I can see a million tiny spots of beet juice dappling my tired face in the reflection of the mirror. I am sitting tall in an orange pulp splattered work shirt at my desk, balancing a bowl of instant noodles on a bare knee. Winter--along with all the mentalities that match the season--has settled in with a vengeance and thankfully, depression has not (save for those first three weeks where I barely left my apartment or had a decent meal). I have almost been a home a month and life is back on track. Thankfully, the Fresh birds have taken me back into the juicing coop and I am finally aboard the train out of poverty. Not working for ten weeks ALMOST killed me but in retrospect, it had to be this way. A lot of people would have killed to be in my European shoes-- even if I was dancing hand in hand with the devil of destitution for longer than necessary.
Not much has changed around town, save for a couple of new storefronts that have reared their ugly heads in the Village and the empty lot where my Little School used to lie back in the country. Come to think of it, I wish someone would have forewarned me that the petite school was set to be demolished; I would have liked to have one last look. (Or better yet, one last 13 year old summer evening spent with running around with Joeanne (Joel), Jenny, Kev and Patrick at dusk shooting barn swallows roosting in the Little School's ceiling with the aid of the BB guns slung around our backs). My childhood was a wild one, to say the least.
I am sorry all, I don't feel like writing anymore.
Here is what is different and what is not:
-Less than three months away and I forgot how to dance. On Boxing Day, I stood in the middle of the room like Helen Kellar: blind, deaf and mute to everything DANCE. I miss the natural ease of Thursday dance nights of yesteryears.
-I like to cook (still).
-Home IS where the heart is.
-Friendships can change overnight and it is okay to bow outgracefully and then get back in like a dirty shirt after a short hiatus.
-It is okay to have snobbishly high standards when it comes to men and coffee.
-If I was chosen for the television show Survivor (for some ungodly reason) and was guaranteed an electrical power source, I would choose to bring my record player and nothing less.
-Christmas was friendly on the Kroeker homestead, but I want to strangle innocent strangers every time Sarah McGlaughlan's "Wintersongs" CD comes on at work. Christmas is over, gems.
-The potential for love is on the rise; I have been channeling my inner Seventeen year old and faux European girl alias to the max and things are looking up.
-Last night in a room full of drunken underaged St. Mary's girls I remembered how to dance. God bless their wandering eyes filled with expectation. I am twenty one and already a Godfather of dance in these little babies eyes. Oh dear.
Fin. Out. Peace. Feliz. Gossip. Girl. Episode. Seven. To. Twelve. Book. Bed. Bath. Beyond.
Meg.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Fly Away Home; Anna Paquin style.
"I was born to lie here patiently, be dragged on by the black star; and you were told to blow majestically, and love until your hands bleed" -Page France, dream husband-to-be.
MEMO: The following scramble of words and idioms were throw together aggressively on the plane enroute to the motherland in a feverish attempt to race my brain while wielding a pen instead of the usual faster-than-the-thought-process European keyboard. Here it is, in translation: scrawly and undeniably wild with excitement for home and n open-armed mum.
The sky is in the eery inbetween stage of the light of day and the dark of night. I am feeling very reflective right now (I just dragged a hand across my T-zone/forhead and froze in horror at the sight of my grease caked fingers) especially since realizing the entire point to this said journey--NOT the destination(s)--that just presented itself when I looked out the two inch thick window in retrospect. While the time-change was only a mere seven hours, my brain is still flip-flopping desperately between the here and now and the thereafter that will materialize before my eyes in only six hours. All I asked to be greeted with at the airport was a frenzy of shrieking and flash photography. (Two words: She [mum] delivered).
Again, looking out the depressing emergency exit window (or lack thereof) the reminder that I am in charge of all of the lives in the entire back right hand side of the plane's belly should we crash (thanks to my seat beside the said door of doom and impending death) is overwhelmingly unavoidable. Flying is no small feat; talk about anxiety.
(Right now, in the comfort of my very home, I am sitting on an inherited ottoman in a tent dress drinking Grandma's cold beef borscht out of an old dill pickle jar in between spot checks from my Apple's screen and my giant lap journal and listening to Edith Piaf on vinyl. Suffice is to say, this is the exact definition of a Mennonite-carpenter-meets-Joyful-Notes-choirwhore-lovechild-who-escaped-the-clutches-of-the-town-post-graduation-but-still-craves-the-Grandmother-borscht-with-loyal-desperation. Awesome. You nailed the soup by the way Helen Helen Helen).
ANYWAY, back on the plane somewhere between Amsterdam and Minneapolis, the light is still trying desperately to become just that, light; and I am thinking about motives. It only dawned on me now, five minutes ago in this bum-numming seat; five hours ago in Amsterdam while starting at the boy (in the cream fedora with the broken feathers and the beard) and the potential father of my children; five days ago in the Roman bed with red cheeks staring at the single rose drying upside down above my head; five weeks ago in Berlin looking at my entire culture and self-defining character in the face on a plate of ham and potatoes; five months ago while still swallowing a relationship that was over before it began; I was SUPPOSED to do this. I was supposed to leap out of the proverbial box like a cake-covered cheerleader person, out of misery, out of the mundane and the predictable, out of a beehive network of friends accumulated over hundreds of lattes, bottles of wine, potlucks, dance floors and Scrabble boards. Away, away, away. I was supposed to go to Europe to be 'taken off guard'; to ride my own coattails instead of my big sister bird's for once; to become so vulnerable that the sight of a single pair of men's patent brogues could shatter my entire happy-to-be-single existence. I was supposed to come home with negative $21.98 dollars in my bank account up to my ears in overdrafts (and I did), the stories and endless rolls of processing-included pictures and sight of my COSTCO-sized muffin tops (thanks to daily over-eating in England, Netherlands, Germany, Czech Republic, Austria, Belgium, France, ROME and Spain) weighing more in Golden Nostalgia than any sum of Manitoba Student Loan money could ever amount to.
I have not changed. I still have the same sneeze, the same lightening-paced gait, the same open-mouthed-squinted eye-skelletal shouldered laugh, the same gas (maybe even more), the same values and appreciation of family and heritage, and the same hair--just a foot and a half shorter; but my heart is different. I think the scariest thing of going home is facing the music of change among the people who you thought would be consistent until death do you part. C'est la vie; this is life.
Either way, there is no turning back now. Hello Christmas baking in the oven, Mariah Carey Merry Christmas dominating the airwaves of the country home, down-filled bedding sandwiches, a screaming mum, a silver fox Grandma, a lack of staple siblings, a plethora of staple friends, a patient second mom, an even more patient dad, an aunt who blows through more rolls of film than I do, a quiet uncle, another quiet honorary uncle, a beaming Grandpa, and the other uncle and aunt who would have stayed except that their babe 'halfer' shat his baby pants beyond repair on the airport slide. Damn.
Fly away home.
Best, all.
Frances, Her one-eyed Madgesty has returned at last.
"Thank you, thank you very much".
post script: You are all gems for reading this chaotic mess. I applaud you heartily for your continued effort and feedback. Pictures are 'acoming. In the meantime, go scope my gal Rabbi Boozedick69 (Rebecca Budyk aka 'Lil Audrey')'s blog for some digital picture delight... www.rags-and-feathers.blogspot.com (copy paste it, gems).
post post script: This photo was taken right, right now, this second. God bless tent dresses and winter for making it acceptable to "cover that shit up". Blessings to all, and to all a bon nuit.
MEMO: The following scramble of words and idioms were throw together aggressively on the plane enroute to the motherland in a feverish attempt to race my brain while wielding a pen instead of the usual faster-than-the-thought-process European keyboard. Here it is, in translation: scrawly and undeniably wild with excitement for home and n open-armed mum.
The sky is in the eery inbetween stage of the light of day and the dark of night. I am feeling very reflective right now (I just dragged a hand across my T-zone/forhead and froze in horror at the sight of my grease caked fingers) especially since realizing the entire point to this said journey--NOT the destination(s)--that just presented itself when I looked out the two inch thick window in retrospect. While the time-change was only a mere seven hours, my brain is still flip-flopping desperately between the here and now and the thereafter that will materialize before my eyes in only six hours. All I asked to be greeted with at the airport was a frenzy of shrieking and flash photography. (Two words: She [mum] delivered).
Again, looking out the depressing emergency exit window (or lack thereof) the reminder that I am in charge of all of the lives in the entire back right hand side of the plane's belly should we crash (thanks to my seat beside the said door of doom and impending death) is overwhelmingly unavoidable. Flying is no small feat; talk about anxiety.
(Right now, in the comfort of my very home, I am sitting on an inherited ottoman in a tent dress drinking Grandma's cold beef borscht out of an old dill pickle jar in between spot checks from my Apple's screen and my giant lap journal and listening to Edith Piaf on vinyl. Suffice is to say, this is the exact definition of a Mennonite-carpenter-meets-Joyful-Notes-choirwhore-lovechild-who-escaped-the-clutches-of-the-town-post-graduation-but-still-craves-the-Grandmother-borscht-with-loyal-desperation. Awesome. You nailed the soup by the way Helen Helen Helen).
