Mission Accomplished

I started planning to come home early two weeks ago. It began after I read a BBC news article that described the political and financial turmoil in Greece. With riots and protests happening every day and with Athens in utter chaos, travelers were being warned to avoid Greece if at all possible. I checked with the US State Department to see what they had to say about traveling to Greece and they issued a cautionary statement that basically said 'If you're going to Greece, you are strongly encouraged to fill out a form letting us know where you intend on going" which I interpreted as "If you are going to Greece, please fill out this form so we can find your body after you've been murdered in the streets of Athens." After looking at the article, the State Department, and conferring with some informed people, it became clear that Greece isn't a safe place right now.

My plans for Greece had been made since May 2010. I'd been looking forward to this trip for a year and a half, but there comes a time when a gal's gotta step back and look at the risks involved. As a solo female traveler, I just didn't feel comfortable with going into a country brimming with tension and financial disaster. 

After I read the BBC news article about how Greece was supposed to 'run out of money' by mid-November and how strikes have effected everything from public service to airlines, well, (after much thought and wrestling with myself) I decided to change my plans and come home. I just didn't want to get stuck in a country half-way across the world, alone.

I'd been seeing the warning signs about Greece's problems since before I left in July, and I lowered my head- intent on finishing this trip "Come Hell or high-water". But when the headlines described the growing issues and possible pending chaos, well, I realized that the only thing keeping me going was my pride. Two weeks ago, I put my pride on the shelf and bought my ticket home.

I flew from Paris on Sunday and  only told two people about my coming home early so that I could surprise my family. I phoned my brother, Hunter, and we conjured up an elaborate plan to sneak me home and ambush my parents. Arriving back in the US tired and haggard and hung-over from four months of artistic adventures, I slept for almost four days straight, caught a cold, and flew into Spokane yesterday.

On my flight to Spokane, I sat next to a photographer who heard about my adventures and I explained that I was going to surprise my parents. Showing great interest in the story, he offered to photograph Mom and Dad's reaction. We devised a plan and waited to get off the plane to sniper attack my poor, unsuspecting parents who thought that they were at the airport to pick up my brother.

 Everything went as planned: Mom cried, Dad looked like he was going to pass out....I can't wait to see the pictures (thanks, Jose Garcia from San Diego for being willing to photograph the moment).

As bummed as I am that I didn't get to see Greece, I am comforted by a few things.
1. Since my residency on Paros is paid for and since I have a flight credit with Aegean Airlines, I am allowed to return to Greece within the next 12 months and still complete my residency (hopefully Greece will be calmed down by then).

2. I am satisfied with what I have accomplished these past four months. It just felt right to come home now.

3. I get to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family.

4. I don't have to see my Mom cry when we Skype anymore. 

 In my heart, I know I met amazing people, forged life-long friendships, and created pieces of art that I will cherish forever. The people I met in Sweden, Iceland, and France changed me in so many ways. Every single friendship I made pushed me to be a better person and a more thoughtful, considerate human being. I've made friends ranging in age from 15 months to 71 years old and hailing from New York City to Holland to South Africa. I have been influenced and pushed. I have cried and felt hurt. I have healed and grown. I have learned what I am capable of. I have seen landscapes that have brought tears to my eyes and I have felt the joy and excitement of new experiences. I return to Washington with a clearer vision of who I am, who I love, where I long to be, how incredible Ferry County is, and how amazing my friends and family are.

Because of all this, I am satisfied. 

My heart is full and I'm happy to be home.

Mission Accomplished.

PS. I tried my hardest not to out-right lie on Facebook about my time in Greece. That's why I have been so silent this past week and why my postings have been vague. Sorry for the brief moment of confusion.

SURPRISE!

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I'm Home. =)

If I Have Kids

All my friends are having kids. Not a day goes by without someone posting a picture of their newborn or featuring a cute video of their drooling bambino. Countless friends change their Facebook profile pictures to feature an ultrasound photo and couples galore announce that they’re expecting.
I remember about eight years ago when my friends started getting married and I felt the peer pressure to get hitched too. Eight years ago it was Spouse Season and now Baby Season has rolled around.  Although I am not currently married and don’t foresee having children in the near future, I can feel a little bit of the Baby Season pressure and it’s entertaining to imagine what my children would be like.

I remember a specific day about a year and a half ago when I was sitting in my counselor’s office, trying to explain what I was feeling.

“I’m no spring chicken anymore! By the time I settle down again, get married, and even think about having kids, I’ll be 45 years old and my ovaries will be dried-up old raisins by then!”

Pam, the counselor, just shook her head and laughed. I had told her of the pressure I’d been feeling to have kids because that’s ‘what people my age do’. I explained I felt afraid that time was slipping past me and I’d end up all alone with a Hope Chest full of stuff I couldn’t use. Pam just listened like a good counselor does and then asked a question I’ve been thinking about ever since:
“Who’s timeline are you on? Who told you that you have to have kids before you’re 30?!”

The question left me stumped. Why was I organizing my life around what other people were doing? Why not decide for myself if and when and how to (fill in the blank: get married, have kids, pursue another career…etc.)?

It was Pam’s question of “Who’s timeline are you on?” that reinforced my idea to go to Europe and paint for a while. I wanted to do something adventurous and it fit on MY timeline.

