Django... Unchained: Stereotyping Black Men and Black Dogs.

Warning:  Swearing and insights into the mind of a paranoid and delusional woman ahead...

This is my dog.  His name is Django.  We selected the name Django because we like it - it sounds fun and springy - just like our dog.  I became familiar with the name Django after hearing the music of Django Reinhardt. 

 My husband, who is a Star Wars fan, is quick to point out that Boba Fett's dad is also called Django; however, Jango Fett spells his name without the D and therefore it is NOT the same name.

Quentin Tarantino's new film is called "Django Unchained."  It stars Jamie Foxx as the beleaguered Django, a slave who sets out to rescue his wife from a brutal plantation owner.  I saw this film and I loved (the non-violent and disturbing parts of) it.  Django kicks ass!

We have been hearing a lot of jokes about Quentin's Django and our Django.

The most recent comedy happened in the wake of a service call to our home.  We had been having trouble with our house alarm since my moronic neighbour deliberately severed our telephone line.  This evil act required a service call.  We thought the problem was fixed.

A week or so later, my neighbours on the other side of the house (the nice ones) set off our alarm accidentally when they came in to check on dear Djing-Djang.  I neglected to tell them that I had activated the alarm -oops! - and so it rang loudly and proudly for a prolonged period.  I don't think the nabes are scarred for life, but I am certain that they briefly loathed me.  When the alarm is tripped, the monitoring station is supposed to get a notification and then the Police are contacted.  The Police should then call to check out the situation.  This did not happen.  I know this because my call display indicated that no one called while we were out - no alarm company, no Police.  My neighbour told me that the alarm rang maniacally for a few minutes and eventually stopped.

What the hell am I paying for, I ask you?  I will stop this almost-rant right now and get back to the tale at hand.

After realizing that the alarm monitoring is bogus and/or there is something wrong with said alarm, I called the alarm folk and they sent out a second serviceperson to check it for us, and here is where my story proper begins.

The doorbell rang and Django barked.  I looked through the sidelight to see who was at the door.  I always check out the person before I open the door.  Once bitten, twice shy.

Black guy, black wool hat on sideways (bad boy style), baggy black leather jacket, big black jeans, and untied black workboots.  I could see the Homematix truck in the driveway and so I knew he was legit but still... in the future, could you look please try to look more presentable and respectable, Mr. Alarm Fix-it Man? Perhaps wear something that identifies you as a company employee, like a nametag?  I don't care if you are black or white - hat on sideways, baggy black coat, big black saggyass jeans and workboots not done up says BADASS to me.

Please keep in mind that I have capital "I" Issues with strange men in my house at the best of times.  This dude set off my inner alarm bells.  I really did NOT want to let him in the house.

Deep breath.  

I let him in and he seemed initially wary of my big black dog.

"Is he nice?"

Django, of course, went right up to him, tail wagging, and proceeded to lick him silly.  Repair dude seemed to enjoy this.  When I saw his reaction to Django, I calmed down slightly because he was smiling and jovial and he didn't seem much like an axe murderer.

Repair man still seemed a bit afraid of Django and I was still a bit afraid of him.  We chatted a bit and I felt compelled to say (after he said "nice dog"): "he's nice, if you're nice".  (what b.s! my dog wouldn't hurt a fly!)

Repair dude responded "I'm nice.  Can't you tell?" We laughed. ha ha ha.

I'm going to let you in on a secret, people.  In my experience, the nice ones aren't always nice and therefore I am somewhat wary of sugar sweet men.  In fact, two of the most heinous individuals that I have had the misfortune to interact with (one when I was 8 and one when I was 19) were both "nice" guys.  So that's why I am CAUTIOUS.

Repair dude proceeded to check the alarm pad and then asked me to accompany him to the BASEMENT to the control panel.

My internal alarm began to wail.

WEEEEE YOO, WEEEEE YOO, WEEEEE YOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I HATE basements, I am claustrophobic, I don't want to be down there with a strange man.  There's no exit, it's dark and the ceiling is low.

As I walked downstairs my internal dialogue started sputtering:

okay, breathe.  he's fine. he's gonna push me down the stairs.  where's the hammer? just in case.  i won't need the hammer. but where is it... there's the phone. okay, dog's here. he'll protect me. no he won't. he'll just lick him... jesus et cetera.

We found the panel and as repair dude was checking it out, the phone rang.  I answered it (we have an old rotary phone in our basement).  As I said hello, the line went dead, seriously.  My heart started to thump and I felt like I was in a horror movie.

the phone is dead, he did it, now I can't call for help...

