Calm.

And for no good goddamned reason other than I think I fit better in my skin than ever before. I'm starting to see the upshot of 30:

1. I'm getting recognition at work, and not because I'm running around doing flips and handstands, but because I've done good work for more than three years. People are noticing that.

2. I'm getting better at saying no to the things that require more of me than I'm willing to give and I'm also learning to say yes when people offer to help.

3. I've heard from two of my best, oldest students who have moved on in the world, one of whom hit the ground running reporting for a tiny newspaper in a desert town between LA and Vegas. I taught him everything he knows about practicing journalism and he's wowing them already. He's delighted and so am I, especially that I'm the person he wants to call to share his first war stories with.

The other student called me from France because she's been thinking about me, but more importantly, because she got a proposal to begin a love affair and I was the only person with whom she felt she could talk about it. We decided that yes, yes indeed, she should take this lover. She's over there teaching English, and she's been using teaching techniques she picked up in the classes I taught her.

How gratifying is that? Teachers don't often see the fruits of their labor, but there's nothing more satisfying than knowing you've affected people, changed them for the better just by doing what you do. Granted, I gave a little extra to these two--because I believed in them, but also because they gave a hell of a lot back. Obviously, they're still giving. . . .

I love knowing I've made the right choices.

4. I am taking damn good care of myself. Have I mentioned that I bought a juicer and a yogurt maker and have gone almost exclusively organic? I eat very, very little wheat, corn and alcohol, practically no sugar or pork, and damn if I am not feeling healthy. I've learned to accept that it may take Herculean efforts for me to feel good, but it's worth whatever it takes.

5. One word: Bodyjam. It might at first glance sound like some icky stuff you might remove from between your toes, but it's actually a newish class they're offering at my gym. Think club, think sober, think choreography, think hot, think latinhiphopcontemporarymodernfunk, think 900 calories burned an hour. It's the highlight of my week. I just don't go dancing often enough . . . now I get to dance my ass off instead of begrudgingly toiling away on some cardio machine. Next they'll be offering sex classes. No way it could get more fun. I'ma start wearing sparkles to the gym.


And all the other bullshit annoyances in my life pale in light of those things. At least for the moment. So, I thought I'd bask in the glory of that moment while it lasts.

Happy Samhain--it's New Year's eve for all you pagans out there: live it up. I'll be discussing Toni Morrison and Alice Walker instead of trick-or-treating, but I'll do my annual ritual when I get home: Slice an apple in half, concentrate all the negativity, bullshit, sorrows, disappointments, rage from the past year into those two apple halves. Place them back together and bury them. Voila! Happy, brand New Year!

No more wah-wahs.

And I didn't even need someone to slap me. I can allow myself a little self pity every now and then, as long as it doesn't last any more than a day or two.

So today I snapped out of the birthday funk, which is not to say that I can promise not to slip back into it at some point(s) during the next month or so.

I spent a little time thinking about what has transpired since the last time Nov. 24 rolled around. This made me feel better. Here goes:

I've done lots of travelling. From San Francisco for my last birthday to Boston, New York and Philly in December to reconnect with U2, my peoples, and my craft out East to Texas for Chri-mas to Dublin for spring break to Prague, Budapest, Croatia, Bosnia, Italy, France for the summer and next back to Boston and Philly for my annual pilgrimage. That's a lot of miles.

I made money enough to fund most of that and put some away for retirement, because as morbid as I can get about cancer and whatever else might kill me, I do expect to live a while.

I got through three--almost four--semesters of my PhD. That ain't nothing.

I've made friends, I've reconnected with past friends and lovers, met interesting people galore, expanded my world. And that's certainly made me for the better.

I've lifted a lot of weight, run hundreds of miles--including a personal best at the Shamrock Shuffle in Chicago, gotten bronzed and blonde in the South of France, lost a few pounds, gained a few back, lost them again, cut and colored my hair like a rock star and brought it back to plain old me.

I've published a good armful of articles, some of which I hear have moved people.

I've made progress on my book--who knows how much exactly, but it's looking like a few chapters, anyway. Plugging away.

I've sat plenty of hours on my therapist's couch--crying, laughing, questioning, complaining, ranting--growing wiser about myself as best I can.

I taught more than 100 students, hopefully, how to write better and think differently about themselves as creators.

I saw the face of God.

I haven't solved any real problems--my own, anyone else's, the world's. But I am carving out a path for myself in this here life: stumbling, tripping over my own feet, gliding, running, flying, trudging. It's all there.

I guess I can look forward to what I'll make of 30. I trust myself to do it right.

And I can always return to the South of France in my mind. . . .

It's official.

One month from today I'll turn 30.

Yuck.

I don't take birthdays well.

It's some combo of having been spoiled as a child on that day every year with great parties, extravagant gifts and generally being treated like the center of the universe+the gravity of having had cancer twelve years ago, hence the overwhelming feeling of gratitude that washes over me on the 24th of November+the fact that my life feels like it's at a standstill--PhD in progress, other two full time jobs in progress, freelancing in progress, yet somehow I feel like I'm spinning my wheels+no significant romantic relationship in sight+anxiety about all the things in my life I can't control+living in a beautiful house in a go-nowhere town albeit filled with lovely people I adore even though I have absolutely no time to spend with them+the usual financial stresses+aging and the unknown (besides a nasty fight with an underactive thyroid that gets progressively worse and harder to diagnose/treat) illnesses I am likely to develop prematurely because I underwent chemo and radiation 12 years ago+I still have goddamn acne and now I also have wrinkles+the guilt of occupying myself with such trifles instead of just practicing the aforementioned gratitude.

But really, who cares? I mean, what's another fucking birthday? I'm all for aging gracefully, aren't you?

Have I mentioned I've decided to boycott all holidays this year?

Meh. I probably just need to go dancing and get rip-roaring drunk. Then I'll forget about all of it--at least for a few hours. . . .

I wish a brand new blue bicycle with a red ribbon could salvage this day, or that I could just put it out of my mind until the day actually comes and then just blow it off. But when have you known me to take anything lightly?

Wanna blow your mind?

Then give yourself 50 minutes, watch this with an open mind and ask yourself, "What if it's true?"

I'm very curious to hear your thoughts on it. . . .

You are a dancing queen

Weekend recap:

My mama and I drove around the big lake, that's Lake Michigan, through Chicago, through Milwaukee (with lots of annoying traffic stops and starts through those joints) on up to Appleton, Wisconsin for my cousin Sean's wedding.

This was one wedding I did not want to miss. Not because it was a gajillion dollar affair, or a destination wedding or because, ahem, the bride might start a brawl with the dj. No. (In fact, Stacia was a perfect hostess.)

It's because my Seanie and I go way back. Not that we see each other very often, or ever have. It's just that we've been soulmates from the start. I've just always loved that kid. No matter how much he tormented me, teased me or goosed me just to hear me say, "Shaw-awn, stop sticking your fingers in my craw-ock," I adored him. Maybe because he was so damn cute, or maybe it was that impish gleem in his eye (it's still there); perhaps it was that he was always in trouble and I was always trying so hard to be the good girl . . . or maybe it was just that we were the two biggest personalities around. We tend to be less afraid than most of looking like the fools that we are, of being on stage (even when it's your auntie's living room) and of sticking to our stubborn guns about whatever, even when we forget what it was we were so upset about and it wasn't logical to anyone else to begin with.

Most of all, we are kindred spirits in the dance. We have very different styles, both pretty balls out, but man, can we cut a rug. But Seanie, well . . . he's in a category all his own:



And in the end, that's what I have to say for my family--that extended group of people that so often don't get along and have squabbles over silly trifles and annoy each other just because it's what we've always done--no matter what, we can all get out on that dancefloor and boogie. It might not always be pretty, but who cares? We sure have fun. So even when certain members of our group aren't speaking to other members, we can always move through space together, broken funky chickens that we are (unless we park our arses on a bar stool and refuse to move for any reason the entire night--not even an 88-year-old granny's desire to have a photo of all her present grandkids. . . . but that's neither here nor there, is it?)

It's nice to know that you can go home again, and it is in fact wonderful to see the people who have known you the longest and who like being around you.

Congratulations Sean and Stacia, and thanks for the fabalous party!

And it was great seeing Shasta and Carlos, if only for a minute as we swung back through Chicago on the way home!

Welcome, Tyler P.!

This is my baby. He's one week old today. Okay, he lives in Texas, so he's not really my baby. I didn't make him or grow him or birth him. BFF did. But ain't he cute? I'm his proud auntie. Auntie M.

It's killing me that I haven't met him yet. But I have to wait until he goes home with mama and daddy. He's still in the hospital, but they've moved him from the heated bed, and if he can maintain his temperature, he'll get to go home this week.

I'm so glad BFF has had a baby for me. I'm reading a book
about how few published women writers there are and why. It's kind of a bummer, but it has also validated my life. It's very difficult to be an earner and a creator at the same time. And it's even harder to be a mama and a worker and an artist all at the same time. Damn near impossible. Especially without outside help.

And so it is for good reason that I am not married and not having babies. It's for annoying reasons that I hold something like 8 jobs to keep afloat, but I'm just paying my dues. . . .

