Rising to the Occasion of the Daughter Waiting for me in Paris

Leaving the Hotel in Canary Wharf was kind of sad.  The staff was fantastic and the hotel staff could not be better.  Totally recommend the area and the  hotel.

The kind doorman escorted me and carried me to the platform for my train to the  Paris train.  Nice man. Made the DLR to the Paris International Train.  I did a really good job considering there were no lifts and I was dragging a suitcase.  I will tell you that chivalry is not all together dead as the men in England and in France carried my bag up the many many stairs.  But I digress.  The train was fabulous and the English woman next to me was fascinated by my New York Times Magazine (not the Europe version).  She was a great riding partner and did not interrupt me nor try to talk all the way to Paris.  Once I got to the Paris stop of Nord Paris where I skillfully negotiated the platform (secretly asking the help desk where to go) and made it to the metro for the St Michael connection to Billancourt.

I was quite surprised that all the black men on the train were sporting the Obed Dorceus look of the shaved head.  But maybe Obed was ahead of his time.  Or his Parisian roots are showing.  The other thing I noticed is that Paris is the divided country much like the red and blue states of the US.  Paris is a city of haves and halves and waiting for haves.  It is a busy flurry where people choose better not more...  something to ponder.  They also have the best children strollers I have ever seen with covers and even raincoats.

The women wear really good quality boots and shoes and maybe not so much for the pants, skirt and shirt.  Good coats and scarves, hats well optional.  The men are just the same.  Where Ted describes the women of Italy with a sultry I can take it or leave it attitude, Paris has the I have it and maybe you can too, maybe attitude.  Emphasis on the maybe.  They take the subtleties of the language to the exclusion of the "just learning".  My french being less than 101, most of the elder people make no effort to communicate.  The younger set much more so.  I have the feeling it would go much better if I was 25 and cute.

When I arrive at the Hotel an hour late, my daughter was there staring at a television like she had not seen one in a while, which she explained later, she had not.  We checked in the hotel and whisked off to look for food.  After walking up and down the main Rue which is for shopping not eating, we decided to go to the store and make our own.  A bottle of wine, lettuce, cheese tomato, avocado, olives, bread and pancetta later, we were back at the hotel smacking our lips and licking our fingers.  The bread crusty, the cheese flavorful and hard and the wine good.  Then topped off with peppermint tea and pastry!  Wonderful night and so nice to see my baby who is not such a baby anymore.  Thank you Paris.  And thank you Morgan for getting me here before I ever would have gone!

Tomorrow, the The Parade of the Horse then off to tour museums and have fabulous food and fun.

Rising to my London Visit

Of course my plane out of Tallahassee was late.  So arrival to Atlanta was late. I had to switch to another late night flight to London.  But I ended up with two seats in the "extra space" section, so I could curl up in the fetal position during the night.  Not comfortably, but better for my legs than straight down all night!

Got into London late - who knew that  the Piccadilly line would be so long...  But it is like a free guided tour.  You are now passing Waterloo....

It was late when I finally arrived, not late like bed time, but late like it gets dark here at four p.m. and cold and I traveled all night and day kind of late. Hopping on the Piccadilly and the Jubilee trains thanks to my daughter sending me the Oyster Transport Card which I could "top off' or Float up".  I checked in to my lovely room on Canary Wharf and then headed out for a close stroll of the riverside and the little shops and cafes.  Aside from the cutting wind, the scenery at night was lovely.  The whole area is glass buildings with intermittent hundreds of year old chapels interspersed.  Christmas lights are going up all along the banks of the river.  After stopping in one small cafe, I had a glass a wine and met a nice chap who made fun of my ignorance on how wine is ordered here (small, medium and large, what happened to a pour?) and how to pay (didn't know how to count pounds correctly).  The barkeeps then ganged up and all had a jolly time making fun of me....  They did give me a tip on going to the Borough Market near London Bridge.  What an EXCELLENT choice that was.

