I got the phone call yesterday. The one I've feared for over 15 years. It's all a little surreal. Nothing is yet conclusive. I will just have to wait and do more tests and wait some more. My brain has been 'fuzzy' for the past 3 years. It was most noticed when I started university. It would go numb. I wouldn't be able to concentrate or retain anything that I had read. My thoughts would not connect. It wasn't normal. I was written off as a stress and anxiety case. Even after hearing about my family medical history, the repeated message that nothing is hereditary was the calming balm the drs tried to assuage me with and then send me on my way. I'm pissed. 

I tested positive for ANA- Antinuclear antibodies. *sigh*

I went on a date. Kinda. It has been a while. It has become second nature to shoo propositions away with my busy schedule. Jaded. Perpetually unimpressed, I disqualify potential suiters at their hello. This individual found me buried beneath a mountain of copying in the Mcgill copy room as I prepared my readings for the semester. He came back and asked me to join him for dinner. I was too busy. He messaged me the next day. I was too busy. And again the next. I finally acquiesced.  Tonight. Sitting on my gross dirty floor chipping away at the intolerable sticky tile amidst disorganization only excusable for a clinical hoarder, I answered sure. I was tired. My hair should have been washed and make-up reapplied, perhaps a better outfit even. I left my place with a screw it attitude, not caring to impress. I am too tired to impress. 

I have the ability to meet some incredibly interesting people. My world could not be more different than the world’s of the vast majority of men I attract into my life. I have never known privilege until I moved to Montreal. I’ve dated men whose childhood memories included only flying in their private jet and ancient terra-cotta army pieces in their summer home. Ambassador upon Ambassador’s sons- I’ve dated three now. I’ve turned down (very premature) marriage proposals and opportunities to be with individuals whose night out with the guys means amateur racing night at the ferrari club. 

I’m not sure where I am going with this. I guess I am perhaps frustrated with myself. Concerned that I may be making big life mistakes by not opening my life more. Is this a simple status issue? Having learned that this incredibly accomplished young man, kind, and generous and funny grew up privileged, scares me.  I have already subconsciously ruled him out from being someone I will likely see again. The unemployed, addicted, and troubled-that’s who I comfortably return to for friendship. 

It’s been a few days since I’ve written this. And I really don’t have anything to add. I wasn’t ever planning opening up the relational aspect of my life, partly because I didn’t want to hurt my ex husband incase he fell upon this...which in itself is ridiculous I guess. My need to protect and continually care for people who have never reciprocated is another issue for another time I guess... that group also fits the stereotype of who I find myself most aligned too... Oh, like Freud, I shall blame my mom. 

well until next time... ciao

I have been in my head the majority of the day, striving for the silent muse of rational thought. The reprieve from a heart which beats black; the ink of sorrow stains my veins. How I enjoy sitting in the waves of melodrama, rocked and sometimes thrown, feeling deeper than what is needing to be felt. I think I shall dive further, until my breath is gone and my vision becomes the coloured snow of a tv program scrambled from bad weather. I was remarked at once. Yes, remarked at, not really told, or asked, but remarked at-talked to as if I wasn't there. My friend stated"you're emotional" stamping his proclamation in a true canadian way in adding a cliched 'eh?' at the end. I was offended and confused and tried to excuse it away. I was too tough to feel anything. Being emotional meant you were sensitive and could be hurt. You couldn't hurt me, I was determined to never be hurt. I can't remember how I tried to dismiss the remark, but it has stuck with me for a very long time. I have always considered emotion a bad thing, until very recently. 

***

Another train of thought incomplete due to time having run out. It is the next day. Day 2 of being back in Montreal (not including my afternoon arrival as I slept most of that day away). My emotions and thoughts are mixed. Missing deeply friends I had just met and feeling as a stranger to those I was once close to. My stubbornness refuses me to acclimate. 

