Casual Jetlag.

I am somewhere suspended over the North Atlantic; so says the map on the screen in front of me. I can see tiny outlines of boats and a hint of peninsula so I am sure we are close to the European coastline. People are eating the last of their morning cantaloupe daintily and I am starting to regret wolfing down everything that presented itself on the menu this morning. Or is it night? My faithful traveling companion and computer, Deshtiny, reads that WPG time is currently 4:03 am but my watch is reading eleven am. Something is not correlating here.

Regardless of the time of day, I was lucky enough to have my own row on the flight from Toronto to Frankfurt and I snobbishly claimed my territory from the beginning in case any stragglers felt the need to relocate on a whim. The acts of removing my footwear and encouraging the contents of my carryon luggage to spread like the plague seemed to do the trick.

The state of calm that has overcome me is still surprising and I keep catching myself gearing up for an anxiety attack that will not come. I presume I will be landing in Frankfurt within the hour or so, but then again, who knows. I even took the German newspaper when it was offered just to look cool.
















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Days later, I am here in Zurich at last, roosting like a mother hen in a European den. I am sure the North American term 'living room' would be sorely out of place. The weather screams "Spring is here" with it's impromptu rain showers and early April flowers. The trees are slowly starting to bud and the simplicity of the season is more surprising than I expected. Just like that one can be in the seventh circle of Winter hell, and the next minute one is jogging in the middle of a cloud wearing nothing but a thin Running Room jacket.

From the spot I am sitting I can hear small children squirming in their beds, their parents going about daily day-end tasks in a flurry of movement around my stationary position at the table near the kitchen doorway; the only spot in the flat where I can poach the neighbor's internet signal. (God bless Macbook and their sly ways). Life is simple and nice. The town where I am staying called Bassersdorf is quaint and friendly but my lack of German serves little to no purpose. The seven year old that I am nannying continually astounds me with her translating abilities and encourages me daily to "practice my numbers". I can count to ten in German, poorly. Today I had to order sandwich meat at the butcher with her feeding me the words slowly. I flushed crimson in shame at my inability to deliver such a simple task and my appreciation for language sky rocketed.

In my off hours I can be found curled up on bright bedding cradling my computer and reading a book. This suits me to a tee. This newfound lifestyle is is welcomed in comparison to the rate at which I had been socializing in the past month. My speed of my lifestyle may be down to a dull roar, but my morale is on the up and up. Someone sent me a cryptic message via text about two weeks ago encouraging me to "let this trip do what it needs to do". I have a hunch I know who it was but regardless, I am taking those cryptic words to heart and doing just that. By "doing what I need to do" I am reading at the park, cooking, baking, planning soccer practice and jogging like mental. This weekend we are going on a trip to the Alps and I am going to meet Uncle Puke in Paris for Fashion Week in the first week of March.

Until my return on March 18th, I will keep making room for this trip to "do what it needs to do".

Blessings to you and yours; from the girl across the North Atlantic,

Franny.

Pretty bird.

Today is starting off well. Jana Hunter spins recklessly on my own turntable and is competing fiercely with Bonnie 'Prince' Billy for the number one spot in my music collection. These two are the kings of my musical court. And by court I mean a music collection that seems to be growing like mold these days; creeping off the edges and corners and filling a room with a presence that no one notices until it is too late. In this case, it is a welcomed presence.

Yesterday I woke up to JJ's singsong voice welcoming me into the day. She offered me a coveted spot at her mint green kitchen table heaving with the weight of flowers, tea sets, doilies and knickknacks. The most important centerpiece on the table was a giant Pyrex pie plate overflowing with crepes and a troupe of berries, pudding, sugar, and nutella. JJ, forever the unmarried and houseless housewife (I say that with pride, because it is my dream to be like her) has been taking french lessons and is doing extremely well. One of the projects this term was to master the execution of perfect french crepes. To say the least, she nailed it. Leigh picked me up and I was still pretty mellow from the previous night's hectic turn of events. French radio, french breakfast, french friends, french vinyl; it was a perfect European send-off.

