeous site after another.
And then we came upon the Eiffel Tower. Well. What a stunning site. How could I come to Paris and not see it? It is more beautiful than I ever remembered. It actually brought tears to my eyes, even for the moment I was able to hop out of the taxi and snap some pictures.
Over to the Opera house, past the Church of Madeleine, then up Rue Saint-Georges V, full of designer houses and fancy hotels, then, back to our hotel for a drink, and an apple for dinner. Still weren't hungry after that fabulous lunch. Though we did manage to finally open the box of See's we brought and enjoy a piece.
Though I was ready for bed, I still wanted to see the City of Lights with all it's lights, so Dad and I went back out for a walk along the Seine, forgetting it was a Friday night, with nice weather. Party boats, party houses, full bistros and bars, full banks! Amazing, yet I was happy I didn't feel like I was missing out. I'm glad those party days are over; particularly when I saw two girls mixing a screwdriver by pouring vodka into a newly bought orange juice container balanced very carefully on the hood of a car.
It's now nearly 2am... and I am letting Dad drive tomorrow.
Off to Normandy!

Paris - Day 2

2011-04-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

Oh how I love living in Europe... I miss it so. The cafes and bistros along the narrow cobblestone streets, friends greeting each other with a cheek kiss and going in for a drink or a meal, the Pharmacies and banks built into ancient structures, people on bikes, cars honking, rivers, bridges, stories... and stories...

I awoke at 5:30am. My back was hurting from sleeping so much, but I did feel rested and figured if I forced myself to go back to sleep now, I'd get too far into a deep sleep and then be rushed once mom and dad called to say "Well, we're ready to go!"
So I got up, uploaded my pictures, blogged, even found an exercise program on tv with a couple of girls doing stretches and squats, so I figured, eh, I'll do a bit. I was happy I could understand most of what they were saying "D'accord? Ok! huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un, super! Ton ces bras!"

Around 8:30 I called ma mere et mon pere, and woke them up. *sigh* Well, I'm starving. I forget my mother is not a breakfast person, I am BIG time breakfast.
Two hours later, we finally left and found a local cafe that seemed to have a decent breakfast menu. Turns out a full breakfast just isn't common. It's all about a Continental breakfast; if you want a 'full' breakfast, you can add a soft boiled egg for another 5 euros. Again, we had a very nice waiter, who's broken English worked fine until my mother tried to add comments to things he already understood, which proceeded to then confuse him. "May we have some ice and some lemon slices please?" "Oui." "Thank you. Those salads look so good over there, is having a Chef's Salad?"
"Oh, you want Chef Salad?" "No, just the ice water with lemon slice for now please. But that does look very good. What kind of herb is that?"

I tried to patiently explain, please let him get our water, don't confuse him further. And of course she took that as a personal criticism.

We took a taxi up to Père Lachaise Cemetery, where lots of famous people are buried, among about a million others. That is a BIG BIG place. And if you don't have a specific map going in, you are screwed. Dad had what he thought was a good map in a guidebook, but by the time we realized it wasn't, we were too far in to go back and ask for a better one. So we missed a few we wanted to see, but I did realize, I don't have to see every.single.person.I've.ever.heard.of's gravestone. It was hot, I was not wearing the best walking shoes (no blisters tonight though, *whew*), and guess who got hungry and therefore just a bit cranky and impatient - yet managed to stop at any grave/sepulcher she thought was attractive? I would walk ahead, thinking I would turn around and they'd be a few steps behind me, but no. Then she complains we're spending too much time here. We did manage to find Jim Morrison (meh), and most impressive was the tomb of Peter Abelard and Héloïse, though sadly it was under construction, so couldn't see much of it (info on them HERE).

Finally we got up to a beautiful park in the middle and she sat down to contemplate the lovely tulips while dad and I hiked farther on to find Oscar Wilde's tomb. Don't ask me why, that was the most important one to see. Well, it's disgusting. To me. Nice carving, nice structure... covered in lipstick and to me, what looks like graffiti. It's gross. Yet somehow I think he'd get a kick out of it.

Trekked back, then had further stresses as we had to walk and walk and walk to find a taxi. Apparently if you're near a taxi stand, you're not supposed to flag one down, but wait at the designated place. We kept walking and couldn't find one. My mom tried to flag down a car with a sign on top... it read "Ècole conduite". I pointed out carefully it was a driving school car, not a taxi. We stopped in a supermarket and bought some bananas and apples. "There's your breakfast for tomorrow." Um, k.
Finally found a taxi dropping someone off who was willing to take us, and we returned to the hotel and asked Judith at the desk for a restaurant recommendation. She recommended one Place Dauphine, on the Île de la Cité. But alas, she couldn't remember the name of it. She showed us exactly where it was on the map, and off we went. We arrived at Place Dauphine, and saw about four bistros, and one restaurant. The restaurant was much farther down than Judith had stated. We asked a local shop owner where a nice restaurant was, and she muttered in French as she gave directions with her hands that it was JUST around the block at the bottom of the square and it was excellent.
We couldn't find anything when we got down there.
I took a picture of every bistro and restaurant so that at least we could ask Judith which one it was.
Mother decided she wanted to go back to the restaurant where we'd eaten earlier as she was still thinking about the lamb that she had seen someone order, and it was the special of the day.
We changed tables due to the baby crying loudly in the back room reserved for large groups. There was a lovely British family a few tables away and at one point, the father took out his cell phone and held it out as he tried to take a picture of him with his family. I thought I might offer to take one of them. As I started to get up, my mother very loudly said, "Elizabeth, why don't you offer to take a picture of them? Go on, don't be shy!" I said I'd already thought about it, and got up. But I paused momentarily, as the dad was making a second attempt with his phone camera, so I thought I'd just wait a second. My mother said "Well what are you waiting for, go on!" I ignored her, stepped over and offered; they said thank you but they got an okay one with the phone camera and it was no big deal. I sat down again.
A few minutes later, I commented I was warm. I started to take my jacket off. My mom said, "Well I'm perfectly comfortable." Awesome.
Then she says:
"You're probably warm because your nerves got the better of you in talking to that family and it's given you a hot flash."
Uh huh. That must be it.
My dad started to make a joke about it, she didn't get it and things started to deteriorate, so we changed the subject, and ended up having a fabulous meal.
I am happily tired, happy to be here, and my patience and love remains in tact.
Paris, Je T'Aime!

April in Paris...

2011-04-07T00:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, so as previously stated, perhaps it's NOT all about Posterous...
Anyhooo.

I'm in Paris, and I want to keep a blog of the trip. Mom, dad and I set off from LAX far too early yesterday morning... uh, no, day before... and thank goodness we went business/first class (same plane, different class? Same seats. I don't get it, but no complaints!), as even with the wider, longer seats, it ain't no Virgin Upper Class, but, what is. It was pleasant, but after changing planes in Chicago, it was of course a longer and a bit more weary flight to Paris.

Arrived safe and sound about 9am, and not too weary... until later.

We had asked for 'special assistance' from the airline - meaning a wheelchair and personal escort through the lines so mom and/or dad wouldn't have to stand too long - at LAX it was pretty easy, and they told us we'd have to wait 20 minutes if we wanted a chair, so we didn't bother. But when we arrived in Paris, there was a chair waiting, and mother let go of any vain pretense, and thankfully so, as the guy wheeling her got us around the airport, whisked right through immigration, got a cart, stacked our bags, called for our shuttle, and told us right where to wait for it. Bam. All done. THAT was a lovely miracle.
I was just asking dad as we were landing, "Oh remember the last place we stayed when we were all together, Bruce and I had such a tiny, tiny room, and he would get so made because I got water all over the bathroom when I showered? (I know there were a couple places like that, but I remember we had to share a very large bed that took up most of the room; we nearly had to walk sideways to get around it), and it had a winding staircase, and a tiny elevator, and a pebbled courtyard in the back to eat breakfast?" Dad said he couldn't remember it, then we got dropped off, and as we walked in I looked around and thought, hang on a second... this is the place!
Fortunately they've redone the bathrooms... a bit... and I'm on my own in an even smaller room, but fine for one person. I have to keep the bathroom door open to um, you know, do some stuff, but, hey.
The weather is gorgeous; warmer than expected. We thought we could take a 1/2 hour nap and then head out, trying to adjust to French time, but we failed. Not without trying, so we did manage to walk down to the Musee d'Orsay, loaded with schoolchildren and long lines, but what a gorgeous building, and every artist I've ever studied. But within five minutes we all felt like we could collapse, so only dad and I walked around a bit, while mom sat and waited.
We left to search for an ATM (why aren't they on every block?! This is a major city!), finally found one, then miraculously found a fairly empty cafe and had a fabulous lunch with a REALLY NICE waitress - so my held beliefs of the one waiter who walked away from us all those years ago, scarring me into thinking all Parisians hated Americans who couldn't speak French perfectly, is finally gone. She was really sweet with mom, who got confused when trying to order a veggie plate for dad, who was so tired he couldn't clarify, but with my help she clarified what he wanted, and we all had a great meal... then walked back and collapsed by 5pm.

I managed to get up at 5:30 and have been unpacking and whatnot - even found a morning exercise program in French that I followed along with for a bit.

The sun is out, it's a cool day - we've already had our first experience with a scam artist - some Eastern European dude who stopped right by us, bent over to pretend he found a ring on the street, asked if it was mine, said it was too small for him, but I could have it. Then he smiled and kiss my hand, saying 'bon chance!' then did the same to mom and dad... all was fun and smily, and I was thinking 'how nice' until he then asked us for money - for a coffee! Not food, not to get back to his family, but a friggin' coffee. Ruined my happy moment. Oh well.

I always think about my brother when I travel. Though it's been many years, we spent so much of our childhood sharing rooms and facilities, fighting and laughing and learning about the world, I always miss him. Especially now that I'm staying in the same place!

The window is open to the courtyard; I can see a blue sky, flowers in the window boxes, and sunshine, as a cool breeze cleans out the stuffy night air.

I'm dying for a coffee and breakfast, but have to wait for mom and dad to get themselves in gear.

Paris awaits!

It's all about Posterous!

2010-08-31T14:02:00.000-07:00

Check it out HERE, and let me know when you've got one!

So... not sure how often I'll be posting here. We'll see how this posterous thing goes. But so far, it's pretty bloody cool.

Flash Fiction Challenge 2010 entry

2010-08-19T15:28:00.000-07:00

On a whim I signed up for a writing competition to do something more with my writing than let it sit in my computer folder, or a sporadically read blog. And to be challenged with a deadline, word count, as well as genre.
So. Here it is.
Feel free to comment, and even critique, but keep in mind, if it's just to criticize, it will be like a dagger in my soul.
Enjoy!

I was given:
GENRE - SciFi
LOCATION - a recycling center
OBJECT - a boa constrictor

1,000 words or less, 48 hours.
____________________________________________

THE GREAT JOVIAN SALVAGE PATCH

Synopsis: A marketing executive and her partner venture out into the great unknown for the first time.

Peering through the side porthole, Ehvie silently cursed whoever designed these helmets that didn’t allow room for glasses. Her contacts were forcing her eyes to strain. We can defy gravity, move at the speed of light, travel to parallel universes, but no one can invent a contact lens that doesn’t suck the moisture out of my eyes? Ah, being human.
“Okay, a few more meters and you can open the passageway for me, so get ready.”
“Mm.”
Good thing a co-pilot’s job was an easy one, which made the pay cheap; and Dralla at least did know which buttons to push when; between glances of herself in the side mirror she’d bonded by her seat.
The small commuter pod angled right, as Ehvie rebalanced herself and opened the compartment door.
“Wish me luck.”
“Mm luck.”
Awesome, thanks. You’ll advance in no time with that kind of repartee.
Ehvie grabbed the cage as she waited for the door to slide completely open and locked into the entryway. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out onto the narrow bridge and slowly walked toward the entrance to the main facility.
Come on Br’ero, answer me. She knew it was futile; they’d been trying to reach the Patch Curator, hence her now having to actually set foot on the recycling center for the first time in her career with MSC.
Since starting her employment with Metal Salvage Collections, she had prided herself in swiftly moving up the ladder in the largest company involved in improving atmospheric conditions for the remaining terrestrial planets. She was now in charge of overseeing the transport of all previously used metals and alloys from the various Resident Planets to the Jovian Patch.
She had hired Br’ero herself five or six years ago. She thought was perfect for the job: astrogeek, loner, not too bright, with enough curiosity to keep him busy in an easy but isolated position as the sole resident at the Patch. He was good at keeping records and clear telempathic communication, she could sit in her office deck for ten minutes at a time once a week without needing to close her eyes to get updated.
A week ago it stopped. Nothing transmitted, no signs of receipt. The few ships that docked there weren’t familiar enough with proper procedure to check, which left the perimeter piling up with junk to be taken inside.
Initially she figured he’d decided to take a few days off. But he was never gone for long, and the moment he returned he was out on the perimeter cataloguing and clearing for the next drop-off or pickup.
By the second week her headaches started, with messages piling from frustrated pilots not being able to unload, or find their pickup point.
Let me check it out, an insistent purr whispered.
Hold on, I want to get to the main dock before I let you out.
Reaching the end of the bridge, she looked up and read the handcrafted sign: Br’ero Patch. Ha. She did appreciate his odd humor, which he rarely showed. She stepped inside, and set the cage down with a thud. Sorry. She shook out her arm as she looked around.
May I do my job now? came the purring voice again.
“Sure,” she said out loud, bending over to raise the latch, “Welcome to the Laughing Place. Who knew it would be in complete darkness. You lead.”
Enough with the Disney references please.
“Hey at least this time I didn’t call you Kaa,” she teased.
She kept her eyes up and alert to their surroundings as Callidas emerged from his enclosure. The 7 ft. boa constrictor had been with her since his birth. She was the only human with whom he had telempathy, and she trusted him completely.
How can he work in such dim light? Perhaps he has reptilian genes.
“Nice one. The main office should be down this way.”
They turned right down a long hallway, and heard the faint sounds of some type of jazz.
It’s him; you go ahead.
Ehvie stepped ahead and knocked on the door.
“Br’ero? You there?”
The door swung open, and there he was, but not the same Br’ero she’d hired five years ago.
He was old; older than old. He hunched over, balanced by what looked like a handmade cane, made from a discarded copper pipe. He had to twist his neck around to see her. His hair had gone white, matching the knuckles that clung to the cane.
Barely audible, his wavering voice struggled to get out, “Hello Ehvie.”
“What happened to you?”
He feebly gestured toward a chair, where she sat down without taking her eyes off of him. Slowly he placed himself back in his seat.
“I made the mistake of taking a visit to the parallel Patch in Tsotsia to see if there was anything they had come up with to improve operations. I didn’t realize because of the density of transference, it would triple the time speed. By the time I arrived, I could hardly remember what I had come for. By the time I left, I had forgotten what my other self had told me. But I can confidently say that I do remember, this place is much cleaner than that one. Hello Callidas.”
“He says hello.”
Callidas had wound himself at the base of her chair, staring up at the old man.
“I have packed and written my letter of resignation. I’d like to return with you; see if I can help find my replacement.”
“Let’s not worry about that right now; let’s get you back to our pod.”
Callidas led them slowly back to the pod, carefully pulling Br’ero’s belongings as he leaned on Ehvie.
As the door shut, the pod pulled away. Ehvie returned to her pilot seat.
“Hey, Dralla, how about a promotion?”
The snake raised his head and stared straight at Ehvie. Ehvie shrugged.
What?

Happy Birthday Ian

2010-07-25T17:23:00.000-07:00

Is it sad and pathetic to think of past loves on their birthdays?

Especially really, really old ones?

Ian MacLeod was the first real love of my life – prior, it was only Donny and Shaun through music and posters, but Ian was the real deal, for a girl of 13.

It was my one year away in private school, which I still call the best year of my life (sad I still think that, eh?). Why one year? Well, that’s another story for another day.

First day of school, all the students have to go to their designated ‘meeting rooms’ for a before school meet and roll call. Everyone has an assigned seat. Mine, at the very back, by the door. I don’t even remember the girl who sat next to me, she left after the first week, and no one ever took her seat.

I had been at the school for at least a week, since I was a boarder. So I had gotten to know a few of the girls (only girls could board, but both boys and girls could be day students), but still, first day of school is the first day of school. And the girl next to me was a day student (for the week she lasted), so I didn’t know her at all. So we sat there, in quiet pre-teen angst, watching everyone else come in and find their name and their seat, see what friends had returned and who the new faces were. And in walked this tall, very cute boy, with his friend, sizing up the room and talking about who had left and who did they know that was still here. I still hear their voices in my head, as they walked around the room before the bell rang, pointing.

“Know him, know her, know her, know him, know him, don’t know him, don’t know him, know him, don’t know her, know her, know him…”

And then he looked at me, just for the briefest of moments.

“Don’t know her.”

And they moved on.

I still can’t explain why, for the entire school year, until the Spring, though that first memory stays with me even now, I didn’t think of him at all.

It wasn’t until May of that school year, I had a dream. I swear, that’s how he came back to me!

I had a dream that he and I were a couple (gimme a break, I was 13!). I woke up thinking “Okay, that was bizarre!” Yet throughout the day, I couldn’t shake it. I stared at the back of his head in the morning meeting. He had a lovely head of hair (and it was the 70’s; seems like most boys did in those days!).