Dinner beckoned so back to the hotel and ate in the dining room downstairs, the Manhattan Grill at West Indian Quay (my hotel).  The whole place was filled with single people eating alone.  I assume everyone is staying for work.  I take a seat next to lady who is talking to the waiter.  Having overheard her speak, I knew she was "yank".  Sure enough, she is from Brooklyn.  We talk and talk a bit about work and travel.  She is an attorney who works in the finance industry and travels the world.  I was green with envy.  Then she told me her parents live in Broward County and that her father used to work for the State of Florida in Corrections.  So believe what you want  BUT her father worked with me and was a Director hired by Harry Singletary!!! (For those in Corrections, click on the link to see whom I reference.)  Small world story.  Fly to London, meet someone who is almost like a home girl!  That was funny and fun.

Back to the room and rest up because the agenda for the day was long and longer.  I left early and headed for London Bridge and the Boroughs Market.  How lovely and interesting and dynamic.  Fish, vegetables, sugars and a whole shop of licorice.  The smells all mingle together as bratwurst is cooked next to curry, next to scallops, next to fish and chips. Every vendor who saw me with a camera asked me to put them on facebook.  No one asked me to tweet.  Interesting.  I wandered around looking and smelling before settling for a venizen sausage with peppersauce on a home made dense bread.  It hit the spot, glad I brought my water.

Back out to see London Bridge and the Abbey and walk across the Thames so that I can say that I have.  The wind picked up over the river and my eyes started to water.  I realized that I had enjoyed a lovely sunny day till that moment.

 Back off the bridge and around the market taking photos, then back on to the Jubilee route of the Tube.

Next stop, Westminster!  Just like on PBS.

Fabulous tour walking around with thousands of other tourists.  All languages on the corner, all looking at maps, actually we all had the same free tourist map.  Funny, we have nothing in common except none of knows anything about our geography.  Standing at the light waiting for the cross sign to give permission, I heard, "Well, what do y'all think?"  I looked up to see the camo hat and the cowboy boots and a nice young couple who could have been from north Florida.  I let the moment pass.

Walking walking through the squares, past the House of Commons up to the National Archives to see Star Trek characters, no wait, Star Wars characters.  I immediately thought of Jose and Mary.

Not exactly what I thought I would see.  But it follows that there would be a global interest in Star Wars.

Which reminds me that London reminds me of everyone.  One of the things that happens when you travel alone is that you accept bringing your friends and family in your head.  It is hard to to see something and say, "Wow Charles would have loved that or Patrick probably thought that was smaller than in the pictures."  So everywhere you look, instead of saying it to someone, you think, gee, I know Corbett would have had fun with this or Tami would be dressed like a Michelin tire man in this cold!

After my parliamentary excursion, back on the Jubilee and to the Green Park district to see Piccadilly Square and Soho.  . One alights at Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.  St. James Park is to the east. the parks are full of residents and others, mainly people photographing residents in the park.  Parks are the only green space abound so they look like special places.  And I guess if I did not live in the canopy tree capital of the world, I would have more appreciation.  Talked to several people who have never left the city ever.  Ever. County.  They never even considered it.  Reminds me of the people I talked to in Panama City Florida who have never left Bay County ever.

Piccadilly Square is an interesting juxtaposition of rich rich and artsy.  It is riveted with stores like Tiffany and Cartier and Sothesby.  And if you get past that, there is Burberry and J.Crew.  None of which I could afford.  After meandering for a time, I realized that for the first time, I wanted to ask Richard Prudhom  (which I am sure was spelled Purdhomme at one point) where the H*** I was.  I am quite sure that it is the only time I wanted to ask Richard what to do.

The curious thing about the sun setting at four is that people start heading home early.  They say they work till five, but humbug.  At four, the streets flooded with people young and old, mostly in work attire and you could hardly get down the lane for the fast pacers.  They are holding phones or looking at phones or talking about phones.  The lovely people with money coming in and out of the finer stores are dressed to the tee. Wool draped into coats with collars larger than shoulders.  Boots that look like four hundred dollars with leather finely crafted to fit off feet.   Coiffed in a way that says taste, but not showy so  But what I did notice, was most people wanted fewer finer things.  Others want lots of new things that are cheap.  At least I presume that is what Walmart is all about.  But there is reverence for old things here.  Not necessarily old people, but old things.  I talked to a woman today about her divorce.  But what she concentrated on is that the church that she married in was five hundred years old and she still goes there.  She loves that she is part of a community that is older than her family can remember.  It gives her comfort that she will be part of a remembered entity.

