CONFESSIONS OF A CONTROL FREAK

Sitting in a train to Florence, I am pondering my need for control and personal space.  I am usually a master of squashing any idea one might have of sitting beside me on a bus or a train.  I slouch in my seat with my legs spread like a woman giving birth.  My arms hog both arm rests and I put my bag on the seat next to me.  That's amateur, but I take it to pro by putting both little tables down and loading them with my iPad on one, diaries and whatever snacks I'm sporting.  

I up the ante by putting headphones in my ears from the Hop on Hop off which lead to nowhere.  I use my spidey peripheral vision from a bowed head vantage and either act consumed with all the work in front of me or distraught.   No one wants to sit with a fat distraught lady.

And yet, every once in a while, someone does.  

This infuriates me to no end because I have to pack up my temporary apartment and smell stranger for the next few hours.  Once someone is next to me, I cannot concentrate on anything but them. I hate everything about them so I pretty much pout the entire trip regardless of how bright and shiny nice they are.  These are the rules and they do not bend.

I am so demented I even hold a ridiculous double standard.  When I see a me on a bus with her stuff all over the extra seat pretending not to see I sometimes DEMAND the seat.  I DON'T EVEN WANT TO SIT BESIDE HER! I do it on the insane principle it's not hers and it's not fair.

I am the same on the street.  I walk on the left because it's what civilized humans do.  If I see an oncoming wall walker approaching and giving me the "Oh, I'm not looking" attitude so I will move, I do not.  I have perfected my reaction which is to stop in their path.  I don't say anything.  I just stand there looking at them and they usually pass, but like the train, there is always that one kid who has no regard for the rules.  That kid pisses me off to no end and we either have a wild west stand off or a wild west swear dance.

I like to bust through Asian girls who hold hands as though they are lost 5 year olds.  I walk into anyone who tries to cross my path.  I get great joy from creeping up behind slow text walkers and breathing on them.  Equally satisfying is passing them and then walking directly in front of them with the same Zombie gate.  Like a Chicago Bull guarding the net I move like a ninja turtle with my back in their face instinctively anticipating their every move.

I have literally walked past my destination just to harass people, and though I am without remorse, I have time on this train to question both my motive and my sanity.

On stairs going up, the right rail is mine.  Down I claim the left.  I have no regard for age or ailment.  If you are old you should already know the rules.  If you are crippled you should take the elevator.  

I do not tolerate people who butt into lines and without fail shame them out.  I have a below zero grocery line tolerance.  I watch people dodge from this one to that.  I note the twofers who try to divide and conquer by having a person in each line.  If I see a singleton standing in a line with nothing, I immediately get in front of them.  When I feel a buggy nudge from behind, I ram it back into their ribs.

I despise the brazen fools who ask to go ahead because they only have the one item.  I don't care if you are poor.  I have 1,000 items and I have done my time so do yours.  I was once about to check out and a man came rushing over and asked the cashier for change.  She proceeded to open her cash.  As though my very kingdom was being attacked, I put my hand on hers and said, "I WAS HERE FIRST!"  The poor girl had no idea what to do.  

The man got irate and said, "I just want change!"  I said "I JUST WANT TO PAY FOR MY GROCERIES LIKE THE REST OF US WHO STOOD IN LINE FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES!"  I looked back at my team for solidarity but there was none.  The man started a rant and called for the manager. I enjoy managers and countered his rant while we waited.  The manager asked what the problem was.  I said "No problem, I just want to check out and this guy wants us all to stop what we are doing and cater to him because his change is SO FREAKING MUCH MORE IMPORTANT!"  The manager asked the man to wait until I had checked out.  Not good enough mister.  I demanded he get in line and wait his damn turn.   While I am checking out smug in my victory he calls me an ass.  

I turn to him and say "SO I'M AN ASS? I'M AN ASS BECAUSE I DON'T THINK SOME ASS SHOULD BUTT IN LIKE KING SHIT DEMANDING SPECIAL TREATMENT?"  I AM AN ASS MISTER!  I HAVE TO BE A BIGGER ASS THAN YOU SO I CAN STOP ASSES LIKE YOU FROM BULLYING EVERYONE ELSE WHO HAVE JUST AS MANY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO AS ASSES LIKE YOU!

 That's not verbatim but I do remember saying ass so much it started to feel like the only word in my vocabulary and the needle was stuck.  Suffice to say, it was a victory.  As soon as I was all packed and paid I saw the manager hand the ass his quarters and could not resist screaming at him.  "ASS!"

I shouldn't regale you in bad behaviour stories, but there could be a moral somewhere.  

This one was at a movie theatre.  I needed 2 tickets and 3 gift certificates.  I heard the man behind me sigh when I said gift certificate and I ignored him because I have a certain amount of grace.  The girl had a problem with her swiper thing, then with finding the right card to swipe.  She was getting more flustered as the line grew longer.  I hate this for cashiers.  It is usually not their fault.  Asshole behind me starts yapping at his wife about it all.  I ignore him.  The girl is flustered, but I want to see the movie like everyone else, so I wait and smile and offer peppy comments to let her know I have the patience of a saint.  Asshole can't take it.  He knocks me on the arm and says 'Do you mind if the rest of us have a chance to buy tickets?"

Volatile sweary script runs through my head, so I wait for it to subside into normal people words.  "I'm not doing anything. I am waiting for my tickets just like you.  She is having a hard time with her machine."  I have no idea why this sent the man into a rage but he starts spit yelling in my face about my gift certificates, my bank card, my laughter.  Lunatic.  The friend I am with presses herself against the counter as though she is trying to be absorbed by it.  She knows me well.  I turn to the asshole and retaliate.

 "IT'S NOT MY FAULT ASSHOLE! I DON"T FREAKING WORK HERE!  AND IT'S NOT HER FAULT EITHER! IT'S HER FREAKING BOSS WHO THINKS ONE CASHIER CAN HANDLE A LINE FULL OF ASSHOLES LIKE YOU!  Enter manager who escorts asshole to a new wicket.  Asshole gloats.  I scream.

HEY! I'M FIRST IN LINE HERE. GET OVER HERE AND FIX HER DAMN MACHINE OR GIVE ME A TICKET FROM OVER THERE BECAUSE I AM FIRST!  Asshole grunts, turns red and leans like he may want to fight me.  Said manager stops, gives girl grief about machine and hands me a ticket. I could have walked away, but had to do my signature final word yell.  "YOUR FREAKING MACHINE IS BROKEN.  YOU'RE THE MANAGER.  IT'S YOUR PROBLEM ASSHOLE NOT HERS!"  Two ladies in line give out a little back up cheer and asshole number one looks at me says, "CAN I GET MY TICKETS NOW?"

I love applause. It soothes and validates me.  In a beautiful calm voice I answer " I don't work here sir, but I'm sure that more than competent girl at the counter can help you as soon as this guy fixes his machine."  More subtle cheers, a few giggles and much laughter from the audience and I am healed.

So there it is. I am a control freak extraordinaire.  I've studied examples, considered outcomes vs damage and here on this train I feel I can learn to surrender some of my personal space issues. 

I kick off my shoes and stretch my legs across the four seater I am hogging and put my bare feet on the seat across from me.  I ponder my suitcase acting like a guest on the seat next to my big feet. My purse, hat and miscellaneous soft things sit like children beside me, and together we have unloaded all manner of crap on the four tables between us.  It looks like a pathetic garage sale and I feel a tad selfish, so I clear the table and the two outside seats.  I reluctantly lower my feet.

As if on cue, a man at the next stop sits beside my foot perch facing me.  He smiles in silence.  This is the international sign for Hello, I am sitting here but I don't want you to talk to me or look at me.  Thank you.

I nod and smile because I speak fluent control freak.

In that moment I feel mature and generous.  Kind even.  Virtuous.  

I stare out the window contently looking for sheep.  I hear the familiar rustle of a chip bag.  Yes, by all means sir, enjoy a snack.  I try not to listen but I can hear him chewing. An incessant crunching and swallowing that grates my nerves like a wire brush.  I hallucinate he is doing it on purpose, somehow sent to test my resolve.  I am wise to you sir.  I shall endure.  He pulls countless chips out of the bag like circus clowns out of a tiny car.

Trains in Italy are often and suddenly gobbled by dark long tunnels.  I use these to make faces, glare and regroup.  Once back in sunlight, I appear normal and calm during the chip assault.  I am impressed at how keen my sense of hearing is in tunnels.  He has moved on to lip smacking, digging for crumbs  and finger licking which means  it is almost over.  I am glad he enjoyed his chips.  In the sunlight, the crushing of the bag hardly bothers me at all.  We are done here sir.  In the the next tunnel I hear the pop of a soda and cringe.  I clench my teeth as though I am inspecting for parsley.  I see my reflection in the darkness.  I see his.  We see each other.  None of my faces or silent curses have gone unseen.    

I don't care.  I surrender. You win mister.  You are a jerk because you eat chips and drink soda.  I am a jerk because I think that.  I have no excuse or apology.  I put my feet up on the chair and decide trying is not really my thing.  If I knew how to fart at will I would.  

I dig into my purse, find those peanuts I was saving for Florence and savour the oh so crunchy little darlings one at time for the next 40 miles.

ROME AND OTHER BLOOD CLOTTING STORIES

Friday, August 28

Had a really great sleep for a change!  Sitting in the restaurant listening to opera stirring cappuccinoit with a tiny silver spoon.  I have a new egg and we are heading to the Vatican and the National Gallery.  There is a lot of graffiti here, so when in Rome!  Yes, I am going to vandalize Rome with my tag.

Wandered around museums of sculptures by the 3 B's, Mike and Rodin.  I have wanted a giant block of marble since I was a teenager.  I am so arrogant I think I could do something pretty fancy. I wonder where they get it.  I will ask Joel to buy me a hunk of marble for Christmas. I will ask for a chisel as well.

The bust of Constantine was incredible to see as was Caravaggio's Head of Medusa. I am not a big fan of snakes, but I enjoy a good Medusa.

It is so hot I don't even care anymore. Thank you God for inventing air conditioning and awnings.

Got in a taxi and managed to slice my foot open on some jagged bit of metal under the driver's seat. I don't know how to say I am hurt, so I say  "Mi scusi, sorta di morti."  The driver looks at me as though this is not important information.  In retrospect, he may have suspected some terminal condition I felt the need to brag about. I try again.  "Mama Mia Attenzione!"  Nothing.  Because I cannot raise my leg over my head to show him, I get what I feel is an adequate amount of blood from the wound and hold up my hand. "ATENZIONE!"

The cab stops so fast we almost smash heads or have the best kiss ever as he cranes around to see and I lurch forward.  I hit the head rest instead then check for blood.  Yes.  There is much blood and I am horrified.

The blood is not from the head bump, but the forgotten blood of the pantomime which has now been transferred to my face and which stays there until I get back to the hotel much later in the evening. I suppose Italians feel no need to mention things like bloody fingerprints on your face, but I don't know how to hear that in Italian anyway.  I make a mental note to look in mirrors more often as this has happened to me before.  I shall now digress.

My son has a massive entertainment centre which has a small ledge about 3ft up.  One fine day, I decided to dust it and though smart me said "Get a step stool," Brilliant lazy me said "Nah, you have long legs, you can do it." I went up with one grand step and once perched, dusted all manner of stupid things.  Smart me suggested I turn around.  Idiot said a reverse  dismount was in order.

I had used the same legs for my descent as my rise, so it made no sense they seemed shorter going down and that the ground had somehow vanished.  In my split second of airborne panic, I assured myself it would be okay as there was a lovely plush red rug below. I also reasoned no one plunges to their death from 3ft, so I let myself fall. 

In an instant I hear an amazing bang, followed by a scream, a thud and then silence.  I lay on the floor staring at a light which immediately turns to darkness.  I know I did not die, but I can make no sense of what just happened.  Smug smart me reminds me the massive new coffee table arrived this morning.  The top did not.  The base was solid,the edges sleek and sharp.  The perfect tool for cracking a head open.

In the darkness I tried to take inventory of my injury.  I could feel blood pooling around my head and already wanting to pass out, the smell of it marinating with boy carpet was almost enough for me to call it a life.  Confident I had broke my neck and these were my final moments, I did not want to move lest moving end me.  I lay there for a good 20 minutes until smart me mentioned something about blood loss and those shows where people do amazing things and save their own lives just in the nick of time.  I am in no mood for smart me, but after a few attempts, roll over and crawl to the furthest point in this ridiculously large condo where my phone is. 

I get my phone and after trying to sop up blood with a towel, I resort to just letting it drip into the sink while I call all three of my beloved children.  I then call Carl.  

I will digress on my digression and say I am not okay with the whole I need a cell phone for emergencies argument.  No one I call answers.  I always have to wait for the call back.  ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONES PEOPLE!

I am in no mood to explain so I leave incoherent messages then call a taxi.  The hospital is only a few blocks away, so it seems more practical.  Besides, I can stand and walk so I am probably fine.  I am concerned about the partial blindness, but feel my way out the door and to the elevator.  The elevator is not working.  The elevator always works. Walking down 11 floors in the darkness is dizzying on it's own, but this head trip makes it surreal.  I accept the notion someone will find my body in the stairwell around 2017.

I get to the street and Carl is there.  Startled and concerned, he takes me to the hospital, pulls right to the door and refusing escort, I tell him to go park. All is well.

