I am a different person now than I was when I wrote before. Not in an extreme way. It's just that I have really found myself in Paris. I don't mean in the geographical sense. Neither do I mean I have "found myself" in a coming of age way. The best thing I can compare it to is the experience of starting college. Everything was new and overwhelming at first and after a while, things became normal again. But in a different way than before.

For the past three days, I have wandered Paris with Don Smith (photographer - see www.parisphotoworkshops.com) and his wife Nelly. I have seen places of indescribable beauty and I have walked streets straight out of the 17th century. While I still don't speak the language fluently, I have learned to communicate and I have learned that the people here are amazing people. They are beautiful. They are fashionable. They are helpful and kind and generous. And now that I know not to be afraid of them, I feel right at home.

Today, when I took the metro to my stop at Saint Paul (le Marais), I really did feel like I was coming home. It was the end of a sort of work-day, and I headed toward the Monoprix to pick up some things for my evening.

Along the way, I was stopped by a man with a guide book. He fumbled through his French as he tried to ask me where he could find a phone card around here? I didn't quite understand him at first, so I gave him a quizzical look, and he turned to his friend and said in English, "I don't know how to say it!" I smiled. "I speak Engish," I said. And he thanked me profusely, a look of relief on his face.

Really? He thought I was French? How cool is that? Hard to believe that I was probably just like him only a few days ago.

Paris has my heart now. I can't imagine that this is the only time I will be in this place, and that makes telling it goodbye (although not yet) a little easier. Now that the workshop is through, I am on my own. And I'm not the least bit afraid. Not anymore. Shopping and cinema and steaming cups of people-watching chocolat chaud, here I come! Cheerio.

"Maybe you've got to lose it all
Before you find your way."
- Madeleine Peyroux

Sitting here in my hotel room in Paris, I am beginning to feel something like the old me. The familiar me. The one who has a sense of place and belonging. Not the me I was earlier today.

I am in day one of my first trip to Europe. I have wanted this for a long, long time but the biggest thing that held me back was my fear of venturing so far alone. Well finally, I just decided that I could wait no longer. Alone or not, I had to go. And here I am.

I have jumped seven hours forward just in time to "fall back" tonight. It's hard to believe that back in Nashville, it is only lunchtime. For me it's night, and I have hardly slept since night before last. Last night I "slept" on the plane. As if.

So needless to say, my first day in Paris was a little bleary-eyed. I wandered the streets in search of shops and basically anything that would keep me awake until nightfall so that I could try to get on their schedule here. I did fine. I felt like I mainly fit in, when I could manage to not pull out the map anyway. The trouble was, I had to eat.

In order to eat in Paris, one must order food. Which means that one must speak the language. It's true that many people here speak English, but it feels rude to expect that of them. And anyway, I want to FIT IN. One sure way to not fit in is to speak English.

The first ordering experience of the day was easy. I have a friend here who is French, and who was happy to order on my behalf. That was nice. I could be lazy, just smile and say "merci." I didn't have to think too much. And not thinking too much was very good for me and my sleep-deprived brain.

But then later, I was on my own. I decided to end my day with a sandwich from a Patisserie that I could take back to my hotel room, where I could shower and lounge about. I looked in the display window and spotted the sandwich I wanted. It was panini Provençal. Confidently, I progressed to the register and proclaimed, "si vous plait, un panini provençal." Piece of cake. Until she went to grab my sandwich (which, I should point out, was on the other side of the place). "Il n'y a de plus," came the reply. We have no more.

By now there was a line forming. So I had to "pardon" my way through the crowd until I got to the place where I could select another sandwich. Feeling the pressure of eyes on me, I picked the next thing I recognized (and could actually read). They were out of that too. Same went for my next two choices. The lovely lady behind the counter now told me that there were only two kinds left. And I had no idea what they were! I panicked. By now, the line was quite long and everyone was looking at me (or at least that's how it seemed). I couldn't think. I told her to go ahead with the line. And then, mercifully, she told me in English what my choices were. And I picked one.

I felt humiliated. I paid for my food and exited the building pronto. It was like I was a phony. I was trying to speak their language and I had failed miserably. I could hardly wait to get back to my room and hide. I was a stupid American after all.