I have been staying with a friend since I arrived, somewhere in the Rosemont area. I feel I am still traveling. My suitcase sits on a strange floor with laundry and travel-contents vomited unabashedly in someone else's room not mine.  The home I go to in a couple of hours is not the home I left. It's a weird feeling, not having a home. Perhaps I have purposed it that way. My business enterprises have always served a more simple purpose than to just make money and to denote to me a title of a career. They have always been the carrier of some other purpose, a means to an unrelated end. My renting out of apartments permits me a mobile and unattached life. I have no junk drawer to signify a life lived and planted. I share my space with strangers, my things are periodically other peoples things. It is an odd thought to think that some other family has photos of my couch and my decorum filling space in the background of their children's growing childhood memories of days lived in Montreal. Babies not mine have taken first steps on the carpets I picked out. It's an odd feeling. 

I go to BC soon. Another living space for someone else I will create. Please don't get me wrong, I love what I do and I know I have somehow created a privileged life for myself. I often marvel at how I did it. I am somewhat waiting the moment I discover a miscalculation of sorts, a missed expense consequently throwing me back to the days when searching couch cushions for loose change was the only way I could pay for the bus to get me to work on time. It’s funny, even then I never considered myself poor. Money was never a marker of poverty to me. I am thankful for whichever life experience that was which gave me that world view. 

Well I suppose I shall finish on that note. The internet in the breakfast place I am visiting has decided to go A-wall on me; and, it is about that time where I should stuff, one last time, my things into my suitcase. My trip is seeing it’s end. 

I am back in Toulouse. The coffee is strong with no milk or cream, but the desert- so yummy. I found a little cafe for lunch. I am satisfied. I am avoiding planning my flight back. I must do it but my flight searches are premised with a little bit of fear. The type of little bit which in the past have unexpectedly morphed into a towering and full blown panic attack. I feel the apprehension in the spot above my chest but below my throat. 

I am scared of going back. I am scared of real life. I am scared of the crippling loneliness. Can I be so bold in my honesty?  It’s a self made loneliness. Montreal has not been kind to me in the friendship and relationship department. I learned too quickly that friendship is often the disguise of fraud and a simple tool for taking. I was taken from. More than once in more than one way, by people I still care for.  

Montreal is an impoverished city where people seem to surround themselves in the white noise of convenient companionship. Both sides take what they need from the other, but nothing is given. The anything given is simply the cover charge, the transaction fee to get what is wanted. I am afraid I may have become Montrealaise, in that sense. It’s a deep lack of trust mixed with a heaping abundance of need, poverty of any sorts resolves itself in the same way. Distrust breeds hardness, hardness looks at the world through a lens not much different than the way one window shops. People are mannequins, their personality, economy, beauty, and contacts are what are for sale. And often, what is not for sale is still on display and easily stolen-thus continuing the cycle with distrust. 

I suppose I should end that train of thought. I have curious layers to me. A deep cynicism hidden in sweetness, kindness, and naivety. They are each sincere and intrinsic to my make-up, but it makes for a confused world view. 

I will be fine. I will make it home richer (not in a financial way), and my sadness of having to cut short this amazing trip will dissipate. It is interesting how my first experience of 'vacationing/travelling alone' I was the least alone I ever remember being. Whether it was new acquaintances turn friendship or age-old friends and near family, my worlds collided and grew, filling with rich and lasting relationships, friendships not built on the commodification of needs yet to be fulfilled. Friendship which are just that-friendships. 

I am leaving Sinai, it’s 12:33 am and we have stopped at some sort of police/army base. There are armored cars and tanks everywhere and I think they are preparing a tank to follow us so that we do not have any problems with me. Apparently I am a wanted good in these areas.  I think they have prepared for an armor car to follow us. I am not sure if this is to protect me from the Beduins or just to help us get through security faster on our way out of Sinai.... Or just a chance for my friend to show off his contacts. It took me a moment to realize how privileged anyone in the army is. I thought to the Roman times and how the generals were eventually one and the same as the emperor. In Egypt it is like that. My airplane seatfriend’s father was or is a general of some sort. He is a very important person in Egypt. I knew something was up when he had a secret agent sort of looking person meet him at the Cairo airport and escort him throught passport check.