ANYWAY, back on the plane somewhere between Amsterdam and Minneapolis, the light is still trying desperately to become just that, light; and I am thinking about motives. It only dawned on me now, five minutes ago in this bum-numming seat; five hours ago in Amsterdam while starting at the boy (in the cream fedora with the broken feathers and the beard) and the potential father of my children; five days ago in the Roman bed with red cheeks staring at the single rose drying upside down above my head; five weeks ago in Berlin looking at my entire culture and self-defining character in the face on a plate of ham and potatoes; five months ago while still swallowing a relationship that was over before it began; I was SUPPOSED to do this. I was supposed to leap out of the proverbial box like a cake-covered cheerleader person, out of misery, out of the mundane and the predictable, out of a beehive network of friends accumulated over hundreds of lattes, bottles of wine, potlucks, dance floors and Scrabble boards. Away, away, away. I was supposed to go to Europe to be 'taken off guard'; to ride my own coattails instead of my big sister bird's for once; to become so vulnerable that the sight of a single pair of men's patent brogues could shatter my entire happy-to-be-single existence. I was supposed to come home with negative $21.98 dollars in my bank account up to my ears in overdrafts (and I did), the stories and endless rolls of processing-included pictures and sight of my COSTCO-sized muffin tops (thanks to daily over-eating in England, Netherlands, Germany, Czech Republic, Austria, Belgium, France, ROME and Spain) weighing more in Golden Nostalgia than any sum of Manitoba Student Loan money could ever amount to.
I have not changed. I still have the same sneeze, the same lightening-paced gait, the same open-mouthed-squinted eye-skelletal shouldered laugh, the same gas (maybe even more), the same values and appreciation of family and heritage, and the same hair--just a foot and a half shorter; but my heart is different. I think the scariest thing of going home is facing the music of change among the people who you thought would be consistent until death do you part. C'est la vie; this is life.
Either way, there is no turning back now. Hello Christmas baking in the oven, Mariah Carey Merry Christmas dominating the airwaves of the country home, down-filled bedding sandwiches, a screaming mum, a silver fox Grandma, a lack of staple siblings, a plethora of staple friends, a patient second mom, an even more patient dad, an aunt who blows through more rolls of film than I do, a quiet uncle, another quiet honorary uncle, a beaming Grandpa, and the other uncle and aunt who would have stayed except that their babe 'halfer' shat his baby pants beyond repair on the airport slide. Damn.
Fly away home.
Best, all.
Frances, Her one-eyed Madgesty has returned at last.
"Thank you, thank you very much".
post script: You are all gems for reading this chaotic mess. I applaud you heartily for your continued effort and feedback. Pictures are 'acoming. In the meantime, go scope my gal Rabbi Boozedick69 (Rebecca Budyk aka 'Lil Audrey')'s blog for some digital picture delight... www.rags-and-feathers.blogspot.com (copy paste it, gems).
post post script: This photo was taken right, right now, this second. God bless tent dresses and winter for making it acceptable to "cover that shit up". Blessings to all, and to all a bon nuit.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
And when Sister Laurie says 'Amen' we won't say anything.
"Braille Blazer, ready". My journal might as well be the new Braille, for all of my expensive pens (along with Christie's beloved felt writing utensil holder that she made for my trip) have either been lost, tossed or stolen on the metro. Having stooped to the ultimate level of poverty, I have begun filling the last quarter of my giant black journal grudgingly with a blue pen stolen from an unsuspecting Venetian man in an Illy cafe.
"The girl with a bird she found in the snow, then flew up her skirt and that's how she knew that God made her eyes from crying at birth, and then left the ground to circle the earth" (God bless Sam Beam of Iron & Wine).
I feel the creeping awareness of reality starting to settle itself in around me like an overgrown quilt. The events of today, my current state of Pete-and-repeat-drunkenness, the two wursts, single fried egg and handful of hashbrowns I just ate, the three aluminum pipe voices I just heard from 7000 bazillion miles away (Maman, Grandmum, Nikaela), the pictures I saw on Fritz's page of her and Milky popping their lemon shake cherries in Thailand, the taste of cheap merlot on my tongue and the ever-tight waistband on my fairly new $200 1921 jeans are weaving themselves into this said proverbial quilt: square-by-square, sewn together by obsessive and unaware fingers and growing like mold on a forgotten plate in the corner of the bread bin.
Rebecca (the godmother of my unborn children and the girl with the saucer eyes can vouch for me when I say that I look increasingly alike to Taylor Hanson (father of three by now if all you Hanson loving teen moms can believe it) during the rise of his pop stardom circa 1998; thanks to a three day toque wearing binge, my haggard bangs will be forever parted in a permantant Red/dead Seaesque (I should read my Bible more) manner. The entire ideology of being lost is translation has nothing on us, the triples of Euroville. For the past three days we have been irked, worked and jerked back and forth Italy like dead fish in the endless ebb and flow of all that is European transportation related. Damn you Eurostar, Eurrail and Ryanair. We might as well have walked from Rome to Barcelona-- at least my jeans would have fit upon arrival by foot.
Unfortunately, walking was out of the question and instead we opted to put all forms of faith into train travel. We left Roma on a fairly high note. Riding the white wing dove of hope in the direction of Venice. Waving 'siahnara' and bidding adieu to the meagre show of palm trees, babes and cold showers that filled our Roman holiday. We dubbed our last hostel in Rome 'Grandma's Fantasy' (not your taste specifically Grandma, it was more a generalization of all the kooky OTHER grandmothers of the world), due to the wild display of silk vines intermingling with Christmas boughs, sunflowers (HELLLLLLOOOOOOOOO Val Loewen's living room) and stuffed zoo escapees (I stopped counting after thirty bears) clinging to the corners and ceilings above our heads. It was no wonder why we were the only ones sleeping in that ghost town apartment, everyone else ran for the hills.
We landed in Venice in the dark--which I always find startingly unsettling--groping and moaning and navigating as bling as baby mice. Upon arrival to our new home of transiency, our wee collective of travelling waifs (as Rab lovingly calls us {well two waifs and one girl who is getting to be the opposite of waif-like thanks to excessive rounds of cream based pasta dishes}) gave a whooping yelp of approval as our eyes glazed right over and above the three sleigh beds, silk walled tapestries and pearly white bathroom and instead beaming directly in on the televison set in the center of the room. We sat silent for the next three hours with our eyes glued on the TV. 'Prom Dinner', 'Pimp my Ride' and 'Italy's Funniest Home Videos' came and went, yet the incomprehensable mother tongue never seemed to phase any one of us. In the morning we dressed in eager anticipation of Venice (I think the TV was still on...).
Like Roma, Veniza was not built in a day. Ever the carpenter's daughter, I spent the first half of the 40 minute ferry ride along the Grand Canal utterly perplexed at the thought of building an entire city (albeit a small city) on top of a swamp. I was never able to put the two and two together but thankfully my hands took over when my mind gave up and by the time we reach San Marco Square I had already filled about thirty seven rolls of film. It was brilliant and rushed. Green water, sludgey thick and pudding in pie, smelling of bodies and lost treasure, the city felt 'shife', for lack of a better (english) word. Agian I thought of Frank KK twitching in his wooden grave at the sight of limp Venetian mouldings and sinking sidewalks. While the city may be sinking, the gelato comes out on top. Cassis, lemon, stratichinella, almond, soy vanilla, caramello, chocolat, kaffee, strawberry, melon, pineapple, marble etc. etc. the options are endless. I tasted them all, trust me. Just ask my vegan travelling waif partner(s) in crime. A quote by Oscar Wilde jumped out at me as I was turning the last pages of his book 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' and simunltaneously spooning the last of my gelato into my mouth: "Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a FEAST!". I have decided to cast my old adage, 'Everything in moderation' out the window and adopt this newly aquired one with as much enthusiasm as I give to eating. Nothing more, nothing less. Good on you, Wilde. Good on you, Madgeburg.
I am as good as drunk at the moment. Rebecca and I have fallen prey to 1€ bottles of cab-sauv YET AGAIN and our Spanish ceramic coffee mugs are forever draining and refilling themselves, or maybe it is just her quick flick of the wrist that I have yet to notice seeing as I have spent the last hour enraptured by my family's slew of gooooooood emails... I must end this beast of burden, yet I haven't the faintest idea how. Here is an attempt:
Yes, my travels have been brilliant and I will guaranteed return home wild-eyed and open hearted. That is the best result possible I think. No, I did not fall in love, not like that was the point of departure, but a girl always hopes. Yes, I did learn a lot about myself, I did eat some unreal food, laugh a lot, get rediculously stoned off Parisan and Veinnese generosity, and I did have innumerable dance parties in metros with german and austrailian boys. Forgive me Annie, for I have sinned.