A few days later, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I had to do something. But what? Speak to him? Oh no! Not a chance. I mean, what if he didn’t like me? I was not going to be humiliated.

So, what do 13 year-old kids do when they like someone (aside from terrorizing them?)?
I wrote a note and stuck it in his locker. Something along the lines of “I have liked you all year long and just wanted you to know. You seem very nice and I think you are very cute.”

I don’t think I told him about my dream. At least I was smart in that regard.

I spent the next few days in sheer terror, not knowing if I would be spat upon, asked out, said hello to, or worst of all, nothing.

Then one day, a note appeared in my locker.

“Hi Elizabeth.

Thank you for the note, it was really nice to get.
I think you’re very pretty.
If you would like to meet up sometime after school, we could go to Jack in the Box.
Let me know if you would like that.

Ian”

OMG.
And I thought sheer terror was what I felt before I got the note!

We wrote back and forth a bit, planned a day for Jack and the Box. I freaked out at the last minute, and sent a friend to tell him I couldn’t go. I know, I suck. Talk about an opportunity I’ll always regret. I remember I even watched her go talk to him as I hid behind the corner of a building. I just couldn’t do it.

Remember 16 Candles? She couldn’t speak when he turned up in front of her? Well, that was me. But 13 (though no doubt I’d still have minor references to that behaviour even today).

My friend gave him the phone number to the dorm. He said he’d call. I thought I was going to vomit. Whenever the phone rang, I ran to the bathroom to vomit. When he did call, I ran and hid.

On graduation day, you’re supposed to stay with your team color on the designated side of the quad (the green in the middle of the school where the ceremony is held). He was a Gold, I was Purple. Yet my friends had secretly arranged with him to switch sides in the middle of walking in so that he could sit next to me. As he stepped in behind me and smiled, I thought I was going to die. Just as we were about to sit, two of my other friends waved to me and indicated they’d been saving me a seat. I dodged out and sat with them, leaving him to sit among the Purples, without me. Talk about an opportunity I’ll always regret.

That was the end of the school year. I left, never to return. I don’t know that even still I have ever cried so hard in my life over something.

Why did I not return? Well, depends on who you ask. My father’s version is the longer one, which I’ll save for another time. In a nutshell, the school had called my parents (for the umpteenth and last time) to say: “We just wanted you to know that we won’t be inviting Elizabeth to return next year.”

I wrote to Ian. He wrote me back! I know, like me, you’re asking “At this point?!? Why?” But he did. And I invited him to my birthday party. We were going to Knott’s Berry Farm, and my parents said he could come and bring a friend, and they could stay over in my brother’s room (he lived near the school, which is in the San Diego area; about an hour and half from where I lived).

HE SAID YES! He was coming. To my birthday. He and his friend (who’s name escapes me now) came up on the train, and we picked them up at the station. I dragged my best friend Lori along, warning her not to flirt with him, but to be talkative, as I again, somehow lost my ability of language the moment he showed up. I think I managed an almost sullen ‘Hi’ that was really more from fear than gloom, but looking back, I wonder if it was interpreted that way.

We went back to the house, had some lunch; everyone was talking together, so that was okay; then we headed off for Knott’s. It was a blast, but you’d never know it from the pictures that were taken. Again, sullen seems to be the best word for my disposition. I was absolutely frozen with terror. Once, once, we spoke to each other directly. I had wanted to go on one ride that no one else did. It was late, and everyone wanted to go home. I just wanted to go on this one ride before we left. Everyone said no. Except for Ian.

“I’ll go with you.”

OMG.
Time froze. The earth stopped moving. I couldn't breathe.
I wanted to die; I wanted to spontaneously combust; I wanted an earthquake, tornado, tsunami... SOMETHING to prevent me from actually being next to this beautiful boy, and yet that's all I'd wanted.

All I could hear was my heart POUNDING. Until the little voice in my head (which I still don't listen to often enough) cried out, "SPEAK!!"

“Okay.”

We walked into the line in silence. We stood in the line in silence. At one point, he did say,

“A lot of weather we’ve been having lately.”

I managed to get out a “Yeah.”

Then we got on the ride, and had a great time, laughing and howling.

Then we got off. And walked back to where everyone was waiting, in silence.

The next morning, again, everyone was talking together, so it wasn’t a big deal. We drove them back to the train station, my mother and Ian’s friend doing most of the talking. He got on the train. I did say “Bye. Thanks for coming.” And he was gone.

He gave me a gold plated necklace with a heart on it. I wore it every day until my neck turned green.

We wrote each other quite a few times until the new school year came. He didn’t go back either; his parents sent him to a boarding school near Santa Barbara. By that time, of course, I’d decided I loved him, and tried to call the school. I got a teacher by the same name who said he’d pass along the message.

I never heard from him again.

I think of him every July 25th and wonder what he’s up to, and can't help but wonder if he would remember me at all, let alone think of me every so often.

I hope he’s well.
My one regret. My behaviour with Ian MacLeod.

I'm listening, Mother Nature

2010-07-15T21:55:00.000-07:00

Buried a baby bird that fell out of its nest.

Picked a handful of tomatoes then realized half had already been eaten.

Found a nice worm in my home grown orange I was going to snack on.

The gardeners picked and TOOK my blueberries.

Came out to water after the heat subsided late in the day, discovered another baby bird on the pavement. Went to pick it up, IT STARTED MOVING.

Freaked out, called parents, called handyman, called bird rescue. Handyman came over, managed to get it back into the nest.

OKAY Mother Nature, WHAT are you trying to tell me??

Daily post FAIL - Lahooo, sa-Her

2010-07-12T15:45:00.000-07:00

FAIL on posting every day.
Oh well.

Dad

2010-07-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

Prompt: What's the first thing that pops into your head when you think of your father?

Renaissance Man.
Awesomeness.
Generosity.
Chivalry.
Patience.
Intellect.
Humor.
Love.
Tall.

Hup Holland Hup! World Cup (yes, I'm a girl)

2010-07-09T14:47:00.000-07:00

I've been caught off guard by this World Cup. I've been a fan of football (yes, it is football, proper, and I shall refer to it as such, thanks) since the World Cup was held in the US in 1994. I worked at a snobby boutique hotel in Downtown Los Angeles at the time, and was thrilled to find out that they put televisions around the lobby and bar (no, they didn't even have a tv at the bar at the time), and working at the front desk, we could sneak out when it was slow and watch.
Of course there's the 8th grade incident, which should have put me off the game, but it didn't. It was the only time I played (in my PE class, the one year I was at boarding school), and I loved it. I even loved it after the made-for-an-after-school-special moment in which I thrillingly got the ball, turned around, and took off for the goal, already nervous as the Boy of My Dreams was in his PE class at the same time, and they had stopped to watch our match.
I heard the cheers of the girls on the field with me; I felt the wind in my hair, across my face, through my shirt, swirling around my legs, as it lifted me farther away from the other players and closer to the goal. Proudly, and after years of humiliation in not being able to hit or catch a softball, tap a volleyball, or get chosen before last for Red Rover, I slowed down and got my right boot ready to score. I looked up to get a fix on where I wanted the ball to go, and how to get it around the goalie.
As I looked into her eyes, like a lightbulb brightening in slowmo, I realized, "She's on my team."
Oh dear.
Hey, at least I didn't kick it in. Instead I simply dropped to the grass, hoping it would swallow me. Fortunately it was very quickly forgotten after a few lighthearted jokes, and even the Boy of My Dreams ended up liking me - but that's a different story.

And living with an Englishman for a few years certainly taught me more about the game, and got me more interested. And living in England pretty much sealed the deal.

So though I'm still not a die-hard, I love watching a good match. I don't really care who's playing. Several of my friends have stated that once their country is out, they're no longer interested. That's devotion, and I won't knock it.
But this is when it gets REALLY GOOD.
The first match between the US and England, I was undecided who I should cheer for. The only shirt I have is a Beckham jersey I got a few years ago, and I really wanted to wear it. But I was watching at home, and as I said, I'm not a die-hard.
Then they played the National Anthem for the US, and well, I had to root for my homeland. And what a job they did!
This country needs to realize this is THE WORLD SPORT and we need to get better at it, and more involved in supporting it.
Then the US was out, so I figured now I'll cheer for England.
Well most of us know how short-lived that was.
By now I was so involved in watching matches, I didn't really care, but thought it would make it more fun to be devoted to one team, so I figured, hey I'm Dutch, let's root for them (having NO idea their ranking or skill).
Welll... (she says proudly)... did I pick or did I pick?!?!?

I've even got my parents watching - I'm even going to their house for the 3rd place match tomorrow! (dunno, my heart leans towards Uruguay; that little last nation outside Europe to be in it, ya know?)

On Sunday, I will be a die-hard. Okay, close. I will be heading out to a cafe that's supposed to be a good spot to watch the Final Match. God forbid finding a jersey other than US or Mexico 'round these parts, but I do have an Oranje t-shirt I'll be wearing, and HEY! I finally found use for that face paint I was always supposed to use in my kids' classes (to terrified to let them get their hands on makeup); so perhaps a small Vlag van Nederland on each cheek...?

To change, or not to change?

2010-07-08T14:33:00.000-07:00

If you could change one thing about your appearance, what would it be? Or would you change anything at all?

I'd like a flat tummy. I know, typical. But as much as my mother contradicts me, it is inherited. I am aware, I can control the size of that awful little bulge, but it will always be there, unless I have it surgically removed.
There are photos of me as a child with it; my mother had a tummy tuck (2for1 deal with her chemical face peel in her late 60's), and hey, guess what? She's got a tummy again. And though she still feels free to comment on my weight (see: my stand-up), I'm not about to poke her in the belly to make a point.
Who cares, really.

Maybe an inch or two shorter? Maybe. Maybe not. I don't really care anymore. Though I wish my agent wouldn't put me down as 5'11", then push me for parts that require tall, always followed by BUTCH or TOUGH ...
Again, who cares really.

I caught a documentary the other night on TV called "The Tallest Children in the World" - so of course I had to watch. It always makes me laugh when I see or hear about other tall folks, as it reinforces what I've always known - tall people are not that unusual, and are not freaks. It certainly made me feel grateful that my height simply comes from tall Dutch genes, and nothing else. There's a 13-year boy in Washington who's about 6'9" due to his brain cells not communicating properly when he was an infant, and now he's got joint pain, overgrown eyelids, and I can't remember what else, but my heart goes out to him. Even moreso as his family is amazing, and has treated him no differently, giving him a very positive attitude and confidence.
Then there's the girl in Thailand, who was actually hoping to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records for being the tallest girl (child?), as she is desperate to pay for the medication she needs to stop the tumor on her pituitary gland from releasing the hormones that cause growth.

And then there's the family in England - Dad is 6'10", mom is 6'4", and their children, all boys except the youngest, are 6'8" and shorter, the 10 year old girl being about 5'10". They've had to redesign their house to save their backs; the father commented they did not change the doorways as they're so used to ducking under them, they don't want to be hitting their heads everywhere else they go! Pretty smart.
They're just tall people. And I was waiting and waiting, then the voiceover finally said: "They are Dutch." HUP!!
But of course.

I'm Dutch. Mostly. Most my relatives were/are tall. End of story. And I am grateful for that!

Ah, to be a painter

2010-07-07T13:38:00.000-07:00

(Self-Portrait, John Singer Sargent)

I'll go with today's prompt from the NaBloPoMo site: What's one skill you wish you had? What's keeping you from learning it?

Always difficult to choose JUST ONE, but the first that comes to mind is painting. Painting/Drawing - ok, Fine Arts. Still narrow enough a choice?
I can write, I can sing, I can dance, I can act... so I've pretty much got the Performing Arts covered. What I don't feel I've ever been able to do well is put colored pencil to paper, or paintbrush to canvas.

I took a drawing class in high school. A few of my friends had taken it, and were good, and I wanted to give it a try. Knowing I've never been a 'color inside the lines' kinda gal, I might have known I was in for a challenge. But I really wanted to learn the basics, so to speak, to then go on and create my own stuff.

The only specific memory I have of the class is unpleasant; I believe up until then I quite enjoyed it, which made the final result that much more painful and no doubt scarring :)

For the final we had to create a self-portrait. Every day of every class, I sat and stared in that mirror, trying to teach myself not to be critical, but to see lines, shadows, shapes and colors, that would eventually resemble something like me. Every day, I got more excited as I could see it coming together; and then it was finished. I was so proud of myself; it really looked like me! I kept checking in the mirror: me, drawing, me. Drawing. Me. Wow, it really looks like me! And I did this!

Then the teacher came around. Picked it up, pointed out where I was missing elements, and finally stating, "...plus, it just doesn't look like you at all." And walked away.

Years later I took a few Fine Arts classes in college. I SO wanted to get back to the drawer I once thought I could be. Though the teacher was very supportive, and fun, I didn't like much of anything I did. I know 'art' is an abstract term, and many things categorized as 'abstract' are art, but I really, really wanted to be able to draw or paint that tree as it appeared to me. Or that vase with flowers. Or that human figure. I always thought from there, I could then go to 'interpret' them in my own style. But all were just kinda blobby.

I still have a set of pencils and a blank sketchbook I bought when I lived in London; to take down to the park and just doodle a bit; see if I could just have fun and try and draw a swan or a lake or a blade of grass... but never got around to it.

I love the idea of setting up a canvas, getting out the paints, and going to town. But I do want it to look like something.

So, for now, I'll stick with photography as my Fine Art. I've got plenty of other things to continue learning that make me happy. But I know where that book and pencils are, and I'll keep it at the back of my mind.

NaBloPoMo - July

2010-07-06T14:09:00.001-07:00

...and here I thought November was the BIG month, but I'll bite, though I'm a bit late. Need something to kick my a** into writing again.
They say the most 'successful' (i.e., read) blogs are the ones that stick to a theme. While I hate marking "General", I didn't see "Life" as a category. So I'll go with humor, as that's usually the underlying theme of my life. Mostly.

So the theme for July is SAVED... let's start there.
Especially considering I am now STILL, after nearly two and a half years, sitting in what is now designated as my office, surrounded by papers that seem to multiply faster than rabbits, but better yet, two big boxes I brought back from England, that have yet to be unpacked, due to my ... fine, I'll say it... laziness... at clearing things out. I'm not a full-blown hoarder, but the "Depression gene" (not the one that makes you feel down, but it certainly can) runs strong on my mother's side of the family... and I'm living in the house in which she and her sister grew up.
And this family SAVED. EVERYTHING. Need a rubber band... from the 50's? I've got a whole jar. Need a screw? I'm sure I've got one that will fit, as there's an old coffee can full of 'em in the garage. How 'bout a hub cap from a '55 Chrysler (first car I ever had; I'm ashamed to say what happened to it as I was 17 and embarrassed when I should have been damn proud)? Or a quilting rack?

No doubt there are loads of things we as a nation learned, and we as the following generations should have learned and practiced from these folks who did actually live in the days of two pairs of shoes, walking for miles, saving the leftovers for soup, tying the shoe laces together, etc.
Unfortunately, those of us with parents who did grow up with that experience have been driven crazy with the possible reuses of things.
I can't really complain; my god, I'm a grown-up still-spoiled child of two parents who are still happily together, and we all get along.
And I live in a beautiful house that is still in my family. And actually, they weren't too bad off during the Depression either. Apparently grandpa had a terrible time finding a job initially after moving out here (from OK, though neither one was originally from there, so I can't say I have Okie blood in me - Tennessee/Iowa).
They had lived in other parts of town before buying the house, and my grandpa was a math teacher at a local high school; so all I can think is that he was brought up thrifty himself, as he was in charge of the garage and boy, were there jars and cans of STUFF out there...
My aunt remained in the house until she passed away from MS at the young age of 83 (30+ years of MS and she still could kick our asses at Trivial Pursuit); and while I'd like to blame the MS for her not being in charge of the household during her later years (she had at-home care 24/7), most of the things I'm coming across surely could have been tossed circa 1957-1973.
And then comes the hard part: some of these items are vintage, and I'm sure, quite valuable. Cocktail hats that were my grandma's, my grandpa's Mason hats (which I have been told I'm supposed to give back), a 45 record player, and some truly fabulous and well cared for handbags, a couple of which I have put to good use. (*some of these items can be seen in my 365 blog).
But WHERE does it stop???
The letters? The cards? Do I really need EVERY black and white photograph of EVERY family member, including those my mother doesn't even remember? What is this guilt I feel throwing away nostalgia, when I don't even know the date, the location, or the names?
What about these fabulous old suitcases, covered in travel stickers from all over the world? They're in knockabout shape - too good to toss, not strong enough to use for travel in today's day and age.
UGH.
And I get caught in the middle - my father's family was the opposite. Buy cheap; use, toss. Funny, as his family was always pretty well off.
What I need to remember as I groan each time I walk into this room (many times a day), is my HUGE victory in cleaning out the garage, which has been a storage facility for all things but cars since about 1980, when the aforementioned Chrysler was pulled out on a flatbed. I've certainly been appreciative of using it as such each time I moved around L.A., always bringing something down, or pulling something out, so I certainly knew the main areas visible to the casual eye were full up... but I had no clue the cupboards, the extra shelves, the items strung along the sides, overhead... which I did go through, and get rid of loads.
So yay me.
Now I have to force myself at some point very soon to crack open the big box in the middle of the floor that stares at me each time I pass through; now a combination of things from my life in England, and things saved by my grandpa, then my aunt, which I'm sure I've already come across, but haven't yet had the heart to toss.
After all, the old fountain pen and inkwell are back in style, no?