It's the wrong door. The right door is around the block. As I navigate my darkened world, people step aside and stop to stare as though Jesus has arrived.  I am sure it is the bloody towel and appreciate the compassion.  Within minutes of being inside, I am wisked into a room and told to lay on my stomach.   I wonder why people complain about waiting.  Impressed by the efficiency and all alone, I feel safe.  I need to pee so I get up and find the bathroom.

I open the door and want to scream, but I have no voice.  There is a long haired man standing in front of me who looks like something out of a horror movie.  His hair and face are thick with blood and his eyes and teeth look so white I can only stare.  He holds a crimson towel to his head just like me.  He dresses like me.  I need to stop listening to idiot me. No wonder the seas parted as I walked.

I try to wash my face, but it makes me dizzy.  I go back to the bed and decide to feel my head.  How bad could it be?  Everyone knows head wounds bleed a lot.  I may need stitches and I am reluctantly okay with that.   I put my fingers through my crusty hair and lose two of them in a deep hole.  I am so grossed out, I can't measure the wound or the gross out level. 

In comes Carl and the doctor.  "I need you to hold her down." he says as if I am not present.  I hear Carl's voice but as usual hardly listen.  Suddenly and without warning, I feel a knee on my back, hands on my legs and shoulders and experience the unbelievable shock of having a nail gun shot straight into my already damaged head!

I scream, swear and kick.  "It's okay, I need to staple this.  Just 6 more".  I am yelling "Three is good and all manner of pleas. He completely ignores me, apologizes and I feel the knee retreat.  I glare up at both of them.  The doctor then says what people love to say after an injury.  "Another inch and you would have severed your spine."  How about saying, "That's a bad cut and nothing serious came of it."  What is with the need to always mention how close you came to something that didn't even happen to you!  " I fell off a roof and almost landed at the bottom of an empty concrete swimming pool." BUT YOU DIDN'T!  IT WAS A SHED AND YOU FELL 5 LOUSY FEET INTO A DAMN LOUNGER!

Thus ends the digression.  Back in the cab, we have  a meeting of the minds and I am wisked off for repairs, pay everyone handsomely and find a cafe in which to regroup.  I tweet to my children and friends how I am having a wonderful time and the stitches are healing nicely.  I get a few stars from strangers, but no one in my world responds to said tweet. My maternal instincts kicked in and I immediately wanted to tweet something mean about my each of my children.  Perhaps some Joel baby pics or the story about Jen photocopying pictures of the girl who stole her boyfriend in high school.  She wrote all manner of nasty things on them and posted them all over the halls and lockers. So mean.  I decide not to post anything else.  I will shun them with social media silence and omg will they worry!

I go to the ruins, wander for a few hours, photograph a seagull as though they are some unknown species to me, and then head to another gallery.   I see nuns and priests, handsome men and fat babies.  I paint my egg and sketch out the vatican and call it a day.

Rome made me cry twice today.  I wish I had more time here.

Also, the media ban seems completely ineffective.

Nite

A TEARFUL GOODBYE TO GREECE

Thursday, August 27

Got up early, went to Fira, took in a few last views of the Aegean Sea and the beautiful island of Santorini then headed for the airport.

As a savvy traveller, I always arrive early at airports.  I bought a book on Santorini and found a breezy shady place to read.  I should have bought  this book earlier, but it was nice to read of familiar places and of the wine I had become so familiar with.  After an hour, I grabbed a slice of pizza and in no time, I heard the announcement my plane was boarding.

I gathered my things and dug out my passport and boarding pass.  To my absolute horror my boarding pass was gone.  Though I choose to believe some rotten thief had made off with it, more likely an idiot probably threw it out with her pizza box.  

I dug through the first layer of crap and couldn't bear the sludge, so I went to desk to try to get another.  The line was ridiculous and my flight was leaving in 20 minutes.  There would not be another one until the morning so desperate times meant marching up to the counter and dodging the line.

"I'm sorry, but I have lost my boarding pass."  I said.

"Did you wait in the cue?" Said she, glancing over my shoulder at irate line dwellers.

"Yes." I lied with pleading desperation.

She was not amused, looked at her computer and said "Your plane has already boarded."  Then told me to wait and someone would come and talk to me.

I had the feeling I suspect is familiar to people on tv who are waiting in hospital waiting rooms with fragments of hope, only to be told, "I'm sorry, she's gone."

I counted down with the clock; 18 minutes, 15, 10, 8.

I realized no help was coming and did what any desperate traveller does.  I caused a scene.

I sought out the most approachable clerk and interrupted their conversation with a desperate speech and crocodile tears.  I always thought I could be an actress due to my ability to cry like Demi Moore in Ghost.  I can speak clearly while fat wet tears stream down my face.

Even the person being waited on was moved by my performance and in moments I was escorted through the crowds and lines directly to the front of the boarding line.  The people directly behind me were not amused and I had no sympathy.  Survival of the fittest. Crisis averted, I board.

My seat was at the very front of the plane so I was thankful for the extra leg space.  I stashed my suitcase and sat down.  My worst fear was now a reality.  My fat ass was only sitting on the arm rests and I feared I would have to leave the plane due to overuse of Cheese and chips.

As people were trying to get by I stood up as though being kind, but in fact, navigating how to squish a pillow into a thimble. "Please take your seat." said the attendant.  "Ocourse" say I. 

The straight down approach was out of the question so I tipped my ass sideways and shoved the rest in with painful abandon.  There were no gaps for the mass to ooze out of, just straight steel walls.  Thankfully I remembered to pull the seatbelt out and stretched it to it's max like any given bra.  I wondered if anyone ever died from having their ass squished into a small space for an hour.  I remembered wearing a Spanx once and almost suffocating.  I panic a little, but the idea of staying in the airport overnight would probably kill me too, so I endured.

I cannot describe how pathetically painful the next hour and a half was.  Two little girls who looked like Punchinello sat across from me babbling and giggling in Italian.  They were adorable and distracted me from fainting.  I was holding my pen in my hand and to add insult to injury, it exploded black ink all over me.  I did not call for assistance as I could not afford the breath, so I held it dripping on to my leg for the duration.

Once on the ground, I vowed to lose weight while every passenger left the flight but me.  I knew it would be hard to pull this thing out of captivity, so as they passed, I was painfully wiggling it out inch by inch.  Finally, with a ridiculous sucking sound, out popped my ass like a can of snakes.   

Soundly bruised but free, I vowed to lose some weight.

Back in Rome, I did what any doubly traumatized and morbidly obese traveller would do.  I stopped for spaghetti, wine and tiramisu at the first restaurant I saw.

SANTORINI: DAY 5

Got up early and went to Akrotiri which is a beautiful little quiet town full of abandoned houses and ancient ruins that predate Pompeii by 2000 years.

These ruins are different from Pompeii and though  excavated, they remain underground  covered by a roof (which collapsed once and killed a tourist).  Walking the streets, peeking into shops and homes gives me a real sense of what it might have been like to live there.  The frescos found in these homes are beautiful.  I believe I shall paint the Blue Monkeys in my grotto.  Once I get a grotto.

Most of the people of Santorini were able to escape the volcanic eruption, so unlike Pompeii there were no bodies, but everything else was frozen in time.

The village of Pyros was my next stop.  There were more dogs and cats wandering than people.  I love these old places.  Went for a swim and then on to Oia on the sunset tip of the island. This was the busiest place on the island.  Thousands of people gather on summer nights to watch the sun go down.  The streets were packed and it was hard to find a decent spot, but I took a path less travelled and found a perch on a cliff at the edge of the sea.  Beautiful as it was, I have to say, my balcony view is more spectacular.  The best part was how tourists applaud the sun.  I think we should do that every night.  Run out and clap for the sun.

Paths less travelled always lead me to places I probably should not be.  Trying to find the bus, I ended up on some dark road where the lights of the city faded behind a ridge.  My useless sense of direction led me along a strip of unsavoury bars and doorways with shadowy figures sipping from bottles.  I always have a hard time retracing my steps, so I bolted down an alley toward the sea hoping to get my bearings.  This works well anywhere but on the tip of an island where three directions will lead you to the sea.  Two are wrong but I eventually found my way to the only bus left in the parking lot down the hill.  The lights were on and the motor was running, so down the hill I slid and made my ride with the usual minor injuries.

On the bus home, I can still taste sea salt on my lips and volcanic dust in my mouth.  It's been a long and lovely day and I feel like a kid on the way home from Disneyland.  Content, happy and nothing to do but drift off into a smiling sleep.

There is a sign in my bathroom that reads "Do not fill the tub as the taps cannot handle it."  I was in dire need of a bath so I went to the office and asked if that meant I could not have a bath.  "No, yes, you can have a bath."  Good enough.

I sat on the balcony for a bit, finished my wine and filled the tub with bubbles and the hottest water Santorini can muster.  The taps took it like champs. Once soundly boiled and scrubbed, I retired for the night.  

I layed in bed for a few minutes listening to the sea gurgling and sloshing along.  I was amazed I could hear the sea.  I could not.  I was hearing the sound of a bathtub overflowing and water consuming the floor and cascading over the doorway into my bedroom.  In the darkness, I could see the moat which had formed around my bed.  The taps in Santorini are fine.  It is the drains who don't know their purpose.  I got up and spent an hour or so mopping up water and praying the Brit downstairs was not doused.

So ended my last perfect day in Santorini.  By the way,  the Greeks are tricksters. Santorini IS Thira. Thira is Santorini.  

SANTORINI: DAYS 3 and 4

Monday, August 24

They say in Santorini there are more churches than houses, donkeys than people and more wine than water.   

One of the nicest things in Santorini is to be woken by the sound of church bells.  It happens late enough you should be up anyway, but not so early you want to throw something. I have no great plan for today but it will include painting and some donkey hugging.

The trek to the donkey's lair is brutal.  A trek anywhere on Santorini is brutal.  I can't believe I keep getting sucked in by these paths. This place is hotter than anything I have experienced. I feel sorry for the people without pools who rely on the beaches for comfort.  To get to the beach I have to walk down the mountain. After a refreshing swim, I trek back UP the mountain and end up in my original heat stroke state. Only a fool would repeat the process, but this is my second time, so my goal for today is simply to survive.

I rarely stop for lunch because I am hungry.  It is more likely I am lost or about to faint.  Today it is the latter so I guzzle a bottle of water and put my sunburnt head down on the table.  My arms dangle at my sides like grilled sausages as  I wait for life to regenerate.  The table cloth feels so good on my forehead I turn my face one way then the other so my cheeks can enjoy the same.  From under my umbrella I can see my hotel far in the sideways distance.  I fear I will not make it back and wonder if there might be a hotel in the immediate vicinity instead.  I wonder what it would cost to rent this table for the night.

The waiter does not seem concerned about my corpse flopped over the table. He has seen it before, so I slug myself up and transfer my face to menu.  When you are so hot your brain becomes gruel, you want to press your face against anything that looks cold.  This phenomenon is new to me, but I test the plastic of the menu and fold my face into it. 

I order salad and tzatziki on toast with honey and walnuts.  It's so delicious I have reason to live again.  Having confidently regained both my composure and my dignity, I know I can make the rest of the trip to the donkeys.

I don't know what drives me to finish lines, and much as I appreciate success, I'm pretty sure I will die trying to get somewhere dumb.   The donkeys are not dumb and I am glad to see them.  They are lined up along the shore and up the path like taxis.  Some wear cute hats or fancy blankets and bells.  Others just show up for work naked and bored.  There is a bit of a best pony contest going on.  I feel sorry for the little and cute.  They have to work the hardest.

There is donkey shit baking and steaming all over the path.  Like babies, it is amazing how bad these cute little things can smell.  I can't resist getting up close and personal with them all.  I introduce myself, tell them about Canada, but mostly I just join the choir of oooohs and awwwwwwws.  Donkeys really are adorable. I think it's their super lush eyelashes.  I make a note to get eyelash extensions. 

Once I had my fill of donkey love, I start the hike back up. The walk just sucks and halfway home I stop for lunch again.  I'm not hungry, but I am willing to pay 20 euro for shade and a chair.  I order another salad, coffee and baklava.  The caffeine and sugar rush is almost enough to propel me home, but with less than a mile to go, I feel faint and hopeless again.  I suck it up, find a stick and start walking like Moses across the desert.  I am too freaking old for this bullshit and it makes me laugh at myself.  God laughs too and on a perfectly still day, sends a sudden and cool little wind which dries my hair and pushes me home.

Tuesday August 25

Every 3 nights I get no sleep.  It's such a waste of time.  

Went for breakfast, swam for a few hours then walked to Fira and finally conformed. I bought a hat, sunscreen and a bottle of water.  I keep looking for a light blue scarf to take home but it eludes me.  I am going on a wine/beach tour today on an air conditioned bus.  I take pride in how wise I am becoming.  I ask where the bus leaves from  "You come at the church with the Blue dome."  Excellent.

There are 3 beaches on the island. White, Black and Red.  I have been to the red and am currently lounging at the Black one working on my patchwork tanburn.   

It's a beautiful place, but busier than I would like.  A waitress comes over and tells me it is 20euro to use the loungers. I am too cheap so I lounge in the sea instead.