So,  I don’t have any kids right now, but spending this past month babysitting my cousin’s children and seeing how character (habits, mannerisms) is shaped at such an early age HAS made me think about what kind of kids I would probably have.

They say that kids imitate what they see their parents doing and I know that my children would be very skilled at the ‘monkey see-monkey do’ routine, so I figure that half of their behavior would come from observing their animated, somewhat spastic mother.

The other night, my cousin’s four year old son, Alasdair, kept getting in trouble for being a goof at the dinner table, he was loud and kept trying to get everyone’s attention. I was highly annoyed until I realized that I had spent each meal doing the same thing. Alasdair kept getting in trouble for being obnoxious, but he was only copying what he saw me do. I’d tell a story and use extra large hand gestures and too-loud sound effects, and then Alasdair would do the same…but he’d get scolded for it. Elodie, the baby, has developed a very loud cackling laugh after I arrived Ger and I have the sneaking suspicion that her piercing laugh is an imitation of mine.

In continuing with my theory, the other half of my child’s character/personality/presence would be purely genetic. Considering the fact that, physically speaking, I was abnormally small for my age and I didn’t exceed fifty pounds until sixth grade, I wince when I imagine what my children would look like. Also, my mother’s side of the family is genetically skilled (cough) at making puns and silly plays on words and also knowing a lot of trivial information and then feeling obligated to share it with people. My dad’s side of the family is famous for holding grudges, stubbornness, being incredibly creative, and having a highly competitive spirit.

After considering this 50% observation, 50% genetics theory, I’ve concluded the following about my future kids:

1.       My kids would be pint-sized little hyper spazoids who struggle with impulse and volume control.

2.       They will be know-it-alls and compete with each other for attention.

3.       I will not have the energy or patience to keep up with them or their puns.

The above facts are almost enough for me to give up the whole ‘having kids’ idea for good. But then again, maybe the world needs a few more pint-sized pun pipsqueaks…

Spicing Things Up

I am perpetually cold. I'm just a cold person. It's like my body's thermostat broke a long time ago and I've been suffering from it ever since. My fingers and toes act like cold-blooded creatures- taking on the temperature of their surroundings. I am always cold and always trying to find ways to warm up.

I think that part of my state of constant chilliness is genetic. As a child, I remember sitting on the couch with my family, looking up at Mom and seeing her with one hand covering her nose. 

"What are you doing, Mom?"

"My nose is cold."
"Oh."

Mom's nose got chilly in the house, and now my nose (finger, ankle, toe, shin, kneecap) gets cold in the house- it's genetic. 

The other part of my perpetual chilliness it the fact that I have something called Raynaud's Disease. Raynaud's Disease is a very common condition (mostly among women) and it basically means that your fingers and toes go numb and white whenever they think it's cold outside. When my fingers feel something cold, they go completely numb for about 15 minutes and turn a sickly whiteish color. Don't feel too sorry for me though. As the Mayo Clinic website says, Raynaud's is more of an nuisance than anything else. And what a nuisance it is.

Last winter, I bought lettuce at the store, brought it home, washed the lettuce in cold water and then began chopping it  for salad. Because my fingers felt the cold water and overreacted by shutting down all circulation, my digits went numb. Since this happens a lot, I didn't think anything of it.
I mean to say, I didn't thinking anything of it until I felt the knife blade hit my finger.
It didn't hurt. It didn't even bleed. I looked at my finger to see that I had sliced a considerable chunk from it while chopping my salad and because of the Raynaud nuisance, I didn't feel a thing, until the circulation kicked back in which allowed me plenty of time to scream and gather a pile of Band-aids for when it started bleeding.

So, my being cold is half genetic and half medical nuisance. I'm telling you this because a few nights ago, the temperature here dropped and I sat in the restaurant area of my cousin's establishment like a little frozen popsicle. My feet's circulation had shut off and I let out a whimper as I shivered.

Seeing my distress, my cousin Gretchen said, "You know, my dad always said that sprinkling cayenne pepper on your socks will warm up your feet."

"Really?" I stood up and went to the kitchen and unabashedly spooned the red powdery cayenne onto my socks, put my shoes back on, and re-entered the restaurant area.

"Is it working?" Gretchen asked.

I thought about it. I didn't really feel anything yet- maybe a slight tingling, maybe. "Not yet," I said.

Minutes passed.

Gretchen looked up from her book, "How are your feet?"

I tried to concentrate and think about my feet. "Nope, nothing yet."

Disappointed that they cayenne wasn't working well, I took my shoes off and tapped my socks in an attempt to fluff the spice around. My feet smelled like a spice cupboard. I was really hoping that my feet would instantly warm-up and that I'd maybe found a remedy for my chronic nuisance. With each minute that passed, my frustration with the spicy socks grew. I tried to imagine that it was working in hopes that the power of suggestion would help. Even with my imaginings, nothing worked, my little toes remained frozen.

After about an hour of waiting for my feet to warm up, I shrugged and concluded that the whole 'cayenne on your socks' thing was a bunch of poppycock- a spice scam.