No WIFI. I am at Basata. An eco resort on the Red Sea. In Sinai. Moses was here. I am in sensory overload. 

Apparently I scared my mom. It frustrates me a little. I had my friend post on my wall where I was at, that I had no internet access, and my phone number if anyone were wanting to call. I think the frustrating thing to me is how quickly it seemed to escalate. O how quickly people allow worry and irrational thought to overtake the situation (I am not excluding myself from this, I do this far too often). 

I have only been in communication with my driver and the houseboat rental guy regarding how carless and selfish I have been in neglecting to tell everyone where I was at. The conversation with the Dan (houeboat guy), pissed the hell out of me. I find it interesting how judgements and accusations can subtly weave themselves into seemingly non-threatening sentences with just simple emphasis on words and tone. I guess that’s what being passive aggressive is all about. Dan has been very passive aggressive. I don’t like him. I wanted to like him, but I can’t. Self-styled superiority, I don’t understand arrogance. I don’t understand the personality which thinks they sit above reproach able to cast accurate judgments on everyone else. Some people ooze this out of each nuance of speech and action. Dan is one of them. 

I have this knee jerk reaction with certain asshole personalities. Personalities such as Dan. For some reason I heed their unspoken criticism. I feel I must explain and apologize for some phantom situation conjured in their minds. I owe Dan no good bye or explanation. He was just the person I subleased an apartment from online. I saw him for only a handful of minutes where it was forced upon me his bigoted and misogynistic opinions and view of life and Russian women tourists in Egypt. In those handful of minutes he had already mentioned his inner conversation with himself about me being a ‘needy one’ needing him to babysit my vacation. I think that was his problem-I wasn’t needy. I didn’t need him and didn’t ask him which restaurant that was again I was supposed to visit. I could see clear frustration in him that I had found friends outside of him. I know he’s offended that I left his place earlier than I needed to, I have paid until the twenty-third. I find it bizarre how the supposed flat character, or extra in a story tries to take a leading role. 

I was and am very concerned about people who love me not know where I am or if I am safe. I have a close friend who through consistent imessages has been aware of where I am and how I am doing on a daily basis. My last message was mentioning how sick I was feeling. I am only hoping he decides to read my facebook wall to see that I am ok. I knew mom would worry. I had only wished she would have considered the time difference and decide to wait until the morning in my world before she began to panic. She knew I was going to the Red Sea this day. 

Anyways, I am at the Red Sea. I found out that I had in fact traveled a very dangerous (but breathtaking) road with my Beduin driver. As a foreigner, traveling through Sinai is not an option without a convoy protecting you. The Beduins like to kidnap for ransom predominately foreigners, therefore security checks do not permit foreigners through their space. Think Mexican drug cartels. My airplane seat-friend, he has connections. He set me up with his Beduin personal driver which he uses for these trips, his reasoning was that no Beduin would mess with another Beduin, it was against unspoken arabic law of brotherhood. A person I met here was flabbergasted I made it through. I didn’t know how to feel when I realized my driver would normally have been my enemy.

The people are truly amazing here. I hope I get a chance to document all my experiences. I have never met with such kindness and generosity and openness to share their life. I am always questioning what they must want. This kindness is rare among immediate family members, let alone from complete strangers. 

It’s not too late, but I am tired. I basically have dysentry. My stomach feels like there’s a hand inside my guts twisting and pulling them randomly. It’s very painful. I ate rice today. That’s about all I”ve eaten for the last few days. 

I go scuba diving tomorrow morning. I think I will try to rest some more. 

I am at the Red Sea. I swam in the Red Sea. and it is beauty like I’ve never seen.

I'm a lazy tourist. Preferring much more reading on my deck on the Nile, rocked as each speed boat roars by, serenaded by the routine call to prayer intermingled between the constant horn-honking and intermittent bouts of Egyptian pop music in the boats which pass by, I try to weigh how much I will regret not going and not doing certain things. Forgive me culture, but museums don't do it for me- right now anyways.