The wine fields here are so different than Canada.  There are no poles or rows of grapes tied to wires.  Here the grapes are grown in basket mounds on the ground like sprawling cucumber plants.  Piles of grapes the colours of ore and copper are left in the field under the hot sun to dry.  Pastel coloured bikes lean against trees and posts. The workers hunch like Millet's Gleaners as their half naked little ones chase each other around the mounds.

The bus ride is exciting.  These giant grey hounds hug the narrow roads along cliffs and up the sides of mountains as though on some flawless Disney park track.  The ride up Elias Mountain was   worse than being in an airplane.  We piled out at the top and with shaky knees I took all manner of photos for idiots pretending to go over the cliff.  I realized today no one ever offers to take a picture of me, so I am resigning as the island photographer.

The wine tour was great.  The last wine we tasted was delicious and familiar.  It was the same one the man at the market sold me.  I feel all smug now and tell my fellow travellers how you can drink a whole bottle and not have a hangover!  I shut up and put a forget spell on all of them.

The only thing  I don't like about tours is having to meet people.  I just want to listen and look out the window and follow the sunflower from place to place in silence.  Sitting on the bus I had a dread headed Auzzie to contend with.  He was a young Springer Spaniel sort, bouncing and moving like a crack head the whole time.  This boy adores himself and told me his illustrious life story of hiking and working on cruise ships and as a hostel tour guide. He shared his passion for the land, the vegan lifestyle and good will toward men.  This sort of person bores me as it usually translates to; I don't shower because I am homeless, I can't afford real foodand I mooch off others to survive because I am too lazy to get a real job.  On the way back I choose a seat with someone else and when he gets on the bus, he yells from his new seat at the front, "Nancy! I thought we clicked man!"  Thought wrong pally.

The driver explains the blue of churches and houses is to honour the sea, the white because it is cheap. Families build their own private shrines where once a year they have to invite everyone in the village for a feast.  Most people who live on the island leave when the tourists do and return just before them. The donkeys stay behind and work the fields.  In summer they  lug fat tourists up and down the mountain.  They work two jobs dread head.  TWO.  There are serious plumbing issues in Santorini and I understand the more wine than water.   He goes on about Thira and I make a note to book a trip there.

Back on my balcony I am watching yet another spectacular sunset.  They say these are the most spectacular sunsets in the world.  They are not.  You can find the same sun setting in equal majesty anywhere if you make the time to just get outside and see them.

SANTORINI: DAY 2

Sunday, August 23

Having another beautiful little breakfast on the patio. There are no hard boiled eggs so I order a raw one.  I need to get a painting done, find more donkeys, a bank machine and a tour!  As fate would have it, I find myself in Santorini on the night of their annual reenactment of the volcano eruption and I shall have a perfect view from my balcony!

Took a bus to the far end of the island and walked back home via ancient paths and endless white washed stairways. There are random doors along the wall of the cobblestone path which lead to nowhere and I wonder why.  I find a cool dirt path the donkeys use and followed it as far as it allows into a wilder more barren Santorini.  Little lizards play chase up and down the dilapidated stone walls which have been consumed by cactus and capers.  I picked a caper and pop it into my mouth.  It shoots out like a projectile an instant later.  Capers are vile raw.  I did the same with an olive in Italy.  Also vile.  I make a note not to eat things I find growing along the way.  I wonder where the donkeys live and why the domes are all painted cerulean blue.  I enjoy a good wonder. 

I seemed to be a target for honeymooners in need of photos. I am getting pretty good at it.  As the day progressed, the standard face shots turned into photo shoots on ledges, cliffs, sitting on stairs and all manner of smoochy shots.  I got bored with the concept and stop making eye contact.  I should sell selfie sticks.

Back at the villa I tried to paint an egg on my balcony, but it fell over the edge. I heard a British man yell "Bloody EL!  Another hit.  I moved to the vacant lot next door where two sweet little churches stand like confections overlooking the town and paint for the rest of the day.

For dinner I had a fig, rocket and walnut salad in a parmesan bowl laced with strawberries and balsamic reduction.  I need to find out what exactly rocket is.  The salad is enough, but a delicious bowl of beef falling from it's bone melts into a saucy sea of wide ribbons of home made pasta.  My eyes instinctively closed to appreciate how incredible this dish was.

There is a handsome Greek in white linen leaning against the bar looking out at the sea.  He is smoking a cigarette.  It's all very Casablanca here and I believe Jason Priestly is my waiter, but I don't let on. I linger for bit because the last time I rushed off, he said "Where you to go?"

I stop at a market and ask the vendor for a good Greek wine.  He tucks a bottle in a brown bag and for no apparent reason I feel like a street drunk. "Ze best." 46 euro later, I head home.

I'm sitting on the balcony in my underwear drinking wine and waiting for the show to start.  The egg painting is on the table and I am pleased with it. It's hard to believe a light show is about to begin as I hear no cheers or chatter of any audience.  I do see little dots making a pilgrimage down the mountain and gathering at the cliff but it's all so solemn.  

Across the water a loud and foreboding drum begins to beat in the darkness.  A few little flashes of low fireworks begin to bang the silence away  in rhythm with the drum and the dots cheer enthusiastically.  A trail of red lights begins to spill down the mountain as the fireworks pick up momentum until they are so loud they drown out the dots and echo over the sea.  It ends abruptly with the usual spectacular flare.  After a moment of silence, cruise ships  moan and the dots let out a final whoop and their noise trails off as they hike back up from wherever they came from.

The cloud scars of the fireworks fade into night sky and once again, Santorini is still, silent and hypnotically beautiful.  Oh you volcanos.

Nite.

SANTORINI: FEELING WONDERFULLY BLUE

Saturday, August 22

Survived another flight and arrive safely at my hotel. The driver takes a promissory note for my first born and tells me to enjoy my stay in Thira.  I panic for a moment thinking he has dumped me at the wrong location, but this is my hotel, so I can only assume the man knows nothing of Santorini.

It is sweltering here, so my first order of business is a swim and a drink.  There is no hop on hop off bus here, so I need to get my bearings. I set out my maps on the bed and wonder if I might get bored.

 The little balcony in my room lures me to it's doorway.  After a few minutes I step out in a trance-like stare. The views immobilize me. I forego the swim, the drink and the planning to park in a chair and watch the sunlight play on sea.

Across the ink blue water another volcano sneers at me.  It is the child of the Minoan eruption which literally blew it's top in 1613AD and rocketed the top of the mountain into the sea, leaving the crescent shaped caldera of an island on which I am centrally perched. Tiny boats float along like white rice in a bowl of dark soup waiting to be boiled by the active volcano directly below.

Santorini is only 15 miles long.  I am in Fierostephani close to Fira and flanked by Oia and Imerovigli. I chose this central location because I hallucinated I could walk 7 miles.  Apparently I can, but it is never by choice. 

There are two ways to get around in Santorini; a single road linking town to town and a narrow walking path that meanders from one end of the island to the other.  I had seen many charming photos of this path and decided it was early enough to take a hike and be back for my first Santorini sunset.

At first the path is delightfully downhill.  It is smattered with adorable shops, enticing open air restaurants and as if placed there by the Greek tourist association; kittens.  Nothing adds ambience like a kitten, and I react as though I have never seen one before.  These are the same little varmits who have the power to choke the air from my lungs and swell my eyes to blindness, but I pick one up anyway and rub it all over my face.

The views from the path are glorious and it's hard to know where to look. It's all fun and games til I realize this path (like every other path I have walked), is a trick. It snakes along and suddenly becomes an undulating tangle that rivals the head of Medusa.   Contrary to the notion one can only be walking downward when walking down a mountain, the path is taking me up, down and around like a 5 star roller coaster.

It's hard to be pissed at the path. There are fuscia and orange flowering vines and white washed villas with straw brooms leaning against shuttered old windows.  An adorable old woman leads a donkey past me and mothers are setting out food on pretty little porches. 

I am pissed at the path, but 3 hours later, as the sun fades, I arrive at Fira.  Exhausted and hungry, I find a welcoming little Bistro facing the sea.  It is here I experience my first "No singles" rejection.  "No tables" says he.  "Lots of tables" says me.  "No tables" he barks and though I am always up for a fight, I remember my vow to be a happy traveller and move on.

I approach the next place more cautiously. "Can I have dinner here?"  The woman looks at me as though she has to explain how restaurants work and says "Yes. Dinner.  Please." I won't take another step without clarification. "Can I eat here alone?" She beckons me forward and responds with a confused half smile, "Yes.  Please."

I pass tables dotted two by two with white linen wearing honeymooners cooing like doves at each other.  I exchange glances with them like only a leper can and look out at the sea while the woman noisely removes the vacant place setting (in case any lovebirds missed the intrusion).  

Get over it kids, I am your future.

I nosh on Dolmades, zucchini and crusty bread slathered with butter, accompanied by sweet syrupy wine.  Under the influence of a few more glasses, I immerse myself in the view.  The cooing turns to soft music, the heat to a cool breeze and the sunset hugs me like a familiar old friend.  I am so happy I want to order a pillow and blanket and grow old here.

The Greeks are wonderful hosts.  They don't rush me from my table or drop a bill until I  am soundly smashed and bloated.  Lest the bill float off into the night, it is weighted down with a complimentary shot of Ouzo. In the darkness, I thank my hostess who smiles warmly and tells me to enjoy my time in Thira.  I don't have the energy to ask why everyone expects me to go to Thira, so I smile back, pay the bill and down the drink.  

I am not one for hard liquor, and Ouzo is pretty damn hard, so with a false sense of revitalization, I brazenly opt to take the road home.

The road is busy and lined with tourists waiting for taxis and buses.  I am too sophisticated for such and opt to walk.  Though at first there is a sidewalk, it gets bored with itself and disintegrated to a dirt path and finally nothing.  A voice in my head speaks the obvious I had yet to consider;  If you walk down a mountain, chances are, you will have to walk back up to get home. 

The lovely buildings of Fira are replaced by random lots with dented bikes and ATVs for hire. Soon there is nothing but darkness, the headlights of lost tourists and distant sounds of drunken laughter.   I pick up my pace and even with my wobbly toddler gait, I arrive at the alley that leads to my hotel in no less than 17 minutes.

Showered and pleased with myself I wrap in a blanket and return to the chair on the balcony.  Like the abundant stars above, the towns below twinkles with white light.  In the bowl, cruise ships lit like Christmas logs anchor for the night.  It is surprisingly silent here and I imagine we have all been hypnotized by the beauty of it all.

I rest assured I can easily spend 5 glorious days here on my balcony.

Nite

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CHALKiDIKI: AN UNASSUMING PARADISE

Monday, August 17

Stopped in Sorrento and checked out the "Walk of the Gods."  I was looking forward to a hike along this magnificent coast, but the sheer height of it scares me, and though I was willing, the Gods spared me by raining out the path so I had to settle for a few vertigo inspiring, death defying leans over edges before heading back to Rome and on to Chalkidiki.

The taxi charged me 50 euro for another 3 block ride.  It is now my custom, once I am safely to the curb and have paid the fee, to narrow my eyes, shake my fist at the driver and yell "DIABLO!"   It seems to put my world back in order.

Had a luscious twilight swim alone in the pool.  I fancy myself a mermaid and frolic and float until the sky fills with stars and mosquitos.  Little birds are twittering sweetly as they settle within the surrounding pines for the night.

I have dinner of pasta, toast my beer to myself and snuggle into bed awaiting my 5am wake up call.

I'm on the plane to Thessaloniki.  The flight is only an hour and it's the crack of dawn, so I have decided not to take my magic pill.   I buckle in and try to read a magazine. I open to an ad that asks, "Do you feel lucky?"  I close said magazine and try to read my book, which weighs a ton and I have an urgent need to unload it.  My eyes are burning from lack of sleep as I had to go over and over my plane crash rescue scenarios.  I make a mental note to pay attention to the gas mask instruction this time.  

The stewardess is  wearing a lanyard that says "It's a trap…don't go!" I can't take my eyes off it and sensing her instruction suspect, I once again fail gas mask.  I tighten my seatbelt at 1000 feet,  do some silent weeping and accept it's too to late to turn back.  I am a brave little soldier and find some peace, then like a self destructive psycho, I look out the window.  I scold myself and repeat the scenario 100 times more til I scare myself into altered state of reality.

I am now at the coolest little place in Chalkadiki.  It's not a hotel, rather a sort of paradise compound.  A old stone house plays the role of an office. A welcoming rustic dinner hall and a host of tiny ancient cottages  appear along paths shaded by all manner of fragrent fruit trees. 

It's only 9am and my room will not be ready until 2.  A beautiful outdoor lounge surrounded by flowering vines and gauzy linen curtains beckons me and convinces me not to cry.  I curl up in a fat comfy couch and savour the dappled morning sunlight dancing around me.  I am so exhausted, but appreciate the Gods not letting me lose the day in the darkened bedroom I craved.  I close my eyes and listen to the voices of birds and children I have never heard before.  The smell of lavender and lily send me into a dreamlessly luscious sleep.

A very loud bird urgently beckons me back to reality. An elderly white dog, inspired by my nap is parked at my feet.  It's 2:00 and my bungalo is ready.  I look for the bird as I pass the pool.  There are not many people here, but they nod welcomes or raise fancy drinks from their tempting loungers.  The pool is grand and inviting and my white patchwork flesh is aching to be immersed.