I voiced my thoughts and it wasn't long after I'd abandoned the experiment that Gretchen said that she wanted to give it a try. She walked out of the restaurant, through the swinging kitchen door, and disappeared for a few seconds. Emerging from the kitchen with the spice jar in her hand, she walked towards me with a look of amusement on her face.

"Viv! That wasn't cayenne you sprinkled on your socks..that was paprika." 

Accident Prone

The day after I arrived in Ger, I played with a kitten and hurt my back.
The next day, I slammed my thumb in the door.
Two days later, I accidentally fell off of the sidewalk.
About three days after that, I walked through the dining room, started singing along to music that was playing, stumbled over a step going into the bathroom and almost knocked my teeth out on a doorknob.

But yesterday I took things to a whole new level.

Gretchen, Dan, Alasdair, Elodie, and I piled into the car to go to the grocery store in Flers. After a 20 minute drive, we pulled into the parking garage and we started getting out of the car.
It was then that I somehow tripped myself getting out, slammed my leg into Alasdair's booster seat, and fell out of the car. I put my hand out to catch myself on the car door, but that caused the door to swing open with incredible force and collide with the neighboring car- resulting in a stranger's dinged car and  bruise on my thigh.   After turning around to see what all the loud noise and commotion was about, Gretchen gave me a look of like 'WHO ARE YOU!?!?'. I sulked into the grocery store and tried not to fall flat on my face.

I've never been described as 'graceful' but this incident yesterday was freaky-bad, like I've been taking some nasty drugs or drinking myself silly. These past few weeks have been like a scene from The Three Stooges. Since it's just me being a spaz, however, I guess it's 'The One Stooge'.

Being scientifically minded, I tried to find a common thread among all the incidents that have resulted in injury or near-injury. Unfortunately, I can't seem to find any common denominator except, well,  me.

Someone do me a favor and cover me in bubble wrap. I need it.

Home Away from Home

I don't have much new artistic news to share these days as I have been very busy helping Gretchen and Dan in the restaurant. Between watching the kids, washing dishes, folding some laundry, and eating delicious food, there isn't much time to put paint on canvas... but I am enjoying every minute here with my American cousin and her family. The best part about being with family is that you share a common history, a common blood, a common ancestry that you can't find anywhere else. There's no awkward introductions, no explanations necessary- just you being you and them being them. I love that. 

Gretchen and Dan have been very gracious in letting me invade their home for the month. I've been trying to not get in their way so that I don't wear out my welcome.  Of course, my efforts to stay out of their way are in vain as I find myself walking into the kitchen and sticking my face in whatever Gretchen is cooking and saying "OOOOH! What's that!? I want some!!! I'll eat it! Oh goodie!" After bothering Gretchen, I walk out to the bar where Dan is and I say "Hey man, what's happening!? Can you make me a Roy Rogers?!"

So, basically, I'm a mooch and I drink beverages designed for 8 year olds, but whatever... I'm down with it. I do help when I can and I find myself trying to keep the one year old Elodie busy. She reminds me a lot of myself- moody, easily distracted, and always eating but I guess she can't help it, it's genetic.  

Speaking of genetic, although Gretchen and I haven't seen each other in 20 years, we have found that we share a lot of things in common- they are as follows:

We both:

-have one parent that is related to the other person's parent

- like to purchase a scratch ticket every now and then

- have excellent taste in clothing

-were jealous of each other's toys when we were little.

-appreciate a good pun

-laugh when we are tired

-burst into spontaneous dance for no apparent reason

-enjoy doing crafts if the product is easy yet impressive and completed in a half hour.

-like antiques and all things vintage

-look great in hats

Aside from sharing common interests and laughing at stuff, I find that Gretchen's company is just what I need at this point in my trip... I was feeling a little homesick but having a cousin to visit makes me feel like, in a way, I am home.

Here are some photos from the past few weeks:

Double Rainbow in Montcabrier

Who could resist?

Sorbet and Espresso in the shadow of Abbey St. Martin in Moissac

V is for Vivster

Cloister Archade at the Abbey

Sunday morning at the Cloister.

On the train, headed to Paris. 

There's a hot air balloon in the distance.

Before painting Gretchen and Dan's bathroom.

After!

Hi, Alasdair.

Good night, Alasdair.

Elodie being charming.

A Taste of Soup

You know, I was thinking: People name their children after herbs and spices like Basil and Rosemary and Ginger, so why doesn't anyone name their kid 'Bay Leaf'?
I'll tell you why.
Because no one appreciates the bay leaf, that's why.
Who here can really tell us what good a bay leaf does?  Yes, we are told that it is an important ingredient in soups and stews, but how many of us can say why? I'm not sure about you, but I have never tasted a culinary dish and said "Ooooh, I love the bay leaf in this." Have you?

I dare you to tell me what a bay leaf tastes like. Go ahead, describe it. You can't. You can't describe it, can you?
I thought so.

Well, I was just like you once. I used to only put a bay leaf in my cooking because a recipe told me to. I just put it in there and the took it out before I served my soup or stew or whatever else you put a whole bay leaf in. In the back of my mind, I knew that ingesting a whole bay leaf would be bad for me, but I never really bothered wondering why... and never EVER did I wonder 'hmmmm, why am I putting this in here in the first place?"