This Christmas, I hope to laugh with a craned neck at all that has passed and the Kroeker siblings will FOR SURE up the ante of scandalous conversation at the bedazzled round tables set out for single grandchildren (on the Kroeker side of the spectrum at least, the Reimers are forced to intermingle this year thanks to the Debbie Downer downsize). If my little bird resource proves correct, I hear congratulations are in order for the baby Friesen doctor-to-be 'shnetjye' that is in the proverbial oven. Congrats to two almost Uncles, a set of Grandparents who are sure bets to shower their grand wee ones in Timex watches and plastic yellow boats, and the medically established parents-to-be. I love babies. Again, another reason for celebration at the predictable Christmas feast banquet table. Bring on the jello jigglers, we will laugh melodiously and silently at Uncle Rick's terrifying mealtime Christmas prayer.
"Christmas time, I can smell itttttt, fires burning in the air" (for Erin, in my Cody God Reimer ankle sock voice of the angels).
So I am eager for home and for Christmas. In other news, I hate dogs and Italian STYLE. BLEGH, thumbs DOWN to Gucci sunglasses, greased hair, bleached eyebrowns and furlined wedge boots. I miss my family, I miss my friends, I miss my home. Merry Christmas to all, and to whomever is reading this that it may concern: don't pitch your Christmas trees until I am home sweet home. To everyone else, do yourselves a favor and read these books, 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' (Milan Kundera) and 'A Boy of Good Breeding' (Miriam Toews) while lying under the 'ol Yule tree with your head in the clouds and your feet stocking clad.
Six days, six days, six days.
"You gallop with a loose rein"
"Pace gives life" was the reposte.
God bless you Oscar Wilde, friendly consistant readers, and the secret people who put money in my account. I love you all. Barcelona has been good to us so far (Wurst and free internet). Chances are there will be more where this came from because of it.
Adieu, Sister Laurie's of the world.
Madge.
Frances.
Megan (same person, the three in one).
"The girl with a bird she found in the snow, then flew up her skirt and that's how she knew that God made her eyes from crying at birth, and then left the ground to circle the earth" (God bless Sam Beam of Iron & Wine).
I feel the creeping awareness of reality starting to settle itself in around me like an overgrown quilt. The events of today, my current state of Pete-and-repeat-drunkenness, the two wursts, single fried egg and handful of hashbrowns I just ate, the three aluminum pipe voices I just heard from 7000 bazillion miles away (Maman, Grandmum, Nikaela), the pictures I saw on Fritz's page of her and Milky popping their lemon shake cherries in Thailand, the taste of cheap merlot on my tongue and the ever-tight waistband on my fairly new $200 1921 jeans are weaving themselves into this said proverbial quilt: square-by-square, sewn together by obsessive and unaware fingers and growing like mold on a forgotten plate in the corner of the bread bin.
Rebecca (the godmother of my unborn children and the girl with the saucer eyes can vouch for me when I say that I look increasingly alike to Taylor Hanson (father of three by now if all you Hanson loving teen moms can believe it) during the rise of his pop stardom circa 1998; thanks to a three day toque wearing binge, my haggard bangs will be forever parted in a permantant Red/dead Seaesque (I should read my Bible more) manner. The entire ideology of being lost is translation has nothing on us, the triples of Euroville. For the past three days we have been irked, worked and jerked back and forth Italy like dead fish in the endless ebb and flow of all that is European transportation related. Damn you Eurostar, Eurrail and Ryanair. We might as well have walked from Rome to Barcelona-- at least my jeans would have fit upon arrival by foot.
Unfortunately, walking was out of the question and instead we opted to put all forms of faith into train travel. We left Roma on a fairly high note. Riding the white wing dove of hope in the direction of Venice. Waving 'siahnara' and bidding adieu to the meagre show of palm trees, babes and cold showers that filled our Roman holiday. We dubbed our last hostel in Rome 'Grandma's Fantasy' (not your taste specifically Grandma, it was more a generalization of all the kooky OTHER grandmothers of the world), due to the wild display of silk vines intermingling with Christmas boughs, sunflowers (HELLLLLLOOOOOOOOO Val Loewen's living room) and stuffed zoo escapees (I stopped counting after thirty bears) clinging to the corners and ceilings above our heads. It was no wonder why we were the only ones sleeping in that ghost town apartment, everyone else ran for the hills.
We landed in Venice in the dark--which I always find startingly unsettling--groping and moaning and navigating as bling as baby mice. Upon arrival to our new home of transiency, our wee collective of travelling waifs (as Rab lovingly calls us {well two waifs and one girl who is getting to be the opposite of waif-like thanks to excessive rounds of cream based pasta dishes}) gave a whooping yelp of approval as our eyes glazed right over and above the three sleigh beds, silk walled tapestries and pearly white bathroom and instead beaming directly in on the televison set in the center of the room. We sat silent for the next three hours with our eyes glued on the TV. 'Prom Dinner', 'Pimp my Ride' and 'Italy's Funniest Home Videos' came and went, yet the incomprehensable mother tongue never seemed to phase any one of us. In the morning we dressed in eager anticipation of Venice (I think the TV was still on...).
Like Roma, Veniza was not built in a day. Ever the carpenter's daughter, I spent the first half of the 40 minute ferry ride along the Grand Canal utterly perplexed at the thought of building an entire city (albeit a small city) on top of a swamp. I was never able to put the two and two together but thankfully my hands took over when my mind gave up and by the time we reach San Marco Square I had already filled about thirty seven rolls of film. It was brilliant and rushed. Green water, sludgey thick and pudding in pie, smelling of bodies and lost treasure, the city felt 'shife', for lack of a better (english) word. Agian I thought of Frank KK twitching in his wooden grave at the sight of limp Venetian mouldings and sinking sidewalks. While the city may be sinking, the gelato comes out on top. Cassis, lemon, stratichinella, almond, soy vanilla, caramello, chocolat, kaffee, strawberry, melon, pineapple, marble etc. etc. the options are endless. I tasted them all, trust me. Just ask my vegan travelling waif partner(s) in crime. A quote by Oscar Wilde jumped out at me as I was turning the last pages of his book 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' and simunltaneously spooning the last of my gelato into my mouth: "Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a FEAST!". I have decided to cast my old adage, 'Everything in moderation' out the window and adopt this newly aquired one with as much enthusiasm as I give to eating. Nothing more, nothing less. Good on you, Wilde. Good on you, Madgeburg.
I am as good as drunk at the moment. Rebecca and I have fallen prey to 1€ bottles of cab-sauv YET AGAIN and our Spanish ceramic coffee mugs are forever draining and refilling themselves, or maybe it is just her quick flick of the wrist that I have yet to notice seeing as I have spent the last hour enraptured by my family's slew of gooooooood emails... I must end this beast of burden, yet I haven't the faintest idea how. Here is an attempt:
Yes, my travels have been brilliant and I will guaranteed return home wild-eyed and open hearted. That is the best result possible I think. No, I did not fall in love, not like that was the point of departure, but a girl always hopes. Yes, I did learn a lot about myself, I did eat some unreal food, laugh a lot, get rediculously stoned off Parisan and Veinnese generosity, and I did have innumerable dance parties in metros with german and austrailian boys. Forgive me Annie, for I have sinned.
This Christmas, I hope to laugh with a craned neck at all that has passed and the Kroeker siblings will FOR SURE up the ante of scandalous conversation at the bedazzled round tables set out for single grandchildren (on the Kroeker side of the spectrum at least, the Reimers are forced to intermingle this year thanks to the Debbie Downer downsize). If my little bird resource proves correct, I hear congratulations are in order for the baby Friesen doctor-to-be 'shnetjye' that is in the proverbial oven. Congrats to two almost Uncles, a set of Grandparents who are sure bets to shower their grand wee ones in Timex watches and plastic yellow boats, and the medically established parents-to-be. I love babies. Again, another reason for celebration at the predictable Christmas feast banquet table. Bring on the jello jigglers, we will laugh melodiously and silently at Uncle Rick's terrifying mealtime Christmas prayer.
"Christmas time, I can smell itttttt, fires burning in the air" (for Erin, in my Cody God Reimer ankle sock voice of the angels).
So I am eager for home and for Christmas. In other news, I hate dogs and Italian STYLE. BLEGH, thumbs DOWN to Gucci sunglasses, greased hair, bleached eyebrowns and furlined wedge boots. I miss my family, I miss my friends, I miss my home. Merry Christmas to all, and to whomever is reading this that it may concern: don't pitch your Christmas trees until I am home sweet home. To everyone else, do yourselves a favor and read these books, 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' (Milan Kundera) and 'A Boy of Good Breeding' (Miriam Toews) while lying under the 'ol Yule tree with your head in the clouds and your feet stocking clad.
Six days, six days, six days.
"You gallop with a loose rein"
"Pace gives life" was the reposte.
God bless you Oscar Wilde, friendly consistant readers, and the secret people who put money in my account. I love you all. Barcelona has been good to us so far (Wurst and free internet). Chances are there will be more where this came from because of it.
Adieu, Sister Laurie's of the world.
Madge.
Frances.
Megan (same person, the three in one).
Friday, November 16, 2007
Heart on my head like an African.