The point is I'm reminded that I'm giving birth to myself. Again and again. That writing for me is breathing; it's as essential, although it doesn't quite come as easily. It's what I do, it's how I live. And thank God there are magnificent human beings such as my BFF and her huzzie birthing and rearing children right now. So I can write my book without guilt or pressure to propagate the species.

And I can't wait to see what path Tyler chooses for himself, although thank God he won't have to struggle with being only one out of 12 writers on the shelf. I pray he learns the power of his privilege and does nothing but good with it. From the look of things, he's already on his way. . . .

Why is it so important

. . . for us to believe others are just like us?

*asks the woman who declared during her Tuesday night Women's Lit class (when pushed to explain why she had a hard time reading Virginia Woolf's "To the Lighthouse"), "I just wanted the characters to do something. I wanted them to be more like me!"*

Au revoir, fair lady.

You were one hell of a broad.

I sure was glad to meet you and work on your campaign when I was just a lass. And I'm especially glad I got to tell you so when I bumped into you on Market Street in San Francisco a couple years ago. That shock of white hair and crystal-clear blue eyes couldn't have belonged to anyone else.

"You're the Texas governor who should be in the White House," I said to herself. "Well bless your little heart," she said back.

Politics sure could use more of your spirit, especially on the national stage.

Where the hell did everyone's sense of humor go, anyway? Terrorism, war, destruction, corrupt politics, suffering are here to stay. But does that mean we can't be smart and spunky anymore? God damn.

How can we honor her memory?

Harumph.

So shortly home, yet so many problems already.

1. The PhD is wearing me down. Do I really want to do this academic gig? Sure, I love to learn, I love to teach, I love to write, but wouldn't being a full-time journalist afford me those things? But then there are the summers off. . . .

2. A lover. I'm lacking one. I'm ready for him. I did manage to break the curse/spell I was under during my jolly good time in Europe. That's all I'll say on that. Yup. It was that good. Now I'm ready for more. Longer-term, loving, devoted understanding, intimacy, adoration and frolicking. It is not too much to ask. I know this now.

3. Consuming too much beer, gelato and foie gras for three months equals me plus 10 pounds. I've dropped 3, but the others can't come off fast enough, dammit! It's soooo much easier and fun to put them on than take them off. But ain't nothing worth suffering in tight pants. Oy!

4. Shall I go to this or not this year?

5. Did I mention I'm turning 30 in two months? I'm thinking party in Chicago this year. Day after Thanksgiving, y'all!

In happier, non-whiny news, BFF birthed a beautiful baby boy yesterday! We welcome their new, little marvel of a precious person to the world. Yay hope for the future! And a quick recovery to the other Mz. M from her C-section. Ouch.

And I promise updated flicker photos by the weekend. . . .

Well, I've been back for a while now

. . . and I've had lots to say, but mostly to live people in person. That's the beauty of coming home after a long journey. It's good to be back. I've dived right back into all my jobs and responsibilities, but most importantly, into the arms of family and friends. After spending a month travelling alone, I'm awfully happy to be with people who know and love me.

A hell of a lot happened between the last time I wrote and now. Glorious, delightful fun. I have photos. I'll share. Later.

Ah Nice, how I love thee!

Is it any wonder that artists have always flocked here? Good lord, this place is perfect. Seriously. Perfect. Everyone's happy here. The sun always shines, the temperature hovers around 75 all the damn time, the food is probably the best and the freshest in the world, nobody's in a hurry and nobody's terribly slow, either. The city's just right. A little edgy, but not Miami edgy (not to knock Miami, but c'mon, this is France, people!).


This is the perfect place to disappear and find oneself. And so this I have done.

I've also done a little shopping, visited Eze and Monaco (I've seen Grace Kelly's grave and the roads that killed her) and hung out on the beach to my heart's content. That's all. Not much to report. And isn't that what a relaxing holiday is supposed to be?

I have taken in a few art museums, landed myself in the middle of a jazz festival and bought french underwear, perfume and my first bikini as an adult. When in France...

I declare myself an honorary French person. I sunbathe topless, I smell like armpits and expensive perfume, I have strong coffee and a croissant for breakfast. This afternoon I'm getting a French hairdo, surrendering to the will of my new hairdresser, who kindly put up with my broken French request for a cut and color until I asked if he speaks English. Why yes, of course! Such a doll. I loves him already.

I still need shoes and a bag to go with my dress for the wedding, and I must figure out how and when I'm getting to Aix. Ooh la la! So much to do. I'll be home in less than a week, but I will forever return to the French Riviera in my mind.

J'ai trouve mon coeur dans le Cote d'Azure!

Okay, so I can't quite figure out this keyboard to put the right accents on those words, but I found my heart here, y'all! Yeah, the necklace was tucked away in a little satchel inside another one, and I'm wearing it again. And I have found my place in the sun. Y'all can have all of Italy. You can have the Dalmatian Coast. I'll take the South of France and I'll even share it.

It probably helps that I have a rudimentary grasp of the language. I was watching Sesame Street and Scooby Doo this morning with my coffee, and I could pretty much understand all of it. So, give me a four year old to converse with, and I'll do fine!

By the way, I'm in Nice. And I've decided to stay here. For a week. I rented what amounts to a little efficiency between the train station and the sea. It's a perfect base for exploring neighboring villages and the city itself. Prices are high here, but with my own kitchenette, I am having so much fun and saving so much by doing my own shopping and cooking! La vie est tres belle!

Yesterday I spent a lot of time recovering from Italy and the train ride. Too much air conditioning, too much snoring, and a bourgeoning sore throat left me feeling pretty punk. Now I feel much better, and ready to take on Provence! Looking to get my hair done and buy some shoesies.

Yay and more yay!

I lost my heart in Sarajevo.

That city is my favorite I've encountered on this journey so far.

I landed myself right in the middle of its film festival, an event that began 12 years ago during the Seige of Sarjevo. I saw a couple of bad films; they're doing a tribute to Abel Ferrara, and he sucks. In person he sucks, too. Only bad direction could make Juliette Binoche and Forrest Whitaker bad. And the film "Mary" truly sucked. My new friend Mariana, a Bulgarian film critic, said she thinks he's the kind of director who got into the business to get women.

I also managed to do a little backpackers' tour of the city and we had a marvelous tour guide who is my age, which means he was a teenager during the Seige. During the four years in which the city was surrounded by Serb forces and snipers who shot anything that moved in the street that stretched between the Holiday Inn and the Old Town, life went on. No schools shut down, and despite no food, water, electricity, gasoline or communication with the outside world, people survived. Sheer will and ingenuity. They built an underground tunnel to the airport, one meter wide and 1.6 meters high, through which people escaped. It filled knee high with water and they ran lines of electricity and gasoline through it. Yikes. Yet no one who used it died. A lot of them hit their heads, but no one died. I got a chance to pass through a part of the tunnel that's been preserved. Extraordinary.

They called Sarajevo the Jerusalem of Europe because within 100 square meters you'll find the city's main mosque, Catholic church, Orthodox church and synagogue. Outside every mosque, fresh spring water fountains trickle; this is part of the reason Sarajevo never fell. Despite absolute useless measures to deliver aid, in the form of things such as U.S. army cookies from the Vietnam era and shipments of condoms, those who were brave enough to risk passing through sniper alley to get water from old town into downtown managed to keep people alive by transporting buckets of water.

Learning about this terrible history really opened my eyes. I vowed to myself not to ingnore news reports about the horrors going on in parts of the world I've never seen. It also made me not feel sorry for myself as I slept in a shed with the words "Bin Laden" spray painted on the outside of it and a mangy yet happy dog keeping watch in the yard. 20 people shared one toilet and shower, and I shared a room with three other women: the film critic from Sophia and two backpacking, alcoholic Brits. God love Mariana--she stayed there because she's a freelancer and had to pay her own accomodation for 9 days. The beds cost 10 euros per night. Don't let me complain about the meager pay I get per story; she gets $20 per story at best.

Seeing the city and learning more about the Seige truly made me question journalism and the way we do our jobs. Why didn't the world step in sooner? Why weren't people paying attention, me included? I think statistics, the 5 w's don't tell the story with the kind of urgency necessary. People stop hearing the death tolls in Iraq, in Lebanon, the facts aren't alive for them--how can we make stories come alive for people so they pay attention? I suspect I'll struggle with this my entire career.

It was hard to leave that magnificent place. Don't get me wrong, it's still devastatingly bombed out all over the place; but to me, this is the most beautiful city I've seen. You can have pristine Prague and its picturesque castle, you can have Dubrovnik, the pearl of the Adriatic and its walled city; I'll take Sarajevo any day. If I had any money to invest, I'd help revitalize it and return people to their homes.

The 8 hour train from Sarajevo to Zagreb is actually a 12 hour train, and don't let anyone tell you differently. It creeps at a snail's pace. I think without my luggage I could have run it faster. I met an arrogant Canadian--you think they're all submissive and friendly, well they're not--who tried to tell me everything about everything on the way. Thank God he got off at Banja Luka, a mere five hours into the journey. He's speed travelling--seeing as much as he can so he can say he's been places. He's actually spending most of his time on trains, poor lad. I didn't even bother suggesting this to him. He doesn't hear anything.