I used to think that the bay leaf was like tossing salt over your shoulder when you knock the salt-shaker over.... you just do it as some sort of ritualistic, superstitious gesture and I  never bothered thinking more about it.

I never bothered asking 'why' until this week.

My cousin, Gretchen, is a fabulous cook here in Ger. She and her husband run their own restaurant in this small Normandy town. Gretchen makes fabulous dishes every single day and continues to wow us, and the restaurant patrons with her culinary prowess. A couple of days ago, Gretchen was talking about a soup that she had simmering on the stove and made an off-hand comment about using a bay leaf.

Mentioning the herb opened the proverbial can of worms. We started questioning why it is such an important ingredient if none of  us can identify the taste. We discussed that everyone has a bay leaf in their spice cupboard, but we only use it when we are told- and we hardly ever question the recipe. We scoffed at the bay leaf- we poked fun at it, we were like bullies at the playground giving a kid a wedgie just because he looked different than we did.

Gretchen and I decided to get to know the bay leaf a little more intimately. We wanted to know what a straight-up dose of bay leaf tasted like so that we could identify the flavor. But how do you taste it without eating it- and we all know that you're not supposed to pop a bay leaf in your mouth like a Dorito and crunch it up...you just don't do that sort of thing.

So, Gretchen did the next best thing- she made bay leaf tea- a hot cup of water with several large bay leaves steeping inside. We let our brew steep for quite some time before grabbing the mug.

First came the sniff-test.
It smelled herby- a nondescript herb smell that none of us could identify.

Then came the taste test.
I tasted it first. I sipped in a small amount of bay leaf tea and the flavor was like......soup.

Bay leaves taste like soup, like chicken soup, like minestrone soup, like chowder and stew and all sorts of delicious hot liquidy meals.

Actually, let me backtrack a step. Bay leaves don't taste like soup, soups taste soup-ey BECAUSE they have bay leaves in it.
Seriously.
Without the bay leaf, a vegetable soup would just be a pot of watery potatoes and carrots, but WITH the bay leaf, that watery mess of garden veggies becomes SOUP.

Are you listening to this? Are you getting what I am saying?! This is important, people. The bay leaf is important! How dare we underestimate its power. Little did we know that the very thing we poked fun at has serious potential. Little did we know that our bullying of the bay leaf was like bullying a young Bill Gates- we regretted it once we found out that it has power.

If you doubt me, go ahead, make yourself some bay leaf tea and see for yourself. I bet you'll take a sip and think 'hmmm...this is kind of like soup...without chunks."

I keep a  running list of potential baby names for when I decide to have children of my own. I have old fashioned names, I have funky names, and I have traditional family names - one name I do not have on my list is Bay Leaf, but after this week's mind-blowing experience, I'm seriously thinking about adding it.

Barbara

Five days ago, I met a woman that changed my life.

She arrived by train in the afternoon. It was hot and the air in the hostel was thick with steam from the pot of pasta boiling on the stove.  I had my back turned to the door when the woman arrived and I turned around to find her wearing clothes too large for her skinny frame and a loose scarf concealing her bald head.

Barbara.

After a quick introduction of shaking hands and saying 'bonjour' she excused herself from the hostel kitchen like she was in a hurry and disappeared for a couple of hours. 

It wasn't until later in the evening that I saw her again. She smiled and as she sat down to join me at my picnic table, she reached up to make sure her head scarf was tucked in. 

It was like we'd been friends for years. We chatted about art and laughed at my terrible French skills. She asked me about my artwork and my trip and my plans. I filled her in with the details of my trip, where I've been and where I am headed next. 

Then I asked her about her story.

Barbara has cancer.

She undergoes chemotherapy three weeks a month.

And she spends the last week every month walking sections of the Way of Saint James- 500 miles to Santiago.

She doesn't know how long she has left to live, so she chooses to do the things she loves while she can still do them.

She told me her story and, when she was finished, I sat speechless for a few seconds. It was obvious that I was sitting across the table from an incredible human being- a woman of strength and courage. I stared at Barbara for a few more seconds, fighting the urge to cry.

This woman was beautiful, shining from the inside-out. Forget the fact that she didn't have any hair, she had to draw on her eyebrows, and was obviously very thin- Barbara's courageous spirit and inspirational attitude made her one of the most beautiful women I've ever met. She shone with a radiance that cancer can't beat- a   happy spirit that cannot be oppressed by sickness.

If I was dying with cancer and horribly ill three weeks a month, I don't think I'd have the motivation to hike ten miles a day; I don't think I'd have the motivation to change out of my pajamas. Barbara's attitude reminded me that happiness is a choice, not just something that we might stumble upon if we are lucky, or rich enough or pretty enough or successful enough. It is very clear that Barbara chooses every day to be happy and find good things to look forward to.

After hearing Barbara talk about her struggle with illness, her sleepless nights,  her grueling bouts of treatment, and her adventures in between, I realized that I'd found a true, real live hero. No, she doesn't play for a major sports team, she doesn't sing at the Grammy's, and she's never published a New York Times Bestseller- but she is a real hero- battling in a fierce competition with cancer, singing her own song along the way, and telling her story of facing life's biggest challenges with strength and determination.

