Just Wing It

I was supposed to have a Spanish invasion over the weekend, but something urgent came up which meant he had to go to Madrid instead. Although it was, admittedly, necessary and even urgent that I be neglected this weekend - because yes, that is how I chose to view things - I didn't feel great about it.

That might be un understatement.

Late Friday evening, I knew I had to something for the weekend to shake my mood. Perhaps go somewhere?  Anywhere? I tossed around a few places, and for some reason Perpignan stuck. Possibly because I like saying it. There really is no other reason I can think of, for latching onto it as my destination.

But, I didn't decide anything conclusive, and woke up on Saturday morning in such a funk that I ate chocolate for breakfast to try and shake it off. Healthy. By the time 10 AM rolled around, I had decided that I just needed to stay home and sweep my floors. Possibly even mop them. By 10:05, I knew I would end up in the fetal position moaning if I actually did that, so I decided to make a break for it.

This left me half an hour to shower, dress, blow dry my hair, put on makeup, throw stuff into an overnight bag, book a hotel and check train transfers before my train left Couiza. I was like a chicken on crack, or something.

I did present a very well put together self, in possession of a hotel room in the "Historical District" when I arrived in Perpignan. But.......when I walked out of the train station there, I realized something important: the only thing I knew about the city was that it had a strong Catalan influence. That's....it.

I didn't know where my hotel was. I didn't even know the address. I didn't know the major areas for sight seeing. I didn't have a laptop for access to the internet so I could figure either of these things out.

I lost my Blackberry in London a month ago, so I couldn't call the neglectful Spaniard and make him figure these things out. And so I stood there, surrounded by French and Spanish people and all I could say was....."Oh, Shit."

And then...."Oh SHIT."

I did have a scrap of paper, on which I had written the hotel's name, and three vague directions on how to walk there from the station. But I could barely read my own hurried scribbles. I had looked at a map online before bolting out the door, and I remembered the general direction of things and the major road I needed to find and turn right off of, at some point. So I just struck out. Twenty minutes later, bless the angels in heaven, I found my hotel. And you thought I was going to get murdered. Well, so did I.

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Here's the fortunate thing about most European cities: they are actually quite small. Within whatever area is considered their historical district, you never usually walk for more than hour to get to anything you want to see. I might have been vastly unprepared going there, but I did know that once I found the centre of town, I would be able to see nearly everything worth seeing just by wandering around and exploring. And so that's what I did.

The centre of Perpignan is composed of very winding, narrow cobblestone streets. In some way I was reminded of a calmer version of the back streets of Naples. There are cafes everywhere, amazing shopping (not that I partook) (that's a lie) (it was amazing), and even though this sounds cliche, there is buckets of "character" everywhere. I could have walked those streets indefinitely.

Simply by walking around, I got to see Le Castillet, which entranced me for some strange reason. I found the Cathedrale de Saint Jean-Baptiste de Perpignan, which is so beautiful it made me cry. I turned a corner and found the Hotel de Ville, which was interestingly ominous and had a wedding party coming out of it. I explored the Palais des Rois de Majorque - but that is a story in and of itself. 

And so when I checked a guide book after the fact, I found that I had hit upon most of the major attractions. 

Conclusion: that's how I want to do it from now on, because it is 500 times more magical that way, I had no pre-concieved notions or expectations. I didn't know anything, so everything was a surprise. I hadn't glamourized anything, and so wasn't disappointed by the clash of imagination and reality. In short, it was perfect.

As an added bonus I got some awesome shirts and had some amazing meals. Beyond being disgustingly beautiful.....everywhere, France knows how to do clothing and food. Seriously. I am not sure it is possible to be depressed here. The shopping therapy and the food therapy is beyond excellent.

I don't know if I have a point, except this: throw out your guidebook. Stop planning. Just wing it. It's much, much better that way. 

Dreams and Suicide Pills

A few months ago I started taking a supplement for sleep and relaxation. One of the side effects, apparently, is excessive dreaming. I saw that and snorted. This girl never dreams, or at the very least, never remembers them. Sure enough, the first two months passed by rather un-eventfully. No dreams. Not much more sleep than usual.

Then some sort of cumulative effect must have happened, because suddenly I would be washing dishes and a bizarre memory would pop into my head. I would wander down this memory lane thinking that it seemed SO WEIRD, but hey, everyone I know is weird. Par for the course.