But once he left, a group of old boozers joined me in the cabin. I'm talking knock-me-over-with-their-stinky-alcholic-breath, 70-something-year-old dudes. They must have passed a dozen plastic liter bottles of generic beer among them. And it sounded like they were talking politics. It was that kind of heat. To complement the literal heat. That cabin was like an oven. Sweating just from sitting there. And everyone smoked right next to the no smoking signs. The windows only opened a crack. I nearly passed out.

As it got dark and cooled down a bit, one of the boozers tried to talk to me. He knew about five words of English and I know one word of Serbo Croatian. This guy looked remarkably like my father's dearly departed Uncle Jack, so I instantly took a shine to him, despite his odor. He told his boys about me, and all of a sudden I was part of the party. One of them brought out a little bottle of water, and I thought, huh? Water? Turns out it was more of that moonshine, and they insisted I drink with them. So I did. The only word I know in their language is "Hvala," which means thank you, so what are you gonna do? It were good stuff. When we finally got to Zagreb, it was well dark, and Uncle Jack insisted on showing me where I needed to go to catch the train to Venice. Such a doll.

The sleeper car to Venice was dreamy compared to the Bosnian oven train. I slept like a little lamb in between passport checks at the borders--in and out--of Croatia, Slovenia and Italy. I shared the cabin with an Aussie and two little, smelly German backpackers. But it was grand. When we got off the train and wandered out of the station, the Aussie wouldn't shut the hell up. She grew very loud and exuberant, the kind of loudness and exhuberance only youth breeds, and she asked me if I wasn't excited, like, Oh my God, we're in Venice. And of course, I was stunned, literally stunned by the green canals and architecture just right outside of the station. I was taking it in. The expression comes later for me. But I didn't bother explaining this to her, I just walked away.

I am getting so good at losing losers. It's a necessary skill as a lone traveler. Yesterday, sipping a $10 capuccino at a cafe overlooking the water at the Piazzo San Marco, a dude wandered up and sat down beside me for a chat. He couldn't afford the prices at the cafe, so the waiter made him leave. After I paid and left, he caught up with me and wouldn't leave me alone. He told me all about himself--he's an architecture student and he hates his job in a bakery because he's a good worker and his employers fuck him because he's a good worker. Men in nearly every country I've been in start up conversations with me about how much they hate their jobs. Do I look like I care? Do I look like I want to listen to your woes instead of taking in the beauty of Venice? I said as much with my body language. Then he asked me what I do. "I hate journalists. They're all liars," he said in response. So I cut him off and said, "Well, perhaps you don't want to spend any more time with me." That got rid of him. Italian riffraff bitches.

I also got yelled at by a fruitseller in the street. I made the mistake of touching his apricots. I couldn't help myself--they were so plump and beautiful, and I had every intention of buying the ones I touched. Yikes. Italians like to yell. It seems to be the best way to express whatever it is they need to express. Italian Americans in New York are the same, but Italians in Italy are louder.

So I've been eating Gelato instead. Those guys don't yell as much. And I went to a grocery store, because I always go to grocery stores in new places. It was a beautiful thing. The things the Italians do with ham and cheese are fucking astounding. Ricotta lemon cake. Yum. A million kinds of prosciutto. Gorgeous hard cheeses and fancy marinades for mozzarella with all sorts of olives. Some bread and a bottle of wine, and that was me for the day. All the restaurants I've found are so touristy, complete with tourist prices, so I made my own meal. And I was a happy girl. Went to bed watching BBC news, and my day was complete.

The beauty of this place is enough to knock a girl out. And so it did. Today I took it easy, did some laundry, wandered around some more, and now I need to go find something to eat. It won't be hard. Tomorrow I take the overnight train to Nice. I've got a rough itinerary planned for my week until the wedding. Hopefully I'll find a wireless spot so I can post some photos. I've got some great shots.

I also literally lost my heart in Sarajevo. You see, I like to bring little mementos from loved ones back home when I travel. And I've been wearing a lovely silver necklace with a heart pendant my dad gave me for Christmas last year. It disappeared in Sarajevo. A sacrifice to the travel Gods. I hope someone finds it and wears it as a symbol of hope for tomorrow. The kind of symbol that means more when found accidentally in Sarajevo.

How Bosnia is like Texas

1. It's hotter than hell.
2. People there in small towns sit on their porches and wave at passing trains.
3. Those bitches can drink.
3. They'll give you the shirts off their backs, lead you in the right direction, and share their moonshine with you, even if you don't speak their language.
4. The people aren't at all what you'd expect if you pay attention to media images of them.
5. Red dirt, rocky hills.
6. The people ain't in no hurry to get nowheres.
7. They're resilient, independent minded, will and have defended their land and way of life to the end.
8. They seriously question the wisdom of the U.N.

Returned from an alternate universe.

I have seen God, people.

(How's that for a lead?)

You see, I've been to the land of Medjugorje, a once sleepy little village in the mountains of Bosnia. In 1981 The Virgin Mother of Christ, aka The Blessed Mother, aka Our Lady, appeared to a group of teenagers and gave them messages. Word spread fast, the communists henchmen went after the kiddies but didn't get them because a holy Franciscan priest named Father Jozo, a man known to many as "a living saint," a man who was totally skeptical about the apparitions, hid the kids away. He got picked up, jailed and tortured, and now he runs a home for 5500 orphaned girls--throwaways from the war.

The story goes that Our Lady of Medjugorje continues to come down from heaven every day at 6:40 p.m. The teenagers are all moms and dads now, but a couple of them are still receiving messages. It's the only place on earth that she continues to visit, they say.

And by "they" I mean a gajillion and a half faithful Catholics, mostly from Ireland, Italy and Croatia, with a handful of Canadians, French, Americans, Polish thrown in. The Church doesn't officially recognize the place as an apparition site, unlike Lourdes, Fatima, Knock, to name a few, but they can't even begin to investigate until Herself quits showing up. House rules.

So I rolled into town, skeptical journalist and skeptical believer that I am, at the urging of a very dear friend of mine who has very dear friends who live there. They didn't know I was coming, they knew nothing about me, but when I asked the lady at a tour agency in town about them, she rang them up--had them on speed dial. "Honey, come home," they said, and rushed to pick me up. I only meant to spend the day, perhaps a night. Five days later, it was hard to leave.

I hung out with priests and nuns and lots of Irish and Italians who pray the rosary more than my Grandma does. We went to mass twice a day, said the Divine Mercies at 3 p.m., did the stations of the cross up a friggin' mountain before dawn, ate only bread and water two days of the week, went to the evening service that lasted from 6 to 11 p.m. and included mass, adoration, the rosary, confession if you wanted. . . . Holy Mother of God! (I confessed to an Irish priest who was a dead ringer for Teddy Kennedy. Can you imagine? Confessing your sins to Teddy Kennedy?)

It got to be a bit much by the fifth day, honestly, but these people were so loving and so accepting and so devoted and kind, it was hard to leave. They put me up, they washed my clothes, they fed me, they blessed me, they hugged me and kissed me and petted my face, they prayed over me, they brought me to Father Jozo who gave me a special blessing: "We love journalists. Be a beautiful journalist," he said. The Blessed Mother has come down from heaven to tell you that she loves you just as you are, they said first thing when we met. Yikesaroony. That's love, people.

And so all the pilgrims and the messages and the apparition and the validity of any of it is entirely beside the point, as far as I'm concerned. There's a whole lotta love in that strange little protected place. And that, to me, is all the God I need to know or see or feel with my heart of hearts.

Today I arrived in Sarajevo and it's astounding to be here. Bosnians are remarkable. It's their custom to treat visitors like family. Why that horrendous war happened here, I'll never understand. It was and is becoming again such a vibrant, diverse place. Mosques next to Orthodox churches next to Roman Catholic churches next to discos. The sound of church bells ring out along with the call to prayer. Can you imagine? Not too long ago there was nothing here but the sound of sniper's shots and bombs. The whole city was shut down. International journalists holed up in the Holiday Inn and an underground tunnel to the airport was the only connection to the outside world.

Word on the street is Our Lady of Medjugorje has said only prayer and fasting can stop war. Hmm. I believe we have to transform our own hearts--find and make peace within ourselves--before we can make a larger impact to effect change in the world, to stop war. But those of us who have the privilege, the knowledge, the ability to be peacemakers. . . . well it has to be up to us to act, doesn't it? And not just by sitting at home praying the rosary and eating bread and water, methinks. I guess we all must have our own beginnings.

I think mine is here. Seeing it for myself. Getting closer to an experience that is so far removed from my own. And struggling with trying to figure out what I can do about making it not happen again. How's that for a tall order?

Marvy Mostar.

I love it here. It's shockingly beautiful, cheap, the people are laid back. This is my kind of town.

I stayed in a lady's house not far from the bus station last night. A little noisy, but nice. Her mother in law greeted me with Turkish coffee when I arrived. It's so cheap that I offered to pay for two beds so I could have a room to myself. Why would I want to share a room with any old scuzz coming off the bus?

I met a couple from Chicago at the house, and they were a delight. At the end of a few hours wandering around the city together, we parted as they caught the train to Sarajevo, but before they took off they offered to let me stay in their Wrigleyville condo anytime I come to town. I heart Midwesterners.