After breakfast, Leigh drove us to a flea market on Aaron Street in the west end and my knees threatened to buckle in excitement the second we walked in. The consistency of emotion and gratitude I experience walking into a basement flea market surrounded by abandoned trinkets, books and vinyl is almost uncanny. For some reason I always beeline for the typewriter, projector, camera section in high hopes of finding a jewel among gems. Yesterday I had no success in that department but I did end up having a half hour conversation with a French hippy named Peter who is in the top hat business but sells records at flea markets on Saturdays for fun. We ended up in a very heated debate about kids these days and the lack of appreciation people tend to have for music of yesteryears. Mid conversation, Peter yanked off his bowler hat and scratched his head and said, "Meg, I may be deaf in one ear, but I think from the sounds of your discontent I may have just found your new best friend" and proceeded to pluck a Mireille Mathieu album from the French Folk section of his vast collection and shove it into my already full hands. "Listen to her and then listen to The Beatles' 'Magical Mystery Tour' and then come back and tell me how much you love life; let the music deliver you". I had no choice but to take his suggestions to heart and do just that. The onset of appreciation was and continues to be a vast sea. Thank you Peter.

After the Aaron Street market we buggered off to Sonus music on Portage where I stumbled upon a million other albums calling my name. Yes, yesterday was a very nice day. The toll of winter was ignored for 24 hours and the whole of Winnipeg's young twenty-something scene seemed to let the wave of Spring Fever wash the negativity and bitterness away, even if it was for an afternoon. I found it refreshing to see people on the streets again, bikes everywhere defying death in the spring slush. I too wanted to be out there, defying death. Bikes are for Spring, man!

I am sitting at my computer ignoring the giant empty suitcase behind me. It is begging to be filled, but I can't seem to get myself to fill it. Why the hesitation one might ask? I am only gone for a month, so this said trepidation seems rather unnecessary but packing is always a reminder of change. No, even writing that sounds ridiculous; I am going to go fill that thing the second this is posted. I am psyched on leaving, it is just the effort of preparation that miffs me. I have a tower of fourteen books waiting patiently in the wings to be tucked away into the empty spots with precision. They range from Dave Eggers, to Nabokov, to Garcia Marquez, to Hemingway, to Bergen. I am trying to read at least two books by each author to get a taste of continuity in each writer's style. Then I have a sprinkling of carefully selected works that will act as stand-in friends while I am away. I am ready now. I think the choosing of books was the most stressful part.

Amish, amuck, amiss. Amiss you all already.
Blessings to all. Enjoy the break of winter, because Zurich's winter season has long passed.

Meg.

It's De-licious, thanks.

"Hearts like a feather; but who knows what's waiting in the wings of time?". Mr. Gray. Shit. Shit. Shit. I will rise from the ashes like a bird aflame. This is new, I know. But the gloves are comin' off from here on in. Them's fighting words and I will not back down.

Today was an interesting day. I began it frazzled, greasy and exhausted and I am ending it frazzled, greasy and exhausted. The funny thing is that my day took it's course in the shape of the letter U. It started slowly, moving in slow motion towards the slippery slope downward, spiraling really into a classroom of Grade Three kids who don't know how to glue, words and stories about Penguins during I-love-to-read-month caught in my throat, wasting time at a mall, watching people and loitering everywhere possible, reading everything in sight just for a second's worth of satisfaction among my hours of boredom. Then it was my first annual date with salad tongs, all the while being bombarded with news of an divorced cousin who I would rather not think of in such an uncomfortable setting. I coasted on laziness and relief for the afternoon; smirking at bus riders and meeting JJ for tea and shrieking in harmonious melody in the Village. Yosh came and went and eventually the U took a turn for the worse somewhere after a pitstop at Chicken Chef around 8:30.

Our server was a woman named Joyce who had worked at the same establishment for well over nine years and was still excited to shower us with her unmistakable order writing flourish. It made me take a silent step back and think about how happy I felt about the simple things in life. I felt calm in retrospect. Between the two of us, Yosh and I managed to put back six comically large pieces of chicken, one 'slaw, one potato salad, two buns that taste like delicious, edible cotton balls, two generous scoops of mashed potatoes, an order of fries, one milkshake, one piece of raisin pie a la mode and about four gallons of gravy. I peaked at dinner and didn't have much to say for the rest of the night.

