Collars are still up at Nassau Apartment, chins tucked low, and the concept of "right now" is circling my head like an oversized eagle. The Beatles 20 Greatest Hits have been riding the crest of the popularity for quite sometime now and today's viewing of the film "Across the Universe" will not help in my inability to mix things up on my turntable. Not that I am trying to fight the sway power of the Beatles. I am merely biding my time until a translucent package containing one very special Neutral Milk Hotel record will arrive on my doorstep next week. Hello Darkness, my old friend. You know you are in an ordinary state of mind when all you do is scour the internet for cheap records that will restore one's heart like only the best medication can, instead of sleeping. And so, in my darkest hour I always head back to Neutral Milk Hotel, my best musical friends.
This week, last week, next week, never, forever. What is it about Father Winter that makes humanity want to crawl inwards? Don't get me wrong, I am forever indebted to this very season that makes it okay to pass up dance and boardgame nights in lieu of an underwear clad cross-legged position at the center of the bed with a bowl of chili in hand. Mildly concerned for the state of my well being of late, I have been making a tiny effort during daylight hours to ask around town about the general attitude towards socialization in the Winnipeg scene. Today I crept over to the University of Winnipeg to check up on a few things. First duty on the roster was to find "our" bench (where school chums used to gather last year) and verify whether or not it was still being inhabited by semi-worthy people. Check, to my delight two familiar friends greeted me with warmth and inquiry. Second point of action was to shoot the shit with my favorite Professor (Prof. Johns) and find out if all my papers from summer school had been destroyed. I never found him but I did leave an insane garbled note under his office door that will surely make him chortle in memory. Maybe not. The third event was unplanned and therefore tucked away in my brain under my "good omen" category. Literally running full speed into my cousin and dear friend James Friesen WAS a good omen. I have been coasting on his positivity for the last four hours.
After the University I traipsed to the Fyxx in the Exchange and bantered about the weather and politics to a crazed homeless gentleman. Kindly, he never chastised me for my utterly disgraceful political knowledge and instead, commented on my brand new and very suggestible hat. On the way home, I caught myself walking in the middle of the street on my block and turning onto the sidewalk only when I was passing my favorite house. It is the kind of house you want to be invited to for a dinner party, the kind with the best wine, the kind with three Christmas wreaths instead of just the standard one, the kind of house where the Matriarch leaves the bottom two feet of the door's curtain rolled up just so that the dogs can look out. One dog looked at me pathetically as I passed his two foot perspective with my head bowed to the wind. We made eye contact, and I, starved for attention I suppose held it as long as the dog would allow. I turned my head first feeling a bit defeated and foolish for maintaining eye contact with a canine. While I may be borderline crazy, I refuse to throw in the towel.
Being against the world is hard enough, but being against oneself is worse. So to any one out there who is reading this smirking or maybe bobbing their head in understanding because they too long to maintain eye contact with anyone--even a dog--then I encourage you to lift your chin and take it as it may; then turn the other cheek and flip the record.
I am sorry to anyone who has been put between a rock and a hard place of awkwardness due to my actions of late. I am on the cusp of change and my chin is slowly, painstakingly tearing itself away from the safe haven of my chest. Goodbye downcast eyes, hello minus thirty forgotton the second I step onto a dancefloor.
Let it be.
Megan.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Eggs basted medium are the new black.
I love eggs. I love any food that doesn't have to be swallowed or even chewed. There is nothing more satisfying on a Tuesday afternoon, waking up at four in the afternoon, followed suit by two eggs basted medium sliding down the hatch without having to chew. Brilliant.
I, myself have no idea where this sudden obsession with unnecessary chewing came about, but like most things that come into my brain and out of my mouth, I am rolling with it. Last night was Alfie's first annual New Year's Eve party and as much as I despise the unnecessary as a whole (such as chewing, combing hair or ridiculous holidays like New Year's Eve), I went with an attitude of shining optimism. We danced and much to my chagrin, I had fun.
The following are some of my favorite photos to date. There is a sprinkling of Europe, Francaphone birds, New Year's eve, and various photogenic (and some not so photogenic) friends. Enjoy.
Eat an egg or two without chewing, it's worth the effort (or lack thereof).
I think I am still drunk.
More to come; patience is a virtue, or so I hear.
Blessings to all.
Madge/Frances.
I, myself have no idea where this sudden obsession with unnecessary chewing came about, but like most things that come into my brain and out of my mouth, I am rolling with it. Last night was Alfie's first annual New Year's Eve party and as much as I despise the unnecessary as a whole (such as chewing, combing hair or ridiculous holidays like New Year's Eve), I went with an attitude of shining optimism. We danced and much to my chagrin, I had fun.
The following are some of my favorite photos to date. There is a sprinkling of Europe, Francaphone birds, New Year's eve, and various photogenic (and some not so photogenic) friends. Enjoy.
Eat an egg or two without chewing, it's worth the effort (or lack thereof).
I think I am still drunk.
More to come; patience is a virtue, or so I hear.
Blessings to all.
Madge/Frances.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Fruit Basket Upset.
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.
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.
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.
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