Doctor Turvy's Quixotic Apothecary: I'll Light A Candle In A New York Minute

“Doctor Turvy was an ethereal citizen of an ethereal world.  In the beginning, he existed only for Blix, but long before the end, he existed for everybody who worked with Blix or knew him well.  Although Doctor Turvy’s prescriptions indicated that he put his trust in a wine list rather than a pharmacopoeia, he had two qualities of special excellence in a physician; his diagnosis was always arrived at in a split second – and he held the complete confidence of his patient.”

Beryl Markham

Rx: A Curious Prescription

Astronauts have always known that a "cosmic re-entry" can be tricky business.  

I found out on the 12th Day of Christmas.  

Had I flown into Atlanta that day, I might have crashed and burned.  But I didn't.  I arrived back in the "U" "S" of "A" through the one city in this world that has reminded me, time and time again and when I find that my march coincides with the beat of a melancholy drum, of a thing that Robert Frost once noted (and Gogo PR Girl recently reminded me of):

"In 3 words I can sum up everything I've learned about life.  It goes on."

(In fact, if anything ever goes so terribly wrong that the people I love can't find me entirely, let me go ahead and suggest that they'll do themselves a favor to search, first and foremost, the skate circle in Central Park.  It's my Tiffany's.)

That night, life went on with a Confederate: Amber Francis.  Who joined me for an Experimental Cocktail at 191 Chrystie Street.

I had the Curious Prescription.

Ingredients: Pueblo Viejo Reposado, Purkhart Pear Williams Eau-de-Vie, La Cigarrera Manzanilla Sherry, Homemade Salted Mezcal Caramel Syrup, Lime Juice & Bittermen Habanero Bitters.

Directions?  Do not try this at home.

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Amuse-Bouche!

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Watch:  Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

Read:  City Britches, A Southern Girl's New York Minutes: a series of posts I composed at the request of an Editor at Garden & Gun.  I followed up for a year and never did find out what became of their intentions to use them, but I'd like to share them with all of you.  So I'll be posting them in the following week.
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Discuss:  I kept some time, on my layover, for an early morning walk in Lower Manhattan.  And one thought haunted me more than most: "You know, not everyone we lost that day . . . died.  Some of them are still out there.  Still lost." And (bear with me because this will be difficult to describe) it was less like a thought from my own mind and more - it was as if someone were speaking to me.  As if they were showing me that they could identify with something I already knew.

I'd like to open a dialogue  about what I can do to help survivors that might have slipped through the cracks.  So if you know of an organization that's doing great work, please share them with me.  Or if you know someone who needs help, I would like to explore earmarking a portion of the "Light A Candle" fund for their benefit.

To Those Who Are Lost.

Let's Light A Candle.

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I Would Rather Light A Candle

I had come so far.  But so far, I've only written about how.  There is a why as well.  And it's a why, that belonged to Eleanor Roosevelt before it belonged to me.

"She would rather light candles than curse the darkness and her glow has warmed the world." 

Adlai Stevenson, Eulogy of Eleanor Roosevelt, November 7, 1962

On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, I lit a candle.  The first of many and the reason that I had traveled so far.

I spent my days in Antibes learning the Art of Candle Making.   Because I want to make candles whose glow will change our world.  

"Is this really what I was born to do?"

A "yes" to that question, came to me as a whisper.  A whisper that frightened me more than just a little bit.

Oh but just look where fear had led me so far:  Belle Voyage!

On The Tenth Day Of Christmas ...

Leapin' Lords!

When I reached Antibes, time began to haunt me.  I couldn’t believe how far, both geographically and spiritually, I had come in the short space of a single week.  Seven days and countless carousels later, the forward momentum was catching up with me.  Looking back so suddenly caused me some anxiety over my departure.

Had I seen enough, done enough, discovered enough, learned enough, lived enough?  Missed enough sleep, taken enough notes, snapped enough photos?  Chosen the right mementos?  Would I remember enough?