"Why's the phone dead?"  (said hysterically by me)

"I disconnected it".

whaaaaaaaaaa?  ohmygod, ohmygod

"Why?"

lord help me lord help me

"I have to, to check this".

bad timing buddy.  why do you have to disconnect it while i'm on the phone? are you trying to scare me, you mofo?

A minute or so of silence, which feels like 10 minutes.  I have backed up and am watching him from afar, ready to spring for the stairs if I need to.

"Here.  I'm done. Phone's back up".

I check it, immediately, and I am relieved to hear a dial tone.  I breathe.  Deeply.

Time to go back upstairs. Yes!  He tells me that we have to set off the alarm and then let it ring for two minutes while he checks it again.  TWO MINUTES?????  IS HE CRAZY??

I set the alarm, wait a minute, then open the front door and close it again. At this point, the alarm system wants me to enter my code and so it begins to chirrup.  The chirping goes on for about thirty or forty seconds and I'm stressing out and this isn't even the real alarm!  It's just an annoying, low volume beeping.

Okay, get ready, here it comes.  

WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  


The neighbours are going to think that I am a psycho.  Oh wait, they already do.

Repair dude reaches into his tool bag and pulls out two weights.  They look like this (thank you Google images):

What are those for? he's going to hit me with them i know it.

"What are those for?" I try to sound casual but I am freaking out inside.

"They're to simulate breaking glass".

He brushes past me and walks into the office where he clangs them together in front of the large window (the alarm is supposedly sensitive enough to pick up on the sound of breaking glass - not sure that I believe this but whatever gets you through the night...).

The irony of a large black man who looks like a prowler pretending to break into my house is not lost on me.

He walks around to all of the windows on the main floor and does his thing with the weights,  this while the alarm continues to wail.

I cower in the office and wait for it to be over.

Two minutes later, he asks me to deactivate the alarm by entering my code.  I am happy to oblige.  That 2 minutes felt like an eternity.

quiet. it's quiet.  oh i love quiet.

He tells me that he's done and that everything is fine, it all works.  I thank him.  As he's about to leave, he turns around and asks me the dog's name again.

"It's Django".

"Django?" He smiles.    "Like the movie?"

"Yup." I smile back.  "We didn't name him after the movie though.  He's named after a gypsy guitarist - Django Reinhardt."

He laughs.

"That's funny, man.  And he's a big black dog!"

I laugh.  "It's only funny because he's a big black dog", I say to the big black man that is standing in my front hall.  We both smile and say goodbye and I am left thinking how funny it is that I've judged him and he's judged my dog and we've both learned something.

On Being Creative

Last weekend, I went to Toronto with my honey for a much-needed getaway.  Shopping at the St. Lawrence flea market on Sunday morning was a definite highlight.  Initially, I wasn't sure that it would be worth my while, it is Toronto after all, and if the odds and sods are priced anything like the city's real estate -- ouch! -- I wouldn't be buying anything.

Things I saw and coveted:

• midmod sterling jewellery that I couldn't afford
• a black leather and fur hat - a steal at $70
• hammered sterling earrings with green glass cabochons by Rafael (Canadian jewellery designer - he had his heyday in the seventies)

I ignored most of the book stalls, but one dealer specialized in Arts and Crafts and so I looked at her wares.  I got sucked into a book featuring the designs of Dard Hunter.  DH, a printing / papermaking / design pioneer active in A & C is awesome.  His preferred medium?  Paper.

I am a dumbass because I didn't write down the name of the book; however, as a good librarian, I should be able to figure it out.  I know that the word "rebel" was in the title and the approximate time period that it was published... maybe when I have some time to look up something flighty, I will.   

Another clue:  I did write down an inspirational quote from DH himself (on a paper bag that contained the remains of my greasy breakfast sandwich) :

Yeah, yeah. It's backwards, I know.  Dumb photobooth.

Here, don't even bother with the idle scratching above.

I do love this quote; it energizes me and it's so true.

And so, I have been sewing like a nut this week.  Here's a preview.  First - a cushion pour moi.  Haven't made "his" yet - there won't be one.  ha hahahahaha.

And a cushion cover, in progress.  Harder to make those wretched circles than it looks. Inspired by the work of the textile designer and quilter Malka Dubrawsky.  I still have to quilt the top, make some binding and assemble it.

