Popping our heads up (and BIG news)

Where the heck have we been you're all asking. Briefly, everywhere! From Prague to Provence in the last month via Czech countryside, Poland, Austria, Germany, Switzerland (redux for me), France, Spain, and now back in France again. Where to begin?! Well, here goes...(this could be long!)....

From our Prague nest we drove to Northwest Czech Republic to a teeny place called Teplice--very cool, natural spires of limestone soaring into the cool Czech skies through brokendown little towns each with their own set of loudspeakers--leftovers from Communist days?? Our first night back in the tent was a wet one which was to become the tiring trend of August.

From there we did a brief sojourn in Poland to visit the death camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau. I hesitate to write something brief here, because it was so intense and surreal, yet so real for so many millions that I want to honour their lives and deaths. It is actually fairly indescribable. It is one thing to read about the atrocities of the Holocaust, but quite another to stand at the door of a gas oven or crematoriam after having seen photos of the bewildered faces that met their end there. Quite another thing to see their piles and piles of personal effects--glasses, bowls, brushes, suitcases--massive piles, rooms full of things that confused and terrified hands carried there. To see the shoes they walked in with to their deaths--all faded to grey, uniform, so many people lost without name or number. I cannot convey the horror of seeing the wall where children were lined up and shot like criminals. The hooks emaciated and tortured individuals were made to hang on. The sheer size of the place, the cruelty of guards, the calm mastermindedness of it all was truly sickening. We actually both felt physically sick to our stomachs. I never felt more crushed as when I looked at babies clothes and booties--knowing they clung naked to their mothers naked bodies as they choked to death in the life-stealing gas. The evil, hatred, and pride that people are capable of was sobering and humbling. How much would it require for me to cross the line?

After that sight, we needed a mental rest, so we shacked up in some "bungalows"--ie. camping but in bare (but dry!) portables in Brno, Czech Rep. It felt like sheer luxury. I was able to pull out the scissors and glue while Matt listened to the pod and read. We hunted down a tiny, nearby village to discover a little hidden surprise in a broken, abandoned castle--Alphons Mucha's 'Slavic Epic'. 20 massive (8* 6 m) canvasses recounting the history of the Slavic people. Truly inspiring and beautiful. Rich pastels swirling in Art Nouveau and realist curves to hopefully inspire pride in all Slavs. Matt's Russian roots felt called to the surface; he felt akin to their search for self and identity despite being the world's underdogs.

Touring cities started to get very old and tiring right about here, so we passed by Vienna and Salzburg (somewhat painfully for me) in favour of Attersee, Austria. Divinity guided us to this heavenly little town in the Salkammergut. If you've seen the 'The Sound of Music' then you have seen it, too. It is the aqua-greyish lake region at the foot of the Austrian Alps. We stayed at Elie's house. A sturdy, sweet 74 year old lady who had lived out her 74 years in her equally sturdy stone home covered in grapevine, hidden in a lush flower and fruit tree garden. We had lovely tomatoes from her garden which she offered us and showered out of buckets in her garden shed. It was exquisite. Lake front camping and we were the only ones there. What more could we ask for? Elie got teary when we left and I almost did as well--we have not found anything as good since.

After a reluctant farewell, we plowed through the Austrian, German, and Swiss Alps. Matt loved this drive. It is stunning. Unlike the Canadian Rockies, people inhabit every inch of the mountains here it seems. The remotest areas have sleepy villages nestled between snow-capped giants. And they all look like a postcard. We stayed in an old, remote Alpen hutte in Bavaria with cowbells tinkling in the front yard. We ended up in Tasch/Zermatt, Switzerland for our 5th anniversary. We spent our day at 3,883 metres--the highest point you can easily get to by gondala. Here the view is unlike anything you've ever seen--you're literally breathless from the altitude and it is snowy Alps for as far as you can see, and every bit of your summer wardrobe is not enough! We followed that up with fondue on the mountainside at the feet of the mighty Matterhorn. But Switzerland's steep prices drove us on to back to France, but not before filling up on chocolate at the border--very important!