Perhaps it is an excuse? Perhaps I am daunted by the long hot walk where I pretend to not see stares and judgements. Or perhaps I am just limited in my culture-appropriate wardrobe.  

Either way, I am on vacation, in Egypt, on the Nile, reading the type of book one reads on vacation--it was one I found on a shelf. I brought the not type of book one reads on vacation: Simone De Beauvoir's Second Sex, I knew it was a ridiculous choice, but I am determined to finish it, but I likely won't be pulling it out of my suitcase anytime soon-it's too heavy-ha! 

I am staying in an apartment in a houseboat on the Nile. It’s quite a bit more ‘rustic’ than the pictures lead me to believe. I shall be honest. I am somewhat terrified. My host, the person who is renting out the apartment is not here. He and his partner are in Sweden. I had perhaps too much expectation on them greeting me and giving me a map of where I am and most importantly internet access. It is my fault for not having a physical copy of the address, and the contact information of the host. I have been far too comfortable with the ease of finding wifi and people being there when you expect them to be there. 

I was thankfully greeted at the airport with a driver, my flight delay almost foiled those plans. I had written Dan-the host guy, explaining to him my missed connection. His initial response seemed cold, a little put out that I was bothering him with these details while he was in Sweden. I responded explaining that these were circumstances beyond my command, and that as I was hiring a driver through him who was expecting to pick me up at 8pm, I felt it prudent to let him know I will not make it, and assured him that it was no parade on my end. I continued to say that I will be fine finding my own way there but needed assurance that the place would be open for me. He promptly responded telling me that he would have a driver there to pick me up. ...I do not think I would have found this place or have known how to get in had he not had a driver and/or someone to greet me. The house boat itself is well hidden, and once found needs multiple keys which take much jostling to achieve the successful opening and closing of the locks and doors.

My driver told me I could wear shorts. He said that unless I was going into a mosque or specific Islamic spaces, I would be fine with legs and shoulders bare (meaning shorts and a tank-top). So I wore shorts today. My first day in Cairo, I wore a tasteful shortset--It is afterall insanely hot here. ha. I did not get 10 steps out from my front gate before racing quickly back inside to change into long pants and shirt which covers three quarters of my arms. --I know this will be very funny to me in a week or two, I may still be a little shaken. Dead serious--I had multiple cars, vans and trucks almost crash in their attempt to stop beside me to ask where they can take me. Or just truckloads of men shouting things at me. After changing, I still got looks and shouts, that blonde hair of mine is no longer an asset in the streets of Cairo. I’m tempted to find a scarf. I am unsure what to do, if I should make attempt number three in walking outside my house? The second attempt, with my pants and nearly long sleeved shirt, I made it a fair distance before running back, but it is uncomfortable when you stick out so obviously. I would like to find internet, but I think I will wait until Dan returns this evening. I asked few girls- a rare sight in the streets, if they knew where I would find internet access, they didn’t know. They pretty much pointed to a sketchy medina looking like area with men hitting things with pipes, and said I should ask in there. That was when I realized I might not be cut out for traveling Egypt alone. I am scared. This is perhaps the first real time I am actually alone.

I am sleeping on the Nile tonight! I am in Egypt. I have no internet. It is amazing when travelling alone, how much facebook status-updates add to the experience. I have no one to share these experiences with when I have no internet. It’s a claustrophobic feeling in a different way. But I am here. I think being blonde may well be my greatest asset. I had my own personal customs agent who was going to let me get in without a visa even. --oh the visa story. It’s not a big story, it’s more an atm story. anyways I am tired, my clock is saying 3:46 and I believe I gained an hour, so it is almost morning and I will sleep and wake up on the Nile, in Egypt. did I mention I was in Egypt--I am in Egypt.