Lastly, I submitted a piece of writing to a Canada Writes Challenge.  I wrote about a bad 80's song which originated from Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique (Moonlight serenade, no. 8). The Beethoven is sad and beautiful, reminds me of lost loves.

Click here to read the piece:  Blue

Nomophobia!

Recently, I was listening to Jian Ghomeshi discussing Oxford American Dictionary's words of the year.  One of these words - nomophobia - (extreme fear and anxiety caused by being without one's mobile phone) made me laugh.

I suffer from the opposite affliction.  I'd like to know what the word is for extreme fear and anxiety caused by one's cell phone ringing.

Quite a few years ago, I purchased a cell phone at a yard sale for $12. 

I know, I am such a gearhead.  I pay $11.30 per month for a pay as you go plan.  I use the phone very infrequently and I certainly don't use it while I am dining out.  I also don't use it in the bathroom at the Dutch Club in front of the sink while others are waiting to wash their hands.

As it turns out, the ringing of cell phones, as opposed to say, the ringing of the giant bell of the Salvation Army kettle-person, is a nonissue.  After reading Ian Gillespie's column Drowning in Social Media, I learned that the darn kids these days are text-obsessed.  Texting is where it's at, my friends.  A high school student at Sir Wilfred Laurier organized a social media blackout to remind students how "distracting it [social media] can be and how it can lead to cybercruelty".  Of the 1100 students at Sir Wilfred Laurier, a meagre 35 individuals chose to participate in the blackout.  I am guessing that these 35 people did this as a favour to the organizer.  

I am not concerned with cybercruelty.  There will always be mean kids and whether they engage in cyberbullying or harrass their victims in person is not my point.  What I take issue with is that kids are permitted to use their phones while they are in class, supposedly learning.  Have teachers lost their minds? Has society collectively forgotten its manners?

My husband, a secondary school teacher, tells me that it is nearly impossible to monitor phone usage.  Texting is rampant and kids are good at being surreptitious.  I told him that he should make everyone drop their phones into a big box at the front of the room when they came in.  If he catches someone in the textzone, he should confiscate the phone immediately.  What's to think about?

When I was in high school, we passed notes, furtively and selectively.  If you couldn't find someone at lunch, you got up off your keister (which probably was a lot firmer and fitter than they are these days) and roamed the hallways to look for them.  Parents and children made plans for pick ups and drop offs in the morning.  If plans changed during the school day, the secretary was called.  

It seems to me that there is something wrong with the current picture and that there is an easy solution:

DON'T LET THE STUDENTS BRING THEIR PHONES INTO THE CLASSROOM.

But wait, not everyone agrees with this.  Some parents have paid hard dollars (or hard plastic!) for their children to have phones.  This means that the parents are entitled to know where their kids are (at school, duh!) and want to be able to contact them at all times.

I know a certain VP who can't practice what she preaches.   She roams the hallways of the school, phone in hand, texting constantly, while "connecting" with the kids.  I guess she thinks that she is multi-tasking.

Wake up teachers; wake up school boards.   We have a society of stressed out, hard-wired, overscheduled kids.  Time to turn off and tune back in to the classroom.

Hooked Rugs and Diamond Logs

I started hooking a rug in July of 2009 - more than 3 years ago!  I love hooked rugs and after seeing a retrospective of Emily Carr's work at the AGO (2007), I fell in love with this:

Oh Emily, such inspiration!  And all from old blankets! Emily didn't have a lot of money and she supplemented her meagre income by hooking rugs.

If it was good enough for Emily, it's good enough for me!  I thought that I too would take up rug hooking.  I loved the idea of using old clothes and upcycling them.   I enrolled in a rug hooking workshop in Paris, Ontario and this is what I made.  Let me back up a minute.  We were supposed to make a heart. I couldn't bear it.  It was a big, flat heart and I knew that I would go insane working on something so dull.  The instructor had a Charles Rennie Mackintosh book and I flipped through that, looking for inspiration.  I found this:

It is Ochre, Black and White - a watercolour by CRM (c.1922 -23) that was eventually used as inspiration for a textile. I liked the undulating waves and thought that it looked very modern. 

This is what I produced, using the above print as inspiration.  Here it is, framed "gallery style".  The thick black wooden frame was made by my husband and the piece measures 12" by 12" (not including the frame).

No offence Mr. Mackintosh, but I like my version better.  Hooking this was a nightmare. I was using a tiny cut (the cut is the width of the strip of wool that you're using).  I think this was a three.  It took me forever and I vowed that I would NEVER use a thin cut again.

