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).

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.

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.