Farewell LOST

2010-06-16T11:53:00.000-07:00

I know it ended a few weeks ago now, but I just glanced at my DVR list, and the finale is still on there, and I can't bring myself to delete it just yet.

So I will say it out loud:

I miss Lost.
I can't believe how addicted I got these past 2 seasons.
They amped it up, and wove a great story with fascinating characters. No, I didn't like all of them (I've been waiting for Kate to be killed for years now), and though I might have wished for a different ending, it really weighed on me for some time after.
And some time after, I did think it was a very cool way to end it.
(Sayid and the blonde though?? No way. But whatever.)

Des, Des, Des. Des and Penny... would like to have known about their happily ever after. But I'll just assume they had one, and get to work on my own.

Farewell, 'Lost'.

No doubt you'll get a nice chunk of my money come August (DVD box -set).

Olè... and do it anyway

2010-06-09T11:43:00.000-07:00

Time can be stopped! Or, delayed...

2010-02-13T20:31:00.000-08:00

About 20 years ago shortly after first moving to LA, I decided to sign up for voice lessons, as I enjoyed singing, didn't think I was all that great, and wanted some confidence in case as an actor I ever got an audition which required singing.
Forgetting that I'd sung in youth church choir, caroling with the Girl Scouts (where the leaders told my mom what a pretty voice I had), and took Musical Theater classes at University (no vocal training, but getting up and singing a song and discussing it). I've always had such awe and reverence for singing I never connected myself to it. My friends were all the stars of the musical shows; I was the chorus showgirl in the background; I could never sing like they did.
How sad.
And yes, my therapist (whom I go to maybe once a month; apparently he's not that concerned about me) has mentioned I have a sense of "I'm not worthy" which explains a lot of why I start so many fantastic things, but never quite finish them. Somewhere in there I guess I can't quite believe it when good things start happening; surely the other shoe is about to drop... at some point. K, enough psychology...

So I showed up at Doug's studio, referred by a friend who thought he was fantastic. He was an avid opera lover, former singer, who was now teaching and pursuing his own passion - country music!
I told him why I was there, we went through a few exercises, and he stopped, and stared at me. After a moment, he said, "Have you ever thought about opera?" Um, what? "You mean as a career, or what?" "Yes." I thought he, or someone, was playing a joke. He explained further. "With your size, your look, and the capacity you have in there, oh my what a career you could have. There is no one like you in opera..." and he went on. "Opera needs you. There is no one like you out there." Well, how do you say no to that?

After a few lessons and not really thinking about it, I shrugged and said, "Okay, why not." He believed in me so much, he gave me one free hour lesson a week, along with my paid one. I joined a church choir to get more training and understanding of music, and he also insisted I take piano and at least one music theory class at the local Community College. I did, and I really enjoyed it. He said he envisioned me with my breastplate and spear shouting out "Hojotoho!" (from Wagner's The Ring Cycle; it's the icon of opera divas commonly used). He had his studio soundproofed; I was the only student who could still be heard outside. His partner could always tell when I was having a lesson as he could hear me across to the other side of the house. My voice was classified as a Wagnerian Soprano; i.e., huge. There are many different types of voices, and the strong sopranos are known as Dramatic, and then Wagnerian, as Wagner was the first to write opera with a full orchestra, which requires enormous voices to be heard over it.

Then I let money get in the way, along with my waning interest (or, perhaps, belief). I actually had a dream one night that I was waiting to go onstage and Doug was behind me, as part of the chorus. I looked at him and said, "I don't think I want to do this." He said, "That's alright; you'll be great."

The next morning I called him and said I didn't want to do it anymore. He was lovely, as he always was. He said if my heart wasn't in it, then I shouldn't do it, as it's a huge commitment, and we would always be friends. We lost touch.

The master of the choir I was singing in asked me to do a solo. I quit.

A couple of years later, I thought I would very much like to be back in touch with Doug, even if I wasn't singing. The number had been disconnected, so I called the friend that had initially referred me. He informed me that Doug had passed away earlier that year, from an AIDS related illness. Sure enough, he was on the printed list that Entertainment Weekly used to publish regularly of all those in the Entertainment Industry.

After joining my acting teacher's musical theater class, I started studying again, but this time, nothing about opera. Again, I was assuming I really needed it to sound as good as my friends in class. I created my two woman show with Amy, and making comedy out of opera and singing made it easy to do; surely no one would take my voice seriously as it was nowhere near as good as ... Amy's, or nearly anyone in that class. But I thought I was good enough, and I enjoyed it.
I took a few lessons when I was in England, and even auditioned as an understudy for the lead in a play about Florence Foster Jenkins, aka the worst singer EVER. Seriously, google her some time. She's awesome. The confidence that woman had is astounding and enviable. Still no one knows whether she truly thought she was good, or she was playing every one. I was told I was excellent, but... they were going with someone else. They did add that if it helped, I was a very close second. I guess it helped. I believed them. Though second choice doesn't put me in the cast.

I returned from England, went back to class, back to the same teacher for a while, until the commute just got too difficult. And I lost interest in class. I went to another teacher, who was in the same class, and had a more classical background, and told her I just wanted to start singing classically again, for whatever reasons. She explained with age, etc. you just can't expect the voice to still be there, and I might get a few solo church jobs or weddings. That was the first lesson. The second lesson, I guess something popped out again. She had me do an exercise twice just to make sure she heard right. She told me she took back what she'd said earlier; for some reason, my voice was still there, as it had been, and I really should do something with it. I was happy about it, but ... what? So I started trying to think of how to use my voice in my comedy act, and ... didn't really do much else.

Wanting to sing again, along with living in a new area that most of my 'friends' have not wanted to venture down to to hang out, I thought, well hey, why not find a local church choir, somewhere that's not too religious but has a good choir. I found the Congregational Church of Long Beach, which is the same as the church I grew up in (pretty much Christianity Lite - at it's very lightest). They had a full size choir, they wore robes, and had concerts. And anyone could join! So I gussied up, went to church (couldn't believe it myself), met the choir director, and started showing up for rehearsals and Sunday mornings.
I discovered the most beautiful voice in the choir, Megan, who just happened to be the soloist (see, I have a good ear!) and decided I needed to sit next to her, as I'm not used to hearing the altos next to the sopranos, etc. I asked her who her voice teacher was, and she lit up! "Oh, I LOVE her! You HAVE to call her! She is fantastic, etc... and once you figure out what you want to do with your voice, she is 100% behind you. She is awesome, and hard, and totally loyal to her students." Well, ok!

Two months later, Megan asked me if I'd called her yet, as she'd told her all about me - well, I felt like I had to then. So I called. We had a very nice chat. I told her about Doug, and made an appt. to see her.

I pulled up to the gate of the private community, then pulled up to a large, lovely house. She was everything Megan had said. We chatted for quite a bit, and when I was rambling about my parents still wanting to me to go to law school, thinking that was more 'secure' ... she put her arms up and gestured towards the ceiling, and said, "Do you see this house?" She then pointed to her throat. "This voice, paid for this house."
Then we did a few exercises, and, as if it was 20 years ago and Doug was there, she said, "Oh my dear, my god! What a voice! Well, time has done nothing to that voice! And you need to take 15 years off your birth certificate, because you don't look your age, you don't sound your age, and oh how exciting! IF... this is what you do decide to do now." And went on to say the same things.
Apparently opera still needs me. She agreed with everything I told her Doug had said, and she told me to go away and really think about it, and if I decided to go for it, she was with me all the way. And her technique was so different than what I'd been used to, it was easy- easier, than before. Sure, there would be a LOT of hard work, but...
somehow, I finally thought - yes, I'm talented with acting, writing, comedy, and I enjoy them all, and especially with comedy, I have a 'gift'. But, to truly be born with something like a voice, and to not use it to its fullest potential, just seems wrong to me now.
I listened to some arias, read a bit more, did the exercises she gave me, and thought... oh my god why not indeed? What fun! I'm looking at it in a whole different way now, and I'm seeing myself in it, un-intimidated. Excited.
So now I'm going to her three times a week - she's giving me a free lesson.
I know Doug could not be more pleased, and I am so very grateful and excited that it's still possible, and it's so nice to finally have some real focus!

Doug Decatur, my first voice teacher

Apparently I suck at discipline...

2009-12-16T10:34:00.001-08:00

... when it's just for myself.
I did write out an entire post very late last night, and *poof* gone! No idea how or why. Not that it was particularly interesting, but nonetheless. I really would like to get into the habit of writing something each day.

I got an email from Starbucks about the Starbucks Love Project - www.starbucksloveproject.com - such a cool idea. So of course I couldn't just turn on the camera and sing the chorus; I had to do a whole video. After three times uploading, and the site acknowledging, and saying "check your email for confirmation and a link to your video" I still get nothing. No confirmation, no link. I check the US Map site, and I don't see my face there. So poo.

And at least the Tiger Woods debacle (hey, do I hear 15? 15? Anyone?) has sparked an idea for me - no, not to go be a cocktail waitress... but someone did a hilarious remix of his phone message to one of the girls, asking her to take her name off her phone, and put it to music, like a slow, sexy R&B ballad. HiLARious. So I've taken one of my mom's messages and done something similar - my god do I LOVE my mac! And GarageBand! Just a few more finishing touches, then it will be 'released.' I feel a Top 40 Dance Hit coming... ;)

GOOD FOR ME:
I showed up today - for a free physical training class. I met a girl outside Trader Joe's (through all my volunteering for The Cove, I finally decided it's OKAY to talk to the people standing outside of places, asking for donations or signatures, or whatever... it's OKAY to talk to them WITHOUT committing to anything!), turns out she's a personal trainer and starting 'boot camp' type classes... four blocks away. This is the first week 'trial', so she's doing it for free. I told her I am unemployed (well, I am virtually/nearly/basically) and something like this can't go at the top of my priority list. She's kept me on her email list, and though I wrote back saying I didn't want to take advantage as I could not sign up for the long run, she insisted I come for free, AND she asked me to send her my resume, and said she would forward it to everyone she knew. She also said she wished she could pay me, as she was impressed, but she can't afford an assistant right now.
So... cogs turning... perhaps some type of exchange, I'm thinking, without putting myself out too much... an hour of admin. for a 45 min. class each day? Does that sound reasonable? I don't really like to get into exchanges, but... I finally went today, and she's only got 4 people in there, including me, and SHE KICKED MY ASS. She's much kinder than Jillian, but BOY HOWDY am I outta shape!
Second thought - she held class in a karate studio, and that's something I've been wanting to do for a very long time. Best shape I was ever in is when I was doing kickboxing - I LOVED IT. I loved learning a skill while I was getting my ass kicked, not to mention by bloody gorgeous ex- world champion boxers, who LOVED the fact I was tall. A very nice change for me! Then of course I loved it so much, I went to work for the gym, and it all went to hell when I saw how things were run on the other side... and when I started questioning, the owner moved very quickly at getting rid of me. A few months later I called him up and said I wanted to come back to the classes, and if he allowed me to do that at a lower rate, I would keep my mouth shut as to his business practices, because I still believed he had a great program to offer. I did it for a while, but they expanded into a larger gym, got a bit more 'glamorous' and well, change... and it wasn't the same.
ANYhoo... so karate. Maybe.
I just didn't feel it was appropriate to pick up a class brochure for the karate while in this other girl's class.
We'll see.
But yay me for getting my ass out of bed and getting there - and DOING IT!
What a lesson in denial - I know I'm out of shape, but my goodness. I had a few moments of self-kicking, then remembered, funny enough, what I just happened to get in my 'message from god' - silly application thingy on facebook:
"...that the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang the best.
Do not wait; the time will never be 'just right'. Start where you are, work with whatever is at your command, and better tools will be found as you go along."
I thought of that as I lay on the mat thinking, how many times do I have to start over, instead of continuing???

Veteran's Day - Typing Saved My Life

2009-11-11T11:25:00.000-08:00

...because it saved my dad's.

I forget sometimes that my dad actually 'served' in the military, during the 'forgotten' Korean War. It's when I sit at the keyboard, and take a typing test, or someone comments on my fast typing skills, that I remember.

When I was in high school, we were deciding on what extra classes I could take. He suggested typing; I thought he was crazy. What could be more boring than a typing class. He repeated many times over that it was a very practical skill to have, and that it would come in useful in the future. I didn't see it. I was going to be rich and famous, how would typing possibly come in handy for me?
I had to refrain from laughing when he said to me with a straight face, "Just so you know, typing saved my life." What?! Then he told me the story.
When he was drafted, his troop got sent to Japan (where he remembers vividly the word 背です - tall - as he heard it over and over and over), before heading onward to Korea.
A few days prior to them shipping out, a high ranking officer was making the rounds, and inspected his troop. When they were all lined up in front of him, he asked, "Who here can type?"
My dad was the only one who raised his hand. The officer pulled him out, and brought him to work in his office, which handled all legal matters of the local military troops. The rest of his troop went off to Korea, and he never saw or heard from any of them again.
After his service term was up, the head officer approached my dad and said, "Promise me, if you're not going to re-enlist, when you get back home, you'll go to law school."
And that's what my dad did. He became one of the 'good' lawyers, serving as County Counsel for 35 years. I never understood about lawyer jokes until I was on jury duty, as I didn't know why anyone would resent what my dad did.
Quite a few years ago, we went to Washington D.C., and as everyone does when visiting, strolled around the mall to see the monuments. Jefferson on one end, Lincoln on the other, and a very long line to pass in front of the Vietnam Memorial. All the monuments have veterans standing by, volunteering information about the mall and each monument. It was only by double-checking our map, and asking a veteran, about a Korean War Memorial, we were told there was one on the other side. We walked over, and saw very few people by it. It's a long wall, similar to the Vietnam Memorial, but instead of names, there are photographs from the archives, of the real people who served, etched into the marble.
In front of that wall, there are over-life sized sculptures of soldiers, with helmets and ponchos, rifles and guns drawn, marching through the rice fields.
It took my breath away.
As my dad perused the wall, I stared at his face.
A volunteer veteran walked up to him and said, "Did you serve?"
My dad could not vocalize his answer, but nodded his head.
The veteran put his hand on my dad's back.
He then told us "Last week there was a family here, and the father was looking at these photographs, and found one of his old buddies on here."

I took the typing class.

Facebook is a Vampire

2009-11-08T15:29:00.000-08:00

...sucking my life away.
Good lord it's embarrassing to look around my house and see how much has not been done.

It was some time back in July I went with my father to dinner, as a replacement for my mother who was still recovering from knee surgery, and at one point we were talking about my nephews and 'these kids today' getting sucked into computer/video games, like World of Warcraft and the like, and realized there are loads of adults who get equally involved.
Not two weeks later, was I pouring over facebook (we really need to know everything about everybody else at every moment?), and saw how many of my friends were playing games through facebook, and casually and innocently thought, Oh why not give it a try, see what the fuss is all about. So I signed up on YoVille. And didn't go to bed until 4am.
Cut to two weeks later, and now I'm checking in to YoVille, FarmVille, and oh, there's a FarmTown with different options?
And now, yes, one more. Cafe World. You can open your own cafe! Hey, leave your apartment in YoVille, go gather your crops from your farms, and cook it all up in Cafe World!
Embarrassing to admit, perhaps. But when I see the thousands of people involved, maybe I shouldn't be. I am because I know all the other things I should be doing; and while it still could be considered a 'break time' activity... my 'break' activity should consist of going for a walk, doing some gardening, or, re-reading my favorite Sidney Sheldon novels from the 80's I so adored, now that they're finally ensconced together on my brand-new beautiful built-in bookcase!
Not to mention, it's NaNoWriMo... National Novel Writer's Month... a friendly competition about writing a 50,000 word novel by November 30. I gave it a go last year and didn't finish the first page. So no, the games aren't entirely to blame, since I wasn't playing them last year.
This year I've managed to get to about 2,000 words so far, but still well behind the average daily count set to keep up. Fortunately, I feel well enough into my story now finally, I will keep writing.
The crops take a couple days to grow, I don't have to visit all my friends in YoVille, and I can close my Cafe for a few days while I actually accomplish something in the real world.
I realize, these games are my drug! I am so much more successful virtually, I hate to be reminded of how much more effort I need to exert to be successful in reality!
But I shall persevere...

What up with the hatin?