Here is the rug that I started three years ago:

It is made of new and vintage wool, blankets, scarves, skirts, sweaters and suits. I hand dyed a lot of the wool using food colouring, Easter egg dyes and koolaid.  I cut most of the wool strips by hand because I like the rough-hewn look.  The strips of wool are quite a bit thicker which means that it hooks up a bit faster.

Well guess what? I still love hooked rugs, but I HATE rug hooking.  It is BORING beyond belief.  The rug below has taken up permanent residence on its frame in my living room.

It is not finished, but I kind of like how it looks on the frame on top of my antique treadle sewing machine base.  I may never finish it!

I guess you are probably wondering what any of this has to do with quilting.  Well, check this out:

I have been working on these blocks for a few days and I am happy with how they're turning out.  I realized that the diamonds remind me of my rug.  This is one project that I might actually finish!

My plan is to turn the blocks lengthwise, like this:

Fifteen more to go!

Update.  September 2013.  The diamond quilt did not turn out as I planned.  It's hideous.  It has become the dog's blanket.  

The Rules of My Nature

Yes, I know the title of this post is obnoxious but I am rootin'-tootin' proud!

Canada Writes has partnered up with Canada Council for the Arts and The Massey Lectures to present the writing series Close Encounters with Science.  The series is inspired by The 2012 Massey Lectures.

Here's a description from the Canada Writes website: "This year's lecturer is physicist Neil Turok.  We're fascinated by his insights on how science and technology affect everything around us, from the environment to our innermost thoughts".

Science and I are not friends.  We're like neighbours at war (some of you might find this analogy funny).  There is a tall fence between us that shall never be riven.

I decided to try to write something about science, even if it killed me.  After all, good writing makes all the difference.  If something is well-written, the topic is irrelevant.

Here is my entry:

The Rules of My Nature

In the eighth grade, I discovered that subjects and predicates moved me and that grammar was my forte. I was an idiot savant.

My father prided himself on his mathematical prowess. That I was clueless beyond simple calculations was proof that I took after my mother. I believed his words; they became part of me. Implicit in his censure was that mathematics and its evil twin – science - were for men and not for teenaged girls.

Mr. Tronko, my ninth grade chemistry teacher, was more interested in belittling students than in teaching them. On the day I wore a handsewn blouse with a rhinestone bracelet and capris, he paused and considered my appearance. He waited for silence and delivered his judgment:

“Who do you think you are? Elizabeth Taylor?”

My cheeks were beetroots. I wanted to smash in his face with a bunsen burner.

Things didn't improve. Mr. Haq, my biology teacher, was a screamer. He told me that I wouldn't go far. That I was a stupid girl and that I shouldn't return. I was relieved.

When I entered university and realized that I needed a science credit, I pored over the course offerings: Geology (Rocks for Jocks), Astronomy (Moons for Goons), Chemistry and Physics. It was like selecting my preferred method of execution.

I consulted friends. We concluded that Geology was dull, Astronomy was math-heavy and I may as well splash myself in the face with acid if I were to take Chemistry. The Physics instructor was rumoured to be funny. I signed up.

The word “physics” filled me with shame. In Grade Thirteen, I was leery of the teacher, an ancient crone who couldn't smile. It was focal length that did me in. There was one equation that I was sure of: length implied numbers, numbers meant mathematics, mathematics equalled failure. I withdrew.

On the first day of Conceptual Physics for Non-Scientists, the Professor pulled a banana out of his pocket. Bananas make me gag but in my worldview, they are benign. He plunged the banana into liquid nitrogen and it froze rapidly. He smashed it on the counter and it splintered into shards. I was intrigued. He lured me in with the promise of more experiments and no math beyond simple multiplication.

His name was Whippey and he was quick and snappy in body and mind. I was reminded of Beaker from the Muppets. Demonstrations with balls, coins, feathers, balloons and other simple objects ensued. Was this Physics or Magic 101? Confident in my newfound knowledge, I waxed on about force, friction and inertia. I knew that I was hooked when I explained to my then-boyfriend that Bernoulli's Principle was behind the pesky shower curtain glued to his leg during a hot shower. Who did I think I was – Copernicus?

Physics is about understanding the rules of nature. My nature tells me that I will never be a mathematician, but conceptually, I will always be a Physicist.

Click on my Physics textbook to access the Canada Writes website.