I think it finally occurred to me that I was actually having dreams, when I woke up one morning and put the kettle onto boil. As I stood there waiting, like a bolt out of the blue I remembered something utterly disturbing that really had to be taken care of.

"Bastard. I totally hate him right now."

I  violently ripped open my tea bag and fumed. "What a jerk. I can't believe him. I just want to punch him." I took a sip of tea. "AGhhhhhhh. How could he DO this?!"

The problem? My boyfriend had decided to go to Miami with his two friends, in order to party with HOT GIRLS. Was I mad? You bet I was. Especially because this meant he was missing Christmas with me. I was having serious doubts about him. Beyond doubts. More like "He is dead to me. And I am going to slowly peel off his skin."

I was halfway through my tea when I remembered how terrible our argument had been about this trip. And how I didn't want my little boy - who was so utterly beautiful - to be exposed to such strife.

At which point my brain went "Wait a minute, genius. You don't have a little boy."

And then I realized that I had spent the whole morning mad...because of a dream. Whoops. 

*BLUSH*

Good thing my Blackberry was lost at that moment... or someone might have received a really nasty call. Can you imagine how confusing that would have been?

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A few days after that, during a conversation in which I was barely responsive, the Spaniard finally gave up.  "Ok. You're mad. What is it this time?" (This time?!)

"Nothing. " (The first most ominous word a female can utter.)

"Lies."

"Whatever." (Oh dear. The second most ominous word a female can utter.)

"Maryyyy.........Tell me now."

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine." *Long Silence*

"WELL??"

"More and more I just get the feeling that you don't really care."

*Snort. Sigh of kill. me. now'* "About you?"

"Yeah."

"Based on............?"

"I don't know. Just things are different or something."

"Ok. Do we video chat every day? And do I email you ALL THE TIME?"

"Yeah, but they are....not the same."

"I work, remember? It's been busy. Am I coming to see you soon?"

"It's not that, it's....I don't know...." *long depressed sigh*

"I can't work with 'I don't know.' Unless you can give me specifics, there's nothing I can do."

*Gassssssp* "You know what? Be nicer."

What a prize I am.

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And then it hit me. Much like the morning I spent angry at a dream, I was being bratty and REALLY annoying because of.... what?

Let's face it: a raging case of PMS and a lack of sleep is never pretty. 

In other words, I wasn't reacting to reality, I was reacting to hormones and a really, really, really....really....overactive imagination.

So now, if I haven't already flown off the handle, I have started checking myself. What am I reacting to? Is my reaction based in fact, or in a bubbling hormonal stew? (Yum!) Or fatigue? Or the fact that it's raining?

To be honest - shhhh don't tell anyone - I haven't really been that successful so far, but at least the awareness is there.

---------------------------------------------------

So that's cool. But now I keep wondering about this: Does the President of the United States carry around a vial of poison, which he must immediately ingest in case he gets kidnapped?

Because I woke up thinking about that the other day, and I am not sure whether this something true, or if my dreams of being the first female President and my horror of death are combining into one glutinous mass of absurdity.

I Googled "Does the President carry a suicide pill?" and nothing came up. But that's probably classified information anyway.

Mawiage.....

So, I have been thinking a lot about marriage lately. Partly because I am old enough (kind of); maybe almost mature enough (although....is anyone really mature enough for marriage before they actually just jump in? No).

Possibly because the opportunity seems to be waving at me from the near-ish future. Maybe. I don't know. I can't think about it or I start hyper-ventilating.

Also, my brother is getting married, which is just a brain explosion of gigantic proportions. I almost can't handle it. This is the kid whose arms I scarred with my nails. This is the kid who tried to push me down the stairs. This is the kid I locked outside of the house, on a winter's day, with no jacket. This is the kid who tried to yank out a fistful of my hair.

We have loved each other so much, so deeply. In so many unique and magical ways.

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 Marriage. Every time someone close to me actually goes through with it, they are usually subjected to an intense session of questions, courtesy of yours truly. I have interviewed so many people. So many couples.

And still: I struggle with how it works. More specifically: how do you trust that if you take that leap, it's going to be ok?

HAH. And the answer is, she says with much grinding of teeth, that you can't be sure. You can never be sure of anything. Ever. At all. Except - I am obliged to say, otherwise he might smite me: God.