2009-09-08T11:46:00.000-07:00

Is it because I'm a supposed 'grown-up' now that I'm more aware, and the vitriol amongst political parties and agendas has always existed, to the same extent I feel surrounded by today?
I don't get it.
I do get disagreements, and vehement arguments, and people getting angry because they want everyone else to think as they do... and in my wildest dreams I see them taking a step back and making an effort to at least understand the opposition, and to even possibly come to some type of mutual agreement. Yes, it is another "Can't we all just get along?" scenario. I know the answer is sadly, no, we cannot. Bummer.
But can't we at least try to understand where we're coming from, particularly in opposition?
I am baffled by the blatant HATRED spewing towards our President, who today took the time to speak to our nation's youth, encouraging them to take responsibility, do their homework, and try to get along, while doing what they feel is right for themselves and their country.
Brainwashing? Really? If that's brainwashing, I wish I had been brainwashed by Carter or Reagan, the presidents of my school days. Maybe I would have listened. Maybe not.
To question motives, sure. But to accuse him of BRAINWASHING?!?! And to continue asking about THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE? Really?? Surely there must be more important matters at hand.
I'm scared to think what the underlying cause of all this is... is it simply that a democrat won the election? Would Democrats be equally as spiteful toward the Office had McCain won?
(don't even mention Alaska please)
It makes me nervous to think racism is still alive and well. Perhaps I've been blissfully ignorant.
I just returned to this country when the politics were heating up again, and had little time to figure out who this Obama dude was.
So yes, I'm registered as a Democrat, but I'll vote for the person I think is ultimately right for the job, and yes, for umpteen years now it's been a case of 'the lesser of two evils' and not for the one person I singularly think could have taken us all the way (though I did have high hopes for Gore, and until Clinton let me down by admitting he lied, well, he was my first Hero President).

Most of us despised G.W. Bush, but even during his terms, I don't recall hearing such nasty and personally threatening horrible statements towards him.

I write this now as I continue to hear and read how parents are afraid that because The President of the United States of America, affiliations aside, chose to speak to our children today, their children could be brainwashed, or influenced in some negative way.

Let's get back to the real issues at hand, please? Maybe even with a bit of logic? I know it's possible.

Healthcare Reform does not equal Socialism. Let's think, people. Let's argue even, but argue while we listen to each other, read the information, and figure it out together, without accusations and conspiracy theories!

Right.
I'm off for a swim. I've a tough day ahead myself.

Luc Besson dives in The Cove | News | Screen

2009-07-28T15:07:00.001-07:00

Luc Besson dives in The Cove | News | Screen

Shared via AddThis

I wish I could have seen The Wizard of Oz in the theater

2009-06-16T13:21:00.001-07:00

"What's your favorite movie that was made before you were born?"

Would love to have seen this magical piece on the big screen in its original glory.

But again, how to pick ONE?

Then there's Harvey, The Court Jester, Dark Victory...

Plinky: "If you had to report for jury duty today, which book would you take with you?"

2009-06-10T10:54:00.001-07:00

While I know it's my civic duty, and I do find the people watching fascinating, I'd secretly hope me sitting with this book would be off-putting enough to suggest I get dismissed early.

Songs that must be blasted... by law.

2009-06-03T11:15:00.001-07:00

These songs hurt my neck now, but I still love 'em.

Black Cat by Janet Jackson

Well... kinda obvious, no? Good headbangin' funky guitar and beat!

hard rock hallelujah by Lordi

There's simply no other way to listen to it.

Winners of the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest, I thought they were ridiculous... til I actually listened to this song and couldn't stop rockin out to it!

Enter Sandman by Metallica

I am soooooooo NOT a heavy metal fan, but this song has such an awesome, driving beat...

CRANK IT UP!

"Exit light... enter night... take my hand... off to Never Never Land!"

Love. it.

3 out of 1200 songs I personally think should be played at any wedding reception. Like maybe mine. Would be cool.

2009-06-03T11:06:00.001-07:00

Name three songs that should be played at every wedding reception.

Life is a Rollercoaster by Ronan Keating

It's lovely and cute without being too slow or too corny.

It's All About You by McFly

Same as above. Just a cute, catchy tune about love without being schmaltzy.

ABC by Jackson 5

Well, ANY Jackson 5 song really... I just happened to pick this one. My personal favorite is "The Love You Save" - but some might deem that inappropriate for a wedding... in text. But perhaps once it starts to play, no one gives a toss.

Speidi should be a crime

2009-06-03T10:48:00.001-07:00

Activities or behaviors that should be a crime:

Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag

Making someone wait more than 20 minutes.

Not using your blinker/signal.

Getting in and out of the carpool lane by going OVER the yellow line (which is fine-able, but I witness it at least twice a day and NEVER is there a cop around!).

Speidi. Stupidity+ignorance/obtuseness - all these people should be put on an island. Add the conscious intent of acting this way in order to incite people, well... ugh. Makes me crazy.

A haiku about Tell No One

2009-04-10T12:49:00.001-07:00

Marriage tendre

Disparaît dans un instant

Ne pas craindre, croit

(Loving marriage

Vanishes in an instant

Do not have fear, trust)

A Haku for Hairspray

2009-04-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

Prompt: Write a haiku about the last movie you saw.

To heighten the hair
Spray a misty chemical
Dance and change the world

My Casting

2009-04-09T20:35:00.000-07:00

So, just for fun (okay, not entirely), I thought I'd look up who actually GOT the parts I auditioned for. Two. Two parts. Two auditions. In the year I've been home.
Not cool. Not good.
Not blaming anyone, but trying to reassess and maybe sort of have a do over - wipe the slate clean and start again.

This is where my humor comes in, preceded by my UTTER frustration in my submission category in Hollywood.

I am tall, yes.
I am not, however, a truck driver, rig operator, tough, beer-drinking bully. Somehow, these two things commonly go together in the breakdowns (descriptions of characters for projects) for which I get submitted.

Now I completely understand that when a breakdown says 'Tall,' absolutely I should be submitted. I can play a truck driver, rig operator, etc., however, without being a self-defeatist, but a realist... let's get real.

First audition:

"[BETTY & MO] Betty and Mo are a couple of burly, flannel-wearing, hard-drinking, fun-loving gals, enjoying themselves on ladies' night at the local bar. Strong, loud, demanding and looking for some mischief, they come on to Jim, who's more than a little intimidated by the pair. Firefighters by day, pool-playing revelers by night, these gals like to live large...CO-STARS (17) MUST BE OVER 6'4" TALL."

First word: BURLY.
Flannel-wearing, hard-drinking, fun-loving - that's an actor's choice, and I can do that. But BURLY?!? Okay, fine.
As per usual, I work my butt off to summon up my flannel-wearing tough gal side, walk into the room, and per usual, I'm the tallest one there (at least when I was there). And the other 'gals' in the room scare the crap out of me. For once, I feel petite and oh-so-feminine. But hey, I'm an actor, let's give it a shot.
So here's me:

And, here's the gal who got the part:

Mmmmkay?
Oh, did I mention - she's 6'3", and a FIFTEEN TIME WORLD ARM WRESTLING CHAMPION.
I'm sure she's very nice, but I would not want to compete with her.

Are you with me now? See what I'm saying?

Okay. Next:
[DEANNE DRAKE] 28-38. 6' tall and built like a fullback, Deanne is a forklift driver...

Actress could be an attractive female wrestler type or a large-framed character lady...

GUEST STAR OR CO-STAR (14)PLEASE SUBMIT CAUCASIAN AND HISPANIC ACTRESSES

Oh yah.
What is that you say? I am NOT the first person you think of?? Well... THANK YOU.

Here's me:

Aaaaaaaand here's the gal who got the part:

Yes, perhaps you recognize her. Which I take as a compliment; at least I was competing against more established actors, but seriously... WHO ARE WE KIDDING?

My agent seems to think I'm more Diane Delano, Officer Barbara Semanski from Northern Exposure (among many, MANY other roles), and I can semi understand why. BUT - she comes across tough, naturally.
I DON'T.

And by looking up the above actors (er, actresses), I feel that I am correct in that this is not my casting.

Though I may not 'look' like them, I see my types as - Alison Janney, Joan Cusack, Allison Janney, Joan Allen, Emma Thompson, Christine Lahti, Geena Davis, Sigourney Weaver, Meryl Streep... and I will admit, someone even said Janet Reno. Once.
(Please remember, I'm only talking about TYPE, NOT talent. Lord I would never dare to compare my level of talent to most of the names in that list!).

Are you with me? Are you sure?

Just in case:

Here's me:
Tough? Tough lawyer, sure. Tough, flannel-wearing broad?

And here's what I go up against:

Mmmkay.

A proper update! I am alive...

2009-04-08T13:29:00.001-07:00

...and I supposed well balanced with creativity and laziness.
Too much time on facebook prevents me from updating anywhere else. I'm completely unmotivated to Twitter, let alone post updates here (does anyone care? Should I care if anyone cares? Ah, the slings and arrows of public blogging.)
I finally did manage to tear myself away from facebook as I joined the challenge of writing a screenplay of 100 pages in a month.
Sitting and writing. I joined up on "Script Frenzy 2009", brought to you by the same folks who did "NaNoWriMo" - write a 100 page script in 30 days. I'm just now barely starting to get behind. I've had the first 5 or so pages for awhile, and am nearly at 20, but as per my habits, stopped. Didn't know where to go with the story, plus, who's gonna read it? Is it gonna sell?
Ideally now, I'd love to finish it and start a second one, which is the film version of the book I started in November - both are stories that have been in my head for ages. I take stabs at the book every once in a while too, but...
I love the ideas! I don't get why I'm not a full-on writing machine, excited to see how it all turns out!

A while ago I picked up 'The Artist's Way' - remembering I'd started it about ten years ago - yet another thing that seemed to work well for me, but when Adrian decided it was a waste of time for him, well... surely that must mean I shouldn't do it either.
Anyhoo, luckily a friend happened to mention she was doing it too, so now we've got a nice, unbiased support system updating each other, knowing at least one other person is working on similar things. And always interesting to read and hear about different perspectives on the same material and exercises given at the end of each chapter.

I am realizing more and more that I think doing this has made me realize I'm not so much a 'recovering' artist, but just one who needs a bit more confidence, and DISCIPLINE!
Because oh yes, indeedee... where does my time go? One of the exercises is to write out truthfully where your time goes.
Ugh. Yes, we can all do it in our heads, but boy, writing it down really makes it GLARE!

1 - Internet. Not just facebook, and not just things that are a 'waste' - but perhaps clearly NOT a priority at the moment. I will look up one thing, which will make me think of something else, which makes me think of something else, etc. And then three hours are gone.
And I don't even have a job! It's really making me realize how spoiled I am and that old phrase, "if you want something done, give it to a busy person" - because clearly, things I've been wanting to get to forEVER are still sitting, waiting, glaring at me! And I turn my back instead of just getting on with it.
But man I can tell you about The Battle of Thermopylae and the entire story of Der Ring des Nibelungen (The Ring of the Nibelung), among many other things (yes, I do kick ass at Trivial Pursuit, but who plays that anymore?).

2 - My parents. Pathetic or sweet? I can't decide. They are the main reason I moved home (along with the weather :) ), but sometimes I wonder how overboard I am. Something perhaps to talk to my 'therapist' about (I use quotes cuz I went once, and haven't really felt down or depressed at an unhealthy level since; it was a huge release just to chat to someone unattached and unbiased, and his recommendation of 'The Four Agreements' was awesome!). BUT - I do live in constant (not always conscious) anxiety of their mortality; somewhere I'm always thinking "What if something happens today? Tomorrow? Have I said everything? Do they know how I feel? Have I made them proud? I haven't done anything to make them proud!?" And on and on. Yes, I suppose that adds to my feeling tired and unmotivated to do other things.
So the amount of time spent with them I suppose is quite excessive.
If I'm running an errand nearby, I'll tell them I'll come by for lunch. Lunch is an hour after I arrive, then there are things to go over (clothes to try on, papers to read, helping dad with the computer), and now it's dinnertime - so I might as well stay. And the day's gone.
Though I realize as I write, I should quit beating myself up about not getting other things done, and be grateful I do get to spend so much time with them - that we do get along that well (for the most part!) that we all enjoy each other's company. And yes, the flip side is - what will I do when they're gone? Ok. No more thoughts of that. Just need to get out more on my own!
3 - TV. And now I'm signed up with Netflix (I spent ten bucks on two pay-per-view films before I realized - DUH!), and now, dear lord, they have INSTANT PLAY on the computer.
Yesterday I watched "Tell No One" - AWESOME, and "Matrix: Revolutions" cuz I'd never seen it. Waste of time. Maybe I saw it way too late that I don't care anymore, though I did fall asleep with that dude's never ending speech at the end of the second film (the Architect. I still don't get it.).

And - spent a lot of time with my brother this week, which was great. Again, taking me away from my own artistic and personal goals, but, again, I am SO grateful to have him back in my life.
He just got cable DVR, so Friday night we sat and watched "300" (not as great as I'd hoped; nice eye candy, and cinematography/effects, but too much that it takes away from the true historical impact of the real story), and "Sicko" - which nearly made me want to move back to England, or France! Ah, the question - did I leave too early? Should I have stayed long enough to get citizenship? And remembering though the film has valid points, Michael Moore fails to show a balanced perspective, which he could still do while getting his point across.
Then spent Saturday at the SAG Film Society, watching "Duplicity" (very cute and fun), and "Adventureland" (my brother's word "Painful" - I was just really, really, really, really bored. Seals the deal I am NOT a Judd Apatow fan. Apologies to those who are. I hope we can still be friends!).

AND Sunday - the four of us (Mom, Dad, Bro, Me) went to the Symphony (finally got to hear the organ at Disney Hall - gorgeous, though I admit, not quite as impactful as I'd hoped. Perhaps it was the choice of music, and not the organ itself), and out to dinner. So yes, I was Eggggsaushted Sunday night.

How sad that "Friends" are not on that list? And is it sad I'm kind of okay with it? I do socialize, but not enough to list it as a big chunk of time.

Another weekly exercise is the Artist Date- spending quality 'creative' time with yourself; whether it's sitting by a lake reading a book, painting a picture; going for a walk; etc. Anything considered creative, and on your own. Does watching a film by oneself count as an Artist's Date? Okay, good; I've had a few over the past two weeks!

Aside from the films, I did some gardening (yes! You heard right! Am I officially old now?) I did spend a good hour out there, digging, planting (tomato plant and oregano, the beginnings of my veggie garden!), picking roses and calla lilies to fill up the house, which now smells divine. And appreciating the opportunity to be able to do it while I was doing it. And yes, having a li'l chat with the birds, the plants, and Gus (who is buried in the back corner of the garden. He was the neighborhood bully cat formerly belonging to the neighbor behind, then somehow attached himself to Evelyn. She was the only one he was a total softy with. Maybe cuz she couldn't 'over-pet' him ;) he hated that. One day he disappeared, and about a week later, was found under the house :( We're still not convinced he died of natural causes; hence my mom's hesitation on me getting a cat).

But now, THE MOST EXCITING NEWS...

Turns out, I still have quite the voice. I knew I still had a voice, but...

When I first moved up to L.A., I thought I should take voice lessons, in case I ever had an audition (or god forbid, an actual part!) which required singing. Yes, total denial of my talents - sounds terribly self-centered, but the truth is, I was always intimidated by good singers and never thought I could be one. I loved it so much, I was terrified I would never be good enough to try, so I didn't.
The only 'negative' I really remember is grammar school, when joining the chorus, the teacher would have you sing a few notes then tell you what section to go to. And every year we'd argue whether I was an alto or a soprano. I KNEW I was a soprano, but no, she'd send me to the alto section. But no, she never told me I didn't know how to sing. I've examined the psychology of it, and find no trace of anyone telling me I couldn't sing, I sang badly, I shouldn't sing... none. I was in the kids' choir at church, my Girl Scout leaders told my mom what a pretty voice I had... when I got to university, I took a Musical Theater class just because I loved musical theater, and sort of sat in the shadows appreciating and envying my friends who could REALLY sing.

So, in L.A. I was referred to a voice teacher by a friend, and explained my very low standards and goals at my first lesson with Doug. Doug was a former classical singer who truly loved Country, and loved teaching anyone to sing in any way they wanted to.
About halfway through the lesson, I noticed him really ruminating on something, as he went up and down the scale, to get a sense of my voice. His brow furrowed, his ears perked, glancing at me from head to toe every so often.
Finally he stopped playing, faced me square on and said, "Okay. Are you sure you only want to sing 'a little bit' for acting purposes? Because... you may not believe this, but with your physical stature - height, looks, and the capacity your voice has, potentially...? You could be a HUGE opera star. You have a rare gift which, if you work very hard, could turn into something huge. I don't see you on stage in a musical, I see you on stage with your helmet and spear and breastplate, summoning the Gods (referring to Brunhilde, one of the most famous operatic roles for a 'Dramatic Soprano'). He told me I had the ability to become quite the Dramatic Soprano, which are rare. I never really gave it much thought, but went on his enthusiasm - he was so gung ho for me, how could I say no? He gave me two lessons a week; I only paid for one. He had his studio sound-proofed; I was the only student who could resonate through.
I managed to get into an LA Opera, though only as a supernumerary (an 'extra' in the opera world), but always caught myself singing along with the chorus. And I gotta say, even if I was merely an 'extra' - standing on the stage of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, a theater I'd been going to since I was 9 years old, was beyond thrilling. The opera sucked (a five-hour rendition of Bizet's 'The Trojans' - nothing like Carmen, trust me), but I had a blast.
Through that, I befriended a girl who talked me into joining her in her Catholic Church Choir in Hollywood (I'm not Catholic, but boy do they have music to learn by!), and after a few months, the Choir Master asked me to sing a solo.
I quit.
A few months later, I had a dream that I was waiting in the wings as the lead soprano, and Doug was behind me, as a supernumerary. I turned to him, and saw the look of excitement on his face. I woke up, called him and said, "I'm sorry, I don't want this as my life." He was wonderfully understanding and said, "whatever you choose, you always have singing, and we will always be friends."
Well, though we may have always been friends, we lost touch, as even good friends do.
About three years went by; I got into stand-up, got my SAG card... and heard from the same friend who had originally referred me to him, that Doug had passed away from AIDS (related).
And I don't think I've ever forgiven myself for at least not staying in touch, let alone working harder at this gift he showed me I never knew I had.

