Dreaming

Most of the time my dreams are clearly my brain jamming everything I’ve thought about or noticed into one scene.

An example: Last night I dreamed that I had been recruited to take my Grandmother to the hospital for a checkup. I agreed with my Mom to stop at a local NE Ohio grocery to pick up supplies on the way home. I arrived somewhere to get my Grandma but she wasn’t there, so I went to another hospital to talk to my Grandpa about it. Their house was just down the street but I didn’t stop there. The trip was to take two hours and we were leaving at 9pm. I called everyone but couldn’t find my Grandma.

Finally she came to the hospital at 10pm. I was angry but didn’t ask for explanations and none were volunteered. Several cousins (from both sides) were coming along, as were some anonymous French people. They were necessary because when I asked my Grandma where we were going, she said Menton (in France)! I tried to explain that driving to Menton took a lot longer than an hour, but they all acted like I was making a big deal out of nothing. I asked the French people and they agreed with me, we’d never make it.

As the van was getting loaded I turned around to talk to my cousin, so I was sitting cross legged with my back against the steering wheel. Apparently my grandfather decided we’d waited long enough because he started the van from the co-pilot seat and managed to get us onto the road.

I was struggling to turn around in the seat but there wasn’t enough room. We were approaching an intersection with traffic and it was urgent that we stop, but my feet weren’t anywhere near the brake pedal. No one else in the van seemed at all concerned and I couldn’t make them understand the danger. I finally got turned around, but not seated, and jammed my foot down where the brake should be. As it turns out, someone had exchanged the brake pedal for a stack of red Wendy’s chili cups which I had to push into the floor to brake. But I couldn’t get the angle right and kept crushing the cups.

That’s pretty representative of most of my dreams. But a few nights ago, my dream actually made sense. Someone asked me what I was going to do after I made a million (presumably dollars, though I’d prefer Euros at this point) and I said, I’m going to sail the world, but not in a sail boat – on a big ship. And even if I were awake, that’s exactly what I’d have said even though I’d never thought of it before.

What A Difference

Our absentee landlords arrived in the area late on Wednesday; Thursday was Ascension day. I celebrated with another headache, this time bad enough to make me nauseated. As I stood steaming my head over the electric kettle (a wonderful invention – every home should have one!) I heard some shouting at our gate.

Thankfully, despite my sick headache I’d changed out of my pajamas because it was our newly arrived landlord. What I hadn’t done was anything else. I hadn’t put away the groceries, washed dishes, cleaned the stove, put away the laundry or taken out the trash. I’m not exactly a neat freak, but the house was a disaster even by my standards.

I welcomed him and explained that I had a migraine and R was still abed battling to sleep after several days’ insomnia. He was ‘on the fly’ and just wanted to check in. I stood with the heel of my hand pressed hard against my brow, hoping that my skull would cave in.

“Do you have our number?” He asked

“Um…no, not the local one.” I said. I knew where this is going. I would have to get a pen, and I couldn’t tell him to wait outside.

“I’ll give it to you.”

“Um, okay. Well, come in, the house is a wreck because I’ve been fighting with my head…” I start to explain.

He shrugs and cuts me off, “It’s your house now.”

Back in Greece I panicked every time our landlords or neighbors appeared. I knew that no matter how clean and neat the place was, there would be something that they would not only see, but comment on. If the floors were clean, the stairs were dusty, if the stairs were clean, the sink needed scrubbing, if the sink was clean, the balconies needed to be hosed, and if all else was perfect, there were always the fingerprints on the doors.

And while one would think that with such picky landlords the house would be in perfect condition, the rain coming under the front door, the thirty year old sofa with torn upholstery, the sprung and mildewed mattress, and the water pouring out of the fuse box in the living room would tell the truth.

So, while this house is certainly no palace, it is probably more livable than the Greek houses we rented. It doesn’t hurt that I’m not afraid of my landlord, either.

My Soapbox

I was going to write a wonderful post about the delight that is 50% off day at our local patisserie, but that will have to wait. I’m dizzy with anger and I’ve got to say something.

4 year old Madeleine McCann was stolen from her room in Portugal nearly two weeks ago. This is a tragedy, but that’s not what I’m angry about. I don’t know how much press this case is getting in the States, but here in Europe it’s a very big story.

Two days ago, the English news media announced that there was an official suspect. I certainly hope this man is guilty, as his life is never going to be the same again. His name, face, family and personal history has been broadcast all over the news.