Oh, halllo.
I am currently roosting as heavily as a mama hen in Zurich. My hur, straightenerless, is a wild frenzy of flips and kinks and thankfully the ever-friendly and consistantly plump villagers of Basserdorf are none the wiser. For the past three/four days, I have been sleeping under crisp Ikea sheets and clean bedding a la Jon and Michelle's. Their kids, Tristan (5) and Madi (7) and I have been holding down the fort nightly with mad photoshoots. I have been channeling my inner Spiderman, black/good knight and evil witch fairly thouroughly and I am sure the pictures will be proof enough to any of you Doubting Thomas' out there. Apparently, Scooby Doo is a family favorite and I learnt fairly quickly that it is a MAJOR faux pas to put the Playmobile baby incubator in the RECEPTION area of the Playmobile hospital. Kids are ridiculous and more anal than me in a dirty kitchen. I think Michelle thinks me crazy for the obvious joy and cooing that comes from that direction post dinner.
Even today, elbows deep in dish detergent (even THAT has become a luxory), I sighed in utter contentment over the luxory of retrospect. I had no idea I was so in love with the kitchen and all it represents until this trip. I guess I am officially in the final stretch of my trip. The same thing came over me in Thailand when I hit the three week mark until departure. The littlest memories and the most mundayne activities of life creep out and present themselves, covered in dust and you can't help but laugh aloud at what you begin to miss with severity. The other day in a spurt of back-and-forth correspondance between Auntie Marj and I, I advised her to appreciate her sisters, kitchen, tub and bed with a vengeance for me--if only for a day--just because those are the things I miss most.
Here is a list, just because I feel like it. I miss.........
-Fritz to the moon and back
-my tub
-my Mum
-Grandma's brown bread
-Tigre tigre icecream
-Bubble tea
-Nikaela's apartment that I have yet to see
-Bar Italia with Amelia
-Driving with Yosh
-making dinner with James
-the smell of my dad
-Rab and Kit
-Mike in my house
-me in Mike's house
-Reimer gatherings
-Joel's baby
-Kaleb
-Vietnamese BBQ at James and Christine's
-Good Form
-Drewber
-Tristan and Sam
-Stranglor
-Alfie and I biking
-JJ
-painting
-Christie
-cleaning my apartment
-my plants
-my closet
-Margret surprisingly (Yosh)
-Good books
-the Globe Theater
-going for dinner: Fude, Billabong, BI, Kenko etc.
-Shmondefat
-Plotditch
-Erin
-my kitchen
-Auntie Daryl's kitchen table
-Christmas eve
-Easter
-good coffee from Prague
-Pear and F/Q visits
-my record player
-Yosh's record colletion
-my bedding
-Gbus at Bread
-breakfast at Stella's
-spring
-dancing
-dinner parties
Okay, I am beginning to lose interest. Those are all just things, it is the PEOPLE I miss the most. Truth be told, I didn't really anticipate missing my family as much. Not only my family-family, but my extended family. Jon is watching hockey, Buffalow and Ottawa and I am thinking of the Cal, legs extended, reaking of sawdust and goodness. It is almost time to come home, but not until I hit up Italy so hard they will be wishing they were not the pasta capital of the universe. Gnocchi, rissoto, ravioli, fuscili here I COMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME.
This blog is SO stupid but I don't care. I am wearing Erin's TEXAS shirt that is so paper thin from over-use, love and dirty sheets my mum would have long burnt it in the barrels behind our house if she was within arms reach. Too bad mum, I am in Switzerland. Sometimes when I think too much about facing reality again I inch dangerously close to death from sheer excitement. Erin, Erin, Erin, Erin. Mooniaki Shittake, I commissioned Madi TWO SWISS Francs for her to braid you a new indian headband (this time in purple).
Tomorrow I will be reunited in Geneva with my baby birds, Kit and the Rabbi after a mini-week hiatus spent here in the quaint village of Basserdorf. The town of taupe, and tomato red trim, shutters and snowcapped evergreens, boulangeries and post offices salt and peppering the cobblestone sidewalks. Everyone smiles here, even in IKEA. I had to walk painfully slow in IKEA to be sure to head bob in return to every rosy cheeked Tom, Dick and Harry that past. I shocked myself. SLOW in IKEA, the rapture might as well have come and gone... THAT was new for me.
A times, they are a ch-ch-ch-changin' and I am being seasoned like a christmas ham with the taste of travel. This blog blows, I am going to take a bath (my first one in a month and a bit!!!!!) WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
To Geneva, to Geneva,
Best, Madgeburg.
I am currently roosting as heavily as a mama hen in Zurich. My hur, straightenerless, is a wild frenzy of flips and kinks and thankfully the ever-friendly and consistantly plump villagers of Basserdorf are none the wiser. For the past three/four days, I have been sleeping under crisp Ikea sheets and clean bedding a la Jon and Michelle's. Their kids, Tristan (5) and Madi (7) and I have been holding down the fort nightly with mad photoshoots. I have been channeling my inner Spiderman, black/good knight and evil witch fairly thouroughly and I am sure the pictures will be proof enough to any of you Doubting Thomas' out there. Apparently, Scooby Doo is a family favorite and I learnt fairly quickly that it is a MAJOR faux pas to put the Playmobile baby incubator in the RECEPTION area of the Playmobile hospital. Kids are ridiculous and more anal than me in a dirty kitchen. I think Michelle thinks me crazy for the obvious joy and cooing that comes from that direction post dinner.
Even today, elbows deep in dish detergent (even THAT has become a luxory), I sighed in utter contentment over the luxory of retrospect. I had no idea I was so in love with the kitchen and all it represents until this trip. I guess I am officially in the final stretch of my trip. The same thing came over me in Thailand when I hit the three week mark until departure. The littlest memories and the most mundayne activities of life creep out and present themselves, covered in dust and you can't help but laugh aloud at what you begin to miss with severity. The other day in a spurt of back-and-forth correspondance between Auntie Marj and I, I advised her to appreciate her sisters, kitchen, tub and bed with a vengeance for me--if only for a day--just because those are the things I miss most.
Here is a list, just because I feel like it. I miss.........
-Fritz to the moon and back
-my tub
-my Mum
-Grandma's brown bread
-Tigre tigre icecream
-Bubble tea
-Nikaela's apartment that I have yet to see
-Bar Italia with Amelia
-Driving with Yosh
-making dinner with James
-the smell of my dad
-Rab and Kit
-Mike in my house
-me in Mike's house
-Reimer gatherings
-Joel's baby
-Kaleb
-Vietnamese BBQ at James and Christine's
-Good Form
-Drewber
-Tristan and Sam
-Stranglor
-Alfie and I biking
-JJ
-painting
-Christie
-cleaning my apartment
-my plants
-my closet
-Margret surprisingly (Yosh)
-Good books
-the Globe Theater
-going for dinner: Fude, Billabong, BI, Kenko etc.
-Shmondefat
-Plotditch
-Erin
-my kitchen
-Auntie Daryl's kitchen table
-Christmas eve
-Easter
-good coffee from Prague
-Pear and F/Q visits
-my record player
-Yosh's record colletion
-my bedding
-Gbus at Bread
-breakfast at Stella's
-spring
-dancing
-dinner parties
Okay, I am beginning to lose interest. Those are all just things, it is the PEOPLE I miss the most. Truth be told, I didn't really anticipate missing my family as much. Not only my family-family, but my extended family. Jon is watching hockey, Buffalow and Ottawa and I am thinking of the Cal, legs extended, reaking of sawdust and goodness. It is almost time to come home, but not until I hit up Italy so hard they will be wishing they were not the pasta capital of the universe. Gnocchi, rissoto, ravioli, fuscili here I COMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME.
This blog is SO stupid but I don't care. I am wearing Erin's TEXAS shirt that is so paper thin from over-use, love and dirty sheets my mum would have long burnt it in the barrels behind our house if she was within arms reach. Too bad mum, I am in Switzerland. Sometimes when I think too much about facing reality again I inch dangerously close to death from sheer excitement. Erin, Erin, Erin, Erin. Mooniaki Shittake, I commissioned Madi TWO SWISS Francs for her to braid you a new indian headband (this time in purple).
Tomorrow I will be reunited in Geneva with my baby birds, Kit and the Rabbi after a mini-week hiatus spent here in the quaint village of Basserdorf. The town of taupe, and tomato red trim, shutters and snowcapped evergreens, boulangeries and post offices salt and peppering the cobblestone sidewalks. Everyone smiles here, even in IKEA. I had to walk painfully slow in IKEA to be sure to head bob in return to every rosy cheeked Tom, Dick and Harry that past. I shocked myself. SLOW in IKEA, the rapture might as well have come and gone... THAT was new for me.
A times, they are a ch-ch-ch-changin' and I am being seasoned like a christmas ham with the taste of travel. This blog blows, I am going to take a bath (my first one in a month and a bit!!!!!) WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
To Geneva, to Geneva,
Best, Madgeburg.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
The eternally enviable Parisan Catch 22.