Wandering around London in late November in the dark brings up the question of proper footwear.  My husband, who has been to Europe, told me I needed rubber boots.  I just have to say that I saw NO ONE wearing rubber boots.  Forgive the digression, but here is my foot photo:

So I guess going to Europe means you can't tell about the Croatians by what the tourists in London are wearing... hmmmm So there you are Charles Higman.

The walk to Soho was long and cold and the walk back was equally so.  I find myself wanting to be more proper in London.  The people are polite no matter their accent.  You can ask anyone how to get somewhere.  And they may not know, but they will be polite about telling you they are bloody ignorant.  And they have no shame in being politely ignorant.  I am too.  I am bloody ignorant of many things.  Including London lines, except the Jubillee, theSt Pancras.  Tomorrow, I will be woefully ignorant of Paris transport.  And by Wednesday, I will be able to tell you how to go from here to yon.

Rising to the Responsibility of the Author or Painter or Viewer

This blog is not written by me, but my daughter who is in Europe, looking for direction, inspiration and her future.  She is remarkably intelligent and so aware for almost anyone, but especially a young person.
For Her Whole blog click here

"The experience brought me to thinking about more than the paintings before me. I came away with a new understanding of modern art—a greater appreciation for its evolution and depiction alike. I appreciate modern art categorically. I associate contemporary artistic efforts with the search for meaning as much as illustration. I think that admirable. Often, however, I have encountered contempt for contemporary art, perhaps most acutely by those who juxtapose it with the Realism of the 19th Century. Sure it’s modern, but is it art? I’ve seen that question on the faces of many who don’t take any pleasure in that philosophical question. And it goes the other way, too. I don’t doubt that the artists and curator of and money and materialism and crisis would have lorded over me (or flat out dismissed me) insistent that the exhibit is quite admirable, I just didn’t get it. But that is exactly the point: I didn’t get it.

Recently I revisited an old favorite, Strunk and White. Of approach to styleit reads, “…concern for the reader must be pure: he must sympathize with the reader’s plight (most are in trouble about half the time) but never seek to know what he wants.” This is section drives home empathy for one’s audience. Supplant reader with viewer and, it seems to me, there lies a lesson for today’s artists, one that seems to have escaped the masterminds behind and money and materialism and crisis. That is: my not getting it is, at best, only half my fault. In stepping in to In Progress I quickly understood that I was viewing works from the last fifty or so years. I did well enough in high school social science classes to point out general differences between Cubism and Impressionism adherents. But when I was given three paragraphs on a wall, a framework, instantly I had a knew, better perspective of (and therefore appreciation for) what was right in front of me. It was as simple as, This school was developed in the 1880s by those rejecting the principles that governed traditional techniques, especially realism and muted color palettes. All the sudden I looked at a painting of what vaguely resembled a family portrait and understood: the shape, the lack of detail, even the technique (only a simple palette knife); this was the artist’s way of breaking the mold. He was throwing convention out the window and sticking it to the man with the piece—I understand that! I can get behind that. The paragraph on the wall prepared me for that. It gave me a lens to view the work with, context to operate within. and money and materialism and crisis fell flat for me because I didn’t have that precept. I didn’t have any guidance. And if that was the point, that’s great too! But I’d like to know it is or isn’t after the fact, at the very least.

If the artists (or artists in general) can’t see their way to affording their audiences a small slice of insight then there ought to be a sign at the door that reads Before you pay to enter, please consider that these exhibits are intended for audiences with a degree or multiple degrees in fine arts.