The sewer rats that are ‘the press’ have proceeded to dig up his history, interview anyone who’s ever had contact with him, and ruin his reputation. Everything he’s said in his own defense is printed in quotation marks to ensure the impression that he’s guilty as sin. It makes me sick.

It feels good to believe that police around the world will only name a suspect if there’s a good reason. It feels good to think that innocent people won’t be accused of crimes if there isn’t reasonable suspicion. It is decidedly uncomfortable to believe that completely innocent people can be named in criminal cases without any good reason. If we admit to ourselves that this can happen, that means it can happen to us, and we don’t want that.

The end result is that this man has been convicted by public opinion, despite the fact that the police say openly that they don’t have enough evidence to gain a court approved charge against him.

“But,” you might say, “they must have good evidence or they wouldn’t have named him a suspect.” You aren’t alone, this is something I’ve heard (or read) on more than one occasion about this crime and others. It’s the excuse people give in order to feel safe in their environment.

The Portuguese police might indeed have such evidence, but if they do, they aren’t saying anything. And I take it as a given that innocent, completely innocent, people are arrested all over the world all the time. If you have any doubt about that, have a look here.

That site, FTA, only talks about the lucky few who are fortunate enough to find and make contact with them. The rest are dangling in the winds, subject to the whims and political maneuverings of the corrupted (or inept) individuals that comprise many of the world’s justice systems.

There are many reasons why the police might have taken this step. One is that they actually have some reason to believe that he’s involved in Madeleine McCann’s abduction. They also might have felt desperate to take some action in a case with no leads growing increasingly cold. They might have decided to take the first person who was close to the case. They might be bumbling idiots.

I don’t know. For me that’s key. The teeming masses don’t know either, but they think they do; they want to think they do. It’s a scary world when not only can our police not solve crimes, but also can destroy innocent people without any reason.

I’ve got news: we live in that scary world.

It’s All Over (even the singing)

So, the chubbier and less talented Serbian version of k.d. lang won.

We didn’t watch the whole thing because Grease is The Word was on. Reality TV has never been my thing, but I’m a new person. Who wouldn’t love to watch people competing to win a year’s contract to star in a London stage production? It’s addictive. I did see enough Eurovision to make some observations.

I wrote before about how the Greek presenter’s enthusiasm nearly brought me to tears. The Greeks were really invested in their 2005 win, emotionally. And the new trend of Eastern Bloc countries swarming the Eurovision Song Contest tells me that they are also emotionally invested.

The general feeling among Western European grown-ups I know is that Eurovision is awful (but they watch it anyway.) Last night Terry Wogan was the British announcer, and he was full of disdain for the entrants, the voters, and the contest itself. He was funny and cynical – I think his attitude is more closely aligned with Western Europe, where Eastern Europe (and Greece) are still in awe of Eurovision. The contrast was interesting.

Eurovision Song Contest 2007

I’m starting to understand that the Eurovision Song Contest isn’t about entertainment or talent, but is instead about something mystical, something unfathomable – something European.

Two years ago, I watched my first Eurovision Song Contest. We were in Greece, and Elena Paparizou won with “You are the one.” Elena is in fact Greek and competed for Greece, despite the fact that she is also Swedish.

Looking back, my first Eurovision (2005) may have been the best one I’ll ever see. The Greek announcer was so excited I nearly cried. Every time the votes came in she thanked the voting country in their native language and Greek, so excited she completely abandoned the normal presenter’s objectivity.

“You are the one” was subsequently used for every cell phone’s ringtone and on several TV ads. If that wasn’t enough, the Greek news managed to string out Paparizou’s win for three months. Naturally, every time they ‘reported’ on her, they played that song. Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water, Eurovision 2006 came along and the Greeks revived “You are the one.” I did learn from that song, though, what ‘capricious’ means.

Last year, Sakis Rouvas and Maria Menounos (a Greek-American) presented from Athens and the European populace, seemingly sick of Euro-pop, elected Finnish monster heavy metal group Lordi as their European Song Contest winners. Weird.

I’m starting to wonder if Lordi didn’t win last year because they were the worst possible choice. Last night in Helsinki at the qualifying round, several people/groups who could actually sing were passed over for acts which push the definitive boundaries of the term ‘music.’ I actually wondered if some people, in a bid to reduce the competition for the automatically qualified acts, voted for the absolute worst acts of the evening.

Who didn’t get in?