We ate Cevapcici on a terrace overlooking the emerald Neretva River and Stari Most. Cevapcici is the kind of food drunk Chicagoans would totally go for. It's lots of short, fat fingers of spicy lamb sausages stuffed into a thick, soft pita bread served with onions and pimento sauce. So yummy. And fills you up for days. Almost.

Before the 1990s war (as it's called around here) and the destruction of that 16th century bridge, men would jump off it into the river as a badge of virility. Now they're doing it again, and I caught a couple of dudes in speedos doing cannonballs. Made my heart glad.

But it sure as shit ain't all gladness around here. Lots and lots and lots of bombed-out buildings have not been rebuilt; parts of the city still look like a war zone. I've seen several Muslim cemeteries in which all of the tombstones reflect the same date of death: 1993. Chilling.

Yet these are the liveliest, most charming, welcoming people I've met on this journey so far. Sometimes it's the people who have gone to the depths who can most consistently embrace the possibilities of the day.

I am so glad to be here.

Last night in Dubrovnik

So I've landed myself in the Hilton Imperial Dubrovnik to catch some Wifi. It's working. And it's happy hour. There's a guitarist playing with a sax player whose beauty puts that Croatian dude from ER to shame. No one seems to know or mind that I'm not a guest here. The beers keep-a-coming, and the beautiful people around me keep smoking.

Yesterday I went on a little three island cruise. I drank homemade brandy and wine, flirted with the captain of the "ship" and met a couple of very civilized English English school teachers from Leicester. Lots o' fun, sailing, fresh grilled fish and Croatian moonshine for lunch, swimming and sunbathing in the afternoon. I witnessed my first nude beach ever, and I do believe I saw a woman's uterus. Walking around a cliff and looking down I saw pie to the sky, kittens. Took me back to my Planned Parenthood days, so it did.

An aside: I've seen about 20 Italian Paris Hilton look alikes walk into this lounge, all decked out in white cowboy hats, rhinestone jeans and dangly earrings, with smokes and red bull as their most important accessories. Or are they glitterati Croats? I don't know. There is something of an arts festival going on right now. In fact, I saw a whole bunch of folks decked out in traditional folk costume doing dances in circles in Old Town Square. The men wore dented felt hats and ties while the women looked like peasants from any old where. Did you know Croats invented the necktie? At least, they claim it as their own. When men went off to war or whatever, their lady friends would tie a tie around their necks as a symbol of fidelity. Or maybe it was a threat: the tighter the tie. . . .

I'm ready to move on. After a nice sail on the Adriatic, walking around the Old City walls, plenty of swimming and sunning on the pebbly beaches, some local eats and drinks and new friends, I'm geared up to move on. Mostar. First thing in the morning. I must see the rebuilt bridge with my own two eyes. And I'll wander into Medjugorje, see if the Virgin has something to say to me, before I head into Sarajevo. I looked into staying at the Holiday Inn that was the last stand for journalists during the war, but I need to save dough for Italy and France. I'll probably stay in somebody's house. That's the way they do here--people just register their homes with the local tourist board and then take in strangers. It's the cheapest way to spend a night in these parts, although a bit dodgy for a lone gal. The Brits I met let some dude they met at the bus stop haul them to his house and it worked out great. I just don't think it'd be prudent for me to do the same, alone. But there's an agency at the bus station in Sarajevo that can recommend places, so I think I'll do that. The Brits were each paying a quarter what I paid for my dingy little hotel. Though it sure is nice to have my own bathroom and breakfast every morning. I'm sure it's all worked out for the best.

From Sarajevo, I'll take a bus to Split, then either island hop a little bit, or head straight to Venice on a ferry. I could see more of Italy if I wanted . . . start in the south somewhere and make my way north. But I don't know. I'm itching for France, I must admit. I want to leave myself enough time and money to do the South of France properly. By that I mean not penny pinching too terribly. I want Bouillabaisse, people! And the real stuff costs something like $100 for two people to slurp, and they only serve it to two people at a time, so I'll have to pick up some fool who will partake with me, or just slurp enough for two (though I suspect the French might frown upon that). 'Course, if I run out of money, I can always lollygag on the beach and keep working on my Mediterranean tan as I read my books. Costs nothing. Actually in Nice, they make you pay to lounge on the beach, but here they don't.

Croatia is not nearly as cheap as I'd expected. Hungary costs far less. Although I am in what is the next Nice. Perhaps in Zadar or Zagreb the living is less dear. But not as easy. . . .

Sometimes a cloudy day in paradise is what you need

Dubrovnik is lovely, perhaps even "paradise on earth" as GB Shaw declared some years ago. That must have been before the hoards of Italian and Hungarian tourists showed up on big buses with their loud proclamations about everthing and their three-pack-a-day habits. I wish it were just all the quiet, elderly, cappucino sipping couples and me. Ah well.

After a day of sun, swimming and reading Naipaul on the pebbly beach not far from my hotel yesterday, I'm off to explore the old, walled city. But now I'm sitting drinking Croatian beer before noon at an outdoor cafe. The coolness of the sea air feels good on my sunburned legs. And damn this beer is good: Ozujsko pivo they call it. Tastes like fruit to me. Mind you, I haven't had a drink since Heviz, so I'm due. Now it feels like a holiday.

The funny thing about travelling alone--especially as a single woman--is it's stressful. I have no problem taking myself out for a meal and sitting alone in a restaurant full of couples and families, but it does wear on you after a while. And it's a big responsibility to get yourself from one place to another, to keep your clothes clean and dry, to keep yourself fed and safe. And it takes a little while to get adjusted to a new place. A little while. And it is the nature of a traveller to get an itch to move on as soon as she begins to feel comfortable in a place. Or maybe that's just me.

Dubrovnik is a tricky place to navigate. Taxis are rip offs, and public transportation is limited to a few buses. It's set up so that you're best off taking tours to the surrounding islands and into Bosnia if you like, but I can't stand tours. I want to get away from the crowds! So that means setting off on my own, which takes a lot more effort. I guess I never said I wanted the easy way, now did I?

Although swimming in the Adriatic sea first thing in the morning and then reading the greatest living writer all day in the sun ain't so bad.

Damn.

Here's some photos from Budapest; first inside the Gellert baths and second is a view of Buda from Pest:

Croatia, baby!

I've been to Lake Balaton, Heviz, Budapest again and now Dubrovnik since last I wrote. I soaked up a lot of thermal mineral water, steam, radioactive mud, and I expect I'm now healed from whatever might have ailed me. I've gotten used to getting a massage every day.

So now that I won't be massaged every day, it's a good thing I've got something pretty to look at. I'm so glad to be at the seaside. Even though I played in lots of water, I still knew I was in a landlocked country.

An interesting Hungarian human rights lawyer took a shine to me on the flight last night. He's way more interested than I am. Damn! Why is that always the way?

I passed on the candy, liquor, perfume and cosmetics at the Duty Free shops yesterday in the interest of picking up some books in English. They're quite a treat, really. And I've read "A Moveable Feast" twice now. Now I have some V.S. Naipaul and Umberto Eco to keep me company on the beach. Yay!

I probably should go out and see the sights right away, but honestly, I just want to lollygag. The beach is calling. . . .

I heart Hungary.

No, that's an understatement. I fuhriggin' looove it.

I walked across the Danube today. Twice. How cool is that?

Budapest has just the right combo of grit, old world beauty and spas. This is my kind of town. If I didn't think there might be something more beautiful ahead, I might never leave.

After the overnight train--uneventful after I actually got on the train; waiting at the train station was like night of the living dead; I saw dirty feet sticking out beneath a toilet stall, scary--I had a little bit of trouble finding my digs, but that's ancient history now. To recover, I got myself to the nearest spa, which just happened to be the Gellert, Budapest's oldest. And I spent the next four hours swimming in the Parthenon, steaming, saunaing, cool baths, hot thermal spring baths, and receiving a marvy "medical" massage from a very nice lady while she sang along to "Eye of the Tiger" on the radio playing in the big room where other naked ladies were getting rubdowns. I love hanging out with unselfconscious naked ladies. We're talking hot babes mixed with old fat bellied, skinny-legged grannies with the somewheres in betweens like me, all walking around, hanging around, swimming around totally naked. Joy!

Then I walked from Buda, where the baths and my hotel are, to Pest--hence the Danube crossing--and found myself some Hungarian food. They always start meals with soup, so I had a liver-dumpling in clear broth soup before my meal of chicken, veggies and berry dumplings covered in custard for dessert. I also bought myself a pastry for breakfast at the train station. I picked it, not knowing what it was, because it had the word "turd" in its name. This, for some reason, delighted me. And it was delicious. Not at all stale. One more point for the Hungarians over the Czechs! I also think I discovered that "turd" is Hungarian for raisin. Tee-hee.

After din-dins I walked around some more until I stumbled into St. Stephen's Basilica--right into a mass. So I went to mass, and I think this place is the most beautiful church I've ever seen. Mind you, I've seen a lot of friggin' gorgeous churches. Maybe it's just that each new one is always surprising in its beauty.

I walked around some more and now I'm back at the hotel/hostel, which is really just a dingy old dorm in the university section of town. But what more do I want for a private $20 room with a sort-of view toward the river? Breakfast? Sure, I could have that for an extra $2.50, but I'd rather venture out on my own for more turd pastries.