I have made it two weeks. Crammed into those two weeks have been a few days in Toulouse, a morning and afternoon in Paris, not enough time in Cologne, a missed wedding in Vienna, an escape from a probably harmless couch-surfing host in Split (please appreciate the appropriateness of having done so in a city named Split), a stumble through Dubrovnik and Montenegro and now to my present demise: Ataturk Airport in Istanbul. 

There is much to be caught up with regarding my adventures. I haven’t shared most of my stories. Like how I joined a small group of archeology students my first night in Split. I don’t remember his name, but he rescued me from a conversation I was not entirely enthusiastic having with two much older Croatian men. It was not unpleasant, but I can only humor old men and their not-funny stories for only so long. He turned out to be on the opposite spectrum of age, maybe 21? Either way, there were four of them, three from Minnesota, the fourth from New York. I could sense resentment from one of the young girls for throwing off the perfect 2:2 ratio of boy to girl. I learned not only that night that conservative America is not bestly represented through Fox news, but also that my body is not capable of drinking multiple pints of beer.

My second night could not have gone more opposite. I returned to the same place. A famous part of Diocletian's palace, live music plays each night while locals and tourists sit on the ancient-ruin steps listening, sometimes singing, and of course drinking. The second night it was a male-female duo. They covered 4-non blondes and Eric Clapton. This group was more boisterous the second night, even if the music was more tame. A group of 8 large British men were largely responsible for the added energy--even if the music score in the background was Tears in Heaven. The music finished. I learned these guys were all from Windsor, grew up together since boy hood and were celebrating one of their friends 40th birthday. They invited me to join them--and so I did. Mostly because I thought it made for an awesome story of how I went pub crawling in Croatia with 8 middle-aged British men. 

I am learning to be more open to people. Out of fear of misleading or misrepresenting intentions, believing that I was at fault if kindness and friendliness was mistaken for “I want to sleep with you”, I closed myself down from meeting mostly anyone of the male genre. I would put on a cold facade the moment someone approached me. I was lead to believe it was my fault if people found me attractive. An anomaly to me as I was personally never able to see it--the attraction that is. For the majority of my life I thought I was the “nice personality” type, or perhaps the “funny one”, but certainly not the pretty one. It is unfortunate it took leaving my husband to realize that that is perhaps not entirely true (and I’m not blaming him for that at all, it just seemed to happen that way).

Christianity also served a great evil in this for me. I believe the moral codes of religion in general do. The idea that a woman is at fault for a man being physically turned on?? This is the slippery slope to the rape culture we see on display in American culture today and the public shaming of victims... Oh how many times have I heard and even taught that we are not to “arouse or awaken love before it so desires”, or to “not cause anyone to stumble”. It is wrong and it disgusts me.

As is with most of my writing, this was not my intended direction. I am passionate about this subject and with most things I am passionate about, will likely jumble up my views and express them all wrong. 

My flight to Cairo has successfully been made-finally. The 7pm arrival time has become a 2am one. I was given access to the business lounge where I drank aged scotch and pretended to be sophisticated while I chatted with friends online. I was oddly outnumbered if we were to go by who had which sex organ, as well if we were to go by who was drinking. It is probably a safe generalization to say that it was pretty much me and a large fancy roomful of muslim men-- and it was me, the little blonde girl drinking the whisky while the bearded men drank tea.

I was interrupted by breakfast. These short international flights are awesome--we get fed, and fed well. And Cherry juice!! Why do we not drink more cherry juice?? we really should. I think I am about to land. I made a friend and possible travel guide sitting next to me. He is a scuba diver and will help me organize my Egyptian adventure. I am really excited. I am certain my best adventures are yet to happen. weeeeeee! 

They gave me a business class seat; and with just a simple slide of a portable curtain, they took it away. One moment the curtain was behind me and beside me was a drink tray instead of a smelly person. Within two swoops, it was all gone. The curtain was re-situated to rest directly in front of and me and my drink tray was swallowed into the seat with which it was held. Was that really necessary? My claustrophobia is setting in again, stupid curtain. Are there really people out there that need a curtain separating them from us vagrant second classers, or is this a remnant from a period where status and class dissonance was celebrated and enforced.  