Andorra – a Green Dayesque punk group (called ANONYMOUS) admittedly from a place which is a nation by a hairsbreadth. Andorra obviously doesn’t have the social/political alliances necessary to secure a Eurovision win. They were good – really good for punk. They got sent home. Sad.

 

Switzerland sent DJ Bobo with a song called “Vampires are alive.” There are several remarkable things about this act. First, they were considered front runners to win Eurovision and didn’t make it past the semis. Second, DJ Bobo can’t sing, not that this seems to have any bearing on winning. Third, this act reminded me a lot of Cats or Phantom. It had a distinctly Andrew Lloyd Weber feel to it and seemed to be yanked from a musical stage show – or I could simply be searching for a context in which this song would make sense. They went home and I’m glad.

The Netherlands sent Edsilia Rombley. She reminded me of Toni Braxton. She could sing, even if the song was boring and unremarkable, she sang it with a voice. Bye-Bye Edsilia.

Iceland, Croatia and Czech Republic all sent what I would call hair bands in a bid to repeat Lordi’s success. Of the three, the Czechs were the best. It was like high school all over again. But it didn’t work, they’re all going home.

Belgium sent The KMG’s with a reincarnation of Kid Creole and the Coconuts called Love Power. It was fun, it was silly, it’s going to stay in Belgium.

Who got in?

A lot of crap acts.

Belarus sent Koldun with an act that, while not close to the worst of the evening, was bad enough that I was laughing audibly by the end. Work Your Magic, indeed.

Incredibly, Bulgaria had a drumming/really bad singing (wailing) act who qualified for the final. This was so bad I am bewildered by their qualification. Their song was an actively unpleasant experience, Water.

Georgia’s Visionary Dream was crap, but I guess having swordfighting backup dancers meant something to enough people. She hurt my ears.

Magdi RÚzsa from Hungary gave us a reincarnation of Crystal Gayle’s Don’t it make my brown eyes blue and did it well. She called it Unsubstantiated Blues. She’s in.

Latvia sent Bonaparti.LV with operaesque Questa Notte, a song which would have been far more effective if they’d left the accompanying music at home. Still, they’re in and they’re okay.

Serbia sent the ambisexual Marija ŠERIFOVIĆ, who performed her act in a mannish suit which obscured her body to the extent that she might have been a badly drawn cartoon. Add to that her backup singers, who looked like Texas beauty queens from the late 80’s and spent most of their time touching her meaningfully rather than, well, singing backup. What you get is a boring but not awful song which somehow beat out other people to make it into the final.

If Eurovision is anything to go by, I’m never going to understand Europeans.

Some Stinkin’ Bastard Ate Half My Cherries!

The fussing I’ve done over these cherries should automatically disallow any thieving. I’m an incredibly obsessive fabulous fusser and the cherries were no exception. Trying to shed the last dregs of their petals? I was there. Twisted around another stem? I was there. One of those stinky green farting priest’s wives (more on these in a future post) sucking out the juice? Me, again.

And now this. The day before yesterday should have been the first day the cherries were ripe. Sometimes when you go the all natural route you lose a bit of the crop – I can accept that.

It’s a bit like taking a bite out of every chocolate to see what’s in the middle and then putting it back in the box. Every single cherry which might be ripe enough is half eaten. No cherries for me.

One Thing I Loved About Living In Crete

When we were living in Crete, I never got sinus headaches. Typically I only get sinus headaches when the sky goes from clear (high pressure) to overcast (low pressure.) I have no data to back me up, but I can only assume that Crete rarely experiences ongoing low pressure, because I think I got maybe 3 sinus headaches in all the time we were there.

Yesterday, I woke up with a twinge which turned into a full blown nauseating headache within an hour. I swallowed the last of my imported Tylenol sinus. By the time I took the pills, the headache was so bad that they only took most of the pain away. Off to the pharmacy where I spent 10 euros on salt water to spray up my nose. How can salt water cost 10 euros? I suppose I should be moderately grateful, as when I asked for saline in Crete the only thing they had was some fancy aerosol with bee pollen and purified sea water (all natural!) It, too, was 10 euros.

By bedtime the pain was gone and I was only really dizzy. I truly believe that nothing feels as good as the absence of pain. As a side effect of the sinus medication I’m up at the crack of dawn (5:30) and can’t sleep.

We’ve been living in France for just over a month and I’ve already had as many sinus headaches as I had in the entire time we were living in Crete. I’m doomed.