I'm also falling in love with Hemingway as I read "A Moveable Feast." Picked it up at an English language bookstore in Prague before I left. Love it.

Anybody read it?

Last Night in Praha

Why is it that the last night is always the best night? Dang.

Kiki and I finally got around to drinking absinthe.


In a fabulous little dive bar called Hany Bany that served up big, roasted sausages with potato pancakes and cabbage for a buck a pop. Loved. It.


Okay, so the green shot wasn't so easy going down, at least for Kiki; but we both felt fabulous, like, three and a half seconds afterward. Good. Buzz. And no hallucinations to report, somewhat regretfully.


Before landing in the pub, I hauled my ass to the Franz Kafka museum, because I knew I'd regret it if I didn't. Very interesting. I'll have to read more of his stuff now.

There was a nice statue out front of two dudes with moving buttocks pissing together.



Is this Kafkaesque? I'm still not sure I understand the full meaning of that adjective.

I also was disturbed this morning after Kiki left for the airport by a very large, very angry, very blond Czech woman named Sharka. Funny how names always seem to suit people. She demanded I pay another night's rent thinking I had only booked the place for the month of July. Good Goddamn thing I had a copy of my booking form on my laptop to show her. Then she got on her cellphone and raised holy hell with the agency I booked through. Then she got nice and apologetic and told me I could leave my bags in the flat for the afternoon, but that she's got Italians moving in later in the afternoon. Whatevers.

I am so getting out of Dodge.

Au revoir, Praha!

Program's over; apartment lease is up. I'm on to bigger and better things. (I hope.)

I'm thinking overnight train to Budapest, a couple of days lollygagging in Turkish spas, perhaps a day or two at Lake Ballaton, then on to Croatia and the Dalmatian Coast, maybe a side trip to Mostar, then back to Dubrovnik and across to Venice, see a bit of Italy before heading to Le Cote d'Azur! I really should consider a budget, but I've never before done such a thing. It just all seems to work out, as long as I only splurge every once in a while and live meagerly the rest of the time. Eastern Europe is pretty cheap; I need to save my pennies for Italy and France.

This time of year seems to be crazy with tourists everywhere. I almost prefer travelling when it's bleak and gray and when I'm the only crazy person around. Where is it quiet; where have these people all come from? Those places must be dead empty, unless it's Paris and London from which those people are escaping to get away from the tourists. . . .

But how dare I complain as I traipse around the globe?

In other news, my ipod is ready to retire and so are my pants. They're ready to walk right off me. Time to go shopping. . . . As for the ipod, well, it displays a horrible little exclamation point next to a file folder when I turn it on. I did everything the troubleshooting website told me to do, but I can't even restore the thing because my Mac doesn't recognize the ipod. Sheesh. The dude at the Apple store told me the ipod wasn't long for this world; they're not made to last very long, and I've had mine for two years. Wah. No more muzak of my choosing in Eastern Europe.

Last night Kiki and I went to see "A Prairie Home Companion" in English with Czech subtitles. All the movies in the listing were written in Czech, and it was the only film we recognized. Bad screenplay. Wonderful performances. How does that happen? Are actors so giddy to work with Altman they'll do any old shit?

After the film, we went to Le Cafe Louvre, a famous joint where Kafka used to hang out and write (or so the story goes), to get a bite to eat. The waiter dumped off some particularly stale bread (the only kind there is in the Czech Republic) and a tray of condiments, neither of which we ate or used. Then we got charged "couvert" for these things--a cover charge for the privilege of eating stale bread and paprika sauce! I tried to explain to the waiter that we neither asked for nor ate the stuff, but he wasn't having any of it, and I couldn't stand the smell of his pitted-out waiter uniform anymore, so we paid the charge and left in a huff, ugly Americans open to getting ripped off that we are.

I'm getting tired of this place. Itching for adventure or home or both at the same time. When I thought I had no money and no identity of my own, I looked into changing my flight. It would cost an additional $930 to do it. Yikes! Yet far less than I'll spend the rest of the month gallavanting around. Less fun. More practical. This is the debate I've been having inside my head. And sticking my head into the mouth of the monster is where I'm going. Facing the unknown, arms open wide.

It helped to read the NYT this morning and take a look at some articles about Croatia and the South of France. Got me excited about what's in store. Imagine the unimaginable for a bit.

How're y'all's Sundays?

Problem solved.

Hurrah!

It was scary there for a little while--imagining the Russian mob in Karlovy Vary had taken over my identity, leaving me with no way home. . . .

But turns out the bank blocked the card after my charges at the spa. Once I talked to them, they unblocked it and now I have moolah again!

I did feel like George Bailey. People came out of the woodwork to help if I needed--and some people were pissed that I didn't go to them immediately. I easily could have financed my way anywhere with all the help and money people wanted to throw my way. Thanks, y'all. I am the richest man in Bedford Falls.

Penniless in Prague

Discovered today that my ATM/Debit card decided to up and quit on me. It's times like these that is sucks to be a gal without a back-up plan.

I've emailed my credit union to find out if they've blocked my account or what. I guess the strip could be used up or God forbid someone's gotten a hold of my account number and drained all my dough. I just don't know. But I hate it.

I do have some euros and some dollars I could change (or use) and I've got a functional credit card with which I could take out a cash advance. I also have friends who can spot me a little money. . . .

But dang.

I hope I can resolve this soon, or I might just have to beg my way home early. . . .

Longing to dream it all up again, y'all.

So, here I am, almost two-thirds of the way through this here writer's workshop in Prague--nearly halfway through the second half with Patricia Hampl. She's good, she's very good. I had my workshop yesterday, and I got some good stuff. But honestly, I'm feeling a little directionless. Like it's time to remove myself from everyone else's babble and return to what it is that I do: write. Reclaim this book, this project from everyone else's clutches. It's good to hear what readers have to say about what I've got down, but then there comes a time to forget about all those bitches altogether and just fucking write. The story is mine, the aesthetic is mine. I need some distance to remember what it is I'm up to.

And I'm tired. You know? Just worn the hell out. I could spa my way through Eastern Europe, but that would get old and overly self-indulgent quick. I think what I need is to rent a humble villa on the sea, perhaps in Dalmatia to swim, lollygag, and write. Away from the grind. Even the beautiful grind in Prague.

Because the beauty has gotten to be a bit much. I can't stand it. I think the art and architecture is sapping my magic or something. Weird, I know. But I've been dreaming of slaughtered elephants, and whenever I dream about dead and dying majestic creatures, it means I'm losing my largesse. I need rejuvenation.

So, does anyone have a grandmother or know someone with a room to rent on the Adriatic Sea? Got any other good ideas?

My trip to Karlovy Vary, or The Weekend in which I finally got naked with a big cocked stranger

Kiki and I were planning to head west, something that in my experience has always been a good thing. West resonates with me, always has. And Western Bohemia makes a hell of a lot more sense to me than Prague. Maybe that's where my people are from--lots of them, the Bohemians, the Prussians (okay, my geography sucks, but this is working for me in my imagination). They're kind of German there, and the city of Karlovy Vary is run rampant with Russians. One woman told me they bought the town with money from the black market shortly after the Velvet Revolution. Them Russians are pushy. But being pushy doesn't always work, now does it?

So, on our way to class on Friday, Kiki hemmed and hawed about the trip when I expressed great exhuberance about it. He never shows his bare legs, much less the rest of himself, so he had already decided he wouldn't go in for the spa treatments Karlovy Vary is famed for. Then he had an insulting workshop. We went for cake and decided it would be best for us (spoiled little only children that we are, accustomed to lots of alone time) to go our separate ways for the weekend. I could get my spa on, and he could have the flat for himself to work on his plays.

I arrived Friday afternoon, booked into a quaint hotel, and headed straight to the open-air thermal pool.I swam laps for an hour. I had forgotten that swimming is a natural state of being for me--it slams me back into my body, weightless, yet the movement allows me to meditate without trying. Most everyone else there was farting around: little girls with their daddies, and couples making out. When I got out of the pool, I found the sauna, which was marked by all kinds of unreadable signs (for this ugly American). A lady took my ticket, gave me a tablecloth, and pointed me to a room that contained several shower heads, a cold pool, a few lounging chairs in a room off to the side, and a small sauna with three stacked benches (stairstep style).

I rinsed off under one of the shower heads and brought my tablecloth into the sauna to sit on. After about three minutes, a very tall man with a ginormous schlong in full view came in and told me in no uncertain terms (albeit in Czech) that I had to take off my bathing suit. It was kind of like how Tomas in "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" has this power over women when he simply says, "Strip!" And they all do. It was just like that, except totally not erotic. I took off my suit, and big dick and I sat around staring at each other, naked and sweating, just like you're supposed to in a sauna. Hot, yet so not hot.

Afterwards I felt like a million bucks.

Saturday I signed up for the "superior" package at a spa,but they couldn't fit me in until the afternoon because a huge group of Japanese business men came in before me. They were all pissed off that they had to wear swim suits in the spa. They hadn't brought any with them, so they all had to buy little swimming trunks that were waaaaay too small for them.