What I have figured out though, is that a good marriage, a happy marriage doesn't just happen. There are things you can do, just as with every single thing in life, that can make it flourish, or cause it to wither.

I know this, because I have read two books in the subject in the past two weeks, I have a folder in my computer bookmarks devoted to Youtube videos by John Gottman, and I have read so many studies and articles dissecting every part of marriage that I'm surprised I actually have time to watch The Real Housewives of Miami. Which is also for educational purposes: how not to be a good wife.

I now have conversations like this:

Mary: I read a study saying that pre-marital counselling was a sign of future marital success. The statistics are mind boggling.

Spanish Boyfriend: *pause* *silence* *the beginnings of a look of desperation*

Mary: I know, it's so interesting. Apparently the breakdown of most marriages rests in not talking about important things beforehand and not being able to communicate well. Apparently if you try to deal with all that beforehand, it really makes things work better.

Spanish Boyfriend: Uhuh. *desperation has turned into panic*

Mary: I think we should do that.

Spanish Boyfriend: *Face of: Dear God. Please. No.*

He doesn't really think it's not going to happen, right? It's absolutely going to happen

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I do have one conclusion. Happiness in marriage relies (along with an ocean of grace).....on you. It rests in your very own hands.

Be Patient, Generous, Forgiving, Charitable. Don't assume you are right. Always apologize. Praise abundantly. Don't be critical. Ask nicely, don't command. Be respectful. Don't mock. Don't bad mouth. Be cheerful, joyful even. Be attentive. Be considerate. And don't stop.

In short: Be virtuous. Be the best you were created to be.

Short of being married to a psychopath or a complete narcissist, if you act the way you want to be treated, you will be treated in the same way. It might take a while, but then, that just gives you the opportunity to hone your patience. Yay!

Sarcasm aside, there is something completely freeing in all this. This means - aside from life's curveballs, and yes, in spite of them - that happiness in marriage, happiness in life itself, is not some arbitrary thing.

Please note that I am not saying all that is an easy thing, either. In fact, I imagine there are some days that it is fudgingly (family friendly blog) hard. What I am saying is, though, that marital bliss something which can be worked at and achieved in very concrete ways.

It is not the luck of the draw. It is not dependant on how many doves flutter around you as you say your vows. It will be what you make of it. And if you make a mud pie....it's kind of no one's fault but your own.

*Said the unmarried girl with all the solemn wisdom which the weight of 25 years has bestowed on her.*

Creepy Vans and Angelic Toddlers

Obviously, many interesting things are happening in my life, as this blog has been so sorely neglected.

Like, the other day I was walking home from the market, thinking long deep thoughts to myself and enjoying the mellow breeze playing in the daisies. I know: It is the end of October and the breeze is warm and there are daisies and roses everywhere. 

Quite suddenly - interrupting my sunshine and daisy revery -  a van pulled to the side of the road, and the driver motioned for me to get in, and that he was heading in the direction of Couiza. 

Little did he know that I was absolutely and completely outside on purpose - to enjoy the beautiful weather - and that I had no intention of crawling into a van that was a doppelgänger for every van that has ever appeared on  the evening news, as the vehicle of a "person of interest" in a kidnapping.

No joke. This van was an absolute caricature of all vans that have been accessory to a kidnapping or murder.

Seriously, buddy. Girls these days don't hop into just any vehicle that stops for them. No. We are smart. BMWs and Audis are where it's at these days.

This isn't even the point of my blog ramble today - no. Not at all. Moving on.

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Today I would like to proclaim that little French children are the absolute bomb.

A while back I was at a cafe in Paris. I watched in awe as a little guy - not more than four years old - sat at a table for about two hours, cutting politely at his duck, eating with a fork, and rarely interjecting into the conversation of his elders. He seemed completely content and at peace - as if nothing could be asked of the world except duck and sparkling water.

And then, the other day, I was at the bakery I frequent for an afternoon tea, and as I sat on the outside patio, I became witness to yet another miracle of French parenting. This time the kid could not have been more than three. His mom and her friend were sitting and chatting over coffees, and he was sitting between them, devouring an eclair with the aplomb that only a three year old can manage. 

He finished, politely wiped his mouth, and slid off his chair to play with the toys piled off to the side, and kept by the bakery for just such occasions.

He biked on the path around the patio. He disappeared around the corner of the bakery to collect rocks. He played with a little truck. And the only time he interrupted his mother was to give her some flowers he had picked, at which point he skipped off again. "Ooh la la, ma petite!"

