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).