Alas, we have landed in Paris quite like the doves upon St. Francis of Asisi`s shoulders; with a startling display of feathers, dust, grimances and shudders from our observers. In truth, we pulled into gaie Pearee last Monday and have been getting on quite fabulously since then, save for a few transportation hiccups along the way. I apologize in advance for any and all typing errors and the absence of grammar. French keyboards are the bane of my existence.
So `ol Paris, I keep fighting the urge to address this city like an old friendly uncle (Uncle Pappy, anyone?); THAT is how good Paris has been to us. Now, where to begin? We arrived after one hideous trainride into town from Brussels (which I fell in LOVE with, by the way), threw our bags on the floor of yet another hostel and hopped the nearest metro to the Eiffel Tower. When I finally saw it, that giant tangle of metal and bolts, I let out a sqeal that was even louder than I did upon tasting my first Belgian Guaffres (waffles) in Brussels. The locals, surprisingly, didn't bat an eyelash at our trio of shrieks. This IS Paris after all. I am quite certain that Parisans would forget about the majesty of their city altogether if it weren't for the constant sighing, shrieking, and squealing going on around them from female AND male tourists alike. That is the job I have heaped upon myself as a traveller; I am a constant reminder to Europeans across the board that their cities are NAILING it at culture, art and food. My noise effects while eqting especially have drawn many a stare, it is rather comical.
Back to us screaming at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Clad with baguette, wine and water (the three main essentials of survival in this city) we opted to climb the bloody thing in lieu of the elevator. So we climbed, climed some more, and then climbed some more on top of that. By the time we reached 700 feet, I was heaving and we were only at the second platform. I couldn't help but think of Mike experiencing the same thing as a pimply teen--Feastly hanging off his lameass tour group windbreaker like an unwanted house cat. Alex Earjob Loewen aside, we got sucker punched into riding the lift to the VERY top and I felt every part a secret member of the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a la Glass Elevator. It was rather enchanting to ride the lift alone. Lil' Audrey (Reb) was pale in the corner due to her fear of heights, but she pushed through like a champ. We ran for the observation deck like starved children at a Chuckycheese free-for-all and all one could see for miles and miles was a flat city dappled in red, white and the ever-popular black. My breath escaped me when I saw the Arc de Triomphe in the middle of all the chaos that is Paris. I took a bazillion token tourist pictures and when I became bored of that, the innumerable asians taking camera phone pictures of themselves against the backdrop of Paris became the target of my lens. (Tante Marrrrrj, your camera is a gift from above; I am afraid it has become an extension of my body, albeit a ten pound titanium extension, but an extension of my body all the same. Go go Gadget Nikon... so on and so forth; I have taken 18 rolls of film thus far!).
The French are hilarious. I could spend hours on benches around Paris just watching the locals go about their lives. I think the best way to describe it to one who has never experienced it first hand is that they are like black little automatons trying desperately hard to be nonchalant and removed in all they do. Whether it is smoking, greeting one another on the street, walking or buying boch choi at the market, there is an undeniable air of superiority that one cannot help but envy and mock. It is, truthfully the eternally enviable Parisan Catch 22. They are easy to hate, but you can't help wishing you were their niece or granddaughter. Je ne sais quoi, I can't seem to put a finger on it.
After the Eiffle Tower, we traipsed down the Champs d'Elyseés and utterly feel to our knees in worship at the sight of Louis Vuitton. Our mad photoshoot will be promptly posted upon return to the mother of all motherlands. We also stumbled upon the Arc de Triomphe as aforementioned above. The following day was dedicated to the Louvre and unfortunately I was a bit down and out thanks to a wild night of binge drinking at the Tour d'Eiffel the previous night with Rebecca. (The Bordeaux is just SOOOOO cheap; it is a sin not to pound wine like water here). So I dragged about the Louvre (again thinking of Mike being schlem on the steps in art gallery overload) and tried to supress my yawns behind a fan of brochures. My interest skyrocketed when I FINALLY found the Mona Lisa in all her smirking glory. Standing there amidst the flashbulbs, I couldn't shake the feeling of being star struck. It was a higher celebrity status than the mere vermin of Hollywood, it was like standing in the presence of ROYALTY. I took one lame picture and again took to snapping the tourists, their enthusiasm is infectious. Eventually we left, satisfied as ever and spent the rest of the afternoon reading and drinking cappuchino. That night, I ate a pizza that TRUMPED my german potato and ham experience BY FAR... picture a thin crust pizza with bacon, onion, potatoes AND SHMONDT ontop!!!!! I won't swear because my Grandmama reads this little bebe like a night hawk, but if I could... this would be the appropriate time. SHITBALLS, it was like eating every easter gathering EVER on a PIZZA! Any and all Mennoneach readers out there know what I am talking about... I almost threw up from over eating but it was the best. Italy here I COMMMMMME. Wow.
So, Paris has been divine; the food is unreal, the people amazing, and the wine even better. We basically have wine openers stuck to our bodies on those little key chain zip-line thingies, I am a LUSH and am proud of it. The beer is good too (not a good as Brussels or Prague). Tomorrow, we are going to Hail Mary all of our sins away at MASS at Notre Dame so not to worry Grandma, all of my newly acquired habits are justified in the name of the Lord and Chagall stained glass. Pardon my blasphemous mouth, it is the wine talking.
On a last note, we have settled in Montmarte for our last stint in Paris (coincidentally it is the same neighborhood where the film 'Amelie' was shot) and are roosting heavily in a Parisan apartment across from a Thai restaurant. Suffice is to say, life is good. Ever Kim Kroeker's daughter, I spent the first hour scouring the kitchen until I could deem it cookable and after I was done I realized how much I miss my own home. Regardless I am happy as a clam and am heading south for the land of clean linens, laundry machines and placemats in the direction of Jon and Michelle's in Zurich. Three weeks is slipping between my fingers faster than I can take yet another swig of merlot straight from the bottle and utter a nonchalant "Je ne sais quoi".... God bless Paris.
Zurich here I come (the pizza better be good).
Best, Frances/Megan/Madge.
So `ol Paris, I keep fighting the urge to address this city like an old friendly uncle (Uncle Pappy, anyone?); THAT is how good Paris has been to us. Now, where to begin? We arrived after one hideous trainride into town from Brussels (which I fell in LOVE with, by the way), threw our bags on the floor of yet another hostel and hopped the nearest metro to the Eiffel Tower. When I finally saw it, that giant tangle of metal and bolts, I let out a sqeal that was even louder than I did upon tasting my first Belgian Guaffres (waffles) in Brussels. The locals, surprisingly, didn't bat an eyelash at our trio of shrieks. This IS Paris after all. I am quite certain that Parisans would forget about the majesty of their city altogether if it weren't for the constant sighing, shrieking, and squealing going on around them from female AND male tourists alike. That is the job I have heaped upon myself as a traveller; I am a constant reminder to Europeans across the board that their cities are NAILING it at culture, art and food. My noise effects while eqting especially have drawn many a stare, it is rather comical.
Back to us screaming at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Clad with baguette, wine and water (the three main essentials of survival in this city) we opted to climb the bloody thing in lieu of the elevator. So we climbed, climed some more, and then climbed some more on top of that. By the time we reached 700 feet, I was heaving and we were only at the second platform. I couldn't help but think of Mike experiencing the same thing as a pimply teen--Feastly hanging off his lameass tour group windbreaker like an unwanted house cat. Alex Earjob Loewen aside, we got sucker punched into riding the lift to the VERY top and I felt every part a secret member of the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a la Glass Elevator. It was rather enchanting to ride the lift alone. Lil' Audrey (Reb) was pale in the corner due to her fear of heights, but she pushed through like a champ. We ran for the observation deck like starved children at a Chuckycheese free-for-all and all one could see for miles and miles was a flat city dappled in red, white and the ever-popular black. My breath escaped me when I saw the Arc de Triomphe in the middle of all the chaos that is Paris. I took a bazillion token tourist pictures and when I became bored of that, the innumerable asians taking camera phone pictures of themselves against the backdrop of Paris became the target of my lens. (Tante Marrrrrj, your camera is a gift from above; I am afraid it has become an extension of my body, albeit a ten pound titanium extension, but an extension of my body all the same. Go go Gadget Nikon... so on and so forth; I have taken 18 rolls of film thus far!).
The French are hilarious. I could spend hours on benches around Paris just watching the locals go about their lives. I think the best way to describe it to one who has never experienced it first hand is that they are like black little automatons trying desperately hard to be nonchalant and removed in all they do. Whether it is smoking, greeting one another on the street, walking or buying boch choi at the market, there is an undeniable air of superiority that one cannot help but envy and mock. It is, truthfully the eternally enviable Parisan Catch 22. They are easy to hate, but you can't help wishing you were their niece or granddaughter. Je ne sais quoi, I can't seem to put a finger on it.