This woman changed me, and for that I am truly grateful.
Thank you, Barbara, wherever you are.

Ger. Ger. Ger.

Apparently there are like, 15 towns with the named 'Ger' here in France because all of my friends keep saying, "Are you in the southwestern part of France?" or "Are you southeast?" or "North by northwest?" Well, it turns out that I am in the northern one- but which norther one, well....that's still to be determined. =)

My fabulous cousin Gretchen and her family picked me up at the train station last night at 10pm and drove me to their home. Gretchen and her English husband Dan own a restaurant/bar and live above it in the living quarters. Gretchen and Dan have two beautiful children, a son that is four years old and a fifteen month old daughter- who is just starting to walk and loves to carry a bucket around like a purse.

It looks like my month here will be a balance of getting some art finished and also helping out around the place. After spending this last month getting spoiled by Sally, I am ready to maybe fold some laundry or make a bed- whatever it is, I want to do some work! Gah! I never thought I'd say it, but I am ready to toil! I'm at the point of this trip where I really want to help others, contribute, and serve. I've been a one-way valve long enough; I'm anxious be an outlet now.

My day today was spent getting acquainted with everyone and getting settled in. Tomorrow, Gretchen and I head to the hardware store to buy some paintbrushes so I can start painting their bathroom (not a mural, just white).

I am more than happy to report to you all that I did not have one single mishap with my luggage yesterday- no bleeding ankles, no embarrassing moments, nothing. Everything went strangely smooth- I kept waiting for the handle to pop off my bags, or my backpack to split open or my water bottle to try to commit suicide... but...nothing happened. This alone is something to celebrate. Me? Travel like a normal tourist? It happened, finally.

I have tons more to say and will write more in the morning.
Thanks to everyone for their prayers, support, and love!

Moissac: Filled with Dangerous Old Fogies

In the past two days, I have seen a dog get his paw run over by his master in a motorized wheel chair AND an old man drive his car into a tree. Obviously, there's one thing we can take away from this, it's that Moissac senior citizens need to watch where they're going!

Beware!

I've been in Moissac for two and a half days now. So far, I've been to the abbey three times and I plan on returning there again tomorrow to tour the cloister. If you're anything like me, you're wondering, 'What the heck is a cloister?" Well, contrary to what you might imagine, a cloisters are not those things that get removed when you have a colonoscopy, neither are they the clumps of grains found in Honey Bunches of Oats. Cloisters are, well, um...they're basically like a courtyard with a covered walkway surrounding it.  This cloister is especially cool because it is lined with amazingly detailed columns and beautiful arches (or a series of arches called an 'archade'). Nope, there won't be any Pac-Man at this arcade, just columns and carved capitals depicting various scenes from the Bible- which, in my mind, is pretty much as fun as pinball (and less expensive).

Columns lining the abbey cloister...forming arches that make an archade...make sense?

As I mentioned in the last blog, I am staying at a hostel here in Moissac. Most of the hostel guests are walkers en route to Santiago for the annual religious pilgrimage, navigating their way along 'The Way of Saint James'-. What started as a Catholic tradition is now a walk completed by people of all faiths (or non-faiths). The Way of Saint James starts in France and ends in Santiago, Spain and is 730+ kilometers (about 450 miles). Imagine walking from Spokane to Boise.... it's like that.

I've met several very nice people in my past two days, in particular, a woman from Holland (Gerda- sounds like 'Heerrrrrda', it helps if you hock a little bit of a loogie while you're saying it... that's what I do). We (Gerda and I) shared a nice little chat session at a cafe near the abbey. Gerda confessed that she loved ice cream and I told her about my love for sorbet, so we sat and ate dessert for about a half hour and then we were on our way back to the hostel. If there's one thing I really enjoy about about being on this trip, it's the people. I mean, art is cool and all, but the people make it so much more valuable.

Well, that's about it here. My sketches have been a little lack-luster, but I'm okay with that. There's plenty to see and plenty to draw and plenty to do, so I am happy (even if I am not pumping out a masterpiece every day).

I Don't Speak Japanese

Hello from Moissac, France- where white grapes are plentiful and architecture is muy bien (wrong language, but whatev.)

My train ride from Montcabrier was very uneventful- leaving Sally and having to say goodbye was sad, of course, but I comforted myself thinking that I’d come back and visit her someday. Ah, yes, promises to return are usually not fulfilled, but this was more like a ‘suggestion’ rather than a ‘promise’.

Oh, yeah- I almost forgot, my train ride was ALMOST very uneventful except for my giant art suitcase almost crippling me with a full-frontal attack to my ankle. I was just minding my own business, trying to board a train in Agen, when I picked up my bag and it caught on something and came right back and tried to kill me. It left a giant*, HUGE, ENORMOUS scrape that needed emergency medical assistance. (see footnote...no pun intended).

I arrived here early this afternoon and spent the majority of my day just getting to know Moissac. I walked to the famous abbey in town. The abbey is old- pretty much as old as the hills. The sculptures included in the Romanesque cloister and entry way date back to 1100- we’re talking about 1000 year old sculptures here… you sure can’t find these back home!  I got a glimpse at the entryway that has a scene from St. John’s vision of The Final Judgment: beautiful, kind of frightening, and really old.  Inside the abbey were beautiful arches, stained glass windows, sculptures. My favorite sculpture was made of wood- a life-size carving of two men lowering Jesus into a box after he’d been taken off of the cross. The solemnity and the craftsmanship combine to make something unique, touching, and memorable.