It looks like I will be missing my connecting flight into Cairo, I should not be surprised.   

What I love about flying, the newspapers. I get to feel so business savvy and intellectual :)  I do love reading the paper, I just never seem to have time like I used to--that's a lie, I have so much time, I've made it to level 100 and something in Candy Crush--shhhh don't tell anyone. 

I used to have a subscription to the Globe and Mail. I would spend the majority of my Saturday morning and afternoon filling myself up on world news. Oh the random things I would be able to talk about for the week after. Today I would be able to discuss the Brussels's diamond heist gone south by the Moroccan crack team which apparently and somehow accidently found themselves 350 million dollars richer in diamonds vs actual hard cash they had planned for. After finishing that story, we could discuss the woman’s libido--as a women’s/gender study major, I supposed I wouldn’t need todays paper to initiate that subject. Oh the variety. 

My eyes are tired. the curtain directly infront of me is pissing me off, but not quite as much as the middle-aged ADHD sufferer in the seat accross the isle from me. He has been jumping around like a toddler high on red dye and sugar. There are also some asses not meant to be so close to eye level. A gesture given me as when he wasn’t boisterously tickling his partner in the seat beside him, he was standing, ass out in my face. thank-you kind, late-40-something sir. I must goto the football field of naked croatian men running relay races to cleanse myself from that view. I am not sure which is worst-for those who have not been following my facebook status updates, you may be lost on that one. 

I think I will try to nap for a bit.

(Obviously written a few days ago, only posted now)

Another night train entry. It has been a long day of trains and I chose to do it sober. I am on the bottom of three.The two other girls are sisters from London, both very sweet. I hate the bottom (bunk). I’m a little claustrophobic, I might wake up the entire train screaming sometime during the night. My mid-night night-terrors usually follow with my torso swiftly and abruptly moving into an upright position, as if I am hinged directly in half. Suddenly pushed up, and staring forward I will simply scream as loud as my lungs go. If that were to happen, I would most certainly nail my head on the second bunk causing the bed to move and in end throwing one of the sweet Brit sisters to the train floor. This would of course waken the older sister and seeing her younger sister fall to her demise, will reach out to catch her from the top bunk- of course sending herself reeling to the ground after. --and yes this is normally how my brain works, and yes, it is always this entertaining.

I used to have night screaming moments like this all the time when living in the house on Saint Paul Street. It was the house Phil and I lived in before we bought our first place. It was really only there. It was incredibly unusual. I also had recurring dreams of this massive spider that used to live in our bedroom and would just eat and get fat. I had of course decided it was a spiritual thing.  I would wake Phil up almost weekly, if not nightly, screaming my head off. I’d find myself sitting up, my hands in the air, or stiff by my side, screaming at the top of my lungs. -Or crying, sometimes I’d wake myself up crying. It started to annoy Phil. It was difficult. I couldn’t help what was happening in my sleep, but it pissed the hell out of him. When we first moved to that house he worked nights and it always happened right when he was coming to bed, I would sit up and just scream at him. He got so mad--that kind of made me laugh thinking about it. Poor guy, works a crappy night shift, arrives home at four in the morning only to be greeted by his darling wife screaming her head off at him. 

Anyways, that was a random story to share. But this does feel like a night where my subconscious might feel threatened from the seemingly growing-smaller-each-minute enclosed space I am in. --I’ll try not to think about it.

I have no idea what Croatia has in store for me. I have no idea how much money I withdrew from my credit card either. It was 800 of something. I don’t even know what they call their currency. -I am such a terrible tourist, I don’t know the language croatians speak let alone their word for thank-you or hello. That’s another thing about me, I am extremely lazy and refuse to do or learn anything I am not going to use in a significant way after. I have a hard enough time maintaining and utilizing the information I need on a daily basis, let alone a few words for a week of my life. I am completely uninterested in knowing little bits of things in something I will never think about again. It makes for a horrible Trivial Pursuit player as well. 