For the next hour, he happily hummed to himself and obtained a thin layer of dirt from his explorations of everything in sight.

Occasionally he would take a rest on the chair next to his mother, and she was quite happy to have him listen in; there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that he was quite welcome to join the adults, as long as he did his best to act like one. Never did the afternoon seem to revolve around him, cute as he was.  Beyond the delivery of flowers,  and the occasional head pat, mother and child were both quite happy to do their thing. 

Maybe it's just me, but in North America parents seem to exist in order to cater to their children. Beyond the ridiculous amount of paraphernalia that is carted around, anytime a child is in the near vicinity there is a mild uproar as he is attended to and praised and nattered at and catered to in every way shape and form. 

This French mother neither jumped up when her little boy tripped and fell, nor exclaimed at his abilities with the toy car, or at the fact that he ate his whole eclair. He didn't interrupt her conversation looking for affirmation or comfort, and she didn't interrupt his play with needless inquiries and streams of encouragement. 

Something tells me this is how it should be. The adult world exists, not to revolve around children, but as something for children to grow into. 

Perhaps if North Americans had this approach, children would actually know how to play and entertain themselves, and parents wouldn't be so stressed out and resentful of their offspring. 

I don't know about you, but there is no way in hell that, as a fully grown adult, I want to sit in the dirt and play with a truck while trying to have coffee with a friend, or curl up on a couch and pretend to like Dora the Explore in order to get a kid into bed.

NO. I protest. I draw the line.

Kids: Be kids. Adults: Be adults. Enjoy your separate lives. And if they must join, let it be the child stretching up to maturity, instead of the adult descending into toddlerhood.

Done. End of story.

The Razor Blade

The other day I was sitting in the bathtub shaving my legs - that's as inappropriate as I'm getting, promise! - and I noticed that the razor wasn't torturing my legs, like it had been doing the past few weeks.

Let me explain. Really: It's super interesting.

Ok maybe not. You can stop reading now. Thank you, and goodnight.

I have one of those Schick Quattro razors with the disposable heads, that are supposed to, with those four sharp blades, give you a mind blowingly close shave. That's a lie - your legs will still be spiky the next day - but it's the only razor that this klutz can use without hacking her legs apart. 

A few weeks ago I changed the head, and about a week after that I clued in that every time I shaved, my legs felt as if they had been rubbed with sand. They felt like hell.

In my mind I went "Hmm. Weird. Possibly this new head is faulty."

But I did nothing about it. I usually change the head about once a month and it was NOT TIME TO CHANGE IT YET. Therefore, I didn't.

So, my legs bled and burned their way through the next three weeks.

Fast forward to me sitting in the tub amongst Eucalyptus bubbles and the razor gliding in a smooth and pain free manner across my legs.

"Wow," I thought in awe, "it WAS a faulty razor blade head. You dummy! Why did you torture yourself?! This is the life. This is the way shaving should be. This is what my feminist foremothers fought for - a pain free leg shave. No wait. Maybe they fought to not ever shave their legs at all. Confused. Whatever."

In short: I should have changed the head way back when it sand papered my legs. Obviously.

And then because I am melancholic and read anything into everything, I stared into space for about ten minutes as the water got cold, and thought about all the ways I don't change things, even when they obviously aren't working. All the ways I make my legs bleed simply because it's not time to change the razor blade head, even though - no matter the reason - it needs to be chucked about three weeks too early.

I think it's a peculiar brand of stubbornness. Perhaps, even, pride. If a thing really isn't working, it's just plain dumb to keep moving forward with it, without either leaving it behind completely or, if that's not possible, changing what you can.

What's that Einstein quotation. Yeah. That one: the one about how insanity is when you do the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.

Except I didn't even expect different results. Not even that! I just concluded that my torture was inevitable since giving up on the path I'd chosen was, apparently, out of the question.

And so amongst the bubbles, I had this moment of epiphany:"Stop it! JUST STOP IT. If something isn't working, fix it. Change it. Leave it. Move on. Something. Anything."

In short: If something is causing pain, I don't have to sit and endure it. But guess what? It's not just me. I know too many people who don't change the razor blade soon enough, or ever. And they bleed and burn.

There are too many things we CAN'T change about life. And those things - those things must be endured.

But if you can change it, change it, silly.