After the Eiffle Tower, we traipsed down the Champs d'Elyseés and utterly feel to our knees in worship at the sight of Louis Vuitton. Our mad photoshoot will be promptly posted upon return to the mother of all motherlands. We also stumbled upon the Arc de Triomphe as aforementioned above. The following day was dedicated to the Louvre and unfortunately I was a bit down and out thanks to a wild night of binge drinking at the Tour d'Eiffel the previous night with Rebecca. (The Bordeaux is just SOOOOO cheap; it is a sin not to pound wine like water here). So I dragged about the Louvre (again thinking of Mike being schlem on the steps in art gallery overload) and tried to supress my yawns behind a fan of brochures. My interest skyrocketed when I FINALLY found the Mona Lisa in all her smirking glory. Standing there amidst the flashbulbs, I couldn't shake the feeling of being star struck. It was a higher celebrity status than the mere vermin of Hollywood, it was like standing in the presence of ROYALTY. I took one lame picture and again took to snapping the tourists, their enthusiasm is infectious. Eventually we left, satisfied as ever and spent the rest of the afternoon reading and drinking cappuchino. That night, I ate a pizza that TRUMPED my german potato and ham experience BY FAR... picture a thin crust pizza with bacon, onion, potatoes AND SHMONDT ontop!!!!! I won't swear because my Grandmama reads this little bebe like a night hawk, but if I could... this would be the appropriate time. SHITBALLS, it was like eating every easter gathering EVER on a PIZZA! Any and all Mennoneach readers out there know what I am talking about... I almost threw up from over eating but it was the best. Italy here I COMMMMMME. Wow.
So, Paris has been divine; the food is unreal, the people amazing, and the wine even better. We basically have wine openers stuck to our bodies on those little key chain zip-line thingies, I am a LUSH and am proud of it. The beer is good too (not a good as Brussels or Prague). Tomorrow, we are going to Hail Mary all of our sins away at MASS at Notre Dame so not to worry Grandma, all of my newly acquired habits are justified in the name of the Lord and Chagall stained glass. Pardon my blasphemous mouth, it is the wine talking.
On a last note, we have settled in Montmarte for our last stint in Paris (coincidentally it is the same neighborhood where the film 'Amelie' was shot) and are roosting heavily in a Parisan apartment across from a Thai restaurant. Suffice is to say, life is good. Ever Kim Kroeker's daughter, I spent the first hour scouring the kitchen until I could deem it cookable and after I was done I realized how much I miss my own home. Regardless I am happy as a clam and am heading south for the land of clean linens, laundry machines and placemats in the direction of Jon and Michelle's in Zurich. Three weeks is slipping between my fingers faster than I can take yet another swig of merlot straight from the bottle and utter a nonchalant "Je ne sais quoi".... God bless Paris.
Zurich here I come (the pizza better be good).
Best, Frances/Megan/Madge.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Like a veil of heaviness, lifted overnight.
"With feet like roots, and acorn boots".
I have landed in Vienna, Austria once and for all; the very country that threatened to tear my dear parents apart almost three decades ago. Thankfully, my Dad's brilliant display of rapid cutlery buying antics was their saving grace. Good on you, Pops, way to woo Mum back to Manitoba and into your arms with cutlery.
Upon arrival two nights ago, I dropped the achor that is my backpack with disdain and saw the clothes traipse out of my bag on imaginary limbs and waltz across the floor like the plague. There is a common thread in each city we arrive in, we drop our meagre belongings to the floor in back-breaking relief and make ourselves at home in the blink of an eye. We have to, or the unfamiliarity and upheaval that comes with every move, with every new transition, would swallow us whole.
We came to Vienna from Prague, a city that was held at an arms length for the duration of my visit. The city itself was so beautiful and clean, majestic and colourful on the surface; but after a few days of close observance of angry locals (yes, I know that is a sweeping generalization, but in Prague, the stereotype proved itself to be true: Eastern Europeans are a dissatisfied lot) the surface beauty wore itself through and I saw the city with fresh eyes. Well kept and clean does not always translate to lovely. It was almost as if Prague was this giant, freshly painted, one hundred year old, shining facade but behind it the people were rude and unfriendly, and the buildings crumbling messes. Eye contact alone was as scarce as mineral water and hot showers.
Bitterness and disappointment aside, Prague did rear it's majestic face more often than not. One day while at a Salvador Dali exhibit in Old Square, I was more taken by the mixture of light and busyness going on four stories below me, than by the artwork itself. The light in the Square was so eery and ghostlike, it captured me entirely. I grabbed a pen and wrote on a piece of scrap paper furiously, not wanting to forget what a observed that day through the gallery window. The beehivesque activity below was stunning. Babies in hip strollers, babe parents, cafes dappling the ground and kids walking around with wurst on sticks. So much activity caught up in the strange light coming from all directions around square made up of antique facades of towering cathedrals, galleries and apartments. It was like looking at an inverted, million year old kaleidascope. That sounds stupid, but I have no other way of wording it. I will never forget it.
We spent our days in Prague battling the predicted demons of the three week mark and eating well. I spent a day photographing other tourists, their habits and obvious awe was delightful. My usual targets were clusters of umbrella-clad Asians and old geezers in rainbow bright tams leaning over the St.Charles bridge. We sat in Illy cafes in cool neighborhoods, drank copious amounts of coffee (I thought of Alfie) and rode the tram around town (for free, obviously). On our last night in Prague, we got lost and ended up stumbling into the most brilliant local pub, underground. Music of the Alanis Morrissette variety welcomed us in like an athem and I took it as a good omen. Our english accents set us apart immediately and we were flooded with offers for drinks and dances by some dude named Andre.
I gave Andre the benefit of the doubt and we danced feverishly to Spicegirls' "Wannabe" while Rab and Kit looked on in stitches of laughter. Screw you guys. We left the anciet city on a high (and somewhat foggy) note; I learnt my "never-mix-800-variations-of-alcohol lesson (thank you Andre...) the hard way on the five hour train ride that followed our departure from Prague.
Now we are in Vienna and the somber viel that once covered us in Prague has lifted like an overnight fog. Life is good, full and well. I wrote to JJ this morning that I have never felt lighter, happier, slower, fuller, or more satisfied. This trip was called for, that much I know. Yesterday this notion was proved time and again while at the Leopold gallery. I stood an inch away from my favorite piece by E. Schiele and a calm flooded over me like the tide. To stand in the presence of art that was once only accesible in a glossy book in University is truly the greatest thing in the world.
Land ho. I am happy and actually slow paced for once in my life.
Be well,
Frances.
ps: Art, architecture, food and happiness aside, I am still awaiting the Christmas season with a vengeance. My mum and I have made a pact to park it in the airport terminal for all of December after my return to the motherland and await the arrival of our dear ones with the aid of Folk Festival chairs, beer helmuts, and breath that is baited. Brilliant.
I have landed in Vienna, Austria once and for all; the very country that threatened to tear my dear parents apart almost three decades ago. Thankfully, my Dad's brilliant display of rapid cutlery buying antics was their saving grace. Good on you, Pops, way to woo Mum back to Manitoba and into your arms with cutlery.
Upon arrival two nights ago, I dropped the achor that is my backpack with disdain and saw the clothes traipse out of my bag on imaginary limbs and waltz across the floor like the plague. There is a common thread in each city we arrive in, we drop our meagre belongings to the floor in back-breaking relief and make ourselves at home in the blink of an eye. We have to, or the unfamiliarity and upheaval that comes with every move, with every new transition, would swallow us whole.
We came to Vienna from Prague, a city that was held at an arms length for the duration of my visit. The city itself was so beautiful and clean, majestic and colourful on the surface; but after a few days of close observance of angry locals (yes, I know that is a sweeping generalization, but in Prague, the stereotype proved itself to be true: Eastern Europeans are a dissatisfied lot) the surface beauty wore itself through and I saw the city with fresh eyes. Well kept and clean does not always translate to lovely. It was almost as if Prague was this giant, freshly painted, one hundred year old, shining facade but behind it the people were rude and unfriendly, and the buildings crumbling messes. Eye contact alone was as scarce as mineral water and hot showers.
Bitterness and disappointment aside, Prague did rear it's majestic face more often than not. One day while at a Salvador Dali exhibit in Old Square, I was more taken by the mixture of light and busyness going on four stories below me, than by the artwork itself. The light in the Square was so eery and ghostlike, it captured me entirely. I grabbed a pen and wrote on a piece of scrap paper furiously, not wanting to forget what a observed that day through the gallery window. The beehivesque activity below was stunning. Babies in hip strollers, babe parents, cafes dappling the ground and kids walking around with wurst on sticks. So much activity caught up in the strange light coming from all directions around square made up of antique facades of towering cathedrals, galleries and apartments. It was like looking at an inverted, million year old kaleidascope. That sounds stupid, but I have no other way of wording it. I will never forget it.