What’s Wrong With 24h/7?

732 years ago this December, my cousins and I took a 4 day trip to Paris. We were young, we were poor, we were adventurous – we stayed in a hostel. I seem to recall that the hostel booted us out at the crack of dawn (perhaps 08:00?) and wouldn’t let us back in until 19:00 or 20:00. With a whole city to see and nowhere to laze away the day, we walked.

We walked from morning until night for four days. I was not a little surprised to find out I’d gained 7 pounds in 4 days despite the forced marching. It certainly wasn’t that we were eating rich food in restaurants. After I paid $12 for a plate of fries and a microscopic orange soda, I shopped in groceries. How does a person who’s walking for 12 hours per day gain weight?

Hindsight’s answer: I ate constantly. I ate insane amounts of food because I was panicking. I was panicking because I feared that we would run out of food and not be able to get any more because the shops were closed at such unpredictable times. In hindsight, I laugh at my walking, eating, panicking self. The shop hours are predictable. They are open exactly when they should be, when they say they will be. I just couldn’t recognize the pattern; a condition which has continued up to today. I have gotten better at coping with it, though.

In Greece, pretty much all shops are closed on Sunday; even a pattern recognition deficient dope like me gets that. Weekdays, pretty much everything is open from morning until 2.

Here’s where it gets hazy. On some days, shops will stay open after two (maybe until 3?) because they will be closed for the rest of the day. On other days, Greek shops close at 2 and reopen around 6. They then close for the night at 9. As I cannot hope to remember which days are which, I solved this problem by shopping before two. Even after two years of living in Crete, I can’t tell you anything for certain except that shops will be open until two, except on Sunday.

Now that we’re living in France, I wonder what I found so difficult the first time around. At least in this small town we’re living in, shops close mostly from 12-2 and at 7:30 for the day. Okay, it’s a little more complex than that. Some days they close a little later than 12 or open earlier than 2, but as long as I don’t try to shop from 12-2, there is no problem.

The years haven’t improved my complete inability to comprehend variable store hours, but I’m glad I’ve figured out how to cope. If I was going on like the first time around, the math is scary. 7 pounds in 4 days x 10 = 70 pounds. Another month and I wouldn’t be able to walk.

Creature Comparison

Back in Greece the sound of the bats echo locating just about drove me, well, batty. I don’t really mind bats as long as they aren’t in my bed (if you understood that reference, I’ve tried to write but I think my email is getting swallowed by your spam filter – give me a phone number!) But the constant sound of them was really invasive.

French bats are completely silent, at least here in the Charente. I’m sure they’re a different species; I found it interesting.

In other creature news, I saw a leech today while walking the dog down by the river. I’ve never seen one before. It wasn’t gross until I let my imagination take a stroll.

The Fruits of Someone Else’s Labor

 

When we arrived here just over a month ago, there were no leaves on the trees but several were covered with blossoms. As the days went by, I spent a lot of time looking at them, trying to decide what they would be. I’m sure there are people who can look at a stump of wood and know what sort of tree it is, but I’m not one of them.

 

The last tree is dropping the last of its blooms now, and I’m pretty sure finally that it’s an apple tree. We have two cherries which would have produced a much finer crop if I’d realized that they needed water a week ago. Instead, many of the baby cherries have withered and are falling off. What’s left are looking good, and should be ready to pick in a few days.

 

We also have a plum, which didn’t suffer the same dessicated fate as the cherries and is full of plums. I don’t particularly like plums and it looks like we’re going to have a bunch, naturally. 6 well established grapevines are budding now; I like grapes but what will I do with so many?

 

In the back we have a very small peach (or perhaps nectarine) which is bringing forth a handful of fruit. There also may be a hazelnut, I’m not sure. I’d like to know why a search for ‘hazelnut tree’ on google doesn’t give any clear picture of what a hazelnut tree looks like without the nuts.

 

Externally, there are dozens of walnuts in the area and I’ve even seen a fig. Figs were a very common tree in Greece, but I didn’t realize they’d grow in this area of France. Our sometimes neighbors who are here only a few weeks have two pears and what I think is an apple.

 

One thing is sure, I love that these trees are going to make fruit all on their own. It’s a little magical – and if there’s one thing that’s missing from adulthood (in my opinion) it’s magic. I’ve been told by parents that having children brings magic back, but I think that’s a rather drastic measure to take so I’ll stick to reproduction of the horticultural kind.