My own carousel horse stands on top of a music box and dances to the 18th variation of Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini," one of my favorites.  It's a piece that I have loved since I was a very little girl.  “In my own compositions, no conscious effort has been made to be original, or Romantic, or Nationalistic, or anything else" the composer once remarked "I write down on paper the music I hear within me."

I have to wonder if it will be believable to you that, on my first day in Antibes and with so many insecurities nagging me, upon meeting my host for breakfast I realized that the cafe he had chosen was carousel themed?  Or that after our first meeting at his studio, I walked out the door to see - yes - a carousel spinning in front of me?  I can't help but feel that these circumstances become even less believable when I say that, tucked behind Aphrodite's Chariot, and as Zeus is my witness, there was a carousel SWAN.

It all seems contrived and overly romanticized.  "Extra queso" as His Ryness would put it.  All that considered, the music within me - Rachmaninoff - played on.  I'm just the scribe.

Antibes was a vision!  A vision that saw me through the taming all of those "enoughs?" with an answer.  Yes.

Yes!

The fresh seafood, the FLEAS - I heart a flea, the boats, the water, the Alps on the horizon, the Gelato!  But for cups of coffee whose price tag rivals a "Venti" yet is dwarfed in size by a "Tall," the South of France is heaven.

And there was one moment in particular when I tipped my hat, raised my glass, and thanked my lucky stars that I "left my home in Georgia."

To Optimistic Happiness, Always Moving Forward.

And To Watchin' Our Ships Roll In!

Cheers, To You.

My Friend.

Every (Vie En) Rose Has It's Thorn

"Des yeux qui font baiser les miens

Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche

Voila le portrait sans retouche

De l'homme auquel, j'appartiens"

Edith Piaf

The Parisian Gentleman who greeted me smiled as if he were welcoming an early morning guest into his home.  And as he escorted me toward the diminutive perfection of my “table for one,” it was with an air of excitement and amour-propre . . . as if he ever-so-secretively knew that this experience would be unlike any other this city had so far treated me to.

 But then again, in hindsight, of course he knew.  That canary in his throat was singing La Vie En Rose.   And the secret was one that, in this moment, he held singularly against me.

Sunrise service at Angelina is a ballet whose Pricipals are turned out in classical length black skirts, black tights & flats, eyelet aprons, and peter pan collars below which the (period) most (period) exquisite (exclamation) teensy black bow hangs. It was as if Mademoiselle Coco herself had silently willed them into brilliant costume with her years of faithful patronage.

 I, personally, imagined the upper half reinterpreted as a cashmere topper, and the bottom as a full on tutu - calling for Repetto’s Ballerine Cendrillon en Python Noir with an impassioned “Madame I beseech you!”

There was but one place for me to go for an encore. 

And so it was that I walked through the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, and I crossed the Place du Carrousel, and I acquainted myself, in the first light of day and for the first time in all my days, with the Musée du Louvre. 

And if you fancy yourself an optimist, then this is the only way to begin a day that will later serve up one missed train and two sanity-threatening teens who sing (what I could only interpret as the Croatian rendition of High School Musical) all the way to Antibes.  

The Ninth Day?  Dancing ladies?  Well . . . Only if they are rhythmically forming nine rings (around this Princess Odette) to perform a modernist interpretation of Dante's descent as an Ode to traveling the M14 from Opera to Gare du Lyon.

I'm more, much more, of an M12 girl!  The M12, whose musicians, school children, gallery seating and accessibility deliver a stark contrast to the ghost-conducted, assylum hued, over-crowded M14.

Though leaving was not easy, I now know from experience that . . .

“There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. "

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

"Some Of It's Magic, Some Of It's Tragic. But I Had A Good Life All The Way"

“He went to Paris, lookin’ for answers

to questions that bothered him so” 

Jimmy Buffet 

She went to Paris because one very special man said that she must. And another, helped her find the courage to do so alone.

Paris, in turn, broke her heart wide open.

As I rounded the corner onto Place Saint-Sulpice, my attention was immediately drawn to this carousel. “Yes” I thought to myself “I hear you. I know. Optimistic happiness always moving forward.” 