My Greek born friend Sofi told me about Chalkadiki and I am in her debt for the recommendation. I doubt I can do my place justice with words but of course I am about to babble an attempt! 

I enter through a rustic forget-me-not blue door.  Inside, warm stone walls surround a story book Christmas sort of fireplace, a hard to resist plump white sofa and other homey well worn furniture.  The warm Grecian sun pours in through large patio doors.

I climb a spindly staircase which leads to an open loft with a massive white bed, grandmothers dresser and a delicately ornate vanity which gently notes my reflection and suggests I brush my hair some day.  I lay on the bed for a bit, thank God for Sofi and relish in the idea of 5 days of stillness.

Much as I adore the inside of my temporary home, the outside is equally charming.  A little table with two mismatched Alice in Wonderland chairs sit in unspoken conversation on the stone porch overlooking my back yard oasis.  Swallows and chickadees dart from pomegranate and fig trees which surround a sunny patch which cradles my own little pool. Old wooden loungers are covered in fresh white pillows and the roughly maintained grounds add to the rustic feel of the place.  It somehow reminds me of my mothers property and conjures visions of childhood tea parties and long summer days well spent.

I settle in, set up my paints, introduce my tired body to the pool and spend the rest of the evening on the porch drinking wine, talking to you and the stars that twinkle above and planning nothing at all.

Tuesday, August 18

The bird has returned and seems to fancy himself a rooster.  It's only 7am but this beautiful sun is impossible to resist.  I am not sure where breakfast is served but am not surprised to see little cafe tables and chairs with bright white linens dotting the grass outside the dining hall.  There are  several families here with little flocks of sun kissed children so full of energy and life it makes me smile. A fat little baby smiles back.  We know we have it good here.

The buffet is casual and hearty as one set out for hard working farmers heading to the fields. There are soft warm breads, cheese of all kinds, fruits from the trees and a generous bowl of hardboiled brown eggs.  A little girl smiles as I slide one in my pocket so I give her a mischevious wink.  I find a table under a grand old tree whose branches sway a breeze in harmony with the voice of an Italian Sinatra crooning softly from the main house. An elderly white dog saunders over, samples bits of my breakfast and sits against my leg looking up curious and contently.  I'm not sure if he speaks English but he endears me and  I enjoy his silent company.

My room was so hot last night it was hard to sleep again, but I am spending the day in the pool so I expect to exhaust myself. 

I am exhausted from leisure.  I swam back and forth for miles.  The sun is so hot, I did exactly the same thing I once did in Spain which I vowed I would never do.  I have fried myself to a bright red and I am feeling faint, frail and a bit drunk.  I move like a zombie so my limbs don't touch my body.  I return to my room and having not learned my lesson, reason my only hope of relief is to swim naked in my pool.

The water is perfect and soothing. I float for an hour like a giant white starfish.  I didn't notice the groundskeeper raking on the other side of the brush and he didn't seem too shocked or concerned with the mound of Canadian flesh bobbing in the water so we silently agreed to just carry on.

I did, however notice movement in my bungalow and the rustling sounds of a housekeeper.  I decide to pretend I didn't and blissfully float along until I hear the patio doors shut and lock.

I bolt upright and stare in shocked disbelief as I realize my plight.  I yell out in my best Greek "Me sychoreite kyria!"  Excuse me madame! No kyria. No.

Yes.  Of course I am now locked out without clothes.  These sorts of moments seem to be standard fare in most of my days, so who am I kidding to be surprised?  I will be amused later, but in this particular moment I am not as I don't even have a towel.  

 I should note, the alter ego of the trickster spirit that sets up these events sometimes has the courtesy of leaving me a speck of dignity while I figure out the game.  I immediately scan the yard and spot the bright orange, yet transparent shawl I bought in Positano which I left on a lounger last night.   I climb out, snatch the cloth, wrap it around the most offensive bits of me and hope I can catch the housekeeper before she heads out the front door.  

I do not catch her, but I do meet the eyes of the two couples and their children who are having dinner on their front yard next to mine.  The same yard I had to cut through because mine has no exit.  Down the path I see the housekeepers chubby ass moving in harmony with her clattery cart.  I have no choice but to make chase.  I lose her in a damn adorable grove of trees and realize I may have to go to the office which will involve crossing the well populated pool area.

 Now dry, I stand there for a bit appreciating how much silk feels like sandpaper on molten flesh and want to just drop the thing and march across the compound naked and unapologetically.   I consider the children and opt to just stand there, when as if cued by angels, a familiar staff rounds the corner heading my way.  I wave her over, explain my plight and she laughs so insanely loud anyone who has not noticed me has come out to see what the hell is so funny.  I am sure they are not disappointed, surrender and park my bare ass on the stone stairs and wait for her return with a new key.

I finally retreat inside, glue my often shattered ego back into place and appreciate what a great story this might make some day.  I put on my clothes, step outside, introduce myself to the neighbours as if they had met my crazy room mate instead and head down for dinner.

The food here is vibrant and light. I relish a meal of eggplant, feta and fresh tomatoes with basil.  No wonder Greeks are so beautiful.  They laugh loudly, eat well and seem to love the most important things simple living has to offer.  

I hang around, drink more wine and watch darkness transform the grounds into a twinkling warm setting where a fairy tale wedding may have just wound down and me and the dog are the last guests to leave.

I count my blessing, wonder what possessed me to come this far across the globe, and thank the stars I did.

Nite.

Wednesday, August 19.

I woke up with a bit of a sniffle today which by noon evolved into a full blown sickness.  I wanted to go exploring and painting today, but it seems the fates have other plans for me so I've been sitting here shivering with fever in the lounge for the last couple of hours trying to finish this damn book.  I have never been simultaneously baked on the outside and from within and  am in no mood to appreciate the nonsense of it all, so I am trying to make the best of it.  There is a good chance it could have been avoided with a few wiser choices.  I repeat my promise that much as I love the water and sun, there is such a thing as much to much of both. I shall remind myself of my crispy days of Spain and being rendered immobile in Chalkadiki, buy a hat and some damn sunscreen and never let this happen again.

I spent most of the day in bed feeling sorry for myself and then went down to eat some yogurt and peaches.  It was so cold and delicious I wanted to smear it all over myself hoping it would do for my body what it was doing for my senses.  

A pomegranate dropped on my head again. I have no idea what all this fruit has against me. The white dog is still following me around.  His name is Bobo and he is not remotely affected by my mood or circumstance.  I appreciate that and we wander around taking photos which seems to be the only thing I am capable of today.

I am grouchy so I decide to go to the office and point out how the internet description boasts air conditioning and how it's not very nice I am left to swelter when I am clearly old and now invalid. The girl at the desk is too happy to abuse and I decide to be gentle and ask if there is a fan I can take to my room.  "The air conditioner is not working?" 

I ponder what she is suggesting for a moment.  This is my third day in the sauna and I have somehow overlooked an air conditioner?  Impossible.   I ask if there is an air conditioner and she smiles brightly "Nai!"  I am fevered and dizzy but I am sure she just said both yes and no.  I repeat the question, she easily reads the confusion in my face and answers "Nia! Yes of course!"  This mad woman is saying No, Yes of course!

I have a lot of these who's on first moments and I always resort to just standing there in silence because I can't imagine how else to phrase IS THERE A FREAKING AIR CONDITIONER OR NOT?????

She senses danger and touches my arm. "Is over the bed. Si? Yes?"

Si. 

Sometimes I tire of my own stupidity, but it is what it is, so I go to my room and turn on the giant, white, modern, and painfully obvious air conditioner which looms over the bed I have been baking in for the last 2 nights.

I strip down, and let it blow like a Canadian snow storm and after a very few minutes realize I have already have a serious fever chill, my teeth are chattering and this is probably not a good idea.  I put on my clothes, wrap the shawl around me and set my medication, kleenex and water on the end table.  I take the wool blanket from the wardrobe, the one from the couch and crawl in.  I drug myself up and watch a lizard crawl up the wall until neither of us care anymore.

Thursday, August 20

Woke up inside a sopping wet cocoon that smells like a sheep corpse.  The bird is squawking and I lay there for a bit to take inventory of my illness.  I know I woke up in the middle of the night because of some annoying nattering only to realize it was my own snoring, but other than that, I seem to feel better.  I don't really want to admit sleeping in a sauna for a few nights has cured me, but I will say, it might have and I secretly enjoy when the universe takes care of me when I clearly do not.  Left to my own brilliance, I would have run that air at full force the whole time straight to the land of pneumonia.  I get up happy to not in charge of my keep.

Bobo has chosen to eat with another woman this morning. I think my barking cough and rattling lungs have turned him off.   He looks over as if to say, "Hey, we had some fun, let's both just move on."  I can't be bothered telling him I am healed, so I ignore him and plan my day.  I have a lot of catching up to do and I am feeling good, so I am going on a road trip to Kassandra.

It's still early, so I decide to wander down the road to the market which I hallucinate is as lovely and ethnic as where I am. I get to the road and realize there is no sidewalk and don't remember coming in off a busy highway, but there it is.  The ditches are deep and there is nowhere to be but on the edge of the road, so after a few urgent honks and close calls, I decide to cross and walk facing traffic rather than get my head wacked off by the mirror of a truck.

The other side of the road is just as bad.  Cars and trucks race by and honk as if I am driving on the wrong side of the road.  I get tired of lifting my middle finger, and it comforts me to just walk with it saluting before the honks begin.   

The market is not charming.  It's a giant Costco deal squatting boldly and out of place between miles of sunflower fields.  That actually sounded pretty, so let me clarify,the field is not that big and  the sunflowers are long since dead and though they still appeal to me, they look like tragic sun fried soldiers, returning from war in perfect sombre rows.  Had I brought my phone, I would have taken some photos so I make a note to return later.

The store is boring inside, but it's so hot outside I am dripping with sweat and glad to be inside. I don't really need anything but waste a bit of time studying what Greeks snack on and consider buying a hat and sunscreen.  I feel so much like myself and my burn is losing it's sting, so of course I have no need for such things and buy a hot pink tube top instead so I can burn my bras at the first opportunity that presents itself.  I deem this a wise and prudent decision and trek back to Paradise.

Taxi drivers around the world are the same. I believe I hate them all.  This one has started with the usual cheery banter which I am supposed to be so taken with I tip him ridiculously.  Not today  pal.  I have become a wise and savvy traveller and your charms are wasted on me.  

I pay him a ridiculous fee regardless and climb down nothing short of a cliff to the beach of Kassandra.  I have never seen this sort of turquoise water.  I will never understand how something  crystal clear becomes turquoise but I accept the phenomenon, wiggle my toes in white soft sand and let the water consume me.

The water can't decide if it's hot or cold and I float in and out of pockets of both. Little schools fish wiggle pretending to have somewhere to go. The sky is bright and lovely.  Clouds don't seem to be allowed in Greece and I wonder how many absolutely cloudless days I have seen.  I decide none and float around like an air mattress for a long long time.  I hear me warning of sunburn agony, but I'm an idiot, so I float much longer until my body choses a new argument and seduces me out with hunger.

I wrap my bright orange shawl around me like a moo moo and hike around the town for a bit.  It's cute and unassuming.  People seem busy doing people things.  Store owners look bored and indifferent as to whether I come in or not.  The word Italy has been replaced by Greece on souvenir towels, keychains, bells and figurines, but it's all familiar. I make a note to find the identity of the guy with the giant penis is.  I spin displays I am not even interested in just for the sake of spinning them and conclude I am full of shopping and empty of food.

There is a restaurant overlooking the sea perched above the beach so I find a place by the railing and order fried zucchini and tzatziki.  I don't know who invented this stuff, but it has become my favourite and though we just met a few days ago, I crave it. I will only order food with tzatziki.  I don't even really care what the food is, it's that sauce I am after. I'm sure I would happily chow it down with a side of cardboard.  I feel the same way about Greek yogurt.  Greek yogurt is delicious.  I hate yogurt, but I must summize I have only tasted plastic pots of sludgy chemical impostors.  When I get back to Canada I will seek these two things out and I will eat them every day for the rest of my life.  I will never eat indoors again or without white linen.  I am no longer a savage.

Down in the water there is an ancient little Greek in a speedo who is heading out into the water.  The waves are thwapping his dangling little boobs as he marches on.  This amuses me.  

I found a pretty little place to paint an egg.  It's a whitewashed stone wall with a flowering vine dripping from it so I got a glass of wine and painted my first Greek egg.  On the way home, we drove along the shore and I wondered where the men only beach was.  I wondered what the men do at said beach and assumed it must be like these old boy clubs where they smoke cigars and act all cool except without walls or a roof.  I don't want to go there anyway and try to lock the views of Greek shores and sand into my skull.

I return to Chalkadiki and the bird welcomes me home.  I look up into trees trying to track this phantom once and for all, but he eludes me with sudden silence so I head back to my bungalow.  I hear one last mocking squawk in the distance and decide this is now personal and shall resume the hunt tomorrow.

I decided to go back to the sunflower field to take some photos.   I braved the traffic once more and in spite of great caution and knowing better, took a short cut into the field down a grassy hill only to slide on my ass in the wet ditch below. The climb out was as steep as the tumble in.  So much for short cuts.  

I am not one to really care about my appearance when on adventures, so I disregard my muddy ass and matted hair.  As I introduce myself to these soldiers and maidens who tower above me, I imagine they wanted me to look familiar and the mud slide was just a little welcoming rite of passage so I would fit in.