Tonight, I sat to eat my soy yogurt with a group of six other people when the hostel owners asked me if I would like the extra bowl of soup and extra pork chop they had left-over. I looked at my soy yogurt, looked at the soup and decided that maybe I’ll have my bland yogurt for dinner tomorrow.  There was a Japanese woman at the table, so I tried to wow her with my Japanese skills (I know two words) - I used them out of context and she smiled- what a polite lady. After impressing her with my skills, I showed her some examples of my artwork and she liked them- what a polite lady. I showed her artwork, she showed me pictures of her delicious Japanese food she eats back home, and we ate our soup together; we’re friends now.

I hope to get some sketches of the abbey done tomorrow. I might also go to a local café and get an espresso or even buy a souvenir to remember my time in Moissac. I know one thing for sure, I’m going to polish-up on my Japanese.

*stop listening because Vivian is exaggerating and blowing things way out of proportion.

Sad face from saying goodbye to Sally

suitcase, purse, Juanita, and a roll of canvas.

Juanita in her sleeping bag.

Part of the abbey entrance.

Inside the abbey.

My favorite sculpture so far.

Votives.

Transition Time

It's been a while since my last post... a good four days or so, I think this might be the longest stretch that I've been silent on this end. To be perfectly honest, I kind of got sick of hearing my own 'voice' on here and went on a blog diet for a few days.
But now, oooooh now, I do have some things to report on.

First of all, I leave Montcabrier tomorrow. I seriously cannot believe that it's almost been a month since I arrived- time slipped through my fingers. Something about the weather, the food, the atmosphere here makes it seem like you're in a time warp. I didn't get nearly as much accomplished as I had planned but I am still pleasantly surprised with what  DID get done; I am excited at the progress that has been made here.

 If you've been following me on Facebook, you will have noticed that I switched mediums for a while. Along with painting, sketching, and my black and white drawings, I added collage to my collection of artwork. After painting for three months straight, I needed to switch things up for a few days. Collage has added a new dimension to my artwork- causing me to analyze colors and textures in a new way that will also help me with my paintings. Collages allow me to create images that I just wouldn't be able to with paint and canvas, and sometimes there's messages, feelings, and ideas I want to express that can only be communicated using collage. So, this allows me to interact with a larger audience AND I don't feel so burned out.

One of the collages made this month.

With that said, my painting style is evolving as well. I have returned to my style of painting using simplified shapes and lots of contrast. This style isn't as popular as the more drawn-out landscapes, but, I am not aiming to please an audience. I paint for myself and God and if people like it- great! If not, well... I guess I can add another painting to my wall back home. =)

Simplified shapes and contrast: my favorite.

So that's that in the art world. Thanks to all my favorite people for putting up with my constant barrage of paintings on Facebook and postings about art. =)

In other news:
A man in the village, completely drunk, barged into my apartment yesterday. He knocked twice and then let himself in- I stopped him and turned him around. He followed me into the courtyard when I tried to lead him away from the house (and me). Then he pulled a picture out of his pocket- a picture of himself hiking in the woods- he pointed to the picture and  said,  'Souvenier' and gave it to me.
 After he handed me the picture of himself, he pulled a small piece of paper out with a phone number on it and pointed to the number and then pointed to himself and then pointed at me (number, him, me). It didn't take a genius to figure out that he wanted me to call him sometime. Well, since I am leaving and all and since he barged into my apartment, and since he's about 60 years old AND since he seems to have a habit of being completely wasted at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I declined his offer of his phone number with a, "Sorry, I can't."
I felt bad for having to turn him down as he obviously had grandiose plans for the two of us, but... a girl's gotta draw the line, right?

-I went to a Zumba class yesterday with Sally (the residency director). It was completely in French, but it wasn't hard to follow the moves: monkey see, monkey do. It was a good workout and that's a good thing since this whole baguette and sorbet diet I've been on has added to overall size of my, um... derriere. I tried on one of the dresses I brought from home and had a hard time getting it over my, um....derriere. It was right then and there that I decided it was time to get back into shape- right after I finished my lemon sorbet & compote dessert, of course.
The problem with being in Europe is that you don't want to be such a dietary stinge that you don't have any fun or enjoy the local cuisine. But then again, a person might go a little overboard with welcoming the cultural dishes and end up being a guest on the next season of 'Biggest Loser'.

-A couple of weeks ago, I walked into a pottery shop and heard some fabulous music playing in the background, I fell head-over-heels in love with it and asked the sales gal who the singer was. She told me and I immediately purchased her album. The lady's name is Melody Gardot- a little jazz a little..'jena se qua'.
I'm a fan. Maybe you will be too. If not, well, ok.

I bought this cool bowl at the pottery shop. 

- Two nights ago, I had dinner with Sally and one of her friends (Joselyn). First of all, I would like to say that Joeslyn is pretty much the funnest, coolest, greatest person ever. She and I were instant friends. She is 66 years old and works in the porcelaine  factory in Puy l'Eveque. Joselyn studied opera for years and, after a few glasses of wine, she sang a few songs for us.