I needed that.

My “Jockey” took her sweet time (French People Time) meeting me for brunch and, perhaps, left me too much time to think. Actually, it - for certain - left me too much time to think. The carousel appeared, entirely, on cue.

Side Note: No wonder Boulevard Saint-Germain is so historically popular with the “thinking” set. It took me 45 minutes to get a glass of water. If that’s not time to think then I don’t know what. And the waiter was so adorably oblivious that, save hunger, I wasn’t really affected by the wait.

A few steps into Saint-Sulpice, I had to just sit down and allow myself to weep. The word overcome would trivialize what I felt. But allow me to fumble about a bit in attempt . . . 

Never before has a place so completely broken my heart apart and filled it with absolute and infinite passion as this one. It was as if the devotion and investment of each and every artist whose hands had given rise to it suddenly rushed into my chest at once, leaving it aching with the throb of their hearts. 

 
I think that heartbreak gets bad rap. Sure, there’s the kind that leaves you in a puddle on the bathroom floor because some idiot ripped it out with his bare hands. But there is also the sort of heartbreak that comes with beauty, art, craftsmanship. That sort of heartbreak - they just don’t make words for - in any language. I think Hemingway was on to something when he wrote “Maybe it is easier in the end to break your legs than break your heart although they say that everything breaks now and that some times, afterwards, many are stronger at the broken places.” 

Paris afforded me Two stronger places of that variety. The First, I earned at Saint-Sulpice. Later on that evening, my guides led me into THE first, down an alley, and to a table at L’Art Brut Bistrot. I left that table with The Second. 

Hemingway also declared that “Hunger is good discipline.” If that is the case, then I have been a very bad girl! The hand spun noodles at Les Pates Vivantes made the soupe de nouilles ou pates coupees aux anguilles dans un bouillon pimente, and the trois bieres that you’ll need to put out the five pepper fire, an absolute steal at 24 Euro. And the tart at Le Vélocipède where the waiter ADORABLY looked at me and inquired “poire is apple?” was beyond divine. And this (below) turned the evening into a full on crawl. 

A Toast to my Mother!  I want to show her this place one day.

On the Eighth Day of Christmas, this Maid Milked Paris for all she was worth!

A Black & White, Absolute Ball!

“A beautiful girl of twelve or twenty, while she may merit attention, does not deserve admiration. Reserve that laurel for decades hence when, if she has kept buoyant the weight of her gifts, been faithful to the vows a Swan must, she will have earned an audience all-kneeling; for her achievement represents discipline, has required the patience of a hippopotamus, the objectivity of a physician combined with the involvement of an artist, one whose sole creation is her perishable self.” 

Truman Capote 

When His Ryness first referred to me as one of his Swans, I was beyond tickled pink to be considered a “Babe Paley,” “Gloria Vanderbilt,” “Slim Keith,” or “Lee Radziwill” in his world. To be fancied a Swan by a Peacock whose sartorial standard is as endangered as his, and who is such an avid connoisseur of Black & White Balls, is an honor that inspires me to have reverence for the standard that I hold myself to.

So when I realized that this same Peacock had set into motion a series of events that would lead me to Paris, I was beside myself with a sense of serendipity. We met on Good Friday, I was a springtime Swan, and in time to ring in the “Bonne Année,” I arrived in Paris, France: simultaneously 4,391 miles away and still closer to “home” than I had ever been before.

Yes, I arrived in Paris on The Seventh Day of Christmas - a day for Swans.

This Swan, to be quite frank (a phrase whose humor I’m now intimately appreciative of), didn’t exactly have the sweetest welcome. For one thing, I was greeted immediately outside of the train station with an odor of ammonia. Paris was saying hello to me with a (literal) potty mouth. But if truth be told, nobody was actually saying hello to me at all. Not so much as a smile. In return to the one plastered on my face? Nope. No m’am.

I, however, was singing! Inside. To myself, I walked down the street, singing: “I’m gonna make you Love me! Oh, yes I will. Yes I will!”