The sun started setting as the sun does, and where most people would surmise darkness will follow, I heed no warning and happily walk further and further from civilization in the crowd, obliviously clicking away.

I regret not seeing the sunflowers of Europe in all their glory but every stage of their lives is beautiful and though the field started to get a bit wet under foot and reminded me of our fields at home where your shoes can fall victim to the sucking pull of the mire, I press into the unknown.  Just as I become aware of how quickly darkness is descending I find the reason the muses have lured me out so far.  No higher than my knee, one little sunflower in rebellious youth  and regal form looks up at me as if to say, "Thanks for coming out to see me.  I deserved to be seen."  

I laughed and sighed and revelled in the moment, took some photos, kissed him goodbye and dark as it was, headed contently toward the sound of traffic. 

There must be some acoustic phenomenon that happens in a sunflower field after dark.  The sound of traffic seemed to be coming from every direction I turned.  I actually don't even know if I turned. In retrospect, I probably walked in a concentric circles for an hour.  Those lovely maidens started to look like busy body gossips who were discussing a certain fool who cannot seem to exist without getting lost every day.  Those gentle leaves that shook my hand in greeting earlier seemed to be pushing me around now like bullies in a school yard.  The stately soldiers glared indifferently to my plight and offered solace nor direction.

It is a very unnerving thing to be lost in anything taller than yourself.  There was no restaurant in which to sit down and regroup with a map and a glass of wine so I decided to stop and think. 

I remembered seeing the fields from the road.  They did not go on for miles as my trek would suggest.  I remembered the market on one side, trees on the other and a plowed field beyond.  My spider senses deduced that because I had not reached the road or any of the options, I am incapable of walking in a straight line.

This was valuable insight and so I decided to follow an actual row of sunflowers instead of meandering in and out.  All of a sudden, like gracious ushers, who moments ago were looking like Freddy Krugers to me, bowed with outstretched arms along the rut that would be my path to safety and sanity.  

Of course I did not come out at the road, the market or the plowed field.  I came out into the tree line which separated it from the resort!  Oh how clever was I!  I was so clever, that after 15 minutes of trying to walk a straight line through not only trees, but the heavy brush and brambles that lay beyond.

It was as if every burr, branch and bug was determined to leave it's mark on me.  I came out of the wilderness into the dining area where the few people eating dinner (including my neighbours) pretended not to see me or wonder what I was up to today.  It was only when I got back to my room and saw my reflection that I appreciated the courtesy.  My hair was randomly pointing here and there, I had scratches and bulging bites on my face and arms, my shoes were ringed with mud and my ass was now a dried mud orb.  I squinted my eyes and realized I could pass for a massive dead sunflower myself. 

 Showered, fed, warm and composed in the safety of my room, I will gladly confess I am now afraid of sunflowers. I should be afraid of myself, but fools are not that bright.  

I close my diary, say my prayers and am thankful for another day completely well spent.

Nit

Friday, August 21

This is my last day in Chalkadiki.  I have been at the pool people watching all day.  I noticed the men talk to each other and not much to the women.  The kids seem to love the men and get scolded and kissed often by the women.  There is always food and drink. Bits of this and that, then more of that and a little more of this.  I like the sound of the Greeks.  I have no idea what they are saying, but I like watching them burst into laughter.  For a moment I think they are talking about me and narrow my eyes. They are not.  Or are they?

I cannot pin a look on the Greek people.  I expected them all to look like my friend Sofi or Tommy her beloved.  These two are pretty darn attractive and though I have seen a few Sofi impersonators, and some well crafted Greek men, the majority are as random as anywhere else.  There is something I can't identify and it may not be a physical attribute, but different as they appear, they still look good.  It could be the way they carry themselves or how fit and tanned most seem, but even the pudgy and the unattractive have a certain wonderful air about them.  

The sun is hiding and it's time to pack up, book a car and move on.   I finished my book and sorry I read it. 

I am sitting under this heavenly Greek night sky eating walnuts and feta on toasted bread.  I have wine, you, Bobo and no desire for anything else.  I have loved my time here. I count my blessings and pray the next great invention comes from Greece and that it is big enough to heal their economy and celebrates the glory of this place.

Nite

Saturday, August 22

Thanks Chalkidiki for a truly wonderful time. This morning there was a basket of white hard boiled eggs as if to say, "We want to be painted too!"  I steal one. I wish I had a laptop so I could blog, but that would mean less time by the sea, less yogurt eating, dog sitting and painting.  So it will wait until I get home. I would have missed so much.

I head toward the office with Bobo in tow to settle my debt.  I hear a fig drop behind me.  A miss.  I hear the bird and can't stand the defeat of not tracking him down.  

As I pay the bill and say good bye, the bird is squawking relentlessly.  I stand out front waiting for my car and peering up into trees.  One of my favourite waiters sees me and peers up with me.  I explain I am looking for this noisy bird that I hear every day and who is somewhere close but has suddenly shut up again.  He smiles in recognition, pats my shoulder and says "He is here! In the house!" He leads me around the side of the house and there on the porch, hidden among the trees we meet.

I approach the cage and there he sits, like a cocky little comedian on his perch looking at me.  He's a parrot or something.  He got kicked out of the house for being a loudmouth.  I can relate and I pretend he is happy to meet me.  He jumps around a bit and then lets out his signature squawk and though I am tempted to squawk back, I just say good bye and let his ranting fade into the distance as walk toward the car that will lead me toward my next adventure.

Later

THE PERILS OF POMPEII

Sunday, August 16

Umberto greeted me with a big smile and the tiniest coffee in the world.  Is there an espresso shortage in Italy?  I feel like we are having a childhood tea party, but gulp it down, ending the fantasy instantly.  The drive from Positano is pretty quick and though there is a threat of rain, I am oddly excited to see this ruin.

I have always enjoyed a good ruin.  Canada does not have many.  I could probably count my studio or clothes closet as such.  There is something charming and wonderful to me about old and broken things.  Like gateways to ancient secrets and flights of fancy, they light my imagination and conjure all manner of fears and wonder.

The plan was to meet in the cafe by the parking lot at 3pm. Confidently leaving  my worldly possessions in his care, Umberto ushered me through the gate and left me to explore.

I cannot stress how important it is to get a mappe and an audio guide, so one does not have to wish walls could talk.  Unless you are a scholar in such things, you will miss the spirit of the whole adventure.  I already had a map, so when an old Italian offered me one and I refused, he said "You stupido! You won't know anyzing! Screw you old guy, I am a master of preparation.

On August 24, a day after Vulcanalia, the festival of the Roman god of fire fell victim to the rage of the volcano Vesuvius in 79AD.  Molten rock and pumice spewed from the volcano at a devastating rate of 1.5 million tons per second.  It was excavated much later revealing a city taken by surprise and frozen in it's last moments by fatal gasses and then buried in pumice and ash.  

The streets of Pompeii are tricky to walk, so I opt for the gutter and peek into small and grande homes complete with stone beds, welcoming hearths and bits of furniture.  Together, they evoke a simplified reflection of any given community with homes, shops, theatres, parks and monuments. It is amazing to think our basic creature comforts have not really changed.

La mappa is a tricky riddle on it's own. It doesn't seem to match the roads I am walking along.  There are sign posts here and there that point  like the forest in the wizard of oz. I can go this way, or that.  Like my map, the signs are equally indifferent about my journey.  I make my choices and often end up blocked by steel or bright orange fencing and retrace my steps often.  I find the baths, The House of the Fauns, The Temple of Apollo and The House of The Tragic poet with it's ancient "beware of dog" mosaic.  Many of the sculptures and other artifacts have been moved to galleries and replaced by impostors.  I am okay with that.

The Forum Granary is said to have been a market, but now stores neat rows of vessels and bowls on scaffold wooden shelves. Statues, pillars, an ancient cart and the bodies that didn't make the cut for display fill the floor space.  It looks like an abandoned garage sale. I consider the age of these things and how well preserved they are after 2,000 years.  It amazes me since I can't keep a wine glass in tact for more than a week.

Pompeii is not without it's sexy little secrets.  If you are like me, you do a bit of research before you visit a place.  This documentary embellished my visit in scandal and sex:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uHuFYYO4go.  I was desperate to visit the Lupenar (the den of the she wolves), the oldest brothel in the world. Apparently, the place is full of bars, brothels and sexual images including a few penis portraits carved into roadways and over doorways.  

There are so many areas of Pompeii that are blocked it is annoying and though peering through chain link fence is making me cross-eyed, it adds to the menacing spirit of the place and gives it a  sense of a present day disaster.   

I abandon my map and decide to let the time worn streets lead me where they will.  I start to imagine the tourists as residents and replace their sunny attire with togas and sandals.  They move in and out of buildings, rest against walls, or stoop to pet stray dogs.  I fancy myself a ghost and smile to myself as I float amongst them.  I try to feel the confusion of a sudden snowfall of ash beginning and the ensuing panic as people began to flee this place.  I wonder why so many stayed and the horror of being consumed by poisonous gas.  I look up at Vesuvius and sense a bizarre arrogance.  No matter where I wander, I sense the ominous dragon is watching only me.   I feel like Jack creeping around the sleeping giant.  I hallucinate a smug and sinister whisper  "I did that." 

 I  pick up my pace and finally arrive at The Garden of The Fugitives.  At first, it reminds me of a George Segal display, but these are not modern artworks to be fawned over.  They are the plaster encased bodies of real people frozen in fear by a violent act of nature.  Some are displayed in glass boxes and others on bizarre stilts like a human butterfly collection.  

Something about this unnerves me completely. It's clear the most expressive bodies have been chosen for this display to elicit a certain response, and though I appreciate historic value,  there is something very intrusive and dishonouring  about it all.  These deaths were horrific and the idea of that last intimate moment of life being displayed for a price seems so insensitive.  I try to give each a moment of compassion, think of my children and leave sombre and tearful.

The sun dries my eyes, but moments later a drizzling rain begins dotting the ancient path.  I ask the time, and as fate would have it, it's time to meet Umberto, so I thank the rain for the reminder and join the exodus to the parking lot.

Hardly to my surprise, I feel disoriented and nothing looks familiar, so I walk for a bit, verify I have no idea where I am and return to the gate.  I ask a guard if there is another exit. "Si, ci sono  quattro." There are 4.  "Posso tonare?"  No lady, you can't come back in but walk along the road and you will find them. "Grazie."

I walk for hours but none of the exits look familiar.  I come full circle and pass my starting place, eliminating it with confidence and walk hastily in the now pouring rain back to exit 2, 3, 4.  For the third time, I find myself staring blindly at my original point of departure. I am 3 hours late and the sense of panic which has been rising is about to erupt.

I hate carrying stuff, so I have left my purse, phone, water, money and suitcase in the car.  I try not to think of Umberto being long gone and as the gates close and darkness begins it's descent, I remember the first words I heard in Pompeii.  "Stupido."

I am not sure why, but I seem to have demons that like to take me to the edge of darkness and angels who whisper rescue direction in the nick of time like invisible super heroes.

Standing soaking and pitiful as a child lost in a mall, I take in my surroundings and have an epiphany. Umberto did not leave me at an exit.  He left me at an ENTRANCE!  

I pivot slowly and hopefully look in the opposite direction.  Like a mirage it's appearance makes me giddy and wild eyed.   I KNOW THIS PLACE! The ticket booth I walked through, the little cafe, the rack of wooden penises! It's all here and so am I!  I run drunkenly toward the parking lot.  I see the tree we parked beside. I remember how it blocked my door and we pulled forward and I stepped out into a puddle instead! I have never felt endeared by a puddle, but when I saw it I cried like a joyful idiot.  It wasn't so much the puddle, it was the car sitting in it, which partly to my chagrin, but more to my joy, proudly displayed my purse, passport and phone on the driver seat. 

Two old italians watching from the cafe waved me over babbling and chuckling in drunken italian.  The only word I understood as they lifted a glass of cold limoncello to me was "Umberto."

And like a vision, there stood my salvation. 

In his Italian english he scolded me and comforted me.  In like manner I explained my plight and he put his arm around me sympathetically and sighed "mama mia Nancy. Attenzione!"

As we walked toward the car I asked if he would have left me.

"Si Nancy. Si.

On the way to Naples he told me he had the police announce my name.  Nancy Zimmerman, Nancy Zimmerman, Nancy Zimmerman. You no come. Nancy Zimmerman, Nancy Zimmerman.

 As I was not on the grounds, rather circling them like a deranged hyena, the calls were as lost as  I had been.  He went on to tell me how the streets around Pompeii are no place to wander as the Naples Mafia has a stronghold there are gang gun fights and all manner of shady dealings go on outside the gates.  He tells me of a tourist bus that once got caught in the crossfire.  He relentlessly continues to poison my newfound sense of security from Pompeii to Naples. 

 When Umberto   leaves me at the train he hugs me, kisses both my cheeks and tells me.

"No, Nancy.  I never leave you."

POSITANO

Friday, August 14

Arrived in Positano exhausted and delirious.  Umberto loaded me on to a golf cart at the edge of town as cars are not allowed on most of the streets. A happy little Italian boy drove me up and down the winding walkways where charming shops entice with jewels, sandals and all pretty things.  White linen dresses dance in the breeze and the smell of lemons is everywhere. Bright flowering vines of fuscia and violet drip from window sills and over doorways. We pass under trees heavily laden with olives, lemons, passion fruit and figs.  