 

Son of a Stitch

My nine year old son is currently sitting at my sewing machine...

wait for it...

SEWING!!

Here's the proof:

Did he really just ask me whether he can make his own "five block" quilt?  Am I raising a pionerd?
Should I start a sweat shop on Bruce Street?  These are the questions I have.

My children were actually just fighting over the machine - for once it's not the computer or the telly.  I am so happy that they are interested in sewing that I don't even care that they're fighting.

My husband just asked the kids if they wanted to watch a movie.  Actual response from Nathaniel:  "No, you guys watch Legend, I'll just sew".  I cracked up.

I think I know why he's interested.  Today, I finished up my "Elvis is Everything" quilt for my son's kindergarten teacher, the vivacious and sparkly Mme. Dona.  Don't tell her that we used to call her Mme. Donut (she looks nothing like a donut, she is just fun! I am fondly remembering my grade ten math teacher right now, aka Clayface).  Mme Dona is an Elvis junky.  She had an Elvis impersonator at her retirement party and she was also "lei-ed" (her words - don't get the wrong idea!) by an Elvis impersonator on an Elvis cruise to Hawaii.

Nathaniel saw the finished quilt and was inspired.  Well, I think he was inspired.

I think this quilt is a bit on the crazy side - just like Elvophiles.  No disrespect intended.

So the boy was into the quilt and now he wants to create his own masterpiece.

Sew on, lad, sew on!

Pop Crazy!

I love colour; it makes me happy.  My living room, office and tv room are painted different shades of green and chartreuse, my bathrooms are both blue, my bedroom is pale turquoise, my son's room is cornflower and my daughter's is pepto-bismol pink.  I selected the fabrics, furnishing and accents in all of these rooms to further activate the walls, making the colours seem even more intense.  I can't get enough colour.

Last Christmas, I made a quilt for my son's twin bed.  It is mainly blue rectangles punctuated by solid white.  I also made sure to include a wild card - a lone green patch - and some floral patterns and pink, just cuz.  I made a scrappy binding and backed the quilt with a warm brown solid and some more green.

My daughter was upset when she realized that there wasn't a quilt for her.  I explained that I had started working on her quilt but it would take me more time to assemble.  Furthermore, ladies across Canada were sewing just for her!

In July of 2011, I joined a Flickr group called Unscripted.  It is a quilting bee and the first one that I've ever participated in.  The group is comprised of twelve quilters across Canada who wanted to try out some improvisational quilting.  Each of us was assigned a month.  During my month, I had to select a block that I wanted the other members to sew and select and cut fabric for it.  The fabric would be mailed out with instructions and the other members of the bee would sew a block and then mail back the finished piece.

After sewing the block below for August, I knew that I wanted some hot colours in Gwen's quilt.  The "red" in the block is actually more on the orange side than it appears.

I told the bee members that I was inspired by the quilts of Denyse Schmidt and Malka Dubrawsky, two designers with a very modern aesthetic.  I cut and mailed out stacks of pink, orange and purple fabric to the ladies in my quilting bee.  I also added in some white to break up all that saturated colour.  I asked them to be creative and to sew the fabric together in any size or shape. I also asked them to add in some complementary fabric from their stash.  Yes, all good quilters have a stash.

The ladies did not disappoint.  As the blocks started to trickle in, I was ecstatic!  You can see below that I received many different styles of blocks - all unique.

My plan was to arrange the finished blocks to my liking and break them up with light grey and smaller blocks that I had sewn.  I had purchased a huge, high quality cotton flat sheet at the Sears Outlet last year for $12.  It was very soft (high thread count) and I knew it would complement the pink, orange and purple.

Here's a picture of the quilt, before I began to attach the binding.

As I write this, I am taking a break from hand-sewing the binding to the back of the quilt.  I have one side left and I am hoping to get it finished today.

3 hours later, I've finished sewing on the binding.  Here it is right before I pop it in the washer.

And here is the final product, fresh from the dryer!  I love it!

Here is some information about my quilt:

Pop Crazy was quilted by Christine Montgomery at Quitty Prickly .  Unscripted (my Bee Girls) contributed with some of the pieces, which I later cut up and resewed or worked into larger sections.  
Dimensions are:  78 x 72.  Machine pieced, handsewn binding.

The Kids Drove Me Mad; The Wine and Chocolate Kept Me Sane. Houses Exchanged, Part 2.