Le Puy en Velay, France. I think this is one of the most magical places I've ever been. Long a sacred place since it has distinctive volcanic spires pushing into the sky, Le Puy is still the sacred as the most favoured place to begin the Way of St. James, a 1000 year old, 1600 km pilgrimage that ends at Santiago de Compestela, Spain. Atop each peak is a beautiful chapel, cathedral, or religious statue--a veritable religious skyline. Millions of pilrgims walked the same streets I did there and many still do. I envied the obvious pilgrims I saw who walked with a palatable air of anticipation and hope as they began their arduous walk there. We felt the urge to walk and considered tossing it all out to do this, but after thoughtful meditation felt that our path led a way no one, not even ourselves, could see.

We made our way to Bilbao, Spain--home to the truly cool and famous Guggenheim. A massive, curving titanium beast on the river which is a modern art museum. We pilgrimed there for a day. I loved it. Spain, however, had to be offered up to the chopping block with Morocco in favour of a little sanity. My itinerary was a bit ambitious, and we were ready for flaking. So Spain recieved only two nights but they were sweet--one in a super cute, cliche Spanish villa and another on the beach in our moist tent. We will return to Spain perhaps--when we walk the Way of St. James.

So back to France. Here we feel most comfortable as we can read and communicate best here, plus France does have that certain je ne sais quoi as I said earlier. A couple chilling nights in a chambre d'hote--a B and B en francais. We met a lovely, generous, and very friendly French couple there who invited us to dinner and a stay at their home. We accepted only the first as their home lay in the opposite direction of my longings--Provence--a place that was quite mythical in my mind. Home and inspiration to many artists--Cezanne, Monet, Braque, Picasso, and Van Gogh to name a few. We took our shelter in St. Remy--the town that nurtured Van Gogh after he lopped his ear off. This felt strangely appropriate to me, but Matt didn't see the connection. It also was formerly Glanum, a pre-Roman, and then Roman town, where the goddess of health was worshipped. Alas, the health Van Gogh found there was only temporary as he shot himself in the stomach two months later, but we fared better in our week there. We ate grand salads, drank lots of wine, toured little markets, found a cute internet cafe, toddled about town, read, and generally holidayed. It was perfect. Provence is everything that is written about it. Vineyards interlaced with "gnarled olive trees", giant white-bark maples, spiring Cypresses all bake in hot dry sun on dusty yellow, white earth that feels truly ancient. One can really imagine the Romans stomping through building their aquaducts, theatres, arenas, and temples, which we toured for a day. So much to see here and so little time--five months is not enough!!

And now the Mediterranean beckons. We languished on its shores yesterday. Unable to swim due to beaucoup meduses (lots of stinging jellyfish) sadly. So off we go to the French Riviera, then Italy most likely. Greece and Turkey, much to my psychic agony, may have to be missed this time around as new plans must uproot old longings. (This is the BIG news part.) No we're not pregnant (keep praying!), but we are heading to Africa. Zambia for two weeks at the end of Oct to be specfic. Matt has an opportunity to do volunteer engineering work with a small group of engineers from home. We are totally excited of course, and somewhat nervous too. We hope it'll be a clarifying and meaningful time. While Matt hobnobs with the practical types, I'll be loving up little black babies at an orphanage as I have longed to do since I was about 5.

So that's us. Alive and well in Europe. 3 months in. 2 to go. Reality has long ago crashed through fantasies--and the many opinions offered us on how to conduct our trip. Mohammed said that "travelling is a fragment of hell" and now I understand, but I do not want to come home any earlier. Our little home beckons--a dusty little turbo diesel covered in a fine layer of crumbs and stuffed with strange little tidbits we can't wait to ditch for Africa.

Bonne journee!

Posh Paris and Pretty Prague Pictures

We're in Prague, of course, but here's a few Paris photos first that we couldn't post until now.




Hot tourist showing off under the Arc de Triomphe. Paris was seriously hot. 38 C on our first day and 40 C when we left as little puddles.





Notre Dame soaring to the heavens. While inside trying to be still amongst the hoardes, I overheard a young girl say, "Thanks, God, for water." I laughed. Here is this super famous, stunning church meant to overawe and humble one before God, and yet, it was a racket of distraction. My thoughts were nowhere near God. And then the simplest words pop out behind me. And I thought that perhaps it would've been more appropriate to skip the mega building project on this tiny island and just let the trees and the river speak for God.