Inside the doors of THE BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT EVER, I had a taker. The clerk at the hotel enjoyed my company immensely! He liked me. He really, really liked me! So much so that he was kind enough to point out that I had a double and would be comfortable enough to entertain, if I so desired. I was flattered to say the least.

Settled in and unpacked, I decided to try a new exploration strategy. No phone, no map, I determined North and headed southwest on a ramble. After some time I looked up to determine my whereabouts. My. heart. just. stopped. Without so much as a “be still” from my lips.

Rue Cambon.

I floated down the street. My guides had delivered me to Mademoiselle Chanel’s doorstep: the front door of her hat shop “Chanel Modes” at 21, the street below her personal apartment at 31, the back entrance to her suite at The Ritz. It might seem to be a no-brainer that I have such an attraction to her if I remind you that she suggests a woman apply perfume anywhere she wants to be kissed. My kind of girl! But if I tell you, the lesser known fact, that they found only three complete outfits in her closet upon her death, you might just understand the depth of my connection to this true Revolutionary in a light that tells you something you didn’t know about either of us. 

Crossing the Seine several times and staring into the dark black water, I made my way to the Eiffel Tower. Twas there that I found His Ryness - in the shape of not one but two carousels, on either side of the bridge, both of which I took a spin upon. 

 When I reached the top of the Trocadero, down came the rain. The angel’s happy tears were falling on my face, an elixir I would rather have one drop of than a whole bottle of the finest. 

I walked down Avenue du President Wilson thinking “Who needs champagne & funny hats? I have Paris! And as they say, now I always will.”

“It may be that the enduring swan glides upon waters of liquefied lucre; but that cannot account for the creature herself - her talent, like all talent, is composed of unpurchasable substances.” 

Monsieur Capote

Evensong of Gold & Geese

When I visited with Matt in Birmingham, I had asked him to explain defining the “inner essence” as a “dark void in your soul,” something I remembered from his TEDxBirmingham presentation.

"I think a lot of what, a lot of the interpretation that we’re involved with in terms of the aesthetic and then this desire to make the bike feel like it looks is about what could be called a void or the negative space. Like the negative of a picture, or the negative film or...   

We have been inspired by a lot of Caravaggio’s paintings. Which were, really - he was really the first of the Renaissance artists that I consider to be a true rebel. In other words, to really challenge the church and to see the indoctrination that was going on. 

And they would ask him, ya know - he’s the greatest painter ever, and they would ask him to paint fruit. And he would make it look real ugly. And he always used darkness, and he used black. He was very - his real narrative in terms of his paintings - is from the use of the void space, the black space. 

And one of the windows, of the transparencies, that I think the bike - the screenplay - the bike looks through (and that everyone has to do with their lives) is that it’s important to take a look at what would have been in terms of the opportunity costs of the decisions that have been made. I’m always - I guess - impressed, disappointed, surprised about humans inability to look at things in their lives from the perspective of the negative side.

Like it would be important to say, to really understand yourself you have to say “well what if I did stay back in Georgia? What if I had married that guy, ya know that was the guy that loved me, and what if we had three children or four children right now? And what would that be like?” I mean without the noise of the ego always saying that whatever you do is the right thing. Without the blinding light of “whatever I do is always right.” Ya know we all, we’re all guilty of it. Certainly we all see it in others."

I thought it was interesting that he had assumed there was a guy. "That guy." I didn't find his point elusive. I just wondered if he would be surprised to know that the detail he had imagined is so contrary to my experience. I didn't correct him. I suppose, at the time, I preferred his version of hindsight. Every now and then, someone sees you in a light that is incorrectly romantic. It can be flattering.

That day, I wanted to know more about Matt's guy: Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.

On the "sixth day," I found him at The National Gallery in London. I spent some time enjoying the rain from the portico overlooking Trafalgar Square (which, by the way, is delightful even with it's current state of undress) before I ducked inside.