Just before the museum closed I noticed a quote near the bottom of one exhibit by Gilbert & George: We do not want our works to say ‘art’, we want them to become art. We want them to say ‘life’.

I want to hear what art works have to say, and I appreciate the assistance I receive in my efforts."

Rising to the Daughter Who Left Her Horses With Me

Today, someone on Facebook posted a link shared on my page.  The link, 10-reasons-your-teenage-daughter-should-own-a-horse is so emotional for me as a former teenage girl in love with horses and as a Mother who watched her daughter fall in love with horses, and is now watching her adult daughter leave her horses behind.

Everyone is different, we all know.  I am quite sure that my daughter's love of horses came because I put her on one at five.  And I am sure that I hooped and hollered with her every rise out of the little English saddle.  My dream or hers, I am not sure, but her ability to do it, love it and love the animals made it successful.  And like the writer says, it kept her mostly out of trouble.

Years later, dollars later, and oh so many horses later, I have the horses and not the dollars or the daughter.  She is in Europe backpacking and I am here, driving to Madison County feeding horses on weekends.  I have another person feeding during the week.  The horses are on a ten acre pasture and they are three and a goat.

The old show  quarter horse gelding is thick and slow.  My daughter's older thoroughbreds are quick and lean and tall.  All are grey, almost white grey, and speckled like perch only with rose coloring. They are all doing well and enjoy the retirement.  In spite of her insistence that all horses respect the dressage whip, I am intimidated by them.  I try to tell them that I am all they have, and that they should be nice.  The feed buckets just bring out the wild demons in them!  And I stand watching them race up and down the pasture.  Farm and Grey Horses

Which hearkens me back to my own experience.  I remember leaving home, I don't remember what happened to our horses or ponies.  I was ready to leave as soon as I had a driver's license.  And that meant leaving animals, belongings, feelings behind.

Now, I wonder what my parents were thinking when I left.  I surrendered my ponies to my sister and brother.  I wonder if they thought of it as a separation of the child and adulthood or an abandonment of responsibility?  What ever it was, I did not look back.  And whatever it is for my daughter, I don't want her to look back.  As painful as it is to leave your animals, once you know they are safe and you are gone, you should let it go.

She will be back and we will visit with the horses and laugh at how many times that I saddlesoaped the bridles or rubbed down the saddles.  We will look at photos of Europe and talk about her dreams and plans.  Then, I will return to the pleasure of caring for her past, while she goes on to seek her future.  The three ponies and I turning grey and white together.... because pursuing passion should not hinge on the past

Rising to the Occasion of the Not Fun Job

Today, I was reading my daughter's blog about her journey through Europe on a site called Tumblr.com   Her blog is: http://somewherebynow.tumblr.com/.

The site is full of bloggers, people who just post photos and businesses that showcase books, etc.  After reading her blog, I transitioned to look at other blogs and I was surprised to find a site called, please fire me

The site is a whole list of people writing about their job and how someone or something is making it so miserable that they want to be fired.  An example of the postings:

Please fire me. I was told that I couldn’t have the promotion I was after because I am not “mean enough.”

Please fire me. My manager is 18 weeks pregnant and still follows me outside on my smoke breaks to steal drags off my cigarette.

Please fire me. I’m a teacher at school and our librarian says “Arthur” instead of “author” as well as “lie-berry” for “library”.

Please Fire Me

My first emotional response was to say to myself, "then why don't you quit?"  Why so complacent?  Just risk it and walk out!!!

Because.  I remembered my friend who was fired and looked for employment for two months.  And I remembered my friend who is looking for a new job, but after six months, still hasn't found one.

I believe that the Please Fire Me is sort of a cross between Dear Abby and a HR complaint blog.  It is  definitely a place for people to vent.  It is absolutely an HR Lawyer's dream come true of workplace violations.  But, it is also a place to feel better by feeling bad.  The new world of sharing your feelings and then feeling relieved? Or the world of sharing your feelings and feeling like now, you should share all the time?  The world of sharing your feelings but not doing anything about it?  Notice the last two aren't "new".