We spent our days in Prague battling the predicted demons of the three week mark and eating well. I spent a day photographing other tourists, their habits and obvious awe was delightful. My usual targets were clusters of umbrella-clad Asians and old geezers in rainbow bright tams leaning over the St.Charles bridge. We sat in Illy cafes in cool neighborhoods, drank copious amounts of coffee (I thought of Alfie) and rode the tram around town (for free, obviously). On our last night in Prague, we got lost and ended up stumbling into the most brilliant local pub, underground. Music of the Alanis Morrissette variety welcomed us in like an athem and I took it as a good omen. Our english accents set us apart immediately and we were flooded with offers for drinks and dances by some dude named Andre.
I gave Andre the benefit of the doubt and we danced feverishly to Spicegirls' "Wannabe" while Rab and Kit looked on in stitches of laughter. Screw you guys. We left the anciet city on a high (and somewhat foggy) note; I learnt my "never-mix-800-variations-of-alcohol lesson (thank you Andre...) the hard way on the five hour train ride that followed our departure from Prague.
Now we are in Vienna and the somber viel that once covered us in Prague has lifted like an overnight fog. Life is good, full and well. I wrote to JJ this morning that I have never felt lighter, happier, slower, fuller, or more satisfied. This trip was called for, that much I know. Yesterday this notion was proved time and again while at the Leopold gallery. I stood an inch away from my favorite piece by E. Schiele and a calm flooded over me like the tide. To stand in the presence of art that was once only accesible in a glossy book in University is truly the greatest thing in the world.
Land ho. I am happy and actually slow paced for once in my life.
Be well,
Frances.
ps: Art, architecture, food and happiness aside, I am still awaiting the Christmas season with a vengeance. My mum and I have made a pact to park it in the airport terminal for all of December after my return to the motherland and await the arrival of our dear ones with the aid of Folk Festival chairs, beer helmuts, and breath that is baited. Brilliant.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Ought vs. Naught.
Dearest ones of all;
Güten naht from Deutchland, gems. I have only now, already two weeks into this journey, figured out how to sign in to this place. Generally, I am rather lazy when it comes to writing for an expectant audience. I will write as I please and the outcome will be as scattered and jittery as my current mindframe (thanks to three incredibly strong capuccinos, consumed in rapid sucession), woe is me-- I am as good as drunk today from the caffine alone. But here I am, all the same.
Okay, jittery piano hands aside; please know that I am happy and full. In the clarity of hindsight, it usually takes me about two weeks to make the dreaded 'change of pace' when I travel. The transition from working seven days a week like a wild stallion to doing absolutely nothing usually takes its toll. This trip has been no exception to the Kroeker rule, so I am surprisingly at ease with my lack of correspondance and overall laziness. Thank you for your patience friendly readers. These are my European days (children cover thine eyes):
This morning I woke up begrudingly in a twelve bunk-bed mixed dorm after being transferred from a glorious three bed private suite shared with my lovely travelling companions: Kit and Rabbi-- to an open backpack and a fresh cum stain on my rolled up black sheet. Nestled in the corner at the top of my pack, I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the damage with sleepy eyes. Horror and mirth collided in an instant and all I could do was scream in utter disbelief and then raise a fist in damnation to the masterbateur du jour (who I might add had long escaped my potential wrath). So, two weeks into this trip and the token dorm-room-pervert jerked off into my back pack. As my father would say (and probably not in this exact context...) "scenarios like these only build character". With Kit physically gagging in the corner of the room, and Rab and I long having dropped to our knees in hysterics over the soiled sheet, I had no choice but to take the advice of my dear Mave and "let hilarity seep in". Suffice is to say, we will no longer be roosting in twelve bed mixed dorms... fuck me sideways that story trumps all!
I suppose I need to back up the bus a bit. We flew into Londontown two weeks ago and have been eating and drinking like queens ever since. When we were not roosting on benches smoking LONG cigarettes, drinking merlot out of paperbags and getting mistaken for locals in Amsterdam (!!!), we were either on our knees in the Tate Museum in London (me at least... squatting on the floor with my giant hardcover journal open in my lap, paintset and brushes strewn about, babes to my right and left drawing the same wall-piece as me in the National Gallery) or sitting fur-clad in cafes in the Netherlands sipping copious amounts of espresso. Okay, first it was London which was a bit of a shitshow--we did everything in terms of unspoken tourist obligations--whether it was Shakespeares Globe Theater, riding around in double decker busses, seeing the London Bridge and the London Eye, the changing of the guards and old Buckingham Palace. We went to every museum known to man and shat our pants at sight of Big Ben. Cliches aside, I was in heaven. The London experience got us off on a good foot.
After London we hopped a train to Amsterdam, which proved to satisfy my every expectation and dream of what I thought the city should be, within the first 24 hours. Our hostel was TOO nice for only 15 euro a night and we met some good people. The Red Light District was laughable and we wandered with wide eyes. All the while, a line from my book 'The Unbeareable Lightness of Being' kept ringing in my head, "the women in the windows looked like giant, bored cats, bathed in red". We slipped into a comfortable rhythm in that city filled with more bikes than people; the warmth of the people and quaintness of Dutch living definately instilled a desire to return again someday. I also stood face to face with some of the most phenominal art work I have ever seen and studied: Rembrandt's "The Night Watch" was so captivating I held my breath to the point of near death until an ugly little dutch girl brought me back into reality with a fierce glare and stomp of the foot. Yes, Amsterdam fared us well.
Now we are in Berlin, our last night here. The train into the city was almost as majestic as Rembrandt's work. I asked myself at least one hundred times why I hadn't been born a Dutch goat farmer and about two hours later I realized what a fool I was for thinking such a thing. Dutch goat farmers would never get mistaken for a local while smoking on a park bench along a canal in Amsterdam! (It must have been the Gravol talking). I wrote in my journal today that "Berlin is everything I thought it NOT to be". At first glance, this historic city is sterile and unforgiving, but after being here for five days, I have begun to see it in a new light. In the first few days I was comsumed with a sort of second hand embarassment for this city run to ruin by the most brilliantly stupid and hideous leader mankind has ever known; but after a few enlightening tours around Berlin, I have come to see it more as a city of rebirth and renewal instead of a simple crime scene paved over. Berlin is one hell of a constuction site, but with a bit of patience and persistence I understand it as an effort to rebuild the glorious architecture that once lived.
Today I looked my heritage in the eye in a very unconventional way. I spent the day in it's entirety alone and decided that the best way to start such a day would be to find breakfast. Insert my heritage here. In a dingy cafe buried somewhere underneath the S Bahn Ostbanhof train station, I fell in love with Germany and everything of the German variation. In a muted and wild array of hand signals and passionate eye contact, I managed to order a giant steaming plate of the BEST fried potatoes and easter ham that I have ever tasted from a giant and wild German cook. It is funny that moments like these can make or break one's day, but that meal alone hit a chord in my heart. While I ate with the power of a thousand starved demons, everything that had occured in the past two weeks came to a head in my mind and I felt so proud to be Mennonite. God bless steaming plates of ham and potatoes. I might even go so far as to say that I found (part) of my heart in that very display of food this morning. Maybe. I still have yet to find a devilishly European to stamp my passport. So to speak. HAHAHA.
On this glorious note, I am off to join my dear ladybirds in yet another meal of thanksgiving. Be well all.
This trip is looking up, save for the bedsheet incident; I can feel my character building before thine eyes.
Prust (cheers).
Madge.
Güten naht from Deutchland, gems. I have only now, already two weeks into this journey, figured out how to sign in to this place. Generally, I am rather lazy when it comes to writing for an expectant audience. I will write as I please and the outcome will be as scattered and jittery as my current mindframe (thanks to three incredibly strong capuccinos, consumed in rapid sucession), woe is me-- I am as good as drunk today from the caffine alone. But here I am, all the same.
Okay, jittery piano hands aside; please know that I am happy and full. In the clarity of hindsight, it usually takes me about two weeks to make the dreaded 'change of pace' when I travel. The transition from working seven days a week like a wild stallion to doing absolutely nothing usually takes its toll. This trip has been no exception to the Kroeker rule, so I am surprisingly at ease with my lack of correspondance and overall laziness. Thank you for your patience friendly readers. These are my European days (children cover thine eyes):
This morning I woke up begrudingly in a twelve bunk-bed mixed dorm after being transferred from a glorious three bed private suite shared with my lovely travelling companions: Kit and Rabbi-- to an open backpack and a fresh cum stain on my rolled up black sheet. Nestled in the corner at the top of my pack, I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the damage with sleepy eyes. Horror and mirth collided in an instant and all I could do was scream in utter disbelief and then raise a fist in damnation to the masterbateur du jour (who I might add had long escaped my potential wrath). So, two weeks into this trip and the token dorm-room-pervert jerked off into my back pack. As my father would say (and probably not in this exact context...) "scenarios like these only build character". With Kit physically gagging in the corner of the room, and Rab and I long having dropped to our knees in hysterics over the soiled sheet, I had no choice but to take the advice of my dear Mave and "let hilarity seep in". Suffice is to say, we will no longer be roosting in twelve bed mixed dorms... fuck me sideways that story trumps all!