The Supper at Emmaus was my first. His Boy Bitten by a Lizard pleasantly surprised me and I thoroughly enjoyed this post.  I sat there for a long time, thinking about the opportunity costs of the decisions that I've made.  I was able to mourn them, in a way, without forgetting for even a moment that there was no other circumstance I would rather be in than sitting on that bench.  Something so beautiful isn't possible without understanding the depth of both.  Mourning and Gratitude.

Both left me wanting more.

However, no more to be had, I made my way to 84 Charing Cross Road, which I thought would be the proper place to cast a New Year's wish for a correspondence of the hand written letter variety. This would turn out to be a kiss-blown cosmic appeal that would haunt me throughout my stay: by way of They Call Me Naughty Lola and Liberal Arts, the in-flight picture show that addressed age differences, a subject that came up in Alabama.

"Yeah I’m not really a fan of May-September. I just, I don’t know, I see a lot of wealthy guys that get with younger girls. And I just, I don’t know how. . . that seems like pleasant fiction. That screenplay, in my view, cannot be - It can’t be organic. It has to be about money."

Matt remarked.

The book and the movie, respectively, take separate corners in that debate. As do Mister Chambers and myself. If he's correct, then I'm painted a gold digger - couple of times. If he's not, well . . . we're on such opposite and incompatible sides of the debate - I just don't see how anybody wins. So I'll stop myself before I go any further. The bottom line is:

Concerning matters of the heart, we stand on opposite shores.

Concerning matters of MY heart . . . that night it was a-flutter for the fellow attending the door at Veeraswamy. I don't know what it was in particular. I just know that, in general, he was darling.  Duck, duck . . . Goose!  Bumps that is.

In fact, everyone there was darling! "How was everything?" inquired one of three waiters that had attended to me. "It was just so wonderful" I beamed. "And so are you" he replied, looking into my eyes with a with a degree of civility that I have come to believe might just exist in that dear city, and in that dear city alone.

On the short walk home I replayed the day in my mind, like a chorus that is certain to get stuck there occasionally, and put a glow on my face now and then, for - well - forever:

Trafalgar Square in the rain, my first Caravaggio at The National Gallery, a puckered-up wish made at 84 Charing Cross Road, Evensong at Westminster Abbey from the "Bibliothecarius" (Librarian!) seat amongst the choir, Gaiety Is The Most Outstanding Feature of the Soviet Union at Saatchi Gallery, Fox & Hounds, and the brief moment I had with the cutie above when he stopped me and said "Hi. It's me. From the door." The moment before I lost my nerve, blushed, and made myself scarce.

I took the long way home before I tucked myself in tight, rocked soundly to sleep by the lullaby that was The Sixth Day of Christmas.

Tomorrow, this Swan would arrive in Paris. Thanks to London - I was already swimming.

A Luxury "Sleeper"

“I noticed that you didn’t order a starter, so I’ve taken the liberty” 

The handsome gentleman standing at my table was quite dapper. And I was so taken with the decadence of his tone and elocution, like a rich chantilly cream, that he could have instead pulled a Daisy Fellowes, leaving me only Champagne & Caviar for sustenance, and I would have considered myself delightfully charmed all the same. The word “liberty” carried a melody that caused me to consider it’s etymologic pedigree.  Liberty.  His delivery gave it the air of honor and privilege that a Queen’s Guard Horse might expect to enjoy.

His name is Jeremiah.

And you should meet him at the rail station that was, for me, deliciously situated between Waverly & Gare du Nord known as Bob Bob Ricard.

“Miss Smith?” they endearingly inquired when I arrived. My heart’s pitter patter allowed me to answer with a rosy-cheeked, grin. And I knew at once that the two-day stop in London inspired by this one reservation, had been validated in its entirety - if not so far as to say underestimated even.

I don’t know what it is about an unpressed button that, from such an early age in most (if not all) of us, inspires such exhilaration. But I do know that this occasion bore no less enthusiasm than it would have had I been under five and in an elevator, pleading (if truth be told demanding) to be the one allowed the honor. My point is . . .

I had "pressED for champagne" before they even managed to
stow my wrap in the coat closet attached to my compartment.