I really should be planning my daughter's 7th birthday party, which is in 4 days - eeek!  I haven't made up the invites nor have I finished sewing her birthday quilt which I began last February.  I also have to update my resume and write a cover letter; try to unload our washing machine (pun intended) on Kijiji and perform additional mindless and menial tasks.  Recently a friend asked when I was going to finish up the house exchange post and I realized that I have been neglecting my blog.  So here it goes, le plus rapidement possible.

Let's see... where did I leave off? Oh yes, August of 2012.   We were about to brave some wicked French traffic...

After taking the RER to the airport hotel, we claimed our cute black Peugeot from the underground parking.  Thank goodness for the Frenchies' GPS - we would have been up caca creek without it.  Jetlag; crazed French drivers, chaotic roundabouts, demons wrestling in the backseat, hysteria in the front, all compounded by our fervent desire to arrive alive made for a somewhat dicey journey to Guer.

An obscene toll of 28 euros and 5 hours of erratic driving later, we were driving into the village.  We were immediately charmed by the landscape - lots of lush, green farmer's fields, ancient stone houses and pops of bright flora everywhere.  It was the tail end of the hydrangea display but I did manage to snap a few pictures.

We were very eager to get to our home away from home and when we turned the car into a charming laneway and saw what we thought was the Frenchies abode, I was thrilled.

Richard got out of the vehicle and tried to open the large iron gate.  Nothing happened.  I consulted our papers.
Hmmn... there's nothing about a keypad.

Richard began to punch in random numbers.  I rolled my eyes:  Like this is gonna work, rockstar.

Then he shook the gate a bit.  This would have been funny if we weren't so tired.  Oddly enough, the gate opened and a woman appeared.  Richard said what I can only assume to be something along the lines of "we're here!" but the woman looked startled and then confused.  I got out of the car to help because RB's French is comparable to my German.  Eventually, after some namedropping, the woman deduced that we wanted a maison and she pointed down the laneway.  Ha ha ha, we all laughed.  It was a bit socially awkward and I'm not entirely sure that the woman thought we were sane.

Here's Nathaniel standing in the laneway, followed by a photo of our French hideaway.

The house was pale stucco, very modern in appearance, and nicely situated on a very private lot with lots of flowers and a biggish yard with pear, apple and plum trees.  Without going into too much detail, the kitchen was well-appointed with all the usual appliances, the rooms were spacious, they had two bathrooms (toilets only) and two washrooms (tub and shower).

The Frenchies were very thoughtful folk: they had left us a bag of juicy oranges to use in their juicer;  two bottles of wine and local cider and a note wishing us a pleasant stay.  Also on the table were loads of travel pamphlets and leaflets, a binder with house info (who to call, insurance stuff, garbage day, phone numbers etc).  We signed their guestbook and were surprised to learn that they had participated in four previous exchanges (a different part of France, Spain, Germany and another European destination that I can't recall).

The house was tidy and very comfortable; I was completely at ease. Their decor was upscale Ikea with lots of pottery, bright walls and modern art (they had an abstract mural painted on one cinder block wall which I thought was very cool). The kids liked the the French version of "Craftmatic" beds, which were motorized.  I could get used to those beds; it made reading before lights out, very cozy.  I could also get used to their "femme de manage", who came in once a week, on Thursdays.  No wonder the blasted house was so clean!

I didn't take any pictures of the interior of the house so here are a few pictures of the local landscape:  Guer's trails, farmer's fields, the beach at Carnac, the menhirs, and the next door neighbour's horse.

Carnac

Biking through the French countryside

on the bike trail, the small Marian shrine, a copy of the grotto of Lourdes

gorgeous countryside on a perfect summer's afternoon

beautiful vista on the bikepath

cairn at Locmariaquer

menhirs at Carnac, dating to around 4500 BC

The festival of the Madonna of the Bikers, which organizers promote as the largest motorcycle “pilgrimage” in France

I have never seen so many motorcycles in my life!

the neighbour's horse

Looking back at these pictures, I realize that I miss our days in Guer:  fresh pain au chocolat, cheap and plentiful wine and cheese, baguettes fresh from the oven for 80 cents and the venerable religieuse: a tower of custard filled pastry that defines gustatory pleasure.  I miss the amazing boulanger that was a minute's stroll from our backyard, the hydrangeas and rhododendrons, the stone cottages, the easy living.  These are the things that I am missing.  Richard is missing the myriad "roundabouts", which are so much more fun, efficient and stylish (if roadways can be stylish!) than stoplights.  We do have one here in London near Trafalgar Road and we rode through it recently on the way to my inlaw's.  I patted Richard's arm to console him.