I did join a Musical Theater class, I did go back to voice lessons. I did create my two-woman show with Amy, in which we had the one sketch of the two Divas singing a rock ballad as a competitive aria, ending with which one could sing the highest note... and in a way, that was a little tribute to Doug.

Two months ago, I saw Cecilia Bartoli perform. As soon as she started, I wept. I hadn't thought about Doug in some time, at least not to any deep degree. I remembered then so much more; how he told me I should study Cecilia, as she was an up-and-coming mezzo, singing parts and pieces that I should learn, though over time, with hard work, my voice would surpass hers. And it really hit me: Why did I feel I needed to completely give it up?
From time to time I would sing in my class, and though it was fine, it didn't really HIT. And I don't think my teacher ever realized the possibility of my voice, and granted, it's not really his responsibility to.

So. Now. I've found a teacher with a classical/operatic background, both in performing and teaching. The first lesson we had was fine; she pointed out with age what the voice loses, but that I still had some good notes and with steady work on my part (ay, the rub!), I could easily book solo jobs, church jobs, maybe even a chorus in an opera...
I left a bit down, apologizing to Doug for wasting time and ability simply because I was lazy and insecure.

Well last week, something cracked open again. It was like my first lesson with Doug. I could see it on her face as she went up ... and up ... the scale. The same furrowed brow, the same look of concentration and confusion. Then she slammed her hand down on the keys and said, "Oh my god, you are a soprano!" and went on to say similar things that Doug had said; now we were talking about Grand Diva songs, not the "trouser roles" - a reference to the roles mezzo/beginning dramatic sopranos start out with in opera; the characters are boys, played by women.

And I'm excited again. But in a different way.
This is my excitement.
And I'm practicing!

I might just hold that spear and wear that helmet on stage yet!

Don't say 'Supposably' around me

2009-03-06T23:31:00.001-08:00

Supposably
Well, it's not a real word. So maybe it doesn't count. I'm all for made up words, but when people use this word, it usually sounds like they've intended it to be a proper word.

Could care less
Yes, it's a phrase, not a word. So I'm a cheater at this prompt.
However, it's an inaccurate phrase; it makes no sense. I am forced to bite my tongue when people say "Well I could care less" because the appropriate response is "Well then GO FOR IT"... but that would make me a total bitch, and I strive not to be.
If you could NOT care less, however, I cannot challenge that, and understand your point of view.

Dreaming of Vampires

2009-03-01T16:43:00.001-08:00

So I finished "Twilight" - very mixed about it; but I will read the second one.
Then wasted some time watching the film clips and trailers (haven't seen the film), took drugs (for my sinus headache, which I still have, blech), and went to bed.
Then managed to force my subconscious to wake itself up after being involved in a dream with Edward Cullen!
He was leading me somewhere when I suddenly realized, hang on, he's a VAMPIRE! GET AWAY!
So I did.
And now of course I regret it.

Guess I'm not as brave as Bella.

Academy Awards 2009 - after

2009-02-27T20:54:00.000-08:00

I've waited far too long for a detailed review, but overall:

Loved it.

Yes, I'm biased. Hugh Jackman can do no wrong in my book, and yet I do have a few things I would have liked to have seen done differently.

LOVED the opening, and though I LOVED Anne Hathaway, I found it a bit odd that they seemed to focus on Frost/Nixon (unless it just stuck in my head more). I would have liked to see more done with other nominees/stars on each of the nominated films.

I can't believe I'm saying THIS: The BIG musical number with Beyonce (okay, I could swear to god she was lip synching), while fabulous and show-stopping... and yes, again, Hugh, any day. Anywhere. But... that number belongs at the Tonys, no? "The Musical is Back" - it is? GREAT! But let's do a big number about how the musical is back in film!

Thought it was great, but ... not in this show.

Loved seeing SJP and Daniel Craig together (weird but intriguing duo), but THREE presentations? Why? Isn't it still a bit insulting to 'lump' the technical stuff together still? I'm glad they changed the format to explain further these categories, but... dunno, missed something there.

LOVED having the 5 previous winners come out; even if it did seem slightly contrived and fake simply because the presenters had their speeches written for them. Yes, they're actors, yes, they could have come across better, but ... I still dug the format of it. Maybe next year they'll memorize.

So, while we all still miss Billy Crystal, I think Hugh makes a fine, fine, host.

I was sorry not to see more 'upsets' as far as winners go - like 'Slumdog Millionaire' - really? Did it REALLY deserve all those awards? Well, always debatable.

And while I hoped for John Patrick Shanley and Meryl Streep to win, I wasn't surprised they didn't, and still pleased that Kate did. I just might go see The Reader now.

Those are the things that stick out for me; I'm sure I've forgotten loads.

Should Hugh host again? Sure. Why not? With a few changes.

But, and you heard me say it, if he doesn't, I won't cry. Promise.

The Pyramids is the oldest place I've been

2009-02-25T11:10:00.001-08:00

What's one of the oldest buildings or landmarks you've been to?

Isn't that just about the oldest place?

Or would Teotihuacan be older?!

Something more to look up...

Pretty cool stuff; my family went when I was 12 - and I've never stuck out like a sore thumb so much... 5'11" probably, and blonde. My dad had to keep a close eye on me.

It was a fascinating trip. We actually got to go inside one of them, and for my family, that was challenging, as the pathways were about 4 ft. high. But once you were inside a chamber, it was huge. I remember there was a built-in casket remaining, and I stood in it for a photo with my arms crossed over my chest, and my dad took the picture just as someone else's flash went off, which gave it a nice eery quality.

That was the beginning of our trip, after which we went to Abu Simbel, the Valley of the Kings, Aswan and Luxor, where I got very ill, and remained so for another couple of weeks, including our cruise around the Greek Islands, where I had to miss Rhodes because I was too sick to even walk! But the ship had an amazing doctor who was lovely and very caring, and gave me some massive shot in the butt which would paralyze whichever leg for that day, so I was hanging onto my dad as we walked around Istanbul and into the mosques and around the bazaars.

The day I missed Rhodes he had one of his (gorgeous) stewards sit at my bedside and squeeze me fresh orange juice.

Then one day I woke up and BAM! 100% like new.

Another specific memory is visiting the amphitheater at Ephesus, where there happened to be an opera singer in the group of tourists, who broke into song to test the legendary sound quality of the amphitheater. It was amazing.

Academy Awards 2009 - before

2009-02-22T15:51:00.000-08:00

Next to family and 4th of July, one of the main reasons I am thrilled to be back in Southern California is Oscar Day. I don't remember a year going by growing up where I didn't HAVE to watch it live, and tried to watch every film I could. I always felt a part of it, even before I declared myself as an actor. I still feel part of it, though the sad reality is I'm just as far away as I've always been. Perhaps that will change one day still, but in the meantime, I remain just as excited to see the spectacle of all the live show brings... and no less this year because of the host!!!

This year was full of such a vast variety of films, and aside from Doubt, I found I was most moved and interested in films with an historical basis - which totally surprised me!

Granted, I've not seen 'The Reader', 'The Wrestler,' 'The Visitor', or 'Revolutionary Road' as far as the BIG films go...
Here's what I would like to win, vs. what I think will win:

BEST PICTURE:
Would like: Either Milk or Frost/Nixon.

Milk is a moving and powerful piece, full of life, thought, and entertainment. It's a fascinating piece of history I knew very little about, and though the subject matter can be provocative, I was moved, educated, AND entertained. And haven't seen Sean Penn embody such a fabulous (and HAPPY!) character since Jeff Spicoli.

Frost/Nixon
Not enough people have seen this film, and it's not done itself any favors with promotion, as it still looks like a political history film. Of course it is, but not entirely. It's a film I wouldn't have chosen to see for the same reason, but it is SO MUCH MORE than that. It might be an actor's film, but the scope is so much broader than the two main characters, and by the time the climax is reached, and we all know what it is, it is still a jaw-dropping/can't breathe moment. And Frank Langella is far overdue for recognition. It's just a great story, political or not.

What WILL win: Slumdog Millionaire.
*sigh*
I'm in a minority, I admit. I did not like this film. *ducks*
I get WHY it's so popular, and I thought parts of it were very clever in regards to the character set-ups and plot. But, sorry... I got NO chemistry between the two leads, and because I knew how it would end, I knew I didn't have to care about them. Everyone else was either a slimeball, or died the moment you realized they were decent.
And I of everyone I know is ALL for bursting into song and dance at random, but even the end Bollywood dance didn't make me want to get up and dance, and I ALWAYS want to get up and dance!
I do think the music was great, and I think it will sweep the ceremony. Undeserved, I believe, but sincerely, good for them if that's the case.

BEST ACTOR:
Who I WANT to win: Frank Langella is too much of a longshot, but what a fabulous surprise that would be!
For me it is a tough choice between him and Sean Penn, but ... if forced, I would lean towards Sean Penn.

Who I THINK will win: It just might be Mickey Rourke, but I think Sean will take it home.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:
Who I WANT to win: Philip Seymour Hoffman
DOUBT thus far has been my personal favorite film. Again, another one that I was reluctant to see, as it looked very 'staged' and ... narrow, is the best word I can think of. I didn't want to see a film about a priest who may or may not have molested a young boy. And that is SO NOT what this film is about! It is about Doubt. And what doubt can do. To people, to relationships, to society. I thought it was a beautifully constructed piece that magnificently avoided the 'did he or didn't he' - and just got us to think about the doubt. Loved it, loved it, loved it. Still not sure why, but this film has just struck a direct chord with me.
Written by John Patrick Shanley, who also wrote Moonstruck, and my personal favorite, Joe vs. the Volcano (you either love it or hate it), among others.

Who I THINK will win: No question. Heath Ledger. And well deserved. Regardless of his dramatic death, he did give an Oscar-worthy performance in The Dark Knight.

BEST ACTRESS:
Who I WANT to win: Meryl.
There is no other. After Mamma Mia! then Doubt?! My god. I always knew she was wonderful, but I didn't fall head over heels in love with her until these two films. And just looking at the one role... phenomenal. A scary, stoic, rigid, archetypal nun, but with humor, vulnerability, and soul. Breathtaking.

Who WILL win: Kate Winslet. Whom I have no doubt gave an amazing performance in The Reader. So I won't be disappointed per se, as I think she's the Meryl of her generation. But I'll have a pang of frustration, I admit.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:
Honestly, I'm happy with whomever. Though I didn't see The Wrestler, Marisa Tomei without question is fantastic. Per the above, I'd be thrilled if Amy Adams won, and now I do want to see Vicky Christina Barcelona - I've never been a fan of Penelope Cruz, but willing to change my mind, which looks like I could, with her performance in this film. I do think she'll win it... but could be close with Viola Davis.

BEST DIRECTOR:
WANT to win: Gus van Sant (Milk) or Ron Howard (Frost/Nixon). Reasons above.
WILL win: Danny Boyle (Slumdog Millionaire).

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY:
WANT to win: Doubt - John Patrick Shanley
WILL win: Slumdog Millionaire - Simon Beaufoy

BEST FOREIGN LANGUAGE FILM:
WANT to win: Waltz With Bashir
WILL win: same.
WOW what a film. Again, another surprise - historical, educational, introspective, provocative, and entertaining. Beautifully done.
I do wish that one of the other films in this category, The Baader Meinhof Complex, had more publicity. Another piece of history I knew little of, and am now reading more about due to this film sparking my interest.

Though the scores from Milk and Benjamin Button were wonderful, I think Slumdog will take that as well.

Oohhhhh, I think I'll leave it at that.

Overall, I think it will be a great ceremony, made even better by a new format. I always love an 'upset' (unexpected win), so I hope that happens at least once!

GOOD LUCK HUGH!

Regular magazines in my stack.

2009-02-14T12:37:00.001-08:00

"Entertainment Weekly"
The Bible of the Entertainment Industry (aside from the 'insider' trades like Hollywood Reporter and Daily Variety).

I relish it too quickly each week, but I still dearly miss Premiere Magazine (RIP).

"O"
I keep trying to find reasons to subscribe, but each time I buy an individual issue off the stands, I get frustrated trying to find the ONE story I really bought it for in the TOC (Why can they not list the article with the EXACT same title as the cover? SIMPLE)... then when I get to the articles, I find them to be one or two pages of ... fluff. Not really delving into too much. I don't want Psychology Today, but a little more depth would be cool.

When I started using the Internet

2009-02-11T11:15:00.001-08:00

I was right there at the beginning. I don't remember what server/site, but I believe it was the beginnings of AOL.

Circa 1986, my friend Paul had a Mac 512K that we shared to write our college papers on. I was familiar with a computer in general, as my dad had a word processor, and I had been 'forced' to take a DOS typing class during the summer (BORING, but glad I did it now!).

Paul and I used to sit for hours and type things into the Mac and then click on the 'text to speech' function which we thought was hilarious.

A few years later, in '89, he upgraded, and gave me the Mac, along with a 28.8 modem, which I had no clue what it was. He hooked it up, hit some numbers, we heard very strange noises (connecting), then I saw a black screen with a cursor, ala Pong.

Paul typed in "Hello?"

I said, "What are you doing?"

"Just wait."

We sat, and a few moments later, I saw:

"Hi."

I looked around the room, I looked at Paul, confused, as I hadn't seen him type anything.

"What's going on?"

"You're talking to someone."

"What?"

I then learned about this thing called a chatroom.

The other person typed:

"M or F?"

I asked, "What does that mean?"

Paul replied:

"F"

I said, "You're lying!"

He laughed.

On the screen appeared:

"Cool. How are you?"

His reply:

"Horny."

My jaw dropped, as I was still utterly confused by all that was happening, while Paul squealed with laughter.

I honestly don't remember the rest, but I think I made him disconnect.

And of course after that, I spent hours and hours in chat rooms, wasting loads of brain power on pointless conversations about people insulting one another, and still trying to understand how it all worked.

Watch "When Harry Met Sally" next time you're home sick

2009-02-11T11:04:00.001-08:00

Recommend a movie for a friend stuck on the couch with a cold.

Doesn't involve a lot of brain power, but is hilarious, endearing, and timeless.

My advice

2009-02-11T11:01:00.001-08:00

Name a piece of advice you've been given that you think everyone should hear.

thoughtful by Angela Sevin (angela7dreams)

"Before you act, always stop and think: Is this a good thing I'm doing or a bad thing I'm doing?"

Drilled into us by mom from very early on, and still plays through my head in certain situations. Sometimes I still went ahead with the bad thing, and usually lived to regret it...

Fun with AT&T audio programming

2009-02-10T18:18:00.000-08:00

I added the video only because there's no way to upload just audio

Oh, Mom

2009-02-02T18:53:00.000-08:00

This post by my friend Rissa reminded me of a conversation last week with my mom:

Me: Hi, guess what?! A hummingbird just flew right into the house about ten minutes ago! Does that mean good luck? I saw him out the window and thought I'd like to take a photo of him and then suddenly I noticed him flying right past me inside! He ended up fluttering around in the kitchen, then managed to turn around and fly straight out again, but... whoa, isn't that crazy?

Mom: Was the back door open?

(strongly resisting the temptation to answer: No, mom, he opened it himself and just came right in. He's got his own key.)

Me: Uh yes. That's... how... he... flew in... you know? It was just wild, seeing this bird come straight through.

Mom: How long has your back door been open?

Me: Uhm, I'm not sure, maybe an hour or so... why?

Mom: You shouldn't leave the back door open unless you're going in and out yourself.

Me: Okay, but... isn't kinda fun that a hummingbird just came right in - and managed to get right out again?! I thought it was pretty exciting!

Mom: We used to have birds fly in when we left the back door open.

Me: For an hour? Like, they're spying it out and it depends on the time frame? What does the length of time the door's been open matter?

Mom: Honey, my mind is not focused right now and I don't have time to keep talking about this.

:)
(again, strongly resisting the urge to say: NO! You MUST STAY ON THE LINE AND SPEAK WITH ME ABOUT HUMMINGBIRDS! I INSIST!)

Three overplayed songs I love anyway

2009-02-02T18:12:00.001-08:00

I'll tell you what I want what I really really want... to dance to, anytime, anywhere...

I Don't Feel Like Dancin' by Scissor Sisters

It's just about the happiest song about not being happy. I dare anyone to remain still while this song is on.

Wannabe by Spice Girls

Yeah, I admit it. Girl Power ROCKS, man. No matter how many times we gotta ZIG A ZIG AH!