Back at home I am finally typing in haste and thinking about specific things with a Kevin Rempel grimace on my face. Yosh's smell is still lingering and Cat Stevens is oblivious to everything except maximum pancreatic projection and the occasional shriek. Even my softest flannel shirt is failing to settle the racket in my ribcage. At least Doctor Clark ruled out Angina this afternoon. That news was somewhere near the full swing of the U.

New pictures are here, shot with my gem Nikon Nancy (F3; film) and I am pleased as punch at how my friends slay as subjects of my candid demands.

Bath water running, Across the Universe begging to be watched yet again. This face is heading for Down Duvet town. I am extremely pleased with my new leather briefcase.

Mags.

Swiss Family Meganson.

Reflexes are softening, relaxing, dropping, and I cannot stop myself from sinking low into the corner arm chair stolen from the community laundry room and resting Dave Eggers' latest and greatest book into my lap for a moment of thankfulness. I am staring out to sea today; squinting really, for there is not a drop of sea in sight; not even a hint of a mirage. But still, for some reason, the idea of being suspended above water and leaving town once again is only calming. After my last entry, I received a torrent of tasteful ripostes, notes and calls of general inquiry about the current state of my mind. Yes, it was a tad on the dark side but for good reason. A humble thank you to all who noticed my downcast eyes.

With the turn of the New Year, I have taken it upon myself to look inwards and be proactive in changing the characteristics and habits that do not suit myself anymore. In a sense, I am flipping my outsides in, my insides out, wearing my heart on my sleeve and trying the idea of 'goodness' on for size. Out with the old, in with the new. Fortunately for retrospect, I was able to take the excess time I was banking in my dry bathtub, in my sister's arms, in my bottomless bowl of chili, at my parent's oak table, in my bed (et al) down to a dull roar and get outside, on my bike, in the fresh air in order to appreciate the goodness of Father Winter for what it truly was: a time to be (re)born. Here I am, feeling good. This new terrain takes some getting used to. Even with new muscles screaming out in protest (thanks to yoga and winter cycling), all I can do is slap on my "Shit yeah/Ya hurrr" face and nod in approval. I hurr.

How the waves of change wash us clean.

I think I am going to get a tattoo on the side of my thumb, for I am tired of writing the same word in the blackest of ink in the same place everyday. Africa has been heavy on my brain of late thanks to the aforementioned read du jour, Dave Eggers' "What is the What" (thanks to D. Barrymoore for the recommendation), and a certain tribe of Kenya that have also aided unknowingly in the pulling up of my proverbial bootstraps.

And so, the winds of change are howling once again. In a yet another bathtub rendezvous (not the good kind), a phone call from Zurich jolted me back to reality. My lovely family (pictured toque-clad at Zurich's Hop Banhoff below) that I stayed with on my last Eurotrash adventure caught wind of my overall dissatisfaction and presented me with an offer only an idiot would refuse. Come two and a half weeks from now I will be channeling my inner Mary Poppins, Nanny McPhee, Amelia Bedelia, Nanny Diaries' Miss Scarlett, Maria VonTrapp what have you and breathing in life from a Swiss mountain range perspective. Or something like that. In the shortest form, I am going across the pond once again to unleash the fury of my domestic self in a European household of four and I have no reservations. Timing couldn't be better. I knew there was a reason I was holding off on handing in my photography class application. Life is wild.

While I cannot seem to get enough of the slippery slope lifestyle of late (interpret that as you may because I refuse to), my fingers are crossed that my short European hiatus smoothes over some creases and delivers my fellow Winnipeg peoples gently into the Spring of things.

According to some trendsetters (mainly JJ), neon is the new black. Land ho, Spring is on the rise and I am going back to Eurotrash. Blessings and best regards of life.

Ballons de MERDE, your royal one-eyed Madgesty.

"And I want to be a paperback writer".

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.

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.

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.