What I am not missing:  my children fighting in the backseat of the Frenchies' car!

To sum up: I would definitely do another exchange.  When we returned home, our house looked and smelled exactly like it was supposed to, which was a relief.  My houseplants (two orchids, a jade plant, a desert rose and a Chinese money plant) were all very thirsty, but still alive,  so that was good.  The Frenchies left the house in pretty good shape, except for the mirror in the upstairs bathroom, which was splattered with toothbrush detritus and zit juice.  I did have one truly horrifying moment, which occurred the day we arrived home.  When I opened the microwave to reheat my coffee (sadly, an oft-repeated activity during a typical day), I realized that there was something still inside.  The something was three zombified half cobs of corn, writhing with maggots and tiny flies!  Truly repulsive.  I slammed the door and retreated and of course, called the hubs to deal with the mess.  This aside, there were no major problems.

So I suppose, my only problem now is to decide where we should go next and find someone who is ready and willing to swap!

Here is a video that my husband made with some highlights of our trip. I love it!!

Houses Exchanged! Part 1

Preface:  A family of four from London, Ontario participates in their first house swap.   Homes and vehicles are exchanged; fun ensues!

The Bad Beginning
August 2012

After a nine hour drive to Montreal, we happily checked in to a Holiday Inn Express.  Our flight was due to leave the next day at 11:30 pm.  Poor Gwen had been ill for several days (and yes, it was the dastardly type of illness that requires a pot) and Nathaniel had just started to grouse about a sore tummy.  Always nice to get the flu the day before a transatlantic flight.  Although Gwen was on the mend and wanted to hang out in the hotel pool, Nathaniel wouldn't or couldn't leave the bed.  He even missed out on St. Hubert (delicious roasted chicken, Quebec style), which I had been wanting to sample since I heard about it on CBC's C'est la Vie.

After a painful night in an overchilled hotel room, listening to Nathaniel moan and groan, we got up and sorted ourselves and our luggage out.  We hung out at the hotel for the day - Gwen swam and Nathaniel stayed in bed for the morning.  After lunch, we drove down to the waterfront (Lake St. Louis), ate some DQ ice cream, walked along the pier, beachcombed and watched the kids chase geese.

At around 6:30pm, we left the van in the hotel parking lot for the Frenchies and took the shuttle to the airport.  We waited around for five hours: people-watching, eating, reading and trying to comfort Nathaniel.  The worst of his sickness had passed but he was still weak and lethargic.  Poor kid.

I won't lie; it was a hellish flight.  I detest flying at the best of times (unreasonable and unfounded fear of fatal crash), but when it's a red-eye with exhausted children, and one of them is unwell, it is unbearable. The kids were crabby because it was WAY past their bedtime, I was crabby because it was WAY past my bedtime, the plane was packed and we were ready for the journey to be over before we even left the ground.   The children slept ON Richard and I for the duration of the flight.  This was not pleasant or relaxing.  The in-flight movie was something starring a Latino midget and The Rock.  Also unpleasant, was Nathaniel vomiting orange juice (you've got to be kidding me) as the plane touched down on French soil.  Quelle horreur!  I did not make eye contact with the other passengers, who, I am sure, were completely disgusted by me and my barfing progeny. What an inauspicious beginning to our trip!

We stumbled off the plane, made our way into the airport terminal, retrieved our luggage (all miraculously there!) and took the navette (free airport shuttle service) to the Radisson.  Time for a glorious three hour nap.  zzzzzzzzz.

I was awakened by a ringing telephone.  It was Aquaduck!

Aside:  Anne's surname is Acouedic and the first time I tried to pronounce it, it came out "Aquaduck".  The Aquaduck was a bar (now defunct) in Welland, Ontario that I used to frequent as a teenager.  It is where I drank cheap and disgusting Bavarian wine cooler, caroused with my peeps and was hit on by my drunken high school English teacher.  Ahhhh... those were the days (it is hard to type sarcasm).

Anyhow, Anne's name stuck.

I roused RB and the kiddies, who did NOT want to leave their beds.  Everyone was grouchy, but I forced them to march down the hall with me to the Frenchies' room.