Stayin' Alive by Bee Gees

Still pretty much the best soundtrack ever. And I am a child of the 70's. Can never get enough of this era!

If you pay me enough, I'll sing these songs at a karaoke bar

2009-02-02T11:18:00.001-08:00

These Boots Are Made For Walkin' by Nancy Sinatra

Maybe I'm not answering this right. This song is/was my staple at karaoke night! (haven't done it in ages)

You're So Vain by Carly Simon

Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-A-Lot

Only if I ran out of breath. Rapping is HARD!

Secretary of the Arts Petition

2009-01-19T16:33:00.001-08:00

Secretary of the Arts Petition

Quincy Jones has started a petition to ask President-Elect Obama to appoint a Secretary of the Arts. While many other countries have had Ministers of Art or Culture for centuries, The United States has never created such a position. We in the arts need this and the country needs the arts--now more than ever. Please take a moment to sign this important petition and then pass it on to your friends and colleagues.

Many thanks!

You Will be Sorely, Sorely Missed

2008-09-27T08:22:00.000-07:00

"You can't be as old as I am without waking up with a surprised look on your face every morning: 'Holy Christ, whaddya know - I'm still around!' It's absolutely amazing that I survived all the booze and smoking and the cars and the career."

Bless.

Day at Disneyland!

2008-07-11T20:52:00.000-07:00

MS Walk - A Great Day!!

2008-06-22T21:01:00.001-07:00

Tall Ladies and Tea Finery

2008-04-27T17:25:00.001-07:00

What a fab, fab day!
How I have missed my tall girl pals, and having just a lovely social gathering, involving chit chat, smiles, and good eats.
My lovely friend Rissa, whom I have missed dearly, had a tea party for her birthday. I just happened to log on to her myspace page where she had posted about having tea with the 'girls' today - and as we've not been in touch, and not even seen each other since I've been back (a CRIME), she immediately wrote me back and included me :).
These girls all met through the Tall Club of Southern California, and meet regularly on their/our own for nights and afternoons out. A regular activity is getting together for dinner and everybody cooks, and the right is reserved to order pizza if all else fails. To my experience, a pizza has never been necessary.
One of so many reasons I'm glad to be back is to enjoy the company of these women. Not only to stand and see eye to eye (I admit, it is so nice and refreshing to do that!), but to just relax and have a good time.
Rissa chose to go to Vintage Tea Leaf, which just happens to be in Long Beach, so nice and close for me!
It's a lovely old-fashioned tea room, with tables for large parties, and overstuffed wingback chairs, chintz, old paintings and books, and just a big comfy room. You enter through the charming gift shop, and choose your hat. I brought a couple of my grandmother's, but then I saw that we all preferred the big wide brimmed hats they had there (grandma's hats are smaller and more for cocktails or theater), which were much more appropriate. Then you get to choose your own teacup from a huge and lovely selection.
First came freshly made scones and lemon curd with cream - and I am sorry to say I cannot name the teas we had, for there were so many, and they are all made there.
Followed by finger sandwiches of all kinds, and then the gorgeous finger desserts.
Lovely lovely lovely.
I know it was for Rissa's birthday, but it was most serendipitous as I was in sore need of some lighthearted celebration. Could not have been more perfect.

The Birthday Girl.

The Birthday Girl's teacup and saucer.

The hat I chose. Matched my outfit!

I took a photo of Rissa and Polly taking a photo of themselves.

Yummy sweets!

Talk about a hat matching an outfit! Gayle's fabulous red feathered hat.

Playing with coloring a bit - love this 'vintage' shot of Polly.

Rissa and her birthday bracelet; given to her by the owner.

My teacup. SO MAD it's blurry! Oh well.

Being artistic with the camera - the lemon at the bottom of my water glass.

The large part of the room, with a group of 'red hat' ladies who came in after we did.

The Tall Gals. Ok, except for the one in front. Our token tall gal pal.

THEN...
I decided to drive around a bit and see this part of Long Beach that I'm not yet familiar with, so I headed down to Shoreline Drive to see the Queen Mary, the harbor, and the lighthouse:

Jedi Gym Trailer

2008-03-31T10:02:00.000-07:00

Check out the exceptionally tall Princess Leia - the long vision in white (only a few glimpses in the trailer though).

For fun.

2008-03-20T23:22:00.000-07:00

Mermaids rock.

2008-03-09T16:33:00.001-07:00

What Mythological Creature are you? (Cool Pics!)
created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Mermaid

Mermaid: Mermaids are also known as Sirens. These creatures were beautiful women who tricked sailors into becoming completely entranced by their haunting voices and found death soon after. Not all stories of Mermaids are about gentle loving sea people. They are mystical, magical, and extremely dangerous. They have a way about them that brings anyone they are around to seem enchanted. They are very mysterious creatures and to meet one... Would mean certain Death. Let the song of the Sea fill your soul, for you are a Mermaid.

Mermaid

92%

Angel

75%

Faerie

42%

Dragon

42%

WereWolf

34%

Demon

For Evelyn and all who suffer

2008-02-14T15:04:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,

This past year, I lost my Aunt Evelyn, who was 83 years old and had suffered with MS for some 25 years, which is considered a medical miracle. Most people diagnosed with MS will not survive for that long. I want to do something about multiple sclerosis now. Please help by supporting my upcoming walk in Walk MS: Greater L.A..

The National Multiple Sclerosis Society is dedicated to moving us towards a world free of MS. They fund research into effective MS therapies and also help people with MS to live powerful, meaningful lives. I believe in the work they do.

Please help by making a donation. Or, why not join me on the day of the event? I have registered as Captain for Team Evelyn Rae, but I've got to have a Team to Captain! Please join the Movement and side by side, we’ll work together to create a world free of MS. The Walk takes place on Sunday, April 6, at the Pasadena Rose Bowl (at approx. 10am for a couple of hours... NOT all day!).

Whatever you can do will help! I greatly appreciate your support and will keep you posted on my progress.

Click here to get to my personal page and make a secure, online donation.

Many, many thanks,
Elizabeth

To send a donation:
Make all checks payable to: National MS Society
Mail to:
National MS Society, So. Cal Chapter
Walk MS: Elizabeth Kuyper
2440 S. Sepulveda Blvd., Ste. 115
Los Angeles, CA 90064

Early and ongoing treatment with an FDA-approved therapy can make a difference for people with multiple sclerosis. Learn about your options by talking to your health care professional and contacting the National MS Society at www.nationalMSsociety.org or 1-800-FIGHT-MS (344-4867).

Our postal address is:
National Multiple Sclerosis Society
733 Third Avenue
New York, New York 10017

Don't try and analyze it. Just enjoy it.

2008-01-31T08:33:00.001-08:00

I'm a space captain!

2008-01-27T09:33:00.000-08:00

A trailer for a project being developed along the lines of Dr. Who... but no scary bits. All fun comedy adventures!

CreAtiVItY

2008-01-26T01:17:00.000-08:00

Finally I did something with the photos I took with my phone camera!
(can you spot yourself?!)

AFRICA 2007

2007-12-25T16:13:00.000-08:00

...coming soon... (FINALLY!)

Aunt Evelyn

2007-11-09T02:21:00.000-08:00

My mom's older sister, Evelyn, was diagnosed with MS somewhere in her 30's. She gradually got worse over the years, going from a cane to a wheelchair to a bed, and has been/was fully paralyzed for I can't even say how many years - 20+.
She was a medical miracle; doctors could not understand how someone with such a severe case could last so long, and so well.
Her mind never faltered; she was as sharp as a tack. We shared the same birthday. Every birthday and every Christmas we would go to Evelyn's - the house she and my mother grew up in - and have a meal, a visit, and a mean game of Trivial Pursuit.
Evelyn always won.
She got her Master's Degree from USC in Library Science. She knew EVERYTHING. Well, nearly. My brother always wanted to be on her team (he does not like to lose!).

When we were kids it was always a bit awkward; before she was diagnosed, she was so quiet I felt awkward around her. Once she was diagnosed and declining, I felt awkward because I didn't know how to act around someone so ill, so I never really talked to her too much. I'm so glad that changed over time.

Most of us would think, how could anyone want to live that way? What a horrible way to 'live' - to barely survive, and be completely dependent on others. Maria was her caretaker for 15+ years. Spent two to three hours daily just feeding her, as she could chew, but it was a struggle to chew and swallow.

To speak, to chew... took ages. We would get so frustrated waiting for her to answer, and then eventually she would come out with the right answer.

I never understood until this week how powerful her life was, and how many she touched, and why she so badly wanted to live, and how much she loved her life. She really did. She loved hearing about everything; living her life vicariously through everyone else's stories. She had visitors, some volunteers from various organizations, some neighbors, and my mother spoke to her every day. My mother sometimes resented it, as it was usually about the trouble with the gardener, or Maria not getting along with whoever else was the secondary caretaker, or what bills needed to be paid, or when she was really sick with a cold and not wanting to call the doctor... and then my mother would always finish the conversation by reading her the TV guide schedule for the day so she could pick her programs.

When her sight got really bad, she got interested in books on tape. We would bring photos of various trips or events, and would have to hold them about three inches from her eyes so she could see them. She loved seeing photos and hearing about adventures.

Before we left for Africa, she had a bit of a cold and wasn't feeling so good. We returned on a Tuesday night, the day before Halloween, completely exhausted, but, had to call Evelyn and check in. She was thrilled to hear from us, but she did not sound good. She was wheezing, and said she had a bad cold. After she asked about the trip, she made sure to ask my mom if I had received my Harry Potter book, as she gave me a new hardback each birthday when they came out (I said I'd wait til I returned home from England to get mine this time). She also said that she'd received my boxes I'd sent to her the day I left London, and I could come get them any time.

Thursday I went to L.A. to meet with my agent and get my hair done. Just doing those two things exhausted me as I still was not over jet lag, so I called her to say I was sorry, but I would not be stopping by to pick up the boxes, as I wasn't up for a proper visit and I'd feel worse running in and out than not stopping by at all. She said that was fine and I could come by whenever I felt up to it.

Saturday I went back to my Musical Actors' Workshop, and hung out with Amy afterwards, telling her about my aunt, and that I needed to stop by on my way back to Laguna to pick up the boxes. It started to get late, and after speaking with my parents, we decided that the next day, Sunday, we would all go as a family for a proper visit. So again I called her to say the same thing. I made a joke of it, and she was okay with it. She seemed to be wheezing a bit harder, and struggling for air, so I told her to please take care of herself, and I would get off the phone so she didn't have to talk.

I got home, and just as we were sitting down to dinner, the phone rang. "No!" My mom yelled in frustration. She knew it was Evelyn, and she'd been talking to her so much over the past few days about her cold, her chest, and having to call the doctor. She answered, and for the first time, dare I say EVER, Evelyn said, "I feel so miserable."
She never complained about her illness. Ever.

So we made sure Maria called 911 and the doctor, and they went to the emergency room. We met them there, and they had helped give her more oxygen. I didn't see her because they wouldn't let us in the room. We went home.

Sunday Maria called to tell us they transferred Evelyn to the hospital where her insurance is, so we got dressed and drove up. She smiled as we walked in. She had oxygen tubes going up her nose, and said her finger hurt, as they'd stuck a needle in to monitor her levels, and that she didn't really get to eat much breakfast because the nurse couldn't take the time. "She said she had other patients and she had to go." My mom and dad marched out to clarify her condition with the nurses: she needs to be checked on at least once an hour if not more, as she cannot call out for help nor push any kind of button if she is in distress. She needs her mouth cleaned out, like Maria does, because she does not have the muscle strength to spit out all the mucus that is blocking her breath.

While my parents were outside, I pulled out a few of the pictures that dad chose from mom's rolls of film from Africa (we still have yet to look at any photos we took) to show her some of the highlights: a lone Acacia tree in the sunset, a large herd of elephants walking past, a pride of lions having an afternoon nap, us in our 'game gear' with our driver in Kenya... she was coughing a bit, but she loved it.

The doctor came in and said they needed to run some tests to see how she was swallowing, as she had developed an infection in her left lung which was now pneumonia, and could have possibly swallowed some food the wrong way and that's what caused it. He said the tests would be run later that day.

After we felt confident the nurses understood what they need to do, Evelyn picked out a channel she wanted to watch/listen to, I turned up the volume, we said goodbye. My mom patted her leg and said, "You get better sister sue"... and we left, intending to return the next morning after the test results.

The hospital called the next morning and said they were just now taking her in for tests. My mother asked why they were not done the day before...? They did not have an answer. When she asked if she should wait or come to the hospital now, they said might as well come now. As we were getting dressed, they called again and said Evelyn had stopped breathing in transit to the lab for the tests. "What do you want us to do?"
Um, KEEP HER ALIVE?!? Which is pretty much what my mother spent the previous afternoon explaining to the doctors and nurses; Evelyn wanted to LIVE, regardless of her condition.
After some yelling, we hung up and got dressed as fast as we could, not assuming anything (since Evelyn has lived through similar situations).

They called an hour later. I stood in the middle and watched as each of my parents heard the news on the phone. My mother was numb. My father gasped and cried.

I've been working on this post for ages; I never like to read about others' super personal family stuff, particularly deaths, but now that I'm part of the club, I get it.

Her funeral was lovely; her neighbor across the street asked if she could join us when she saw us picking up Maria (Evelyn's caretaker). Each person got up and said something about his or memory of Evelyn.

Mine and my brother's were about Trivial Pursuit.

So many people have called, sent cards and letters expressing their sympathies, but also, to all our amazement, just how much Evelyn brought to them... how touched they were by her warmth, how enlightened they were by her outlook on life. She affected more people than we ever knew. I hope she knows.

I hope to make her proud bringing a new era of light and love and a full life into the house.
Even if I have thrown a lot of stuff away!
(MY god that family NEVER threw ANYTHING away!!!)

Here she is at my parents' wedding - 30 August, 1957 - true to Leo fashion, right in the middle of the photo.

Clockwise, from top: my cousin Debbie, Uncle Bill (Dad's older brother), Grandma (mom's mom), Evelyn, mom, dad, Grandpa (mom's dad), Aunt June, Grandmother (Dad's Mom)

and Christmas 2004 (with Gus, a neighborhood cat who adopted her - just walked in the back door one day and made himself at home on her bed):

RIP Evelyna (as mom used to call you). What a reminder to enjoy life, regardless of what you've been dealt!

Che Bella Italia

2007-10-03T01:19:00.000-07:00

Italy, Italy, Italy.
FINALLY went to visit my friend Lizzy, who is half Italian, half English - we met in class in L.A. and she moved back to the continent with her half Italian, half English husband a year before I moved to the U.K.

A bit of background:
Interestingly, her father is Italian, her mother is English, she was raised in London and spent summers in Italy. Her husband Daniel (YUMMY and lovely) was raised in Rome and spent his summers in England. They met randomly in a bar in Rome. He's an actor; tried to 'make it' in L.A., but due to visa complications and not a huge success, they moved back. He is now up for the part of Daniel in the Italian version of Ugly Betty.
She is a tiny little dancer, and was in the shows I did with Amy. Seeing the two of us walk down the street together is quite entertaining.
For the 3+ years I've lived here, we'd only seen each other once - just after I'd first arrived. Last July she rang me and said she was coming to London and making sure we spent time together, and we did. A great night of dinner, wine and a lot of catching up. I'd told her I'd decided to move back home and we needed to set in stone my coming to Italy; if I would have one regret, it would be not doing that. So we did it.

The journey:
I had heard all the horror stories of Stansted, Stansted Express, and the infamous Ryanair. So I allowed LOADS of time. My flight was at 5:15. I left Earl's Court at midday to get to Liverpool Street to allow time to get my ticket out of the machine and find the trains - I was convinced I would have difficulty finding these things, let alone getting a train, as I'd heard they often cancel them.
I came out to the main concourse of the station, and right in front of me "STANSTED EXPRESS - RETRIEVE PREPAID TICKETS HERE". Well, right on. Did that. Turned to the left, I saw "STANSTED EXPRESS - TRAINS". Well, right on. Got straight onto a train that departed ten minutes later. I arrived at the airport at 1:30. Okay, fine. I'm all for being early rather than rushing. I walked into the airport, saw the counters for EasyJet, kept walking, saw the counters for Ryanair. Okay, this is fine. But how do I know where I'm supposed to check in?
The moment I saw an available employee, I asked. He was kind enought to point out the monitors that state which counter is for which flight. Duh.
I called Miki to let her know I'd gotten there easily and all was well. She mentioned the 90-some counters for Ryanair. I said, "Well, there are about ten or twelve, so I think I'll be fine."
Then I went around the corner. Ah, that's what she meant. There's more!
I checked the monitor; my flight wasn't checking anyone in until 3:30. Hmmm. I saw the looooong lines for the other flights and thought, should I be really careful and just get a magazine and stand at the counter until it's time? I hemmed and hawed about it, then looked over at the counter again, and a Ryanair person had come out and sat down at the desk. I looked over her head and the sign said "Rome Ciampino 5:15". I walked up and asked, "I see this is the 5:15 flight to Rome. What's the earliest I can check in?" "Oh, you can check in now if you like."
Well, right on.
Priority boarding because I only had a carry-on (and light, as I wanted to leave plenty of space for, oh, perhaps a handbag or two).
Hung around, did a bit of shopping. Was of course tempted by a few things, but fortunately thought, hang on, why would I pay for something in pounds when I can do it in Euros, and soon enough, in dollars?
Mosey-ed over to the gate, got out my gossip mag (the ONLY time I buy them, thankyouverymuch!), and stood in line. First.
Only a bit of concern as 5:15 came and went, and until then I had been somewhat amused by the constant announcements of gate changes. Fortunately, someone finally did turn up and check us in. First on, headed right to the emergency row seats (which is THE priority for me!).
The flight ended up being about half-full, so not too much scrambling for space.