So, let us see where the unhappy at work person is.  Stuck for a paycheck. Stuck for another (have to pay for Mom, Dad, Kid). Stuck because change is scary.  Stuck because no one wants me.

Stuck. Please Fire Me.

The friend of mine who was fired certainly didn't like it.  He took it personal and thought of it as a failure. And I am pretty sure he never said, please fire me with any conviction. Wanting to get fired and getting fired are different.  Very different.

I was fired.  Twice.  Once, I was a maid at the age of 16 in Clearwater, Florida. I was a terrible maid.  I was fired for not vacuuming the vents in the Holiday Inn.  But, I was a terrible maid.

And the other time, I was "redirected"  for a political appointment reason, when the boss said, "We are going in a different direction, and so are you", he added, "you can resign or you can be redirected". It was not wholly unexpected, but it was not warranted nor, in my opinion, deserved.  My boss at that time was later fired for harassment, sexual and otherwise.  So, while I was devastated, I also felt vindicated.

Back to the Please Fire Me.  Who are you really?  A young person, going to "stick it to the man" as my daughter says. (For the record, she stole that from my generation.) An unhappy worker who wishes they were somewhere else or just in a bad situation? Someone who just believes that their worth and talent aren't recognized nor rewarded?

I can tell you after 43 years of working (oh my, McDonald's was my first job in 1973), there will always be a day or two or ten, when you say, fire me please.  People are emotional, not very professional, way too professional, controlled, uncontrolled, wild, crazy, boring, extreme, loved, unloved, even at work.

People do not stop being people when they are at work. If the job is just a means to an end, then your profile probably projects that.  If the job is a passion, then you probably hope that you are a part of undercover boss and winning some giant reward.

But for most of us, we must weigh the stress of  an organization and those who are in it, and the angst of quitting.  Like Dear Abby said so long ago, "are you better off with em or without em?" So the Please Fire Me  is a way to bridge the gap of contemplation.  But what is it saying to us?

If you are an employer, it should tell you that your employees, contractors or others are not happy.  If you are an employer, you should listen.  It may not affect you today, but it will affect you eventually. Look at the research by Association Leaders.  It will tell you that leadership is the biggest key in the direction of the workplace.  Leadership sets the mood, the goals, the opportunities and the limitations.  If they are not set with the workforce in mind, then the workforce will slowly turn to the Please Fire Me people.  The problem is, they will be yours and affect your organization's future - online for all to see.

 "Entropy is a measure of the number of specific ways in which a system may be arranged, often taken to be a measure of disorder....." says wiki. 

 And Please Fire Me is definitely one measure of entropy disorder.  

My Daughter's View of Spain versus Florida and Colorado Rising to the Andorra Mountains

"The ride to Andorra was likely the most beautiful countryside I’ve seen on this trip. If Barcelona is the Miami of Europe, Andorra is the Colorado. The Pyrenees jut out, rocky and elegant. The sky was cornflower blue and the land was red and arid at first, but grew increasingly grey and green. Little villages dotted farmland here and there; the Newberry and Monticello and Madison of Spain. Skeletons of abandoned houses stood here and there, quietly crumbling. An occasional larger town broke the monotony. Rivers broke the mountains apart, making swiftly for somewhere. Then there were long stretches of nothing. Nothing and dirt roads and electrical lines that ran as far the eye could see in both directions."

Rising to the Occasion of the Publix Interlude

There were many years when stopping by Publix on the way home was my social life.  Picking up three children from day care, then driving to the store was a moment of transition.  It let me move between work and home.  It let me make a plan for dinner.  It let me see people in a casual environment, while towing three behind me.  I would see other neighbors, mothers with kids in tow, work comrades, and of course the folks that worked there. Nothing like hanging out in the vegetable section, gabbing about someone's new baby over the carrots.

Flash forward and the kids are gone.  Guess what?  Publix continues to be a source of meeting and greeting my neighbors, my horse club friends, my co workers and the Publix employees.  Nothing like talking about your daughter's graduation over the organic yet packed in plastic, spinach boxes.