Then, she asked us to sing something. My contribution to the evening was singing "Guess I'll Go Eat Worms" from Wee Sing Silly Songs- it ain't opera, folks...but it'll do in a pinch.

Well, that's about it. I am headed to a store today to buy some jeans- my khaki capris just aren't cutting it anymore and the rest of my clothes are, as Sally would say, 'tatty' (meaning- ugly, worn out).


-Let's see....my plans for the next month look something like this:
September 28-October 2: stay in Moissac and paint scenes around the church there.
October 2-29: Stay with my generous cousin and her family in northern France. I hope to help out and earn my keep there.... no mooching allowed.
October 30: Paris (I haven't been IN the city yet, just the airport).

Thanks for tagging along on this little adventure of mine!

Slow Food and Snail Mail

Fast food is convenient. Email is convenient. Drive-through espresso stands are convenient. Twitter is convenient. Facebook is convenient.

But...

Slow food is delicious. Hand written letters are special. Coffee in a small cafe is memorable. A note longer than 140 characters to a friend  is thoughtful.

Fast food might fill you up but slow food is good for you. Email might offer plenty of opportunities to communicate with friends, family, and colleagues, but a letter with a stamp on it brightens a person's day. A caramel latte from your favorite drive-through might wake you up for work, but when was the last time you sat down to drink your coffee? Updating your friends with your latest photos and statuses is a great way to keep people informed, but have you taken time to see how someone else is doing?

In an age of  'quicker, faster, easier, and instant', I'm starting to see that filling our lives with these things is like filling our lives with fries and McNuggets...they fill us for a while but they have little 'nutritional' value. I believe these things that are created for our convenience cause us to be a little more self-absorbed. We don't take time to eat good food, we don't take time to sit and think, we don't even take time to make a phone call instead of sending a text message, and the majority of us don't take time to write a note to a friend and send it through the mail (no wonder our US Postal Service is going belly-up).

One thing I've learned this month is that good things take time and energy. I have had the luxury of being removed from a 'faster, quicker' world for a month and, although it was frustrating at first, it's felt so good to slow down and choose what I invest my time in.  Food, conversation, relationships, commitments, personal projects, artwork, and friendships- they all take time and energy to create- but they're worth it.

I am making a proposal to all my blog readers, a challenge to those who are ready for it:
 Write one letter to one person this week.  Write a note in a card or scratch out a letter or on a piece of lined paper. You can use legal pad paper, computer paper, cardboard, whatever you have handy, just as long as it is a couple paragraphs and written by hand (don't worry about your handwriting or spelling errors). Giving someone a hand written letter versus sending a short email is like the difference between  pot roast with potatoes and a  Hungryman TV Dinner.

Good things take time and energy. Can you put a little time and energy into sending a note to a friend or family member? Let's take a second or two out of our busy schedules and write something that a person can open with their hands and physically hold and read- something tangible-something that can be stored  in a drawer or a file or a pocket, to be read over and over again..

A letter, written in your own handwriting, signed with your own signature, absent of emoticons and 'LOLs' will only take about 7 minutes to write (at the most). You can either hand deliver your letter or send it through the mail- with a stamp on the envelope. You can send your mom a letter, your dad a note,  or your sibling a 'hello'. You could write to your friend from college, your husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, daughter, son, cousin, aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, friend from elementary school, an old colleague, and so on. The person you decide to write to is your choice, but I guarantee the recipient's response will be the same, they will appreciate the time and energy you put into something- more time and energy than it takes to click 'send' on an email, click 'update' on your Facebook, pay for your drive-through mocha, pick up a value meal from the second window, or get a Hungryman from the freezer to the microwave to the TV tray.

*Personal note: It started with sending postcards from Sweden, Iceland, and  France, now letter writing is becoming one of my favorite ways to stay in contact. I have found that a simple gesture like a letter or note means a lot to people- and I am sure you'll find it the same with whoever you write to. Happy Friday!

The Results Are In

Three days ago, I asked my fellow Facebook friends and family to vote for their favorite French painting so far. Thirty-three people voted. It was great to read all the comments and  responses. I want to thank everyone for their input and their feedback, it is so encouraging to see everyone commenting on the artwork!    Here are the voting results:

These three paintings tied for 5th Place:

4th Place:

3rd Place:

2nd Place:

1st Place:

The 1st place painting needs a name.

That's my next project. =)

Interview with a MOMpire.

Hello and welcome to another edition of Vivogue Magazine. This month's edition of Vivogue was delayed as all of our employees have been busy working on other projects, some have been on vacation and others just didn't shown up for work. Because of this delay, I had a chance to think a little longer about what this article should be about. As Editor in Chief, owner, designer, and author of Vivogue, I pretty much get to call the shots- so I summoned myself to a meeting and tossed out some new groundbreaking ideas that might just grab the attention of some of my most skeptical readers out there. After a heated conversation, I decided that maybe it was time to feature an interview with someone other than myself. It takes a humble person to step aside and let someone else take the spotlight...um...incase you didn't get that, I am calling myself humble...now, where's my Humility of the Month award?!?