Dare Greatly

So, I'm writing a book.

I say that, having the dead ghosts of the start of about half a dozen books languishing on various external hard-drives in various parts of the world.

This one though....is completely planned and discussed and my main character even has a face. Thus, as my creation, I am rather attached to her. Quite possibly I might not let her die halfway through her story.

Mostly, I am doing it as a discipline. As in: I WILL stick this out for a full 90,000 words, or else I will NEVER EAT CHOCOLATE AGAIN. DAMNIT.

That, my friends, is a threat worth attending to.

Also, I have a batshit crazy brain, so I tend to always have something on hand to distract it with. Sometime it's a fictional house I am redecorating in my head. Sometimes it's travel plans to exotic places. Currently, it's perfecting this story line and deciding the exact shade of my character's hair.

Besides the need for distraction, I just have way too much to say about everything, including the things I know absolutely nothing about, as well the things that are interesting to absolutely no one but myself. I need an outlet. Seriously.

Just ask the man who has to wake up everyday to an email of approximately five pages, possibly even ten, about not much more than the thoughts that have crossed my brain in the two hours since I last spoke to him.

"Do I really have to read this?"

"How is that even a question?"

End of story.

Then there is the fact that I just really want a movie deal. Because that's where the money is, yo. Write a book, get Bradley Cooper to star in the movie version.

I mean, he would be my first choice. Why? I have no idea. (But seriously: RIGHT?!)

I would also be happy with Ryan Reynolds, Brad Pitt, or Channing Tatum. Also: Will Smith. I will change the male lead's skin colour for YOU, Will! My brother!

No wait. Wrong.

My lover!

But in that, I am just being remarkably trendy because everyone and her rat wants a movie deal.

Guess what, though? Writing a book is hard work. The majority of it lies in the small stuff. You can have the whole story line perfectly pictured.....but you still have to fill in all the opening and closing of doors. All the walking and talking. All the facial expressions.

And there is this constant, nagging feeling that it just ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH.

And THEN you open up your favourite book and read. And you just KNOW it isn't good enough. Because great writers are born, and not made. There is a certain instinctual joining of words and expressing of ideas that only a great writer can thrust on a page.

It was Eights Week. Oxford - submerged now and obliterated, irrecoverable as Lyonnesse - so quickly have the waters come flooding in - Oxford, in those days, was still a city of aquatint. In her spacious and quiet streets men still walked and spoke as they had done in Newman's day; her autumnal mists, her grey springtime, and the rare glory of her summer days  - such as that day - when the chestnut was in flower and the bells rang out high and clear over her gables and cupolas, exhaled the soft vapours of a thousand years of learning. It was this cloisteral hush which gave our laughter its resonance, and carried it still, joyously, over the intervening clamour. 

I read that and I get sucked in, left breathless. What must it feel like to have that flow through your fingers?

Yeah. I wouldn't know.

But that, my friends, is no excuse.  Because, in yet another peace of glorious writing, there is this to think about:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.


 Now isn't that just the best motivation to enter your arena - whatever it is?

The Lovely French

Everyone always speaks about how unfriendly the French are.

Let me tell you this. Having nothing but two years of Junior High French under my belt (meaning: almost no knowledge of the language at all):

I have ordered everything from sandwiches to complete meals in Paris.

I have bought (way too much) bread in various bakeries in various towns and cities across France.

I have somehow criss-crossed my way across the country in trains, buses, and taxis.

I have exhaustedly slumped in the seat in a Cafe and mumbled something about a "thé vert" or a "café au lait," or if things are really bad and it's a hot day, "rosé s'il vous plaît."

In every instance I have been treated with nothing less than completely polite patience.

They know right away that I am an English speaker (how could they not), and they either switch into MY language in THEIR country, or  - if English is not at their disposal -  they do their best to help me anyway.

Seriously. I have nothing to complain about. In fact, I am endlessly grateful.

Besides that, in the small towns, like where I am, people constantly greet each other. Everyone is so damn friendly.

On the street, in the grocery store, in the cafes, there is a constant exchange of niceties.  A person exiting or entering a restaurant automatically says a general hello or goodbye to anyone who is within earshot.

And then things like this happen:

Mary (passing an elderly couple on the street): Bonjour!

Elderly Lady: Bonjour, ma belle!

Honestly. Can you GET any sweeter than that?

No. No you can not.