Along the beach there are  colourful fishing boats and all manner of beautiful tanned people strutting along. There are just as many fat corpses lounging and baking in the sun.  Looking up toward the hills, the houses look like coloured marshmallows randomly squished and stacked upon each other.  The smell of pizza baking entices as we pass a row of beach cafes.  My apartment is fabulous. It's the entire bottom floor of a gorgeous beach house.  As he drops me off, the boy felt to gossip the Princess of Spain is staying in the other half, and to inform me I owe him 20 euro for a half mile ride.  I fork it over and pretend that bit never happened. 

 I have a porch that looks over the sea? I have no idea what water I am looking at, but it's beautiful. It's only 4pm, and I cannot wait to unpack, get into my swim suit and hit the water!  My body is aching from Vesuvius.  I don't remember using my arms or teeth on the trek, but everything hurts and I am sure the water can cure me.

So this is how the swim went down;

Everyone feels a little uncomfortable the first time they put on their bathing suit.  It takes a bit of convincing before one gets comfortable.  We wear big hats and cover ups and don giant sunglasses to hide our identities. But when it is a thousand degrees all bets are off.  Body image is no longer an issue.  It becomes a simple matter of survival.  So down to the beach I march.  

There are translucent masses and rolls of dimpled white flesh taking every opportunity to ooze and escape from my sausage casing. My hair is frizzed like a fur ball and flying in as many directions it can.  I have worn no cover, no hat, no glasses no shoes.  It is what it is and I have come to frolic.  

A little wooden planked path leads to the shore.  It's hot, but there are puddles and wet footprints so I try to prance from one to another. The path runs out, I take my first step and  finally experience the beach of Positano.

The beach at Positano is bullshit!  My feet already hurt from Vesuvius.  Now I have jammed them on to stones that feel more like shards of glass.  Shards of glass fresh out of the fire.  I consider going back to the path, but the water is so close, I hobble and dance my way in.  The water is as cold as ice.  I am in so much shock my body doesn't know what to react to and I try to levitate.  I cannot, and my feet refuse  surrender to take all this, surrender and throw my wobbly chubby body into 6 inches of water.  Icy jagged little stones poke my fat so hard I expect to start oozing butter like a sieve. I  can't stand up and I can't swim in 6 inches of water so I flounder and flop around a bit and try to crawl my way into deeper water.  The flopping continues for 20 feet or so and finally I am free.  I am freezing, but I am free.  

I look back at the shore at faces debating whether or not to save me.  I give them the all clear by dazzling them with a brisk swim, a quick flip and end with a seductive back float.  I have become a mermaid.  I drift along, watching the clouds, letting the paralysis of the cold numb the flesh wounds.   I float for a long time. I love the water.  There is something quite magical about how water accepts me.  It soothes and restores me.  I have some of my most beautiful thoughts and daydreams while floating around like an astronaut.  I bump my head on a dock, stand on one brave toe and consider how to navigate my return to shore.  I don't think I can.  I think about climbing up on the dock, but there are fishermen there so it's not a good idea to flop up lest they think I am the catch of the day and hack me up before they realize I'm just a fat lady.

I have no choice but to drift in as far as I can, wobble up and make a run for it.  I think of those fire walkers.  I think of Magnum PI in a bath of hot water with his chinese wife telling him to accept.  Accept.  So I ride a wave like a giant Mozzarella ball being pushed ruthlessly along a grater.  I stand up and check if my nipples are still in tact.  I make a run for it, fall, flub around a bit, and make to the shore.  I swear my way back to the path, gather my composure and strut like a boss back to my apartment.  

As I walk along the side of the house, I am pelted with a fig.  I look around for a smartassed brat and am immediately hit again.  The wind picks up and I am peppered by flying figs from the trees around me. A sole passion fruit joins in the fun and I begin to resent the fruits of Positano. 

The building is incorporated into a mountain, so part of my hallway is just rock.  It's very cool and I suddenly feel like a legitimate explorer. 

Sat out on the beach eating spinach ravioli and drinking limoncello watching the sunset. I wonder how God might top this when a random little kitten wandered by. There are stray cats all over Positano. They are adorable little orphans who get an enormous amount of affection and add to the charm of this lovely little place.  I can watch the sky for hours.  It's dark now and the sky is filling with stars I have never met.  I love being alone for this sort of thing. 

Nite

SATURDAY, AUGUST 15

I adore these little shops. I don't buy anything, but I appreciate their efforts.  I resent they are all on a mountain and it requires going up and down ancient stairs all day, but they are so full of curious things I spend hours wandering and then hours more trying to figure out how to get back to the beach.  I am tempted to buy a linen dress and hallucinate parading around looking like Sophia Loren.  

It amuses me how my insides never seem to really accept the aging of my exterior.  Once upon a time I was young and cute enough.  I don't remember having any body issues.  On the contrary, my friend Sonya and I used to sit in a ditch where pervs would leave their old Playboys and we would compare notes and measurements.  We were both arrogant enough to agree there was nothing these women had we didn't and they were so much older, so the whole concept of girly magazines was completely lost on us.  That said, we did get older.  Sonya still looks like a million bucks.  I look about $17.50 and I am, for no good reason okay with it all.  I decide not to buy a dress.  It's too hot here for clothes.  Spectators can suffer and I can't see me, so I channel Sophia and carry on.

I  went down to the beach to dip my shoed feet in the water. I thought about pirates and perhaps taking a boat tour.  The beach is so much better with shoes.  I looked down and a little gold ring washed up at my feet. The sea loves me after all.  By the way, it is  called the Tyrrhenian Sea.  According to mythology, the cliffs above house the 4 winds.  Said winds throw fruit.

There are big market stalls full of candy on the beach.  I did not understand this until this afternoon.  Is weed legal here or are the cigarettes just horribly misshapen? The scent suggests there is a lot of pot smoking going on in Positano, and the stairways are dripping with bikini clad Margot Kidder look-a-likes giggling and swaying with their own words.  There are also a lot of straw hats with lemons on them.  The two things are not connected, I just noticed and thought you should know.

Tonight there was a festival in my honour.  Fine, not in my honour but by serendipitous coincidence, it happens once a year and I happen to be here, so clearly some Roman God wanted me to attend.  There was music and a firework display rising over the water which lit up all the little boats and massive yachts anchored in the darkness.  Not to be outdone, when it was over God decided to put on a show of his own with an awe inspiring storm.  I feel warmed and loved by this beautiful world.

Nite

I attached the last sighting of my diary.  I attempted a panorama.  Note the note I left myself.

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

VESUVIUS

Friday, August 14

I hired a driver to take me from Naples to Positano because I wanted to climb  Mount Vesuvius on the way and look down into it's crater.  Umberto is a charming conman and a ridiculously flirty Sicilian beast.  As soon as I got in the car, he told me I had a beautiful smile and that my eyes sparkled like a child.  Anyone who knows me is well aware of the scowl I sport and the chronic squint of my eyes from denying the need for glasses. However, like any woman, I appreciate a good lie.  

Umberto's english is fair.  My Italian is worse, but thanks to a fancy little translator ap and my mad pantomime and drawing skills, we were able to communicate.  His favourite line seemed to be "Attenzione!" It meant "look over there, look over here, watch your purse", but mostly it meant "Nancy, shut up and listen to me!" I tried to explain my quest and why I carried an egg.  He seemed confused at first and once it registered, he said "Yes! Like Easter!"  Yes Umberto like Easter. 

The drive from Naples to Vesuvius is glorious and often ridiculously high. En route we stopped at every Limoncello stand we could find.  The lemons in Italy are like grapefruits and some clever Italian realized it was easier to make booze out of them rather than grapes. Limoncello is served cold as ice in tiny glasses.  When I get home, I will invent the limoncello slurpie. 

As he knew I was an old woman heading up a mountain, Umberto thoughtfully packed me a bottle of ice water, a towel and a croissant.  I had enough to lug, but he had clearly been through this before, so I thanked him and started my toddle up the hill.

Vesuvius is steep and covered in thick small stones like a shitty beach.  There are old Italians who try to sell you sticks along the way.  Not the selfie sticks they peddle relentlessly across Europe, but common garden variety sticks to help you navigate the terrain.  I saw many perfectly fit, tired, wet people come smiling down toward me confidently skiing along.  I don't need a stick. I am a morbidly obese woman pushing 60, why would I need a stick?  

I get up about 100 yards and can neither walk, nor breath.  I am soaked in sweat, parched, and have fallen thrice.  I consider going back for a stick but decide to take a drink and move on.  The water weighs 10 pounds.  It's one of those giant bottles and as I put it to my lips anticipating it's refreshment, I realize the water is frozen solid.  I am devastated.   Halfway up after tiring of licking the outside of the bottle, I toss it's frozen corpse.  I want to toss my paints, my egg and my clothes, but I recall the quest and continue dragging my fat ass up the mountain.  There are fat little black pigs who run up and down this mountain all day, inspired, I figure if they can do it so can I.

I misread the smiling faces of those coming down the mountain.  The higher you get, the sadder and more miserable everyone looks.  There are no more joyful waves of camaraderie. It's every human for themselves.  I stop often and pretend to take photos or to empty at least half of the stones in my shoes.  This isn't really fun at all and  the thrill of adventure has known better to join me and returned to the van.

I replace it with stubbornness and continue to the top. Glistening bodies are strewn against every possible leaning place or laid out where they landed along the path. The sound of people guzzling water echoes from the crater. I peer out from the towel I have been wearing like Mother Mary for the last hour and try to regain some dignity.  I am so thirsty I want to lick the sweat off a man who has stripped down to his shorts.  I brought no money, so I opt for the free coffee and hot chocolate they offer.  Yes, HOT coffee.

The crater is really spectacular.  I enjoy a moment of pride and satisfaction.  I have completed the first thing on my list of things to see and do.  I feel empowered and smug.

Reasonably restored, I set my egg on a log and get to it. I chose a brown egg because I think I am funny.  Brown as if it was sunburned and baked by lava.  It doesn't seem funny anymore. Sweat is dripping into my eyes and I feel faint so I only get the impression of the thing, I will finish it in the hotel.  I abort, toss it into the abyss, and steal a stone from the ridge.  I get the feeling Vesuvius thought I was an egg throwing thief and a little tremor of fear inspires me to head down.

The people coming up look pitiful and pleading, so I cheer them on.  Most have no idea what I am saying, but they smile weakly.  Some respond, and I feel I have inspired them, but for all I know, they are swearing at me.  By the time I see the finish line, I am practically skipping, patting the backs of incomers and boasting of the awe which awaits them.  They smile enthusiastically with their dry shirts, hair in place and sticks dug in ready for the jaunt.  I remember being in their stoneless shoes. Under my breath I mutter, "Suckers."

I take one more tumble and deliriously flail my way to the car.  I feel stoned. Umberto ensures all of my ass is in the car, buckles me up and puts an ice cold towel on my head.  I smile like a simpleton, close my eyes and pass out.

I wake up at another limoncello stand with Umberto smiling over me with a tiny glass.  He tells me he watched me coming down the mountain and that my legs look like Mozzarella sticks.  Our relationship is evolving to a more truthful state.

 If you ever want to climb Vesuvius, do it in the morning or in winter.  Do it naked and have someone else carry water.  Lose the sunglasses, they will feel like welding gear in an hour.  Even a hotel key will feel like an iron ball. Most importantly, it is probably a good idea not to get all giddy on limoncello before a monster climb in 100 degree weather. The brochures warn that the crater is often covered in fog and the winds kick the sand up often and violently, so I am thankful it was a calm, clear day and very glad I did it.

I am also thankful for my first sun kiss.  I haven't had a suntan in years and though the drape of my veil has left me with one red stripe down the middle of my face, with white rings all along my chins, it makes me look like the warrior I am.

Nite 

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

NAPLES

THURSDAY, AUGUST 13

Got up early to catch the train to Naples. I really like train travel. It's easy to navigate, clean and comfy.  No matter what scenery drifts by the window, I find so much looks like home.  Fields of corn and wheat, little ponds and dirt paths, all manner of farm animals and the glorious sun looking over it all.  I have just caught my first glimpse of Vesuvius.  We do not have that in Canada.

Naples is a dirty little city.  For all the sweeping and laundry hanging over balconies and strung across alleys you would think it would be.  This amuses me.  The streets are very narrow and I have no idea how traffic signs work.  Apparently the little green man is not walking.  He is running.  It is an option, even a dare to try to cross.  It's like the lions and the Christians. These Italians would love me to step into the crosswalk of death. Most of these little cars are at least missing mirrors and sport all manner of dents that I can only assume are from bodies bounced across piazzas.

There are lots of handsome, dark googly eyed men and Italian women confidently clicking their high heels along this cobblestone I can only seem to stumble on.  The tourist women who try to imitate the Italians look like cripples hobbling and lurching in their knock off heels.