I believe that some of you might refer to my "compartment" as a booth.  But I was not in a restaurant.  I had boarded a version of the Oriental Express that exists only in my dreams, bound for a destination that couldn't possibly live up to the experience I was in store for in between.  Jeremiah & Nurdia made sure of that, respectively only leaving me alone long enough to enjoy the most exquisite meal of my 36 years and to begin missing them just moments before they rounded the corner in return.

Taking a cue from their impeccable timing, I should zip it and let the epicurean photographic erotica ensue!

Bollinger Grande Année, 2002

Truffled Potato & Porcini Vareniki

The one and only thing my Dirty Oyster Martini
was missing was a smuggled pearl!

The STAR of the show!  Humble Pie.  It's crust was as indescribable
as the unbelievably light and comforting filling that it cradles.

Can you even begin to get over it?  Those darling minxes
brought me HOT SAUCE of their own accord! 

Carrots & Parsnips roasted in Beet drippings with Maple & Thyme

Black Cherry Amaretto Sour, from Jeremiah of course!  Princess, who?

Warm Chocolate Fondant with Pistachio Ice Cream

I was treated to an after dinner tour, becoming enchanted with every inch of BBR.  Far from a household name and inexplicably picked upon by the press at times, I find it to be a luxury "sleeper" en route, in my experience, from Edinburgh to Paris that deserves an independent itinerary in the near future.   A "swallow" if you will, filled with delicious secrets.  From the Backgammon floors and the book-binding covered ceilings in Bobby's Bar to the irreverently playful Private Room above where I immediately imagined a Birthday celebration, featuring His Ryness in a funny hat!

It's a place whose special rubs off on you and tags along on the way home.  I know I give it . . .

On The Fifth Day of Christmas

Well I give it Five Gold Rings of course!

To Humble Pie.

To a dish, and it's address. 

Both bringing to mind a favorite quotation:

“Denys (Finch-Hatton) has been written about before and he will be written about again.  If someone has not already said it, someone will say that he was a great man who never achieved greatness, and this will not only be trite, but wrong; he was a great man who never achieved arrogance.” 

Beryl Markham, West with the Night

Bye. Bye, Blackbird.

On the fourth day of Christmas . . .

I was not fishing the Tweed.

My “expert” guide called with news of a rising river and sentiments such as “well we could try” and “I don’t know I haven’t been in weeks.”  I let it go - unimpressed by his EXPERTise.  So after that, and a shakedown at the hotel restaurant that is also known as “a single croissant and french pressed coffee,” I could have been in a snit.  But I wasn’t.  I was in EDINBURGH!  Nobody was going to ruin that for me.

I was in Edinburgh on the fourth day of Christmas, the day of Colly Birds.

Colly, in english dialect, means coal dust. Fitting in that the smoke and soot of the past give Eddie his artist’s-chalk-colored charm.

Around every daylight corner, it’s as if a somewhat tormented soul has etched the city by hand with broad strokes of bottle green and marine blue onto sandstone and slate colored paper, adding a surrealistic depth with black from his thumbs.

It has been on some of life's most rocky paths, that I've discovered its sweetest perspectives.

I left the hotel, eager to leap into his masterpiece!

By day, I made the most of every moment. I visited the Castle, the Grassmarket, and the Mile. I time-traveled through Armstrong’s, skipped the entree at David Bann, climbed Arthur’s seat, celebrated with a nip & traveler at WM Cadenhead, and had a darling literary chat at Old Town Bookshop.

 I took the long way home.  I took a bubble bath.  And then I went back out for more!

If, by day, Eddie is colored with chalk . . . then by night, he is illustrated with light.  Light that appears to be more stars, fallen from the sky, than anything attached to a garish cord. Buildings seem to be held up by beams of starlight, rising from cracks in the ground. And the streets & trees sparkle with it's dust.