Now, hours later, I feel better. More rested. I've withdrawn into my shell and thanks to it, I think I will emerge a little stronger tomorrow. Who knows, maybe my French will even improve because of the experience. One thing that makes the whole thing better in my mind is the fact that that woman DID take mercy on me. Maybe she didn't know right away that I wasn't one of them? Maybe. But when she saw me in a state of panic, she had to know. And she let me off the hook.

And there were people in that line who nodded at me respectfully as I blazed on out of there. Maybe it's true what they say that in many cases, all you really need to do is TRY.

The weather is teasing me lately. For about four days now, it's felt more like September than August. Temperate. Sunny. Warm on the verge of hot but not too hot. I want to just enjoy it, but I know that sooner or later it will end. We'll be back to the miserable heat, and I dread it. I can't help it.

Inspired by the weather, today I found myself listening to Swamp Ophelia. It's the Indigo Girls album that came out while I was in college, and it has strong Indian Summer themes. "I could go crazy on a night like tonight," says one song, "when summer's beginning to give up her fight." And oh, how I wish that were the case for us now. Because I am just about ready for Fall. Fall and football and jeans without pain.

In honor of the mood, I give you lyrics from another song on Swamp Ophelia, "The Wood Song." It's an old favorite and I felt like sharing.

Cheers.


"No way construction of this tricky plan
Was built by other than a greater hand
With a love that passes understanding
Watching closely over the journey
But what it takes to cross the great divide
Seems more than all the courage I can muster up inside
Although we get to have some answers when we reach the other side
The prize is always worth the rocky ride

Sometimes I ask to sneak a closer look
Skip to the final chapter of the book
And then maybe steer us clear from some of the pain it took
To get us where we are this far
But the question drowns in its futility
And even I have got to laugh at me
No one gets to miss the storm of what will be
Just holding on for the ride

The wood is tired and the wood is old
We'll make it fine if the weather holds
But if the weather holds well have missed the point
Thats where I need to go"

-The Indigo Girls

I hardly ever used to get bored. At all. But these days, I am finding myself with some consistency right smack in the middle of boredomland. I'm trying to understand why.

I am in some kind of transitional phase, this much I know. I've made some changes, put old things behind me and prepared for new things. And yet, "new things" are not here just yet. I know they are coming. I am anxious for them. Restless.

I don't want to be someone who wishes my life away, always focusing on what's ahead and thereby missing the moment that is NOW. I want to be here in my now. I don't want to miss a second of this life by not being present in the moments that make it. But when I am in the uncomfortable place of not quite knowing what to do with myself, it can be hard to stay focused on the present. Part of me is screaming to skip to what's ahead.

I hate being bored. What I have always done before was find something to occupy my mind, to keep me busy. And yet, somehow I feel like I need to not do that this time. I need to just be here and be still and have faith that what is coming will come. For better or for worse, it will come. Even these moments of boredom are important somehow.

Oh, the waiting. The waiting truly is the hardest part.

All day long for six days running,
me and the flu.
All day strong and into nights humming,
me and the flu.

Seriously. Who catches the flu in late May/early June? I am the lucky one this time. I had a glimpse today, during the hours I felt halfway normal, of life outside these four walls. But then, fatigue. And then more fever. And I am left wondering, when will it end??

It's been three days since I've seen another human being (unless you count my sister at the end of the hallway, after she kindly left me food and medicines while I'm here in my quarantine. or unless you count the cast of characters on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 2, who I've probably seen a little more of than is actually healthy). I am beginning to go a little nuts.

HELP. This is my cry.

At least now, I'm pretty sure I won't die. That's improvement, right?

Hi Everyone! Hope you're doing well.

I am once again using my blog to put the word out about what I'm doing art-wise these days. Hope you don't mind. Maybe someday I'll get back to writing for the sake of writing. I miss that sometimes.

Anyway, check it out. I have a show of my very own at Cafe Coco next month! My work will be on display from the 1st till the 31st, with an actual opening on May 3 at 8PM. Please come if you can!

Cheers.



Graphic design by Chris St. Croix.

I never post here anymore, eh? I know you're sad about it. Of course you are. Such brilliant things I always had to say..

Ha.