So I hiked all over town, found the Russian Orthodox churchdecked out in glittery gold and a nice little monument to Karl Marx.Then I followed the trail behind Marx that took me to what I believe might be the highest point in Bohemia.It's such a steep climb that they built a funicular railroad to take the throngs of tourists to the top. Me, I walked it. Then took the friggin' train back down. But the views were gorgeous, and I had my spa treatments to look forward to.

Lounging around in a Romanesque bathhouse for a good four hours is totally my idea of a good time. In between my little treatments of inhaling mineral-infused air in a cavern (felt a little like a gas chamber) and skipping from a hot foot bath to a cold foot bath for 15 minutes ("very good for foot," the big, blondie "nurse" told me) I lollygagged around a big, fancy pool and sipped tea with cranky Russians and their frisky children. Then came the highlight of my trip: a full-body massage from a flirtatious, fully-clothed Czech dude with a goatee, who tried to teach me better pronunciation of the few Czech words I know.

Again, a burly man gave me the command to take off my clothes. "Complete!" he said, and accentuated his seriousness with a sweeping hand gesture. He looked at me approvingly (certainly because communication was successful) and then told me to get on the table, which stood below a deep, cylindrical skylight and a security camera. I awkwardly flipped over a few times before assuming the position he wanted: face up. What ensued were among 40 of the most delightful minutes of my life. It's a damn shame it's taken nearly 30 years for someone to touch my ass like that. Well worth the wait.

I hope I won't always have to pay people to rub me the right way.

To top off the spa experience, a very nice lady prepared what they call a pearl bath for me. Again, I stripped and then placed myself into a magic bathtub that shot out little fizzy bubbles systematically through pinhole-like jets. Another full body massage of sorts. Made me tingle all over in a different way. The number of ways a gal can tingle in one weekend seems to increase exponentially in Karlovy Vary.

It's been a long time since I've slept so well. This spa trip was exactly what I needed: to get away from the tedious ego-bruising and back into my body. It's a good place to be again.



(Karlovy Vary also happens to be the home of becherovka, a beverage the Czechs like to refer to as the real Jaegermeister. It sure tastes like hell, but it ain't so bad mixed with tonic and drunk after several rounds of pivo. Oh the things one learns whilst abroad!)

Officially off my high horse.

So I had my second workshop with Lopate today. It was impromptu--no one had read the piece ahead of time; I read it aloud.

And got cut down to size. Lopate nailed all the problems I didn't even know the piece had. Damn. He's good. Brutal. But my ego's wounded. I know what I have to do, but I need to wallow in self pity for a little while first.

It's a perfect moment for feeling sorry for myself because I washed all my clothes this afternoon and then realized I have nothing to wear but my party dress. So, I'm sitting around naked, trapped in the flat, crying when Kiki sends me a text message: ("Marin, yr an excellent writer. U w-shopped a brand new piece. It wasn't ready. U didn't live with it long enuf. It isn't bad. Stop beating yrself up"), and finally, listening to Madonna, as I'm wont to do when I need to shake myself out of a funk.

I found a spot in my room where I can steal someone's wifi.

Good idea or bad: a boilermaker of Gambrinus with a shot of Absinthe? You decide. I imbibe. Or not.

Oh, and I'm reading Ivan Klima's Love and Garbage. It's not resonating with me. Anybody read it? He's giving a reading and a lecture as part of the program.

Today I tutored a Czech high school student--yet another unpaid job that landed in my life. But she's adorable, young, precocious, delightful. And she worships me. So we had a working lunch after my workshop. It was a good distraction for a little while.

I need to get out of town. Today I hate Prague. I hate writing. I hate the sun.

Tomorrow I'm going swimming. I feel so disconnected to the myriad parts of myself that make me feel like myself. Being focused and committed to writing is really scary when it's not going so well. I'm much more comfortable in a world in which I spread myself across lots of different activities. Here I'm just writing and walking and eating and drinking. I miss running and dancing and watching movies and mowing the lawn and wearing my beautiful shoes. It's tough to feel fabulous when you're wearing nothing but sensible shoes. And sweating all the time. And being told your writing is self-congratulatory and it needs work when you're used to applause for something you haven't worked that hard on. Damn it. I'm spoiled.

I've been dreaming about everything and everyone. Pointe shoes, broken teeth, embarking on unknown voyages.

I guess I'm still struggling to define and redefine myself in constantly changing circumstances and contexts. And asking myself, "What good am I?" It's hard to remember when you're separated from the things and people and routines and sensations and language that make you feel at home.

Where is my home?

I didn't actually touch him, but I got awfully close to Vaclav Havel during the ceremony in which WMU gave him and Arnost Lustig honorary doctorates.

The middle three dudes, from left to right are Havel, the program director, and Lustig:

It's a strange phenomenon--to witness history and have an awareness of it at the same time.

And then there's one's own personal history. Friday night I kicked off the student reading series.

I had written a new piece the night before about my grandmother and her body. The theme of this year's program is home, homeland (security) and its relation to artistic ambition. We've been listening to people talk about Czech and Central European national identity in various lectures and conversations, and the idea of home and homeland as a woman, a mother, a feminine figure keeps coming up. And this notion has invariably been created and perpetuated by dudes. So I started to wonder, "what must home be for a woman?" Then I thought about Virginia Woolf's quote "As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world." So then it occurred to me that the only home a woman knows, really, is her own body, which is in large part, psychically created by her own mother. Are you following me here? So that's why I went back--remembering my own sense of a physical self through my mother's mother.

The new piece was well received. Today I'm working on more new stuff. I'm looking forward to a second workshop with Lopate.

Just for kicks, here's Kiki sitting on the roof of our local.

He's such a good kid. He kept me from joining a stag party of 20 tattoed Brits yesterday afternoon. We went home and ate curried chicken with dhal and more beers out of small glasses. I am like fucking MacGyver in that pathetically underequipped kitchen. Then we watched Germany pummel Portugal and turned in. We're both recovering from weird colds. Beer and ice cream seem to be helping.

I miss my Sunday NYT and CBS Sunday morning. I think I'll check them out online. Happy Sunday!

Got what I came for.

Had my first workshop with Phillip Lopate yesterday, and after he made another lady cry with his blunt dislike for her work ("This didn't work for me at all. Show me something else if you want."), he delighted in my manuscript, stroked my fragile little ego, and gave me some real guidance on where to go from here. Although he did say something like "When writing's this good, just keep going, go for it. I don't have much to say about marvelous work."

This is wonderful for a couple of reasons:

1. Duh.
2. Having worked with a mentor who confessed to falling in love with me and then mercilessly manipulating me (okay, I know I had to be complicit to some extent), I began to question if what he had to say about my writing was actually about my writing, or if it was about his doing anything to make me submit to his desires. Buttering me up, so to speak. Well, now it doesn't matter, because someone I respect much more than him has validated my project in a huge way.
3. Yikes! Maybe I am a real writer.

Whatever that means. I guess I realize I suffer from having been a young, lousy "poet" and playwright who then became a philosophy major who mastered mediocre academic writing, only to go to journalism school where they beat that shit out of me (thank God) so I could become a working journalist. It's only now that I've taken the real risk of attempting literature, telling the story I've needed to tell since I can remember in an artful way. You never know with your own work whether it's any good until a trusted reader gets his hands on it. And trust is something I've questioned and wrestled with a lot lately.

So, this isn't an end point, not at all. I'm not in this to be told I'm good. I'm in this to get something done. And I'm ready to keep going.

In other news, I'm getting more and more adjusted to the place, to the culture. Kiki, delicate flower that he is, is also making a valiant effort to quit being a poopy puppy and overcome his homesickness and desperate loneliness and isolation in being away from his boyfriend. Yesterday we ate: pastries for breakfast, crepes for lunch, and a much needed dinner of grilled meat at a Columbian joint a block from home--all at outdoor cafes; found H&M, Marks and Spencer, and a Sephora (hot damn!); got ice cream twice; and watched what we think was a Czech movie on cable. We also walked eleventyfive miles and had our first really good night's sleep. Today I cooked scrambled eggs with veggies for breakfast and I'm working on ratatouille with couscous for dinner. It's fun playing house with someone again. We also attempted to use the Czech washing machine in the flat, but I think we ended up deep frying our clothes.

Good thing we already found the H&M.

Tomorrow I give a reading, and I better figure out what in the hell to read. I might just write something new. They say not to do that, but I do lots of things people warn against, much to my own delight.

What's going on with y'all?

Praha!

I arrived, safe and sound, and fully capable of blogging again after a good night's sleep. Apartment's fine, the city's fine; I'm plugged into the program that starts officially tomorrow; I've hooked up with some friends from back home, yay! Had my first couple of beers in this country, and life is good.

This is the view from my apartment:



Enjoy!

Live from Schipol

How is it that Europeans can smell clean yet not perfumy amid a cloud of cigarette smoke?

And why didn't it occur to me that I would find it very difficult to spend a four-hour layover in a very small place within a very small country from which HB hails? A place that happens to be filled with people and things and general quirkyness that simply pummels me with HBness?

Yeah. I don't know, either. But it's enough to drive a gal to smoke. And drink. And hang out with rugby players at the airport bar. Okay, not really. I'm too grumpy. But maybe that'll be next--cheer me the hell up!