I wandered through little alleys and shops for a few hours until I came across a massive fish market.  I hate the smell of fish and I hate the taste of the slimy little bastards even more.  When I was little my dad tried to force this crap on me.  I saw no need at all to consume such horror and every Friday of my childhood we had Fish night Fish fight.  I was happy to trade dead fish for spanking and starving.  My mom really liked me and took pity on me one fine Friday.  She was busy at the stove cooking the vile flesh in molten lava and called me over.  Without a word, she plopped a glob of batter into the oil and smiled.  It fizzled and fought until it found it's place on my plate.  A perfect imposter.  At first, I started to gobble it down. Who doesn't love flour and water saturated in hot oil? When the king looked at me with obvious victory in his eyes.  I realized I had better do my best I hate this crap impersonation, so I gave him the satisfaction of watching me pretend to choke it down.  The ruse continued until  I was old enough to learn to just stay away from home on Friday nights.  Trying to navigate a fish market in Naples is like trying to get the hell out of Ikea.  I am sure there are people who have been trapped in those stores for years, wandering like Zombies now from bedroom to kitchen to bedroom to kitchen.

I'm out.  I can breathe again, but I feel completely violated. My rule when lost, and I most certainly am, is to remember to get a map next time and to park in a restaurant, act like I am not, and regroup.

 There are little cafes everywhere and they all sound like Babel to me.  So many languages singing together and I cannot eavesdrop on any.  There are honeymooners everywhere. I am the only one alone.  Oh the pitiful looks.  I hear an American couple arguing.  Another two sit and stare bored and tired of each other.  They are probably thinking this would be great if they were here with someone else. I enjoy being alone. I am quite shellfish that way. ;)  If there was someone with me, all day long I would have to ask, "What do you want to do today?…what about now?….what about later?" I do as I please and I rarely give myself grief over the agenda.  It reminds me of a golf trip with a bunch of women regularly cued up to  call their spouses.  I had a spouse at the time, but I envied Fargo who did not.  She stood smiling and waiting all smugly like only a happy singlet can,  so I forced her to call herself and leave a message telling her she was fine and was having a great time.  She said she was probably pissed because she didn't answer, and we carried on such nonsense the whole week.  Fargo, you better pick up something nice for yourself or you're gonna get an earful when you get home…etc etc.

 I sip my wine and relish  my first Italian pizza.  It did not disappoint and reminded me of my pint sized Italian grandmother whom I could not understand, but who enchanted me.  We went to her house every Sunday for dinners of pasta.  She would give us each a shot glass of wine and we would pretend to be drunken fools.  There were seven children in our family and she and my grandfather were wonderful to us all.  After dinner we would pile into the living room, sit on the floor and eat fat cheese sandwiches with warm milky tea.  We watched My Favourite Martian followed by The Ed Sullivan Show and eagerly awaited Topo Gigo to say goodnight. I was taller than my grandmother by the age of 9.  I remember her offering my sister (who loved animals) a fat chicken.  She was so excited and we both nodded enthusiastically YES PLEASE!  With that, she smiled, broke it's neck, handed it over and toddled off toward the house.  Her suggestion for dinner was lost in translation and we have both been scarred for life by a tiny little Italian.

Back in my hotel with my brand new map.  Here's a travel tip: If you download a great map of Naples in Canada, bring it with you next time. I'm sitting up on the rooftop bar contemplating the odds of hard boiled eggs for breakfast.

Nite

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

ROME

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 12

It's 11am here. I slept til 3, got up, found coffee and pondered my situation.  I pondered why I always feel the need to write "got up."  Obviously I got up or I wouldn't be writing much now would I? 

I'm on one of the greatest inventions known to man.  The Hop on Hop off Bus.  I love these wonders!  No matter where I go, there they are.  It is the first thing I do on a trip.  I get the lay of the land. It's like an urban safari.  I see my reflection in store windows and feel rather powerful and clever.  The locals who look up at these things have contempt and mockery in their eyes.  They are fools.  Would they rather I pepper them with direction requests in my fancy broken Italian? I think not.

I can identify tourists by their fancy hats.  None of us brought a hat so we all had to buy one for 100 bucks at the souvenir stands.  We had no idea Italy was so freaking sunny and so freaking hot.  We actually did know.  Others told us and we googled it, but we didn't really absorb how important the temperature would be.  We are also fat so we are sweaty and smiley.  We point at everything.  I am at the back of the bus and there is so much pointing I have nothing but John Travolta and Grease songs running through my head.

I wandered around the Colosseum, Circus Maximus and the Trevi Fountain, which is under construction but people are still tossing coins.  It amuses me because some are just landing in wheel barrels or bouncing off the fence so kids are swiping them.  By the time the person turns around all smiles that their wish will come true, I want to run over and go HAHA! like that kid on the Simpsons and tell them how it really went down.  But I don't do that because I have left my cynicism and nastiness in Canada. I decided that I would be the happy traveller who loves it all and no matter what happens I will respond positively and smiley so nothing but good karma follows me around.  I decided that after calling the cab driver a thief, but it's never too late to begin.

There is an amazing amount of graffiti here, so tomorrow I plan to tag this shit. hehehe.  When in Rome and all.

Found a very cool joint and ate a massive plate of spaghetti.

So ends a marvellous day in Rome.  I didn't see it all, but I am coming back, so hold that thought.

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

A DOZEN EGGS PLEASE

My only travel companion was an egg.  We walked up Vesuvius, fried under the Greek sun, got rained on in Belgium, visited museums and ruins, stood on glaciers, and accidentally slid down grassy hills in Tuscany.  We've been pushed around in all manner of busy cities and sat in silent awe before the works of masters in countless galleries. We picked up souvenir stones from every earth and stole flowers from Monet's garden.  We pondered in Pompeii and rain through the rain in Wales. The eggs endeared me as much as Wilson in Castaway and deserve this page of their own.

I can't stress enough what excellent models eggs make.  Their shells reflect light beautifully and once stripped, they have a lustre that holds it like a jewel.  On very bright days, the yolk within seems to glow with the very light of the sun, like when you hold your hand up to the light and can see your life blood coursing through your veins.  All this beauty is not without it's problems.

Peeling an egg perfectly is not easy with talons.  More often than not I slashed the slithery flesh or gouged a wound into them that rendered them unacceptable and had to be devoured.  The first egg I painted was in Naples on the rooftop bar of my hotel.  It was a beautiful morning and people were filing out for breakfast.  I stole my first egg there.  I set up my paints and perched the egg on the ledge. I try to just get the egg and the sky for starts, the buildings I can finish on trains or late at night in hotels.  I have to say, there is a moment or two of embarrassment when perching eggs and no one knows around knows why.  Even when they see I am about to paint it, they are still unsure as to the why.  There is always an audience and it surprises me how very few actually ask.  I would ask. I was certainly a novelty.  My eggs and I were photographed often.  I can only imagine the story they tell when they don't know the story.

As I paint, the world slips away. and on more than one occasion, like in Naples, the egg itself slipped away. In that case, down seven floors on to the sidewalk.  I heard no scream so I assume it was a miss.  The man by the pool below me in Santorini was not as fortunate.  I dared not look over the balcony, but from the "Bloody Hell!" that rose from below, I knew I had hit a Brit.  I did not go down to swim that day and decided to find a spot where casualties would be less likely.

Once I became a master at stealing eggs from breakfast buffets, I had to learn to stop them from escaping perches.  Where they hoped to go was beyond me, but they all seemed to have leaving on their minds.  Like lemmings, they were hellbent on suicide.  I got very good at  nibbling off the bottom so they would sit up straight and stay in place.  When the only eggs I could get were raw, I sat them in beer caps. 

As I didn't know the place I wanted to paint until I saw it, I sometimes carried an egg in my pocket all day.  I would get distracted or wander into a museum and forget about it all together.  More than once I found myself sitting on a train staring out the window and thinking, "Man Nanc, you are in desperate need of a shower."  It's really hot in Italy and Greece and you can only know how bad a hard boiled egg in your pocket smells after 10 hours if you experience it.  Once discovered, there is the problem of hiding the body.  Not all trains have little garbage cans on the back of the seats and not all museums have garbage cans.  To make the drop, one has to get creative.  I left them on windowsills, in ashtrays, on railings and in phone booths.  Phone booths amused me most and I hallucinate they are all still there, like little fat friendly greeters or homeless little beggers coming in from the Swiss cold.

I loved the eggs. They all had different little quirks and funny stories of their own. I wished I could have kept them.  I thought about it later and realized I could have pickled them, but I doubt I loved them that much and my children would not appreciate the inheritance.  I am not a fan of souvenirs, but throughout the trip I had my eye out for the perfect souvenir.  I had stones from most places and the flowers from Monet's garden, but I wanted something that could represent the essence of  the whole experience.  Not to much to ask.  

Walking around in Strasbourg,  I found a shop that sold chess sets.  I like chess.  Perhaps a chess set is what I should get.  I wandered around fiddling with all sorts of beautifully carved pieces and contemplating.  The man at the counter asked what I was looking for and I told him I had no idea but that I thought it might be in here.  I decided that if I wanted a chess set I would take his card and order on line.  As I approached him, there on the table sat a small bowl with three white alabaster eggs in it.  I stole one.  

Come on, I didn't steal it! I bought it fair and square and walked around like the Cheshire cat fondling my luscious catch in my pocket like a man about to propose. 

The egg paintings are on 5 by 7 inch canvasses. Small enough to carry in my 5 by 8 inch purse.  It also holds my 5 by 7 diary which is why I purchased those uglies. I tell you this because I only brought 15 canvasses, believing that Europe would be flooded with art supply stores and reinforcements would be easy to find.  They are not and they are not.  

I eagerly painted too many paintings in the first few weeks, but I had to start rationing canvasses and making tough choices about which cities I wanted to paint in.  I am sorry London, like Milan and Venice I had to cut you from the roster. 

By the time I got my egg to the Hauge, I only had one canvas left and it was too dear to squander.  It was also time for my visit with my dear friend Rembrandt.  I was saving this canvas for him though I was not sure what I was going to do.  I could paint an egg in his loose wild style or perch it on a window sill outside his home.  I had no big plan except to save it for him.

I spent a long time in Rembrandts house. I touched everything, looked out his windows, lusted after his easel, imagined jumping on his tiny bed and greeting him at his door. I was so sure I could channel him and share some great moment, but delicious as it was, it was time to go and nothing extraordinary had occurred.

I went back up the stairs to his studio to take one more photo of his easel.  In the others, I had no choice but to include the fat asses of tourists and faces of people who knew they were ruining my photos and still won't move.  I got my photo and said goodbye, but as I was leaving, there on his table with all his paints….the place I had stood earlier and photographed I saw it.

A wooden bowl of white alabaster eggs. My love had not ignored my visit.

This scene became my last egg painting. 

I hope you felt the wonderful little shiver that visits me still when I think of it.

When I got home I had exactly one dozen lovely little egg paintings.

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

THE ALABASTER EGGS REMBRANDT PUT OUT FOR MY VISIT

MY FIRST STEPS INTO THE GREAT UNKNOWN

Following are excerpts from the diaries I kept on my trip.  If you read my last blog, I made it clear these are not for you, but for me.  I follow a fickle spirit's lead and make this exception for no good reason and without apology.  

I also feel the need to tell you sadly that even though I have a wall of diaries, there is a vacancy at 2015.  I have no idea why or how, but the fates stole my diary of this year.  I replaced it in February with a new one (not a Brownline), and it too has disappeared.  It seemed 2015 which did not start ominously or eventfully was not to join the others.  To this day it saddens and confuses me.  When I was about to take this trip there were no Brownlines to be had and I had to use an imposter.  I lost that diary on the fourth day of my trip and had to scratch notes on all manner of placemats, napkins and hotel papers until I replaced it with the most ridiculous looking one I have ever owned. I filled that one and subsequently two more which are nothing more than paperback moleskins.  I hated the idea of these hideous things  breaking the majesty of a perfect row of Brownlines, but in the end they served me well and have earned their place between the organization of the past 30 years and the crappy little sucker which has yet to endear me but which will finish the year from here on in.

So without further adieu, I give you my trip;

AUG 11

This little book has one job: to fill the void left by the journal I started 4 days ago but lost in Positano. I have been planning this trip for a year, but no amount of internet surfing could have prepared me for the reality of it all.   I am confident I can recall most or at least the spirit of the missing days.

Carl came over early to take me to the airport.  I have far too much crap in my suitcase.  I was very afraid of the flight so Carl took me to McDonalds for ice-cream as you would a child, and it did in fact curb my anxiety.  A baby sparrow was perched on the fence testing his little wings.  After much trepidation, he made the all important leap of faith and fluttered down.  I licked my ice-cream and watched him fly back up and do it again and again with all due respect.  I have 6 flights to take and if he could do it, I probably could.

It is a beautiful day in Toronto.  I have no good reason to leave. What could possibly be over there that I need?  I have as much sunshine, trees, rocks and water as anyone.  Canada is beautiful.  I haven't seen Canada.  I haven't even been out of Ontario.  Who do I think I am?  I can just get on a train. Trains are better than planes.

I have never been on a long trip by myself, especially overseas.  Overseas.  So hardly necessary. I am very nervous about the whole thing.  There is a cloud smiling at me like the Pilsbury dough boy. He may be mocking me.

Carl left me at the curb.  I am sitting in the lounge.  I have just taken the lorazepam the doctor gave me which is supposed to magically make this flight inconsequential.  It is a tiny little thing and I doubt it holds any power.  I am actually panicking a bit because I have no idea what it does.  I was tempted to test drive one before I came, but I only have a precious few and because I expect some bizarre out of control acid trip I thought it best to not party alone.  I feel nothing but paranoid.  It probably does not help that I did not sleep last night due to a 24 hour hallucination of plane crashes.