A visit to Paris is not complete without a tour of the Louvre. Here the large format French paintings overawing little Matt. The Louvre was almost embarassing in its wealth. Treasures, artifacts, paintings from around the globe. Millions upon millions of dollars in one building in one small country. Matt was actually looking at a painting I liked here in which a saint is renouncing the vanities of life, her pearls and jewels and mirrors strewn violently on the floor. Sort of ironic.





Exterior of the Louvre. Well, some of it. In that courtyard is the pyramids.





Matt enjoying sunrise under the Eiffel Tower.



CZECH, MATE?

Back to the Czech Republic. Brought to you by the letter Z, and K, P, V, C, and preferably all in one word with one vowel. (Our Czech has not improved, as you may surmise.) Tomorrow we leave Prague. Pretty pastel Prague. We have so enjoyed you. Unlike in other cities like London and Paris where I knew which monuments and architecture would greet me, Prague was a mystery. I had no idea what I would find here. When we first emerged from the Minotaur's maze that is Prague's metro, I felt a renewed anticipation. And Prague surprised and delighted me. Her buildings hug one another in snug rows, softly painted various shades of peaches , corals, yellows, light greyish blues and greens, with swirling Art Nouveau ornamentation and relief sculptures. Her famous bridges are sweet in their repitition as they cross the river that runs through her centre, dividing old and new town. The squares are alive with people of all sorts and sounds. The "City of a hundred spires" was truly unique from the other European cities we've seen thus far. Matt said it felt like Disneyland. It did feel like a fairytale--without Mickey's garishness. London was gorgeous. Paris was sumptuously and sensually beautiful. Prague is pretty. Neat, tidy, pastelly pretty. Like the daughter a mother in a Jane Austen novel revels in. So here she is, Praha in her ornamented delicacy:




Oops, bad start after that intro. We cannot forget that, though Prague looks pretty now, it was once a Communist city. This reminds us. This is the farthest East suburb of Prague, Cerny Most (pronounced "chair-nee mohst"). The view from our balcony actually. We spent most of our time here, despite Prague's beauty, simply doing not nothing--reading, computing to friends, sleeping in. Just out of view here is 3 massive concrete, 100 foot towers close together that are labelled "Karma Distribution". This strikes me as funny. Nothing comes out. They just loom, but deliver nothing.





The reality of touristing. Running from site to site, cameras snapping, wallets flying, umbrellas waving, and hands sit open, usually empty. But, I promised beauty...





Old Town Square, Prague's main city square. Packed with tourists who watch the Astronomical Clock (the big building on the left) ring out each hour with a funny little mechanical procession of the twelve apostles who creak out little doors high up top. Tyne Church is the impressive spired beauty in the middle.





Prague beauties.





This is every street in Prague.


One site that we didn't have room to show you a photo of was the Jewish Quarter. Actually, a number of sites "sold" together in one ticket, including museums of Jewish Czech history, synagogues, and an old cemetery. Most impacting and worth sharing here is the Pinkas Synagogue, which is unique in that on every inch of its expansive walls were written names, birthdays, hometowns of Holocaust victims. 80, 000 names. 80, 000 Czech Jews remembered here. Very sobering. Outside were the lucky ones in the old cemetery. The most crowded cemetery I have ever seen. The Jews suffered many injustices for centuries throughout Europe. In Prague, they were confined behind walls, unable to own land, build, marry freely, or have any dealings with Christians. They were allowed only a tiny space for burying people so thousands upon thousands of graves are piled on top of each other. As the land settled the gravestones, wedged right beside each other, cracked and toppled. It was quite a sight. Walking through these sites, I wondered at and felt horrified by the extent of hatred. And just how a single people could have such resilience under such consistent hatred and oppression from so many sources.

Resilience is an important word in the Czech Republic. Their history is quite tumultous. A pensive, quiet people in a small area that has been overrun by more rulers than they could've ever imagined. After a week here, I still find the Czechs not a smile-y bunch, but I can't hold it against them. They are tolerant. Nothing makes them blink an eye. On the metro I thought that you could jump on here buck naked except for clown shoes yelling, "Czechs rule!" and no one would look at you twice. So two silly Canadians can pass quite incognito here--I've appreciated that.