So, sauntering through the dairy section, a woman spots me and comes over for a hug.  She is a FB friend and a former employee.  She is happy to see me; she is one of those enthusiastic happy to see you everywhere, people.  Her smile is bigger than Texas and her hug equally so.  We are catching up on family, while I secretly eyeball the discount shelf. She asks about my only daughter.  I tell her she is backpacking through Europe for two and half months, she graduated form UF, she has not decided on her life and I am scared.  She is going to be alone for many weeks.  somewhere by now is her blog, which I can tell you doesn't make me feel better.  I tell her that her father is joining her in Croatia and that I will join her in Paris.  We are chatting and  a voice comes from behind the discount rack, "Oh my gosh, she will be fine, don't worry a second!"

And we look around and this woman comes out to tell us her story.  Her daughter fell in love here in Tallahassee.  She dated and then the young man decided to go back to his first girl friend.  The daughter is distraught and calls Mom and says, "I am selling everything and I leaving for Europe for as long as I can."

Her cart full of cheese and chips, she stops to tell us her daughter's story.  She left after the break up, touring Europe for a few months.  She lived mostly in hostels and then several nights on the streets.  Not good decisions, the mother says.  My daughter went right after the 9/11 attack.  " I was terrified and begged her to wait. She emailed me every two days.  And at some point, I needed to believe she would be okay.  And I did." Then she told us that something changed.  The young man realized the mistake.  He flew to Paris to propose.  Or maybe he flew to Rome.  I sort of forgot where he went, because this is a movie moment.  And now, they have two children and are celebrating their 10 year anniversary.  Romance, success, love and a grandmother.  Gotta love Publix.

It reminded me of my sister's visit so many years ago.  My then boyfriend had dumped me.  I took my dog to the vet, and the vet said,  "why don't you go stay at my farm in Indiana and meet my nephew?"  I was planning on going, but then, I got a job.  My sister chose to go, thinking she would be a writer, living on a farm.  Well, that story ends with three beautiful children.  And my family had many fun years in Indiana.  I bet she had many years in the local store, picking up the children and visiting with the neighbors.  Farm communities arer different, but all mom's yacking is the same.

The last three Publix stories I have to tell you are about cancer and worse.

I saw a person that I used to work with standing in the check out line a few years ago.  I said, "Hi, oh my gosh, you cute your hair!"  When I saw her, I reached up and touched it and said how cute the cut looks.  The hair clumped in my hand and fell on the floor in the check out line.  Her chemo was kicking in and her hair was falling out.  Breast Cancer.  She died ten weeks later.  I hated that moment.  I loved her courage standing in a check out line trying to do normal things while she knew she was dying. This story is ten years old.  Flash forward.

A fellow horse mom lost a child.  The disease was sudden and so sad.  Back then, I did not have the back bone or skills to say hello to a mom across the vegetable isle.  How does the social chat work in a grieving situation?  How do you look at her across the carrots and express your empathy?  I failed.

Next, I saw a woman in the vegetable isle, who I knew had breast cancer treatment.  She is also a horse person.  A brave, creative, fun, energetic, person.  I told her about my daughter, and she said, "oh my, Peggy, be so happy for her that you can afford it, that she can do it, she is having the adventure of her life!"  And I worried about terrorists and bombs.  She is finishing chemo and terrorists can't scare a cancer fighter.  Especially one that fights like a girl.

Who is safe, who is not, how can we be better, stronger, protect them more.  I am asking all of you to look into their eyes.  If they are busy and on the way home, then good.  But if they are slow, if they are teary, don't turn away.  Stop.  What most people want it comfort and safety.  Hug them and tell them that they are confirmed.  You don't have to agree.  You just have to validate who they are and how they feel.

So here is to the stores, the visits, the Mom's on the way home. Next time you see her, every her and any her, ask her how she is doing.  I bet she needs to tell you.  And you need to hear her.  And best of all, you might hear some good advice about your life.  None of knows when our daughters will leave for Paris or when cancer will strike.  Ladies, take heed.