WiFi's pricier here: 10 euro for the day. But still worth it for killing time, kids.

I didn't sleep a wink on the plane. Instead I read the drivel that I'll be workshopping for the next two weeks. How about a 58-year-old woman from Houston's book-length memoir about the month she spent in spiritual retreat writing and teaching yoga in Ireland after she finally got her college degree. Could be inspiring, could be right up my alley, right? But instead it's full of horrid cliches and wonderment at the leprechaunian magic and spirits in the hills and blah, blah, blah. I don't know how not to rip her a new asshole.

Maybe I just need some sleep.

I've got to get off my high horse. But she's calling the friggin' thing "And that would be Ireland." As if. Why can't people try to be experts about themselves and themselves alone, albeit in different contexts, instead of trying to write about entire peoples and cultures with sweeping generalizations as if they know anything about anything? Huh?

And why have I encountered birds flying around my head and perching near me in two out of three airports I've been in this trip? And a toad in my garage (no, that is not a euphemism for anything! although I'd take it if it were more delightful than the fright I got in finding the damn thing hop out from under a garbage bag this morning.)?

I also watched two in-flight movies: Failure to Launch--nice eye candy in the form of one of my favorite Texans, Matthew McConnaughey, and his oddly long torso, but otherwise stupid; and a fucking fabulous documentary on The Ballet Russe. Those dancers seem to get it right so much of the time. Except when they start marrying their directors and choreographers. Bad, very bad. But they still manage to live for-practically-ever and keep dancing in some form or another into their dang 90s. Amazing. Loved it. Loved the history, seeing the costumes, style, bodies change over the 20th century.

I think I might need to tell somebody I'm here and planning to transfer onto my flight to Prague. Laters y'all.

On the road again

How much do I love travelling with my laptop + WiFi? The Northwest Airlines wing of Detroit Metro rawks! I thought I was going to have to join the fancy elite club for the day (at a cost of $45) to get online, but noooo. Just $7.95 will get you full-out, all-over access for the day. Yay!

So, I've been able to take care of some business--research, write and file a story for the paper back home. Yes, it's true. I conducted interviews two hours before my flight and the story is due tomorrow. What?

I'm bringing my cell phone (although don't call my U.S. number--I'll be picking up a local SIM card/number), digital camera, ipod, laptop abroad. This looks and feels so different than the first time I hopped across the pond 11 years ago. It's weird. But fun. I have become so high maintenance in a single decade. If I keep going at this rate, I'll have to hire someone to cart around my luggage.

Naw, I did pretty well. Shoes, gadgets and cosmetics comprise the bulk of my necessities. I'll be glad to have them, no doubt, and Kiki has agreed to bring my laptop back to the 'States a month before I return.

So for July, anyway, I plan to keep y'all informed and perhaps even bring some photos. You can see some of what I'll be seeing! How dang cool is that?

Well, I take off for Amsterdam in a little over an hour, arrive 8:30 a.m. local time, kill four hours doing God knows what (I got Euros burning a hole in my pocket already--left over from trip to Dublin in March), and then Praha at 12:30! Someone will pick me up (holding a placard with my name on it, yay!), take me to Kiki's and my digs for the month, and then I'll probably cash out for a good while. Kiki gets in Saturday morning. Our first stops will be: pivo!, church made of human bones, sex museum. In that order, methinks.

I'll keep you posted, although I can't promise a lot. The more fun one has, the less one writes in my experience. Living and creating take up the same energy. . . .

long overdue update

Madnes has taken over for the past couple of weeks. Finishing up the term, getting grades in, taking on freelance writing and grading(!) jobs (if only I got paid $20 a paper in my real job), attempting to finalize arrangements in Europe (unsuccessfully) and all the other usual bullshit.

So that's why you haven't heard from me.

And my laptop is fucked. Again. Needs to get shipped off for repairs. Again.

After sending off a cashier's check to a friend of my screenwriting prof to secure a sublet, he informed me that his landlord is pissed and it's a no go. I had planned on staying there for two months. This has caused me to reconceive my entire trip. Good thing I hadn't made hard travel plans. And he did send the check back.

Fuck it. I wish I could control these things, but I can't. I think I've gotten another place--more expensive and just for one month, but it'll do. Maybe I'll just take out a loan and wander around until the wedding in France. I could hit a lot of places I've never seen in Germany, Austria, Hungary, Poland, maybe even Italy. I could skip all that and go straight to Istanbul. I could do a spa tour. . . . I could shack up with a fabulous someone who has several country homes in which I could choose to live for a while. Who the hell knows?

I don't even know if I have time to take care of all the things I need to take care of. Finishing stuff now and preparing for what will come in the fall (I return the week classes start). Oy! Why do I do this to myself?

Oh, that's right. Because I love challenge and change and all the good that can come of it. But now is the scary stuff. The not knowing. I like to know it all, have all the information in front of me, but alas, ce n'est pas possible! Oh shit! I need to brush up on my French, too. . . . !

The good news is I'm also having fun. I went to see KiKi's new play last night and he is a fucking genius. The whole theatre laughed so hard they cried. I love having smart, talented, funny friends. Is there anything better?

And I'm hoping to escape for a little while to Chicago. It's Bluesfest weekend, people! See you there?

How does it all go wrong?

Last night I was awakened by a man and a woman screaming at each other two houses down. I had my upstairs bedroom window open, and with the expanse of quiet lake outstretched in my backyard, I could hear every word. It sounded like a perhaps drunken argument about the man's infidelities. I just wanted them to shut the hell up so I could go back to sleep. I thought about stepping outside and yelling that at them. But I knew that would just give them an opportunity to direct their anger at me. I listened, hoping they might quickly make nice and indeed, shut the hell up. But after about 30 seconds I knew this argument would only escalate. I was awakened by the woman screaming a string of obscenities at a rather quiet man; after a minute or two, the man started yelling threats.

So, I turned on the light, found the phone book in the pile of books on either side of my bed, and I called the cops. They took my name and number, which made me a little nervous that I'd get located as the narc, but fuck it. By the time I made the phone call, I knew somebody might end up dead. And by the time the police arrived, the woman was pleading with the man. "I can't breathe, get off me!" The man responded by ordering her to breathe. She was crying and screaming. Then the cops announced their arrival and yelled at him to get off her.

Meanwhile, I'm lying in my bed with my heart racing, knowing that I might have saved that woman's life by calling the cops.

Sometimes it's a tough call--figuring out when to step in during someone else's fight. Hasn't everyone who has lived in an apartment--on top and beneath others--had to face this question? Hell, I went walking in the woods near my house last week and I came upon a man and woman on the path. She stood with her arms crossed and head down. He towered above her, shaking his finger at her and admonishing her for something. I wanted to tell him to knock it off. The remote location, the body language, all seemed dangerous to me. But I just walked by, looping back around to listen if things had gotten worse. I couldn't find them again.

I could have clipped him at the knees, yelled at him, questioned them both about what was going on. Why didn't I? Well, I couldn't hear what they were saying. He had clearly placed himself in a self-righteous stance above her. Could it have been for good reason? Doubtful, but possible. I tend to believe no one has reason for arrogance or self-righteousness, but maybe she really fucked up. But does any adult have the right to treat another adult that way?

Still, it didn't seem like my place to step in. Should I have? What should I have done? It took me off guard. And I worried for my own safety. I usually am, but mostly I'm on the lookout for deer--I nearly got trampled by a family of four white-tailed deer racing across the trail after being spooked by the ice-cream man and his incessantly playing "Pop Goes the Weasel."

I have no regrets about calling the cops last night. I heard one of the officers talking to the woman about what had gone on. It sounds like she threw a beer bottle at the guy during some point in the argument. The cop tried to explain to her what a bad idea that was--that egging on a drunk dude is asking for trouble. She raised her voice at the cop and asked if he thought that made it okay for the dude to sit on her chest, or whatever the hell he was doing. The cop said no, but again, tried to explain what part she played in the altercation and how not to get into that situation again.

This is an old, complicated tactic, I think. After working in rape crisis, I bought the line that rape isn't about sex, it's about violence. Yes, but it also uses sex as violence. Getting raped is different than getting smacked around. Different effect, different intent. Both horrible. But I've also heard well-intentioned people trying to explain to women how to dress or not dress, behave or not behave, to fend off rape. Well, that gets a little murkier for me. Yes, women need to be taught to be smart, to not go home with strangers thinking they might just cuddle, to trust their instincts more than they trust what men say to get them into bed when they don't want to go there. But women don't make men rape them. Period.

Should women be able to behave any way they want? Showing up in the middle of the night wearing tight little red dresses, throwing beer bottles, screaming obscenities, making accusations and still remain safe? Yes. But do they? Often, no. So should we all be taught to be accountable for our actions? Absolutely. But what this actually means is where things get really tricky. In this state, the law says a person is incapable of giving consent to sex while intoxicated. So when a couple gets shitfaced and then fucks, who is the perpetrator?

A few weeks ago the Sunday NYT magazine ran a cover story about contraception--about fundamentalist rejection of contraception and its relationship to abortion. It was an incredibly well done piece--deeply historical and complex. I had my students read it and discussion went like this: the women in class had a lot to say; the men mostly remained silent. Then, one female student raised the idea that heterosexual sex is implicitly rape. Good God! I've read all the theory behind it, I get it, but is there any quicker way to shut up a bunch of smart, scared man-boys in a classroom discussion?