Now we are off. Our itinerary thrown out the window. A few more days in the Czech Republic, and then??? Who knows? We're little birds, rested and just a little homesick, but happy to be together and free.

"Art is the lie that tells the truth"

Now. Here we are. Stuff I made, on display. Me, on display. Feeling a little queasy. I don't claim to be an artist. (I can't sort out that word.) I like cutting and pasting. That's it. The movement of scissors mesmerizes me, the smell of glue stick is delicious to me. It's the only time I have any real authentic zen moments--like your miserable self is out of view for a few refreshing moments, but in a healthy way. Ironically, I mostly make self-portraits. Some say this is narcissistic, I say it's funny and a good way to make a living. And if I don't do it, I get a little itchy. With those few self-conscious qualifiers out of the way, look on. (Click on pictures to make them bigger)




Possible Title: I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto (Alternatively: Screw Kansas, and Oz)





Possible Title: life? Holiday hell? Real life? Holiday hell? Real life? Holiday hell? Real



"People like explanations for art, because art makes them nervous." - Matt Good

Explanation (not that I'm saying it's art, or an explanation for that matter):
I have been thinking about despair. And, actually, despairing. I know I'm on holidays. But, it's only on holidays that I have the time to really do either properly so it's appropriate I think. (Qualification number 2: I am not a philosopher either.)

To help me in thinking about it (to actually despair I need no assistance), I've brought Kierkegaard on board. Specifically, his "A Sickness Unto Death", which is despair. If you haven't read it, I don't know what to say. It's uniquely clarifying and wildly uplifting. Soren is one messy dude. He drags God into everything and has a big wrestling match, like the muddy kind where it's real hard to get a hold on anything, but, you can, through intuition and faith. I love that. (Want to read it now?)

Anyway, back to despair. This may seem a depressing topic, but it is not, any more than bringing light to darkness is depressing. A little agony, a little death, and there is sweet life behind the veil. Trust me. So, I'll tell you why I am on an extended holiday, why I had to give up my job and apt, leave behind my friends and family, and push my husband to do the same. Because I've become too aware of the delusion I was selling myself to escape and so escape isn't forthcoming. It's like smoking a fat joint to no effect and only coughing hard on the smoke. AND still vainly trying to convince yourself that this is exactly what you want. It's hard to respect yourself in this pathetic and desperate state. Heck, it's hard to actually BE yourself in this state. So, I've been ditching on being myself and just opting for lying dead at the bottom of a cavernous, black pit. Emaciated, charred, chained. Insanely lonely. Yet, walking through my life like a smiling skeleton. Feeling like a liar, scared to be found out, ashamed. Yet, still with enough gall in me to fight with Eternity and long to be other than what it made me. Hence, the despair.

What do you have to say, Soren?

"That self which he despairingly wills to be is a self which he is not (for to will to be that self which one truly is, is indeed the opposite of despair); what he really wills is to tear his self away from the Power which constituted it. But notwithstanding all his despair, this he is unable to do, notwithstanding all the efforts of despair, that Power is the stronger, and it compels him to be the self he does not will to be. ...Thus it is that despair, this sickness in the self, is the sickness unto death. The despairing man is mortally ill."

Despite my affliction for the hyperbolic, it'd not be exaggeration to say I've been feeling a little mortally ill. Also as I said I feel a little ill revealing all this to whoever has a few minutes to spare in their busy day, but I press on for one simple reason. You're likely in despair, too.

The common view "assumes that every man must know by himself better than anyone else whether he is in despair or not. So whoever says that he is in despair is regarded as being in despair, but whoever thinks he is not in despair is not so regarded. Consequently despair becomes a rather rare phenomenon, whereas in fact it is quite universal. It is not a rare exception that one is in despair; no, the rare, the very rare exception is that one is not in despair."

Amen, Soren! Who of us can say honestly that we will to be exactly who we were formed to be, not in any small way wish to be something we are not? Certainly not me. But, I've been thinking that I'd like to give it a shot, give despair a little rest. Kierkegaard says that the answer to despair is faith--the most courageous faith, the faith to will to be (and thereby be) your real self--no delusions, no pockets of self-hatred remaining, no escape.

And Thomas Merton tells us that the self is something revealed. Revealed. It's not in you. It's a gift freely given.