Anyway, I was terrible about putting word out last time, so this time I thought I'd alert the presses. I'm going to be doing another show! With Untitled, that is. Maybe you know what that's all about and maybe you don't. But either way, if you like art you should come check it out:



Hope to see some of you there! Cheers.

To Alex the Cat, my dear old friend and companion. (Circa August) 1995 - December 30, 2007.

how will we smile ever again
i'm asking you sincerely, my dear old friend
what do you say, is there a way
my dear old friend

how will we laugh just like before
when there's water rising up to our door
and we may never see each other again
my dear old friend

will there be someone to remember
a little place that we loved
how the music played all night and day
through the windows up above

how the birds sang in the morning
how the dog barked in the yard
i guess that's nothing much but everything to us
and that's what seems so hard

how will we smile ever again
i'm asking you sincerely, my dear old friend
the moon on the hill says we probably will
my dear old friend
- Patty Griffin



Partners in crime, Bailey and Alex. Circa 2003. I hope they are together again.


Alex and surviving sister Chloe. 2007.


Just Alex. 2007.

So, I've been taking French classes now for about six months, mainly for the reason that I want to travel and I thought it would be helpful to be as proficient in foreign languages as possible. I already know enough Spanish to get by. I think either Italian or Portugese will be next. But first things first.

One thing I noticed immediately when I started taking French was that there was a lot more Spanish in my head than I realized. I guess it's all stored in the same part of my brain, and I hadn't had much occasion to use it over the years. However, as soon as my French teacher starting wishing me "bonsoir!" I was wanting to answer with "buenos noches!" How strange.

For some reason, in the past I have always been shy about using my Spanish. Even in Mexican restaurants when the servers and hostesses clearly are open to it, I keep speaking English because it is comfortable. Don't want to leave myself open to ridicule or criticism, no sir! I'll just keep speaking the language that is my native one, thanks. And I always feel a little bit guilty about it in those situations. Like it's a slight to the person whose native language I am refusing to speak. Like I am not making an effort to really communicate with them, even though I am able.

That's why I surprised myself today when I stopped at Cancun Mexican Restaurant in Bellevue, sat at a table, and told the waiter quite clearly and fluently, "Quiero tres tacos carnes, por favor. Con agua." The rest of the time I was there, we conversed in Spanish. I sometimes had to ask him to repeat something (or "como se dice" this or that), but I was able to communicate just fine. And I think my waiter actually got a kick out of it.

So isn't it interesting, I owe my refreshed knowledge and new confidence in the Spanish language to the French language that I am only just learning. Hmmm. Wonder which language will finally be responsible for sending me to Paris.

I am having something of an identity crisis. These days, when I go out, my camera may or may not be with me.

The reason? My camera bag is heavier than it used to be. I have more equipment to haul around and sometimes I just don't feel like it. But when my camera is NOT with me, I feel less like myself. I miss shots and I really hate missing shots. I even have moments of (gasp) boredom. And I don't do too well with that, either.

Today, I sucked it up and left home with my heavy ol' bag. And it was a good thing too, because I saw something beautiful that begged to be seen and captured. It was three lovely French girls. Sisters who looked so much alike that their mother said she felt like she'd had the same baby three times. Their age differences nearly exactly mirrored that of my own three-sister family - the oldest in 8th grade, the youngest in 4th. All completely oblivious to their own gorgeousness.

I ran to the car where my camera lay waiting. Back in the house I put it all together - the right lens, the flash, the diffuser. Even though the lighting was pretty much perfect as it was, I knew it couldn't hurt to have options. The girls waited patiently. I aimed and fired a test shot. And this is when I looked down and saw the words that would rain on my parade. No CF Card.

How had I done it? How had I left home with my camera and no way to capture my shots?? This was worse than not having the camera at all. I could TAKE my shots, I just couldn't RECORD them. I had gotten all excited for nothing.

Two point & shoots were thrust into my hands and I did my best to capture the shot with other people's cameras. But I can't imagine it will turn out nearly as it would have through my own lens. And I was just sick about it. Still am.

It's heartbreaking to think about, too much. Here I sit, trying to console myself with a blog when what I really want is to be playing with my pictures. Especially that one. Such a beautiful shot that no one else will ever see.