This is my problem with the direction the women's movement has taken on college campuses: victimization. Sanctioned victimhood leads to divisiveness full stop. Led by women who have felt like victims their whole lives, young women realize how they've been victimized, and they all get together as a bunch of victims feeling sorry for themselves and angry at a nebulous other. Can someone tell me how this is progress? What about recognizing oppression and then doing what it takes to overturn it, to fight against it, to live with dignity in the face of it? That should look very different than victimization.

But so now what? How does a person keep herself safe yet remain open to deep, abiding love? One must make allow oneself to be vulnerable in order to reap life's greatest rewards. But how do we do that and remain safe? Rely on the kindness of strangers, on caring (and tired, pissed-off) neighbors to call the cops? Rely on the cops to teach us personal accountability?

Where do we go from here?

man bashing

But you won't hear it from me.

I'm getting it from all around. Mostly from badly wounded, scorned, divorced women who--I think--have given up on themselves but cloak it in the straight man bashing. It's bumming me out, man. That kind of "down with love" "all men are after is pussy" "they are not compassionate, thinking human beings" "they all have an agenda" bullshit is so goddamn divisive.

Where is the learning in that? Where is the personal accountability?

Oh if only blame could honestly fall on someone else all the time. How about no blame? Okay, so it's way harder and painful to own up to how we've all fucked things up for ourselves. But then when you scratch the surface and dig deeper, you can figure out that each ruinous date, relationship, whatever you once sought represented a piece of you, showed that piece to you, fulfilled a particular need or desire. Own that shit! Then move on.

. . . so says the girl who has gone on a handful of cheap and boring casual dates since her self-imposed break up damn near two years ago.

Today is HB's birthday. Today and tomorrow. He's a Gemini; don't ask. But that's what this is about. Yesterday I smelled him all day long. And I swear, I didn't douse myself in his cologne. I leaned over the staircase to listen for him downstairs; I was utterly convinced he was in the house. Then at my office, I kept smelling him. Weird. Haunting. Sick, perhaps.

I wrote a new chapter today. The first since my trip to Dallas. It started out being about the day my dad told me he was moving out, and it turned into a remembrance of my early girlhood crushes, including Jim from kindergarten who puked in class, causing me to abruptly love him no more; Michael Jackson and my 7-year-old's personal Thriller fantasy; the werewolf from "An America Werewolf in London"; Brian, the next door neighbor who treated me like a younger brother and then fell in love with another Betty from the block, dammit; and ever-pretty River Phoenix.

For the most part, they were weird creeps. Terrifying and thrilling at once. Nothing changes, do it? So how can I rightfully bash someone else for my choosing him, huh?

Day of Gracious Living

Here at the little institution where I work, a place that likes to refer to itself as "the Harvard of the Midwest", we have a long-standing tradition of calling off work for one day, unannounced until the night before by the student council president, so that we who are so privileged and work so hard may live graciously.

Pffft.

Originally intended to get all the spoiled brats off their duffs and into the real world, the day once meant that students, faculty and staff left the classrooms and offices and got together for a big community project. Volunteering. Building a house. Planting flowers. Stuff like that. Now pretty much everybody goes to the beach and gets shitfaced.

Not a bad way to spend a day.

But not for me. Instead, yesterday I sat wearing a cashmere hoodie under the sun in my backyard and read this. I could. Not. Put it down. I can't figure out why I hadn't read it before now.

Sonofabitch.

I still have serious questions about Capote's reportage. How he could reconstruct so many of those quotes without taping and without taking notes. Now I've got to read this.

And this.

But soon I'll be reading loads and loads of Czech writers. In English. Although I've signed up for a Czech language class. What fun! I'll be expanding my understanding of Czech culture and literature beyond what my high school obsession with Milan Kundera offered me. And I'll know how to communicate more than "Beer, please!" (although knowing just that phrase, as well as "toilets?", in tongues native to the countries in which I've travelled has gotten me very far. Far as I wanted to go, anyway.)

I may have secured a sublet in Prague for much cheaper than I expected. And I have an opportunity to keep it longer than the one month I'll be working. I'm starting to think that may be the best option for me. Instead of flitting off to hard-to-reach islands or Eurorailing it across Western Europe, I might just plan to stay grounded in Prague; do trips from there to Eastern Europe; see new things, new people; position myself to take a lover; and have a hell of a lot of fun. Without spending all the money I don't even have. That'll leave me just enough time to skeedaddle off to the South of France by the end of August. . . .

Is it just me?

Or do posh English boys all seem gay?

I just watched this. And all those menfolk threw off my gaydar. Except for him. But he's Irish, so that explains that. Oh so pretty, although the least pretty among a beautiful bunch of Irish actors making it on the silver screen.

Who knew those boys were both Geminis? Figures.

God help me.

Dallas did not kill me.

But the trip has given me pause.

Here are the facts of the matter:

1. Bono wore a shiny yellow tie with a black shirt and suit to address the World Affairs Council in Dallas May 5. I pulled the press card, got myself a press packet and a VIP invite to a reception following the event. I giddily thought about what I'd say to himself, something I've pondered for a good 20 years. I couldn't figure it out. Luckily, he didn't show to the party. The anticipation was worth it, though. Whew!

He didn't say anything I hadn't heard or read before (one of the hazards of being a shameless stalker-fan). But being in his presence, observing his charm, his charisma was a great education.

2. I visited my hairdresser--the one who took care of me and my fuzz post-chemo. He's sick with all kinds of problems, but still the most loving, caretaking man. Love him! And any radical old queen who has survived growing up Southern Baptist in Plano, Texas and made a life for 28 years with the same partner in the small, oft-foresaken gay community of Dallas deserves props.

3. Ate lots of Tex-Mex. Drank margaritas and Shiner Bock and then made the mistake of sucking down more bourbon than is probably legal. Even in Texas. Drank so much Jim Beam that I fell out of bed, bruised my knee and got rugburn. That shit'll wake you up. Just in time to puke. It's been a long time since I've fallen out of bed.

4. Laughed, cried and fought with BFF. Love her, really do. I must. Cuz she's the only person I know of that I won't fight to a bloody pulp. I just roll over belly up like the dog I am. It's cuz I love her and she's the meanest, dirtiest fighter I know. I can't win with that shit. 'Course, check with her about her version. We have always lived and remembered two separate realities, even though we've always been girls together. That realization will certainly throw a non-fiction writer for a loop. I'm starting to believe there's no such thing as non-fiction. God damn.

And we still manage to have so much fun and laugh so hard we almost pee ourselves.

5. Went back to the hospitals where I was diagnosed, misdiagnosed and treated for cancer in 1994. Started the process of requesting medical records. Saw all those sick and dying kids. Again. Nothing'll light a hotter fire than survivor's guilt.

6. Revisted the old haunts: home, schools, the bar my dad managed when I was a kid, the apartments and houses I stayed in during my weekend visits with him. A lot of strangeness and sorrow there. Still. That bar still smells the same.

7. I ran into the kid who I knew would be my only connection to a long-lost friend the day after I said out loud, "Man if I could find Eric, I know I could find Erin." And then there he was, working in a bookstore I popped into. Crazy. I've got to start aiming higher.

8. Just to make things difficult, I decided to return to the jewelry store where HB bought my diamond ring to see if I could transform it or sell it back to them. Reclaiming that ring is one of my New Year's resolutions. But when I walked in and explained the situation to the skinny armed, tanned, fake-titted, fake fingernailed, big haired, overly made-up, typical North Dallas bitch wearing a diamond the size of her nose, she took pity on me. "Aaaaw. I'm so sorry, honey." See lady, pity is what I don't need from you. Then she explained that the ring doesn't look like an engagement ring as it is and any new design shouldn't look like an engagement ring, either. But that'll be hard with a solitaire diamond. And they can't reuse the platinum. And diamonds are like used cars in that they lose value as soon as you take them off the lot. Whatevers. Why can't the ring look how I want it to look, engagement ring or not? Why does it matter what other people think?

Which led me to the huge realization that Dallas is a place that values what things look like above all else. Has something to do with why the people are so pretty and tarted up and why they drive around in big, shiny cars and wear beautiful clothes and big hair and lots of make up. I like lots of that stuff, don't get me wrong. In fact, in the context of where I live, the folks around me consider me a girly-girl fashionista who obviously cares very much about appearances. But growing up I was a freak. I didn't fit any of the molds. I didn't buy into the importance of making everything seem fine when it wasn't. And most importantly, I've always been more concerned about how things feel and what they mean above all else. I've sought the connection between beauty and truth instead of valuing one or the other on its own. Okay, that might be stretching things a bit, but I think reconciling the two has, in many ways, been my life's work.

Just to take things entirely into the theoretical.

I have, no doubt, been shaped by that culture, the place, the heat, the concrete, the green, manicured lawns, the lack of water, the politics, the dust bowl of the city's soul, my friends and family--those who have never left, and those who have died. But I very deliberately chose to leave. And that may say more than anything else.

I have gone back, and I likely will continue to go back. The place and I get along better now. Demons can become lovers. And I can remain the same no matter where I go.