Saw a very cool lightning storm from above as we headed into Rome. Though I'd hoped it wasn't too close to where I'd be. It wasn't.

Came out at the airport where Lizzy rang to say she'd been stopped by the police. Apparently the Caribinieri are required to carry out 'security checks' in and out of the aiport, and this was now the third time she'd been stopped, so it was becoming a bit of a joke, as they stop cars randomly. She finally turned up, and off we went, up into the windy hills of her village, Olevano Romano, where she and Daniel have been living and developing property over the past two years.

Bless them for having me; they live in a studio. With two cats and a dog who is three months old and Daniel rescued off the road after it had been hit, and other cars were swerving to get around it. Did I mention he's lovely? Sadly, I don't have a photo.
They built a loft above the main floor which is where they sleep. It's cozy and wonderful (though my days of living in studios are hopefully over, it is charming).
You have to park your car in the main lots on the outskirts, then walk up and down, and up and up, then down, then around, then up again... to get to the houses. Old, old, old, old Italy. The main piazza is a bit smaller than in Cinema Paradiso, but other than that... straight out of the movies.
Everyone knows everyone; everyone says hello to everyone. Everyone watches out for everyone. Everyone lets their pets wander around, plays cards over morning coffee when it's raining (mostly farmers who live there). Lizzy says the couple across the way - the husband, a retired farmer, brings back fresh vegetables every day and gives them to Lizzy and Daniel, and the wife sits out in front in her chair, knitting or reading the paper, talking to the animals and makings sure there's no trouble, and gives Lizzy the gossip of the day.

We pretty much went straight to bed as it was late. The next morning, we had a lazy breakfast and stared out the windows... at the rain. Finally about lunchtime, we headed to the local station to take the train into town. The parking lot isn't finished, so you actually have to hike up the rocks on the side of the tracks to get to the platform. We got on the train, and any single seat that might have been available had luggage or a coat, or something on it. No one offered to move. Lizzy complained about the rudeness of people... I had to remind her, um, ever travelled on the Tube???? Sadly, it's everywhere. But it was interesting to observe the grass is alwyas greener effect. She'd been so long away from the day to day life in London, she was thinking it was SO MUCH BETTER than where she is now.

Came out of the train station and walked along Piazza Venezia, and I realized, I'M IN ROME!!!
Sadly, there's a rubbish strike on, and has been for months, so you can imagine what the streets look like.
We strolled down a few streets, glanced in shop windows, then had to go to a meeting she was having with some women who owned a dance school up North and wanted to talk to her about possibly coming to teach there a few times a month. She said it was fine for me to be included, as they were just going to have a chat over coffee near the opera house.

I got to be part of an artistic business meeting, in Rome, over a cappuccino, around the corner from the Opera House. In Rome. IN ITALIAN.
*SQUEEEEEEE*
I kept quiet most of the time, but was thrilled to not only hear the language, but understand it! Okay, most of it.
(Daniel's phone had gone off very early in the morning, and I'd heard him speaking quite loudly. Lizzy had chastized him for it, but I told her later: hey, there's not much better than to wake up to a deep voice rattling off in Italian in the morning! Even if it's not to me!)
Of course I thought, wow, I would LOVE to live here for... a while. Maybe? No. Not really. Not live here. But stay here. For a while.

We parted ways and continued to walk, heading over to her friend's clothing shop which was around the corner from the Vatican City area, keeping an eye out for the bag sellers on the street. Man, they are HARD to find these days! But we finally did see a group off a side street; just starting to pack up as it was raining. I managed to talk a guy down from 55 euros to 30 for a nice sized brown nylon/leather trim 'Prada' bag. Cool.

Then it started to rain. To pour. Buckets.
"This is a shame; it's not rained for months!"
Great.
Good for the farmers, sucks for the rest of us.

We ran into a cafe and decided to have a bite and wait it out a bit. A small bowl of peanuts, a few slices of prosciutto and mozzarella in a croissant, two (non-alcoholic) drinks, and a bowl of crisps = 12 euros!!?!?! No matter.

The rain was not letting up, and it was getting near rush hour. We hopped on a crowded bus to head over towards the train station, passing the Vittorio Emanuale II monument (The Wedding Cake), and Largo Argentina, then took the metro (wow, the graffitti!) a few stops back to the train station.
Not much accomplished, but an okay start.

Had a nice meal of fresh tomatoes with beans in vinegar and spices, pecorino cheese with bread sticks, and fresh steamed broccolini in olive oil.

Got up earlier Friday morning, headed down to the local cafe for a cappucino and pastry for breakfast (I didn't realize that's the main breakfast for Italians - but 'continental breakfast' - duh), where all the local farmers were playing cards in the next room since it had rained so hard the night before there wasn't much for them to do on their lands.

Then had a nice stroll around the town, and to see the properties they've bought, which Daniel does the rebuilding and design, and Lizzy picks the color schemes.

Then back to the train station to head into Rome.
And boy, did we do Rome in a day!

The rains had finally cleared, leaving a cloudy but bright sky. We got on the metro to Castel Sant'Angelo, where we walked along the Tiber river,

and saw a few more vendors with bags and wallets laid out.
PU-SHY!
It's been a while since I've haggled, and actually I think this is the first time I've done it without my mother. I know how to end (with final price and walk away; works every time), but not sure what to offer to start. It was perfect I had a native with me.
I ended up being snorted at by one (um, decided not to buy from him), another who insisted I buy the (Fendi) bag from him, though I said I didn't really like it that much... he wanted 65. I said, "For a bag I don't really like, I'm not paying 65."
"How much then?"
"For a bag I don't really like? Um, 25."
"Okay. You give me 40."
"Um, no. I said 25."
"Come on, amica. Amica, you give me 37."
"Um, NO. Che l'è VENTI CINQUE che non capisce?"

Oh how I love that language. Even if that's the only way I get to use it!
We walked away. He followed.

"Amica. Lady. Come on. You give me..."
"Venti cinque o niente. Capisce?"

Pause.

"Okay, okay. 25."

Dude! I got a bag he wanted 65 for, for 25! I know he needs to survive, and I wouldn't normally talk someone down THAT much. But. Accomplishment.

Two bags and a wallet later, I thanked Lizzy for scouting them out and we could now get on with simply sight-seeing.
And did we ever.
Back to Largo Argentina, to see the ruins in daylight, as well as the cats. Oh the cats. Hundreds. But I don't feel so upset anymore, as they are now cared for by donations and run by volunteer vets who neuter and feed them (it's also an adoption/no-kill shelter). The other ruins in the city seem to be picking up this trend.

We then headed over to my old favorite part, the Piazza di Spagna, where my family has stayed the previous times we've been to Rome, and where I've attracted the most male attention I could ever desire.

La Scalinata di Spagna, the pensione where my family has stayed (they've certainly poshed it up, as I didn't get the impression you have to walk down the hall to get to the bathtub anymore!):

from the top of the Steps looking at the pensione.

from the top looking down at the Via Condotti (THE shopping street).

Took a peek in the windows of the (real) Prada, Chanel, etc., then made our way around a few more corners to the Fontana di Trevi, where you have to throw in a coin to ensure your return one day:

What was really fun is that through the huge crowd, applause started to break out. We looked over to the side, and there was a bride and groom walking below to get photos taken. The whole place then erupted in cheers and applause. How great would that be!

We walked over to the Pantheon,
(can't see much of the building, but you can see we make an interesting pair!)

then had a coffee at the Piazza Navona, then... we were exhausted, but, just wanted to be in Rome. So wandered around a few side streets and into a few shops, one of which had some nice older men outside (sadly, I seem to be more of a hit with the over 60's these days :( ), which was a shop with carved phrases in Italian and Latin on marble.
As we were looking through, the man who ran the shop started chatting with Lizzy. At one point I could tell he was asking about me. "Che montagne di bella", then mumbled something I couldn't understand, so I asked LIzzy, who was now giggling.
"He said, what a mountain of beauty you are, and he would need a ladder to get up to you."
When we left the shop, all the men outside were grinning.
(and I clearly had not done my hair or much make up!)

We walked everywhere, did everything. Except for the Coliseum. It was getting late, and we were waiting again for a bus that was taking forever. My feet were tired, and though I would have liked to have seen it again, I have seen it before, and hope to again.
Then I heard my dad's voice in my head: when we were in Vienna, walking around a huge park/garden, that had statues of all the historical figures (Balzac, Mozart, etc.), I was wearing shoes that were too small - trying to be trendy - and my feet were KILLING me. I started to moan that I couldn't walk anymore, and my dad, who RARELY raises his voice, turned to me and snapped: "Do you want to go back to the hotel then? And miss all this? You'd rather not see any more? This is our last day here, and you don't know when you will ever be back again! But hey, if your feet hurt..."
I will never forget that.
I turned to Lizzy and said, "Why don't we just walk to the station?"
She said, "Sure. In fact, I think there's a metro station right by the Coliseum we can take to the train station."
Perfect.
Passing by the Wedding Cake, this time on foot, on a clear night, then rounding the corner, past the Forum, then walking down the road to see:

(I don't have time to do photoshop, as the pictures we took of the two of us, nothing else came out because of the flash).

What is it about this particular structure that just gives me chills? It's so powerful and breathtaking; to imagine what went on there and how and why and when it was built. And, I suppose that is THE origin of where all roads once did indeed lead to.

I could hear it in my head:

My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, Commander of the Armies of the North,
General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius.
Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

I love that film.

Time to head back.

Straight to bed, up early, straight to the airport. Um, Rome Ciampino isn't exactly as organized as Stansted, but I still managed to make it onto the plane first (TIP: ask the check-in guy which side the doors open from when the tram gets to the plane!), and enjoy a reasonably quiet and smooth ride back to London.

I think I would be perfectly content if I could live in all the major cities of the world for about three months apiece.

Do I Get a Prize...?

2007-08-31T04:40:00.000-07:00

...for the most difficult request EVER in iTunes history?

Customer First Name : Elizabeth
Customer Last Name :
email :
Web Order # :
Support Subject : SeasonPass
Sub Issue : Other Season Pass Question
iTunes Account Name:
Category : Other Season Pass Question
Episode Title : Season I
Order number : no idea
Comments:
I went to 'Manage my Passes' and it still shows Heroes Season I as being active; which is not the case. I get a message saying I can't change my billing information because I have 'active season
passes'.
I need this corrected please. Thank you.

-----
On 27 Jul 2007, at 17:53, iTunes Store wrote:

Dear Elizabeth,

I understand that you have been unable to update your iTunes Store
accounts billing information. I know that must be upsetting to keep
receiving the same incorrect error message.

I recommend that you attempt to resolve this issue by visiting
Apple's My Info page and updating your accounts billing information
with the exception of your credit card at:

http://myinfo.apple.com/

Once you have done this, then you should be able to go back into
your iTunes Store account and update your
credit card information on the store.

I hope that you are having a great day.

Sincerely,

James
iTunes Store Customer Support

-----

On 27 July, I wrote:

Hi,

Thank you for the reply; I have followed all the instructions, yet I
am still unable to change countries as I am still getting the
message that I have a Season Pass still... which I do not - it is/was for
Heroes, Season I, which is long ended, so I do not understand why it
still shows as current. I need this to be corrected by someone else
before I'm able to change my country billing address.
Please let me know that this is done.

Thank you,

Elizabeth

-----

On 28 Jul 2007, at 17:47, iTunes Store wrote:

Dear Elizabeth,

I understand that you are still unable to update your account
information, even using the information I sent you yesterday. I
know that must be upsetting.

The next step is for us to test your account from this end and
possibly change the information for you.

Before I can do this, however, Apple requires that you provide the
billing address listed on the account. Upon receiving your
response, Apple will verify your billing address, reset your
password, test your account and send you an email with your new
password.

I will also need the new address you are attempting to enter in to
your account and the security code for your credit card in order to
approve the credit card on file for the new address.

I hope that you are having a great weekend. We look forward to your
response.

Sincerely,

James
iTunes Store Customer Support

-----

Later that day, I wrote:

It's well beyond upsetting, it's infuriating. It's a very simple
thing, why can you not just CANCEL the Season Pass????? It has
loooong expired, and I'm really p*ssed off now. This is ridiculous.
I'm not having a great weekend, because this is now taking it up.

Under that account, I am trying to change the
address to:

(English address)

The address currently listed is:

(US Address)

-----

On 30 Jul 2007, at 00:12, iTunes Store wrote:

Dear Elizabeth,

I am sorry to hear that you are having difficulty changing your
country in iTunes.

To troubleshoot this issue, I have reset your password to [ ]
and have attempted to resolve the issue by editing your account
information. Unfortunately, I was unable to determine exactly why
you are getting the error regarding your Season Pass of "Heroes".

Therefore I have requested additional assistance from our Help Desk
and will let you know as soon as I have any additional information.

Sincerely,

Robert
iTunes Tier 2 Support

-----

A WEEK later, I wrote:

It has now been over a week, and I have heard nothing since this last
email, and I see no changes have been made.
The only change is my immense disappointment at the level of customer
service; I really thought it was better than this.
I cannot believe it takes this long to get any further along.
JUST REMOVE MY PASS. It is over, it is paid for.
I'm having severe difficulty in comprehending why this is such an
issue, that has to be further exacerbated by the total lack of
communication, which can only be construed on my part as disregard.

I'd appreciate some sort of informative email shortly please; and you
can drop the understanding of how frustrating it is. Neither you nor
I care at this point about understanding frustration, let's just
FIX IT.

Many thanks,

Elizabeth

-----

On 30 Aug 2007, at 17:42, iTunes Store wrote:

Dear Elizabeth,

I just wanted to let you know that I have requested an update
regarding a resolution for the issue that you are having with your
account.

As soon as our escalation team responds, I will let you know what I
find out.

Sincerely,

Robert
iTunes Tier 2 Support

-----

The same day, I write:

Can I please just delete the account altogether? I just want to use
the email address for a different billing address (yes, in a
different country).
While I appreciate the continued emails letting me know you're now
waiting for a reply (just a bit disconcerting, as I assume the person
you're waiting to hear from is waiting to hear from someone else)...
this is beyond ridiculous; not to mention incredibly inconvenient.

May I please have the name of whomever the head/manager of Customer
Support is?
(nothing against you, but... someone's having a good laugh over this,
and I would were it not way past a project I've now lost out on*)

Regards,

Elizabeth

*added for dramatic purposes

-----

That same evening:

Dear Elizabeth,

I completely understand your frustration and I am very sorry that I haven't been able to provide you with a resolution.

I will forward this entire case to my manager, Anthony Kraybill, per your request.

In the meantime, you can use your email address on a second account without me canceling your current account. The only thing to keep in mind is that the new account will have to have a different account name than [ ].

Here's how to associate one email address with more than one iTunes account:

1) Go to Apple's My Info page at http://myinfo.apple.com and choose your country and preferred language from the pop-up menus.

2) Enter one of your iTunes Store account names--which are your Apple IDs--in the Apple ID field, then enter that account's password in the Password field and click Log In (or Continue).

3) At the My Info Welcome page, click Email on the left.

4) Enter the email address to which Apple should send all your iTunes Store invoices and other email. Save your changes.

I hope this information is helpful in getting you up and running in your new location.

Sincerely,

Robert
iTunes Tier 2 Support

-----

Later that same evening:

I appreciate that, but though I've changed the billing address there, it still does not allow me access to the UK site, which is what I have been wanting.
I don't want two email addresses for one account, I want one for the US (which I already have established), and one for the UK. Seems simple to me, but apparently I'm horribly mistaken. If someone could perhaps take the time to explain why this request requires so much time and therefore apparent incredible difficulty that has never ever before been seen by iTunes, that would help partially assuage my disbelief and disappointment.

Thanks,
Elizabeth

----

I guess now I wait for a reply from Defcon 1 team support special agent Kraybill.

August 30th, 1957

2007-08-30T02:32:00.000-07:00

HAPPY 50TH MOM & DAD!!

My dad had just moved to Orange County (from Chicago - the day he graduated law school, he had his car already packed, drove straight to the O.C. and never looked back), and joined the Rotary Club to meet new people as he started his new job in the County Counsel's Office.

My mom was working retail (and hating it), and was semi-dating a very nice, but a bit too short and not really her type of guy, who finally got the clue, but was confident enough to address it. He told her he was fine being friends, and if she was interested, there was a nice guy who was pretty tall, who had just moved to California whom he had just met through the Rotary Club, and if she liked, he would pass on her phone number to him. She said that would be fine.