By night, I took my time, savoring the moments.  I crossed the bridge and made my way up through the Market Street Fair.  I stopped to hold my heart from leaping out of my chest as I swooned over the Bank of Scotland.  And I settled in at The Bee Hive for a Steak & Ale Pie and a pint, where I was treated to a love scene that played out like a wonderful movie in front of me - as if there were a projector bathing the wall with their amorous glow.  I walked home, reluctant, and had that nightcap with Ry & Liz: a rhubarb, lemon & ginger concoction.

Blackbirds . . . "A commitment to higher knowing (flight) and an acceptance of the void (infinite vastness that eludes the ego and rational mind)" one source explains.  And "represents those who are tempted by carnal pleasures" says another.  Or "brings the lessons learned in meditation" according to a third source.  To me, they put the lyric "pack up all my care and woe" on repeat.

"Sugar's sweet.  So is he."

"Tomorrow" the daylight would bring the melancholy of farewell.  The most romantic of them all - a train station farewell!  One where I would leave behind the part of my heart and soul that was meant to be there all along.

"Bye. Bye, Blackbird."


All aboard. Next stop? London!

What’s Fur Ye’ll No Go By Ye!

On the Third Day of Christmas . . .

I bawled into my cellphone as I boarded the plane. My Mother had taken me to the shuttle - a chatter box of excitement, I had just said an enthusiastic farewell to my Father on the telephone, and still there I was: boo-a-hoo-ing!

What struck me, just before I boarded the plane, was that I had never been so far from my sister before. And to me, from a very young age I have believed that, a sister is the gift of knowing that you’ll never entirely be alone. Ha! My fear, rearing it’s insidious little skull.

I thought of Matt.

"And to the extent - ya know - my projection, because I like to write too and as writers, people get to make quick projections on people they just met. My projection about you leaving the folks you’re familiar with to learn more about yourself... I would suggest that is something that is real for you, as a young lady, that may not have been real historically. That it may be true that one of the great ways to get in touch with yourself would be through family and old friends."

However, what is so very interesting is that these same fear-riddled tears were also filled with more joy than I have ever experienced in this lifetime - as I’m sure you can imagine, they were rather large, being so full of the sort of emotions that shape who you’ll become from that moment on. Happy Tears? Yeah.

My trip over was lovely! And when the shuttle dropped me off a block from the hotel, this is what I saw...

 

It was as if the part of His Ryness left behind in this hauntingly beautiful land was standing on the corner to greet me. Hey Mukker!!!

His words echoed in my ear:

“optimistic happiness always moving forward” 

I began to make my way to the hotel. When I rounded the corner, bagpipes beckoned me toward the front door. And the peacock playing them stopped just as I arrived, flirting shamelessly as I snapped a photo. 

After a ridiculously decadent hot bath, a cup of coffee from the most adorable electric pot I found in the closet, and a moment to “get my face on,” I headed out for a wander. My Scottish ramble led me to The Queens Arms for a toddy that set the bar considerably high on those that will follow in its footsteps, to The Abbotsford for a bowl of Leek Soup and a glass of wine, and to the Guildford Arms for a Pint.

Back at the hotel, I headed to the room to write for a bit and drop off my coat before a nightcap with “Ry and Liz” . . . in spirit of course! But sweet dreams coaxed me into the warm bed before I had a chance for either. 

If the River's not too high, tomorrow I'll be fishing the Tweed!

To Sisters 

To Optimistic Happiness Always Moving Forward. 

And On This Third Day, To The Hens: 

Faith Hope And Love 

But the greatest of these is Love.

Two

Two Turtle Doves . . . 

On The Second Day of Christmas:

Here's to Devotion!

Table of One, Amsterdam.

xoxo, Me.

Fear Is Just Another Word For Something Left To Lose

The night that I met HRR, I told him that I wanted to go to Europe when I could go with someone that I Love.  I told him that I was "saving myself."

And then I met Matt Chambers, who made me realize that the only thing keeping me from going East with the night is my fear of being alone.

Fear . . . just another word for something left to lose.  

On the First Day of Christmas
And My True Love Is ME
Turns Out It's Not So Lonesome
Up Here In The Pear Tree

Wheels up in less than 24 hours!

A Few Of My Favorite Things