I suppose I need to back up the bus a bit. We flew into Londontown two weeks ago and have been eating and drinking like queens ever since. When we were not roosting on benches smoking LONG cigarettes, drinking merlot out of paperbags and getting mistaken for locals in Amsterdam (!!!), we were either on our knees in the Tate Museum in London (me at least... squatting on the floor with my giant hardcover journal open in my lap, paintset and brushes strewn about, babes to my right and left drawing the same wall-piece as me in the National Gallery) or sitting fur-clad in cafes in the Netherlands sipping copious amounts of espresso. Okay, first it was London which was a bit of a shitshow--we did everything in terms of unspoken tourist obligations--whether it was Shakespeares Globe Theater, riding around in double decker busses, seeing the London Bridge and the London Eye, the changing of the guards and old Buckingham Palace. We went to every museum known to man and shat our pants at sight of Big Ben. Cliches aside, I was in heaven. The London experience got us off on a good foot.
After London we hopped a train to Amsterdam, which proved to satisfy my every expectation and dream of what I thought the city should be, within the first 24 hours. Our hostel was TOO nice for only 15 euro a night and we met some good people. The Red Light District was laughable and we wandered with wide eyes. All the while, a line from my book 'The Unbeareable Lightness of Being' kept ringing in my head, "the women in the windows looked like giant, bored cats, bathed in red". We slipped into a comfortable rhythm in that city filled with more bikes than people; the warmth of the people and quaintness of Dutch living definately instilled a desire to return again someday. I also stood face to face with some of the most phenominal art work I have ever seen and studied: Rembrandt's "The Night Watch" was so captivating I held my breath to the point of near death until an ugly little dutch girl brought me back into reality with a fierce glare and stomp of the foot. Yes, Amsterdam fared us well.
Now we are in Berlin, our last night here. The train into the city was almost as majestic as Rembrandt's work. I asked myself at least one hundred times why I hadn't been born a Dutch goat farmer and about two hours later I realized what a fool I was for thinking such a thing. Dutch goat farmers would never get mistaken for a local while smoking on a park bench along a canal in Amsterdam! (It must have been the Gravol talking). I wrote in my journal today that "Berlin is everything I thought it NOT to be". At first glance, this historic city is sterile and unforgiving, but after being here for five days, I have begun to see it in a new light. In the first few days I was comsumed with a sort of second hand embarassment for this city run to ruin by the most brilliantly stupid and hideous leader mankind has ever known; but after a few enlightening tours around Berlin, I have come to see it more as a city of rebirth and renewal instead of a simple crime scene paved over. Berlin is one hell of a constuction site, but with a bit of patience and persistence I understand it as an effort to rebuild the glorious architecture that once lived.
Today I looked my heritage in the eye in a very unconventional way. I spent the day in it's entirety alone and decided that the best way to start such a day would be to find breakfast. Insert my heritage here. In a dingy cafe buried somewhere underneath the S Bahn Ostbanhof train station, I fell in love with Germany and everything of the German variation. In a muted and wild array of hand signals and passionate eye contact, I managed to order a giant steaming plate of the BEST fried potatoes and easter ham that I have ever tasted from a giant and wild German cook. It is funny that moments like these can make or break one's day, but that meal alone hit a chord in my heart. While I ate with the power of a thousand starved demons, everything that had occured in the past two weeks came to a head in my mind and I felt so proud to be Mennonite. God bless steaming plates of ham and potatoes. I might even go so far as to say that I found (part) of my heart in that very display of food this morning. Maybe. I still have yet to find a devilishly European to stamp my passport. So to speak. HAHAHA.
On this glorious note, I am off to join my dear ladybirds in yet another meal of thanksgiving. Be well all.
This trip is looking up, save for the bedsheet incident; I can feel my character building before thine eyes.
Prust (cheers).
Madge.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Autumn is the new black.
This first shot is my favorite photo I have ever taken, to date. Yosh is a dream to photograph because he is not critical of my overbearing demands and slow handed focus. My hope is that his children will hang this in their school lockers and sigh every time they pass by. The second photo simply sums up the goodness of Fall. Autumn is the new black.
Best, Madge.
Best, Madge.
I would be, I should be; "I do not know what".
"I could have been a whistle, could have been a float. A real life giver, could have been boat. Simple as a kettle, steady as a rock."
This song is in my head, the nameless song from the Garden State soundtrack. My brain is empty today, really-- I know absolutely NOTHING today except for the fact that I am leaving in two weeks for bigger and better things. I have no idea what to expect and have no idea what might happen. I am certain that Europe was the right decision, albeit an impulse one, but the right one all the same. Lo and I were chatting the other day and while her quick witted banter had me in stitches, it also got me to thinking about life as we know it. In my brain, the French seem to pull out all the stops in their cliche-heavy worlds more often than not in terms of carelessness and emotional upheaval. With a simple sigh and a cigarette-clad wave of the hand, a muttered "Je ne sais quoi" is often the scapegoat for any and all of life's pressing issues at hand. Whether this ideology is true or not is up for interpretation by the reader. I on the other hand, have fully decided to adopt this Francophone mentality pre, post and during my travels abroad and hope to God it serves me well.
Here is a collection of photos. I love these photos and I love these people. These people I call my friends. There are an important handful of faces missing because they too are off in foreign lands in pursuit of their own happiness. Everything looks perfect from far away. I read something last night and it caught my eye and left a mark:
There were the earth and there were the planets. The earth was not a planet.
The planets were the grabbers. They were called this because they could sieze
hold of the earth and bend its destiny to thier will. The earth was never of
thier kind. The earth was the subject. The earth was the grabbee.
....Until he found out about the shadow planets, Noman Sher Noman had never
understood how to think about love, how to give names to its effects of moral
illumination and tidal fluctuation and gravitaitonal pull. The moment he heard
many things became clear. Love and hate were planets too, noncorproreal but out
there, pulling at his heart and soul.
I don't know who wrote this other than the fact that Mave sent it to me many moons ago via email in the dimming divide of winter. I found it last night written on a scrap piece of paper and I slept fitfully because of it. Norman Sher Norman, je ne sais quoi.
Look on friendly soldiers.
Frances/Megan (same person).
This song is in my head, the nameless song from the Garden State soundtrack. My brain is empty today, really-- I know absolutely NOTHING today except for the fact that I am leaving in two weeks for bigger and better things. I have no idea what to expect and have no idea what might happen. I am certain that Europe was the right decision, albeit an impulse one, but the right one all the same. Lo and I were chatting the other day and while her quick witted banter had me in stitches, it also got me to thinking about life as we know it. In my brain, the French seem to pull out all the stops in their cliche-heavy worlds more often than not in terms of carelessness and emotional upheaval. With a simple sigh and a cigarette-clad wave of the hand, a muttered "Je ne sais quoi" is often the scapegoat for any and all of life's pressing issues at hand. Whether this ideology is true or not is up for interpretation by the reader. I on the other hand, have fully decided to adopt this Francophone mentality pre, post and during my travels abroad and hope to God it serves me well.
Here is a collection of photos. I love these photos and I love these people. These people I call my friends. There are an important handful of faces missing because they too are off in foreign lands in pursuit of their own happiness. Everything looks perfect from far away. I read something last night and it caught my eye and left a mark:
There were the earth and there were the planets. The earth was not a planet.
The planets were the grabbers. They were called this because they could sieze
hold of the earth and bend its destiny to thier will. The earth was never of
thier kind. The earth was the subject. The earth was the grabbee.
....Until he found out about the shadow planets, Noman Sher Noman had never
understood how to think about love, how to give names to its effects of moral
illumination and tidal fluctuation and gravitaitonal pull. The moment he heard
many things became clear. Love and hate were planets too, noncorproreal but out
there, pulling at his heart and soul.
I don't know who wrote this other than the fact that Mave sent it to me many moons ago via email in the dimming divide of winter. I found it last night written on a scrap piece of paper and I slept fitfully because of it. Norman Sher Norman, je ne sais quoi.
Look on friendly soldiers.
Frances/Megan (same person).
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
This is forever; oh bah nay.
This post is a collection of shots over the span of the last two weeks. A date with Kitty to the Underground Cafe; a visit to my hometown and the building that ALMOST claimed my dear dad's life (close, but no cigar PTL); a mum, a dad; a skate competition at the Plaza featuring Wren, Sea Bass (Cara), Yosh, Tris, Paul, Bram, Sam, Amy, James and Chris; and one very scandalous wedding with the Zachs. Enjoy. (Photos are 'acomin'). Patience is a virtue.
(More to commmmmmme [comme si, comme ca]).
Madge.
(More to commmmmmme [comme si, comme ca]).
Madge.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
For Whom the (Wedding) Bell Tolls.
Many of you have been threatening to lend a hand when it comes to me meeting my maker earlier than planned. (Yes, I understand that one cannot pen in death, NATURAL death that is; but enough with the death threats fueled by your impatience). Here are the long awaited photos (lest we forget I shoot with FILM) from Gunner and Cheryl's wedding nuptial bliss on August tenth, 2007. Once again, congratulations gems.
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