I scoured high and low for a worthy subject to be featured in Vivogue and, after much deliberation, I decided to interview my own mother. I mean, she DOES deserve a little recognition for bringing me into this world- without her, one might even say that you wouldn't have the privledge of reading Vivogue Magazine! Mom: a worthy subject indeed.

So, I tracked down one of my mindless minions, who was just sitting at her desk checking her email and writing nonsensical updates on Facebook,  and told her to go interview my Mom. After a good 12 hours, she returned with this:

Vivogue Rep: Well, I drove for what seemed like days until I got to some part of rural eastern Washington- I pulled up what I thought was a driveway and found a red house guarded by a pair of lick-happy dogs: a Black Lab and a Sheltie. I got out of the car and knocked on the door of the house. I was greeted by a gray haired gentleman dressed head to toe in grease stained camoflauge military fatigues.
"Lacie will be down in a second," the man said. He must have noticed the ovbious look of disgust on my face because he looked down at his dirty clothes and apologized "I just got done putting new hydrolic fluid in the backhoe."
Like that means anything to me.
I said "Oh, ok" and made a mental note never, EVER to change hydrolic fluid in anything ending in the word 'hoe'.

A few seconds later I heard the 'click, clack' sound of high heels descending a staircase. A woman dressed in a navy blue linen suit came into view and stepped towards me.
"Hello, I'm Vivian's mother." She extended her hand and I couldn't help but notice the turquoise blue bangle bracelets on her wrist.
This woman's got style...she must get it from her daughter.

I introducted myself as a Vivogue Representative and showed her my badge- a large cardboard cutout of Vivian's profile, dusted in gold glitter.

Vivian's mom led me out onto a deck that overlooked a field and some medium-sized mountains in the distance. After sitting and chatting for a few minutes, we started the interview.

Vivogue Rep: So, Lacie, how have you been doing without Vivian around?
Vivian's Mom: ((uncontrolable tears, sobbing, and wailing)).

Vivogue Rep: Ok. Next question. What is it like being Vivian's mother?

Vivian's Mom: It rocks! Vivian is the sparkplug of this family.

Vivogue Rep: I'm sorry, did you say 'stinkbug'?
VM: No, hun.

VR: How would you describe your role in the Abell family?

VM: Our powers are divided; I am the legislative/judicial branch.

VR: I actually have it on good account that you are judge, jury, and most often executioner. Do you care to comment?

VM: Don't push it.

VR: What is the best part about having Viv out of the country?
VM: I get to hear about her adventures from afar, and believe it or not, I probably talk to her more often.

VR: I bet it's nice to not have her eating all your food either... I mean, she can be kind of piggish at times, can't she.

VM: Yes, but pigs are smart.

VR: What does that mean?
VM: If you were a pig, you'd know.

VR: Ok. Whatever. Speaking of food, if you could eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be and why?
VM: Probably poached salmon with pesto, white beans, and salad. Followed by some terrific dessert.

VR: ((mumbles something)).

VM: Speak up and sit up straight- and let's have a little more eye-contact, shall we?

VR: Yes, Mom... I mean, Viv's Mom.

VM: That's better.

VR:What's your favorite painting or artwork that Vivian has ever done?
VM: No fair. I can't answer that; it is like which kid do I love the most.

VR: You love Vivian the most, right? 

VM: ((Rolls eyes))

VR: What's your biggest pet peeve?

VM: I don't like being tapped on the shoulder. And the word "congradulations" makes me cringe.

VR:We hear you're turning 60 this year. If you could sum up your past 60 years in three words, what would they be?
VM: God Is Good

VR: Well, I can't make a joke about that one. Next. What is a favorite memory you have of just you and Viv?
VM: Floating in Twin Lakes one hot summer day, on our noodles, singing "Ode To Billie Joe" at the top of our collective lungs, and LAUGHING!

VR: Hmmm. Never heard of it. I'll have to check that one out. Describe your hopes for Viv as she travels.
VM: I hope she brings back new, larger parameters for her life and that she discovers that people are people, everywhere.

VR: I bet she'll bring back new, larger stretch pants.... Um... If you could pass piece of wisdom on to our readers, what would it be?

VM. Floss.

VR: Floss? That's it??

VM: Dental hygiene is very important. Do you floss?

VR: That's none of your beeswax.

VR: Samoas or Thin Mints?

VM: Ick. I don't like Girl Scout Cookies.

VR: Well, I guess that leaves more for me- that is if Vivian doesn't eat them all first...

VR: Last Question. What is your favorite thing about  Vivogue Magazine?

VM: I love Vivogue, because there are never smelly inserts in the magazine, and I don't get subscription reminders.

VR: Well, it's been a pleasure. I love your outfit. Now, how do I get back to the freeway?
VM: Go out, down the road, turn left, another left, another right, two more lefts and then go straight for about three hours.

VR: Can you draw me a  map?

VM: No, but my husband will...right after he's done changing the oil in the CAT.

VR: Cats have oil?

VM: Yes, dear. More coffee?

Well, that sums it up. A great pair of parents for sure. I'm definitely going to come back and interview Viv's dad next time- he seems like an interesting guy. Now, I'm off to go see if I can find  a copy of "Ode to Billy Joe" somewhere.