The warm, smiley and charming Frenchies, while complete strangers to us and the English language,  couldn't have been more gracious.  We yammered on in French, and I practiced mon Franglais.  RB and the kids were pretty quiet so it was up to me to do most of the communicating.  I relied on smiling and manic gestures to fill in any gaps in communication.  We chatted for twenty minutes or so and RB accompanied Serge down to the parking garage for an introduction to their car.  He returned with the car and house keys (yes!) and we bid the Frenchies adieu, bon voyage, yada yada yada, with a promise to see them in three weeks.

So far, so good.  Our agenda: to enjoy Paris for four nights and then make our way to Guer.  We put most of our luggage in the trunk of the car and left it in the underground parking. Paris has excellent public transportation; there was no practical reason for us to travel by car through La Ville Lumière, although watching RB navigate the traffic circle in front of the Arc De T would have been comical.

We boarded the navette back to CDG and bought four Paris Visite passes.  These offer unlimited train, bus and Métro travel for a set number of days (5 for us) in up to five different zones. These were very expensive, but worth every centime.  We used them constantly.  I think we would have seen less of the city had we not purchased them.

I had made arrangements to rent a Paris apartment (in the 2nd arrondissement) through a lodgings website and I was a bit worried because I hadn't corresponded with Jonathan, the owner of the apartment, for several days.  I was beginning to rethink our rather loosey-goosey rendezvous between the hours of 11am and 1pm on August 5.

Adding to my concern was the fact that I had paypaled J $150 as a deposit.  Let me explain. The apartment looked great online, but we were the first people to rent it.  Red flag.  Before committing to J and his very desirable apt, I asked him why he had no testimonials.  His response was that it was his first time listing it:  "only friends and family have stayed before".  He seemed nice enough on the phone, so I took the plunge and paid up.  What did I have to lose?

A month later, we were on our way to Paris, Plan de Poche Transilien in hand, and about to try to find our petit piece of Paris.  This little map was a lifesaver!

Finding our apartment was easy peasy with this baby.  We took the RER (Réseau Express Regionale) commuter train from CDG to the chaotic Métro hub of Paris Nord, and then hopped on the fourth line.  We exited two stops later, at Réaumur- Sébastopol.  Our building was about two hundred feet away.

Our Métro stop.  

RB entered the four digit door code and we were relieved when the tall wooden door actually opened!   We carried our luggage up the five-story wooden, spiral staircase, which I loved, and found the door to our flat.  I had no key and no clue.  Knocking was futile; the apartment was empty.

We did have a bit of a problem getting in because my cell doesn't work in France. I solved this problem by banging on the neighbour's door and begging to use his phone.  Artur (Arthur?) had pas de problems with me and my dumbassedness and gladly handed over the phone.

When I spoke to J, I learned that he wasn't even in Paris!  I'll admit, when he told me this, I felt a bit sick. I think he was in England.  He said that he had been emailing me for the past few days but I hadn't responded.  Whoops! Incommunicado in Paris.  He told me that I had a contract to sign, he wanted 300 euros as a security deposit and that I would have to pay 80 euros for cleaning.  I told him that none of that was on his website and that I would pay for the appartement in full, but would not pay a deposit or pay anything for cleaning.  He didn't seem particularly thrilled with this, but he agreed and said that his Uncle would let us in.  We dumped our luggage in the hall and left it there for 2 hours (I wasn't about to sit with it while we waited for the Oncle and I was certainly wasn't about to tow it around while we explored the neighbourhood).

When we returned to the flat after pigging out on French pastries and shopping at the Monoprix (the grocery across from us; they're all over Paris), Jonathan's uncle was waiting for us.  He gave us the key and departed quickly.  The flat had three bedrooms, two baths with lots of hot water and the kitchen was well-equipped and bright.  There was no tv, which was fine by me.  We later learned that the apartment was usually rented only to models but they don't "work" in August and so it was free for us to rent.  I actually wondered about the model thing when we arrived, because the apartment wi-fi code was "Parismodel" or something silly like that and there were copies of Vogue and other fashion mags on the mantle.  I suppose I was half hoping that Jonathan was some hotty male model, but alas, he was not.

Here are some pictures that I took from our fifth-floor balcony.  One is east-facing and the other west.  These photos were taken at the same time, but it appears as though I took the pictures on different days,  due to the light.

Our building's facade was very similar to this one.  The rotunda-topped edifice houses a grocery at street level.  Shopping has never been so easy!

I loved standing out on the balcony and watching the world go by.

A typical pedestrian thoroughfare in our neighbourhood.  

This place, while unassuming, had the most cheap and delicious sandwiches.  

Part two of the adventure to come.

Update -- it's here!   Part 2