I have settled into my pod.  Yes, I am in a pod.  The flight is a gift from Joel and he is rich, so a pod it is.  It's something between a lounger and a coffin. I focus on coffin. I am okay with the take off and landing bit.  It is the time between that shakes me.  7 hours feels like 70.  Then there's the fact that a very thin bit of steel is all there is between me and the earth a million miles below.  I have so many things to consider.  Is there a terrorist in here? Can I outsmart him? Them?

I didn't listen to the how to work my gas mask.  I don't know how.  This makes my heart pound. I resist the temptation to raise my hand and ask for another demonstration.  A normal person would not do this so I remind myself that I am pretending to be a normal person.

 I do know where the exits are. I want to open one and end this.  Do it.  No. Come on, do it.  Shut up.  The seatbelt sign is off.  People are getting up and wandering.  SIT DOWN!  I fear there are too many people in the other row standing.  They will tip us. I will never understand why planes have to fly so high.  I am sure it is just some macho show off thing.  If planes can fly around the airport waiting for a runway, why can't they just cruise at that height across the ocean.  Must we all be obliterated in a crash?  No one ever gets scooped out of the ocean while snugly strapped in their floating device chairs.   A parachute is what should be under the seat.  Just a big ole parachute.

 I will not remove my seatbelt thank you.  I do not feel all cozy and safe.  The lorazepam is so full of shit.  I cry for a bit, think of my children, pray, cry more.  Not a real cry.   A silent cry which I have mastered just for flying.  It's a silent weep. Tears stream down my face but I don't even sniffle.  There are no gasps or flailing of the limbs. (I should mention I have flown before. I have cried out loud and flailed like one of those giant blow up stickmen at car dealerships.  This got me sent to the back of the plane to the idiot chair which has restraints and where you are trapped between the coffee cart and the speaker so the stewardesses are always inches away to glare at you.  The next time I flew I was sent directly to said seat.  My next trip I was questioned but not restrained.  Glared at none the less, so 20 flights later, I am showing progress). 

 I get bored of sobbing and try to work my tv. I use my mantra.  I'm on a bus, I'm on a bus.   I am suddenly so exhausted but I can't sleep because I have to stay alert to save everyone when the plane crashes or when the terrorists attack.  I decide to watch Lucy.  Not the loveable redhead, the Scarletthead who uses 100% of her brain.  It wasn't a good choice as I am soundly stoned and have no idea what I am even watching.  I am using 1% of my brain right now and everything seems a bit pretend. What a wonder to be able to fly.  It really is an amazing thing.  These are words I do not say.  This is the comment of a drug.

I've decided to just stare now.  I feel like I have been doing it for a long time.  A hospital meal with an excess of lids and plastic things to unwrap has come and gone. I know this is just a diversion to lull me into a false sense of security but I play along. So has a clangetty booze cart which I wish would quit going by because I DO want a drink but am not allowed to mix my drug use with booze or I will die. 

We have landed in Rome and I am still alive.  I get up like a normal person, grab my little carry on (which is the only suitcase I brought) and toddle out like the brave little soldier I am.

I am in Rome.  I am alone and I am so tired I wish mind travel was a thing so I could get into my hotel and sleep.

I made it.  I love this room.  It has  a bed.  

Nite

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

THE DIARIES: WRITE ON

I should have you know, I have kept diaries since I was 13 years old.  Those first years are full of nonsense and so encrypted to keep my sisters out that I have no idea what the secret codes are anymore and am sadly shut out from what I can only assume were shady and exciting events.  Some are so well-read they have fallen apart and pages have been replaced out of order or vanished completely.  Others have tiny broken latches, tea stains and phone numbers scratched in haste across them.  They wear covers of flowers, leather, rainbows and sailing ships, others are the cheapest of Hilroy notebooks and tattered papers bound by rusty staples.  For the last few decades, my trademark diary has been a Brownline Classic Signature Model CBE504.ASX in black with gold corners, guilded pages and a golden ribbon I never use.

 I never had a real intent or plan for these diaries, I just wanted to write, partly because I didn't want to forget and probably because I fancied myself a bit of a storyteller.  Early on I enjoyed hiding them in such clever places but sadly I lost a few to the effort.  I began brazenly displaying  them on my dresser with primary entries like "I know you are reading this and you are a jerk." As the years went by they formed a row, then filled a shelf and then another, until one bittersweet day, I realized I had recorded almost daily over 42 years of my life.

Since the beginning I have loved these little books.  They hold my world so sweetly and completely.  I have never tired of them and they have brought me endless joy and comfort on quiet nights and sunny days.  Whether I need encouragement, wisdom, nostalgia, facts, a good cry or just a giggle, they always speak to me.  What a wonder to have cocky little 15 year old me tell 50 year old me that live will unfold as it will, or to hear the foolishness of 35, the arrogance of 27 or the fear of 17.  I run common in all, but the eyes I look through and how I take in and spew out the world remains in a constant state of  flux. I am always sure I am as wise as I will be every year.   Every year I am wrong again.  

For the past three decades my diaries begin with wishes and prayers for my family, myself and the year to come.  I list a dozen things I would like to accomplish and since the beginning there is a first paragraph to the book itself introducing me and explaining it's duties. The last page of each is reserved for an accounting of the list at the front.  Did I lose 10 pounds? Have I saved $2,000.00?  Did I paint the kitchen or spend more time with my sisters?  Win or lose, I am always okay with the result because the day after this inventory is January 1st and I get another 365 day chance to get it right.

 Some pages in my loves are so powerful I can conjure where I was, what I wore and the smell of the lilacs as I wrote. I can feel the spring breeze in my hair.  In others the terror is as fresh as the assault, and I have come to cherish them all.   These are the events which shaped me.  The voice and spirit that recorded so much has spoken back peace and healing in painful times, encouragement and worth where there was none and a warrior spirit where a timid soul cowered.  It whispers or yells according to it's mood or how hard of hearing I am at the time.  In my quiet solitude it reminds me I am still here with me and I am fine, regardless of what anyone else has to say on the matter. I have done no great things, but I have done enough.  I am not a benevolent daughter, a reliable sibling, faithful friend or godly mother, but I can read that I am always trying and I have had some very very good days.

Now in this beautiful autumn of my life I treasure my diaries and pray God lets me write another 40.  They are not some brag or a legacy of my own supposed greatness that my life should be recorded, but just vessels to help me continue to remember, and remember with clarity.  When I die, they will all be burned. They were not for you or anyone else. They were a simple and  most precious gift from me to me.

Today with social media (which I adore), there are so many places to blog, chat or post one's thoughts.  I love the computer and the sound of my nails clicking at top speed on the keys, but there is something so wonderful about opening a diary day after day and capturing with pen, broken pencil or fancy coloured markers, the spirit of the day. Anyone who journals is familiar with the magic of which I speak, but for those of you who find yourself bursting with ideas, frustrated, lonely, in or out of love or simply living, I promise you the words you write today will say a thousand in years to come and your voice of yesterday can heal and inspire the you of today.  One only has to think of a letter or a card that they have kept because the spirit of the writer still dwells there.  Diaries embody that experience.  Love letters to yourself precious and dear.  

I wish I could inspire you all to find a little book and open that first fresh page and begin to write yourself down.  When I taught art, I would give my students each a Christmas present.  It was always a neatly sharpened HB pencil.  My message with artists is the same to you;

You can change the world with an HB pencil.  It can make imagination reality, slay demons, bring justice, comfort, inspire, offer solace and heartfelt laughter.  Whatever you need in any moment it's likely an HB pencil can provide a most excellent starting point.

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

THE QUEST

Though I love spontaneous adventure, there are those which demand a quest.  What could I possibly search for that mattered? I needed something to hold my attention from Greece to Amsterdam and amuse me in Canada for years to come.  I'm not very multifaceted in terms of passion, but art endures me like a faithful dog, so art it is. 

I pondered my copies of Rembrandt, VanEyck and Degas.  I considered the abstracts and stared into the googly eyes of a wall of Buscemis.

Angels sang and doves fluttered around the room as I admitted to the gods, yet again, I am not a good painter.  Fatefully, there are muses who hold hope for me otherwise I would have been born a baker. Regardless of my unfortunate skill I was ordained  a painter by some ancient spirit before I was me, and it is far too late for rehab.  It was time to step into the light.  Not metaphorical but actual light.  Sunlight in particular. The kind you yearn for in February and then burns your face off in August.

Light became my quest. It seems I have no regard for it.  I treat it like a casual lover.  Interested for a bit, then I wander from boredom into fantasy and embellish the rest. Monet quoted his teacher Boudin, "…appreciate the sea, the light, the blue sky" and then remarked "this is how I came to understand nature and learned to love it passionately".  He loved his light, trapped it in colour and pinned it to his canvass like a perfect butterfly specimen.

Every artist believes the sun shines more lusciously in their town than any other.  VanGogh begged Gauguin to come to the glorious sun of south of France, Cezanne wrote to Pissaro of Marselles "The sun is so terrific here that it seems to me as if the objects were silhouetted not only in black and white, but in blue, red, brown and violet." 

DaVinci said "A gray day provides the best light." Similarly, Turner and Constable (who hated each other) found their mastery beneath the stormy and dreary skies of Britain, while Vermeer(the master of light) and my darling Rembrandt were enchanted by the light of the Netherlands which caressed their subjects through medieval windows.

Degas would argue "Daylight is too easy. What I want is difficult: the atmosphere of lamps or moonlight."  Picasso continued the discussion saying "..artificial light suits me a great deal better [than sunlight] it's absolutely steady, and much more exciting."

Finally, Caravaggio would have waited until the still of darkness to paint under the glow of candlelight.  

As my attention span is limited and I am no Galileo,  I decided to just find a little white object to paint in each city, send it home (so I could not compare them) and back in Canada, I would have hundreds of canvases to testify as to which area boasted the best sunlight.

I could't decide on a subject.  It had to be small, smooth, white and unbreakable.  I thought about some nostalgic token of my moms, a mini Rodin, a box, my face, a ball?  I decided on a bird I found at a Dollar Store.  It was covered in glitter so I tried to deglitz it in a sink of water while shoving a hard boiled egg down my face.  Watching the sunlight play on the glittery water and the eggshells on the counter,  I realized it should be an egg.  Eggs are everywhere and I love them.  I can paint them and then eat them.  Eggs it is.

Oh best laid plans. ;) Let the quest begin!

TO READ MORE OF MY EXPLOITS CLICK ON THAT TINY LITTLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE.   THEY ARE IN REVERSE ORDER SO THE LAST PAGE IS ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY!

THE FINAL RESTING PLACE OF A WELL SPENT EGG WHO STAYED WAY TOO LONG IN MY POCKET.

Wonderful ideas drift among us day and night. Fortunate is the child who embraces one before it drifts to another.

Ideas and inspiration are constant. Those little inklings and thoughts we have, the what if's and the moments of wonder are like milkweed on the wind.

Like enchanted gifts of fairies, if we are wise enough to snatch one up, the idea has a place to blossom.  How many times have you said, "Hey that was my idea?"

It could have been.  You may have been the place it wanted to live.  But it wasn't yours if you didn't pull it down and wrestle it.  If it didn't inspire you to action, catalyst a blaze of baby ideas or if you  didn't fall in love, it wasn't yours.  You merely visited it.

Ideas want to be loved.  They refuse to be abandoned.  If you do catch one, treat it with all due respect.  Nurture it, protect it and see it to maturity.  Ideas will not be forgotten or ignored.  

Without regret or remorse, they simply fly away to another.

This has happened to me today and so many times before. I kept a beautiful idea in a jar for too long, and when I came back it was not dead…but had escaped to someone else.

I'm happy it is still alive and sorry I am no longer it's keeper.  I wonder if it holds as much magic now, and how many times it was rejected before it made a home. 

Does an idea lose some of it's glory when it is rejected? Is an innocent idea more powerful than one that has been trapped in heads for years?  Probably not, like life, it might become more empowered.  Who knows?

Not I. I toy with ideas.  I break them, leave them out in the rain…forget them.

The tragedy is I know the magic they hold and though I can catch them and give them a joyful little time, I can't seem to go the distance.  I stop at good enough though I can see marvellous beckoning.

I don't mean to entirely romanticize ideas.  Wonderful as they are, in order to survive, they are also full of mischief.  They have all manner of tricks to keep your attention.

Don't be fooled by charlatans.  You may think your idea drifted to another, and maybe it has. But maybe it hasn't left the jar after all….maybe it's trying to lure you back.  It could be  the smoke and mirrors of an idea temper tantrum if you will,  to make you look.

So unless you agree completely with the outcome the other produced, take notice, bring your idea flowers and renew your love affair.  Be forewarned, it might become an open relationship and your muse may have eyes for many.  Awe-inspiring things like rockets to the moon or the love in a family require an endless amount of good ideas from many people working toward the same vision.  

Wisdom builds on wisdom.  The first song was not the only song. 

I tell you this because I think I will get it right one day.  

But you, you might be the child who gets it right the first time and who has all the vision, passion and steadfastness an idea  needs to thrive.  So grab your idea with both hands and run.  It is such a wonder and as often as I fail, I see others succeed, and that inspires me to believe you really can create empires out of thin air.