Three weeks later, she was furious as she'd not heard anything. Then the phone rang. She almost said 'forget it' because it took him so long to call. But he sounded nice, so she said okay. (He had been saving his money so he could take her somewhere nice).

The doorbell rang. She opened it, and saw a very nice looking man staning in front of her. She was glad she hadn't said no.

My dad says lightning struck him that moment.

They had each discovered a little artistic bohemian town a bit south of where they both lived (my mom in Long Beach, dad in Arcadia) and really liked it, and had several dates there.

Six months later, my dad proposed on the beach.

They had a small wedding, mostly family and just a few friends. They couldn't take a big honeymoon because my dad had just gotten a promotion and couldn't take the time off; so they got married on a Friday, and headed to the Inn at Laguna for the Memorial Day Weekend.

As they say, a son is a son til he takes a wife; a daughter's a daughter for the rest of your life! Because my dad's parents were still back east also, and fortunately my mom's parents loved him, they took several family trips together, mainly to their favorite cabin amongs the redwoods in Sequoia (in the summer), and to the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite (in the winter).

They struggled a bit to have kids, but finally were blessed (well, they question that every so often!) with a boy, and 15 months later, a girl.

In the late 60's, as my dad was promoted to County Counsel, they hired an architect, a designer, and a realtor. The up and coming place to invest was the Anaheim Hills. They bought a plot of land and began started planning their dream home. Within about a year, the costs were becoming overwhelming, and they realized they simply could not afford it all, and wondered what the next best step to take should be.

They discussed it, and agreed. They'd always liked Laguna; why not look there?
In February of 1969, we moved from a little tract house in Tustin, to a cool one-level house with a deck and a big hill of dirt in front - which later became one of Laguna's most well-known gardens.

Every month my dad gives my mom an anniversary card, signed 'Dream Come True' - which is engraved on their wedding bands.

And every month, every special occasion, every shopping trip, every vacation... my mom and dad smile at each other, and she thanks him for a wonderful life. And he thanks her.

They do remind me what hard work it is, among all the rosy stuff.
But with a bar set this high...
No WONDER I'm still single!!!

Big Ship

2007-08-27T03:19:00.000-07:00

Chosen because it was the cheesiest, silliest, dumbest song EVER (listen to the lyrics!)...

2001 - Kuyper & Me - The Divas

2007-06-28T07:50:00.000-07:00

Done on the very very cheap; from a sketch/variety show I did with the fabulous Amy Murray. This is just one short piece from our show.

That Thing You Do! trailer 1 (1996)

2007-05-24T10:20:00.001-07:00

How I love this film. Pure joy.

Paula Poundstone on Letterman

2007-05-16T07:15:00.003-07:00

circa 1991-92:

and more recently (after her very public debacle and arrest):

I can only hope to have such longevity!

Hmmm, 5:30 on Sunday, the day before my biggest show ever. Perhaps time to start working on my set?
Euuuch. There goes my tummy again.

Oh, this silly life that chose me. I love to make people laugh. I can't not be at home in a spotlight.
I write what I think is funny to me; I put it together to present it. I do my hair, my face; I get dressed, I turn up.

I walk into the club. I feel ill, I have to go to the bathroom continuously, my throat is constantly dry... five minutes before my name is called, I want to die. I can't help thinking WHY am I doing this? WHY do I put myself through this??? Am I even funny? What was I thinking??? There are so many people out there funnier and more successful than I am, why am I bothering? I have a good job, good friends, I do okay without this... what if they don't even think I'm funny? What if someone yells at me?? What if... what if...

Then I hear my name. I take a deep breath, I walk out, I smile, I take the mic, I look down to make sure my feet are still there and the ground is beneath them; I look up, letting the spotlight blind me.
And I'm home.
I make my first joke, I hear laughter.
And I'm home with warm milk and cookies.
By the time I say 'thank you' and leave the stage, I don't want to go.

A few days or weeks later... it starts over again.

Crazy.

PAULA POUNDSTONE PART TWO STAND UP LADIES NIGHT OUT

2007-05-16T07:15:00.001-07:00

Re: Paula Poundstone (videos above)

2007-05-13T09:31:00.000-07:00

(apparently blogger doesn't like it when you try to edit video embedding, so I'll leave it as is for now).

I can only hope to have such longevity!

Hmmm, 5:30 on Sunday, the day before my biggest show ever. Perhaps time to start working on my set?
Euuuch. There goes my tummy again.

Oh, this silly life that chose me. I love to make people laugh. I can't not be at home in a spotlight.
I write what I think is funny to me; I put it together to present it. I do my hair, my face; I get dressed, I turn up.

I walk into the club. I feel ill, I have to go to the bathroom continuously, my throat is constantly dry... five minutes before my name is called, I want to die. I can't help thinking WHY am I doing this? WHY do I put myself through this??? Am I even funny? What was I thinking??? There are so many people out there funnier and more successful than I am, why am I bothering? I have a good job, good friends, I do okay without this... what if they don't even think I'm funny? What if someone yells at me?? What if... what if...

Then I hear my name. I take a deep breath, I walk out, I smile, I take the mic, I look down to make sure my feet are still there and the ground is beneath them; I look up, letting the spotlight blind me.
And I'm home.
I make my first joke, I hear laughter.
And I'm home with warm milk and cookies.
By the time I say 'thank you' and leave the stage, I don't want to go.

A few days or weeks later... it starts over again.

Crazy.

How's yer English Lit?

2007-03-08T01:43:00.000-08:00

Innit funny how one thing reminds you of another thing then gets you thinking about something else which causes you to get inspired to seek further information...?

This is why my life is based on tangents, I am referred to as a butterfly, multi-talented, a Rennaissance Woman, and yet have no successful career. But man am I interesting. :)

After being reminded of Julia Sweeney's show "God Said Ha!" which I saw twice sometime back in the late 90's in Los Angeles, I downloaded her new audiobook (that's what iTunes calls it; it's actually a live performance), "Letting Go of God," sort of a sequel (read her blog here).

Listening to it reignited my interest in religion and my own spiritual quest, as well as why people have oft compared us. Her intonation, self-deprecation, comments about her mother and family... incredibly similar. And very inspiring. And enlightening. And moving. And very, very funny. She refers to the books she read along this path she took, so yesterday I ambled up to Foyles Book Shop, one of London's oldest book shops, up on Charing Cross Road (and was reminded how much I love this city) to buy one of the books she mentioned, A History of God. I'm always fascinated by people's beliefs, and particularly the reasons behind them.
I glanced at the other titles and authors on the shelf... the whole section is just mind boggling; so easy to get lost in, heading from "THEOLOGY" to "SPIRITUALITY" to "CHRISTIANITY" to "JUDAISM" to "WORLD RELIGIONS" to "PHILOSOPHY" then back to THEOLOGY to see, just in case, if perhaps there was something else worth taking a second look at, when my phone went off. Not 'rang,' but 'went off.'
It's bad enough to hear a phone go off when it's quiet. But you're walking through the PHILOSOPHY AND SPIRITUALITY area of a book shop when it goes off; there's just something more cringe-worthy and guilt-ridden about it. Especially when your ringtone is Foot Tapper by the Shadows (click on the 'Audio' tab, then select #18).

Well, there just happened to be a small paperback, Darwin and Intelligent Design. Julia Sweeney had also referred to these topics. £3.99. Well, why not.

Me going into a book shop is like ... me going into a record store ... like... a kid in a candy store. I am reminded as I stare at the Directory alone, before I even get to the sections of actual books, how much there is to read, to ingest, to discover, to know. Sometimes I get exhausted and want to leave before I even get to the section of books I was originally looking for, as it all overwhelms me. Who has this kind of time? I want to know it ALL, but I also want to have the process of learning it ALL. I'm even tired now typing this, just being reminded.

Because of course, instead of promptly paying for the book and leaving, oh no, I had to browse. It's a lovely, spacious shop, although not too many chairs around (and NO COFFEE SHOP on the third floor in the corner! Astounding.), still very inviting to while away oodles of time perusing the shelves for books I once loved and think I should read again - Bradbury, Homer, Tolkien, Christie, Dickens, even Sheldon - to books I've always had an intention to read but never got around to reading - Austen, more Dickens, Asimov, Dante, Descartes - the list is truly endless. So I meandered from Fiction to Science Fiction, by way of the Poetry section, which, in the first moment of seeing the sign over the shelves marked as such, my thought was 'Eh. Poetry. Pass!' when my eye caught "William Blake". Oh right, I thought, pretty heavy duty poet. Then Browning... cummings...Chaucer... Dickinson... KEATS. POE! Right! Duh! Edgar Allan Poe! Not exactly my first reaction when I hear the word 'poetry' - to be casually dismissed. About this point I heard my mother's voice in my head: Why don't you sign up at the library? You don't have to buy every book!

Dammit. Why is it the older I get, the righter she gets?!
Though I will say, I love having interesting titles in my house. Superficial? Slightly. But the goal is to say, Yes, I have read these. And okay, the afterthought: and doesn't that make me interesting? However, again realizing as I write this... uh, no one comes over anyway, so the truth is, I really do want to read all these things, because I find them interesting. So there.

I picked up a Poe book, Selected Tales and Poems, thinking at the back of mind, I'm sure I could get this at the library. I opened the cover and scanned the contents:

The Raven
The Pit and the Pendulum
The Fall of the House of Usher
City in the Sea
The Bells
Annabel Lee

Ah! Annabel Lee!! How could I forget!

I then remembered 7th grade. Not that I care to remember much about 7th grade (somehow my Bay City Rollers haircut and having absolutely no one noticing I got my braces off after FOUR YEARS doesn't fit in to this particular post), but I do remember studying a lot of interesting literature, particulary Poe. The Raven. The Fall of the House of Usher. Pretty cool stuff. And I remembered, after we'd studied those, we were assigned to select another one of his poems or tales ourselves and write about it (and this was an assignment I actually did!). Though I liked his dark, gloomy timbre, which probably emphasised my reaction even moreso when I stumbled upon this particular poem: my heart broke when I read Annabel Lee.

Like Oscar Wilde, known for his acerbic wit and sarcasm, even as a child I was amazed to learn he was the author of my favorite children's story, The Selfish Giant. Such huge, vulnerable hearts beating underneath these thick layers of humor, bigger-than-life personality, and scandal.

I turned the book over. £1.99! Well, hey, now, can't really go wrong there, can you?
I glanced at my watch.
It had been two hours. I'm grateful to have a job with such easygoing people!

I bought three books. I realized that indeed, I can actually return once I've read these, and purchase more then, if I wish to do so.

Turns out, it was to be quite the literary day for me, as once I returned to work, I went to the kitchen to fix a cup of tea (hey, when in Rome, er, England), and glanced at the front pages of all the daily newspapers in the rack. I rarely read them, but like to scan for interesting headlines. My wandering eye stopped at The Daily Telegraph: GET YOUR FREE JANE AUSTEN BOOK TODAY! See page 29.

Turns out, you fill out a coupon and take it to your local Costa Coffee (just like Starbuck's, one one every block! In fact, sometimes a door or two down from Starbucks), and they'll give you the book being promoted that day.

Well, if that wasn't a sign.

I cut out the coupon, filled it out (making sure I checked the box that said: "...if you do NOT WANT us passing your details..."), then thought, hey, we keep the previous days' papers for at least a week... so I dug those out, started cutting out those coupons, until I read "Good for day of issue only". Ah well.

At the end of the day, I walked up to Euston Station and headed over to the small Costa Coffee shop inside. I felt a momentary pang of guilt I wasn't intending on buying anything.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes, um, I have this coupon for the Jane Austen book?"
"Oh right. Okay. Which book do you want?"
Well, this threw me.
"Um. Sorry, I didn't know I had a choice. I thought it was only good for whatever book was being offered that day...?"
She looked at me with a mixed emotion; partly relieved I had turned up, partly tired of explaining.
"Look, see, they've got their retail back already, and all I've got is a stack of books I need to get rid of. So whatever you want, I'll give it to you. Which book you want?"

I paused for a moment. Well, if she wants to get rid of them, um, am I being an obnoxious American if I ask
"Well, what about all of them? You know, since you um, want to get rid of them?"
Smile.
"Oh, okay, yeah. Sure."
She turned around and opened a huge cabinet that might normally be stacked with paper cups and bags of coffee, but was now stacked to the ceiling with Jane Austen. She and a coworker pulled out each title; six books in total, and handed them to me.

"Uh, wow, thank you so much!"
"I just want them gone, you know. I don't sell Telegraph here so I don't care, and honestly, no one is really interested. You're maybe second person who came today."
Well that's a bit sad, really, as I glanced over to the line at WH Smith of people buying their Hello! and Heat magazines. Right, right, lest ye judge others... anyway.

"Um. Can I have a bag?"
Now I was being really cheeky (def: amusing but improper. Again, when in Rome).

Nine books. One day.

Still want to start with God. See where that takes me.

Here's Annabel Lee:

ANNABEL LEE

by Edgar Allan Poe
(1849)

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee.
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea;
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

If You Don't Know Me By Now...

2007-02-20T03:45:00.000-08:00

A bit silly really; I'll be well surprised if anyone gets half right, let alone bothers to take the time! Just a bit of fun:

Create your own Friend Test here

A Master Storyteller

2007-02-15T09:05:00.000-08:00

He passed on 30 January, but I wanted to acknowledge it without backdating in case anyone actually reads my journal and may not be familiar with the magnificence that was his career and attitude.

I'm now reading his autobiography The Other Side of Me, which truly is just as compelling as any novel he wrote.

I realize as I read just how much his books affected my life; and in reading his autobiography, what a kindred spirit he was. Such humour, hope - false and real, and imagination. He writes so many snippets about how he would start a job somewhere at the lowest possible level, and immediately picture himself climbing the ladder, which would allow him this, that and the other, and how great it would be, and then... he gets fired. Very Walter Mitty-esque.
And he talks about how he had bouts of severe depression, and periods of extreme happiness and euphoria.
I haven't gotten to the part where he was diagnosed.

What an inspiration. My personal quandary: an inspiration ... but to do what? Argh, choices.

He didn't write his first novel until he was 50. Granted, he had reasonable success before that, but nothing compared to what happened after his first book was published.

I remember picking up "A Stranger in the Mirror" some time in high school, just out of curiosity (can't remember if I liked the cover, or someone had recommended it), and I could not put it down. I told a friend who in turn said "If you like that one, you HAVE to read The Other Side of Midnight"...

Well, I was hooked. Like the Harry Potter fans of today (the only hysteria I can compare it to, though Sheldon was FAR from a children's writer), I could not wait for the next book to come out. I had to have them all.
I wanted to write like that. I wanted to be the heroine.

He always started with a strong female character and built the story around her. Any weak female characters were either far in the background, or evil and killed off ... the strong minded, independent, intelligent (and yes, of course, attractive) female heroine always prevailed.
And even though as a regular reader you knew this, you couldn't put it down.

He always researched his geography and technology, so very meticulously, you completely bought it. I would read descriptions of the streets of Rome or London or Paris, and think Yes! I know that corner!

Full of intrigue and intellect, I always resented that he was lumped into the 'fluff' romance/chick lit category (ala Barbara Cartland or Jackie Collins) - NOT that there's anything wrong with that genre!

To me, he was far from that genre. He was a genre all his own.
Intrigue, compassion, jet-setting, history, technology, espionage, betrayal, SUSPENSE... at its very best.

His main concern was not to be forgotten. Oh, how that hits so very deeply with me.
What do we do not to be forgotten? And do most of us care? What about those of us that care maybe too much? Not a concern, but a fear.

Something on which to ruminate, as I read and re-read his books... and remember him.

Oh what fun...

2007-02-08T09:07:00.000-08:00

Love it when it snows; I really do.

Even after a two hour journey into work that usually takes 40 minutes, I had a BALL walking through the snow... and it was still snowing!! All the way to work!!

I get a huge kick out of not only walking through the snow, but the fact that though this is nothing new; it still manages to all but completely shut down transport pretty much everywhere.

Nearing time to go home, and I chuckle when I see this:

Service Disruption on the Northern Line
The Northern Line has minor delays in both directions.
This will affect journeys from 12:12 on 08/02/07 until further notice.
This is due to an earlier faulty train between Golders Green and Finchley Central.

Why is this worthy of a chuckle, you may ask?

Take a look:

Yeah, um, there are no trains between those two stations.
No wonder it was faulty.

*sigh*
Wish me luck getting home!

I Got the Music in Me

2007-01-25T09:25:00.000-08:00

Just as I was finding another excuse NOT to go to the gym... this appeared in my email:

Subject: Music & YOU

Date: Thu, 25 Jan 2007 12:54:44 -0500

From: "Phoebe"

To: "Elizabeth"

I'm listening to one of the mix CDs you made for me a while ago and enjoying the HELL out of it! You have such an amazing talent for adding music to life and I must think of a way to capitalize on that even with the distance! Thank you for always adding amazing soundtracks to this world!

Love, P

Let's all dance... shall we?

Nevermind... I'm pluggin' in my iPod Workout Playlist, and OFF TO THE GYM I GO!

Finally!

2007-01-24T02:12:00.000-08:00

What I woke up to this morning:

Looking up my street

Looking down my street

More more more!!!!!
(Can you tell I don't drive or have a garden?!)