Well I think I will try to sleep. I get in at 6:30 in the morning. I will be picked up by my host, a stranger in a red car, at sometime in the morning. well until next time. sweet dreams world.

I am tempted to get myself completely f&*^ed-up drunk while I pass the next day and night on the train. I am not much of a drinker. I drink socially. Although I must admit, like nearly everything I do, I take social drinking to the extreme as well. I don't usually stop. It's not because I like to get drunk, it's because I am enjoying the social encounter so much I don't like to see it stop. It's a good time. 

There are few things I've decided I'd like to do completely inebriated, more as an experiment of sorts. I've always wondered what would happen if I wrote one of papers completely drunk. Part of me thinks it could go either way with a possibility of awesome genius, I would certainly have more fun with it. There is an aspect of surrendering control when drunk. It's also the reason I tell myself why I seemed to have avoided the inevitable Hofer/Lievers path toward alcoholism so buried deep within my genes. I don't like being out of control-and I'm cheaper, or I guess a more appropriate adjective- frugal, than hell.  

My brother nailed it when he accused me of being a control freak. He probably doesn't even remember telling me that, but it was an 'ahah' moment, one of those moments where fireworks goes off and the world begins to make sense. My initial 'in-my-head' response was rather stupefied, I figured my brother knew me better than that, I'm the one always being controlled, I'm laid back, easy going, always along for the ride. I find my life to be more aptly comparable to a special-needs tornado (i'm picturing a tornado wearing a helmet, who even for a tornado is out of control leaving in it's wake ill-thought-out destruction). I am anything but an organized neat-freak, like my sister-she's the control freak. My 'out-of-control-ness' rings very true, when it regards instances, or activities where someone is taking the lead. But in regards to life, and my personality, being out of control terrifies me. It means I might have to rely on someone other than myself. It isn't about needing things to go perfectly, it is about me not putting someone else out, inconveniencing them with my presence and circumstances. It means not owing someone for something I should have been able to do on my own. It's showing weakness. It's needing help, help which cannot be paid back.

That's another reason this trip seems significant to me. I am not staying in hotels. I have managed to pass the majority of my nights with friends, and couch surfing. Other than Toulouse which I booked on airbnb, which became a friend situation immediately, I am putting people out. People are giving me their home, their time and their life. I can only accept it. 

I passed my first couchsurfing experience in Vienna. It was quite the experience. As I had already missed the wedding, I was feeling a little discouraged, and then trying to orient myself in someone else's house was so unnatural to me... It was an amazing experience though. One which caused MUCH reflection. There were 5 living there. they also had 2 other couch surfers. Daniel was the person who invited me. He not only gave me a place to stay, but he cleared his entire Sunday and showed me Vienna. We drank coffees and ate delicate pastries in between site seeing. We ended a long day of walking with one of my most favourite meal experiences in one of his favourite restaurants/pubs (Although Toulouse was one of my most favorite meal experiences as well..., Actually most things become my most favourite in the end...). It reminded me of grandma Hofer's cooking. We drank beer and schnapps. and went to another pub for another beer. Poor Daniel. I talked non stop. 

But this experience made me wonder what happened to me. Upon arrival I nearly booked a hotel. The situation was intimidating. There were people everywhere, I was unsure if I would be sleeping on the floor or sharing a bed. I felt this was something for my twenties, not my thirties. 

Meh, I'm tired of writing. I think I will go back to my seat. I will perhaps continue later my thoughts on Vienna and Austria and how my first day Vienna seemed like just one big casting call for 'The Sound of Music'.

In the sleeper of my overnight train to Vienna. It is 8.25am, there are three of us girls. There were 6. The other three were older than my mom and departed a few hours earlier-boy did they usher in confusion with a remodeling of the train car on their midnight arrival from Frankfurt. 

I am getting excited for the wedding. I was nervous about crashing a family wedding in Austria. I questioned the appropriateness of it being the Chan family -and Paige. But the Chans are family to me, whether they realize it or not, and Lizanne, she’s right up at the top of my list of favorite people. I was close to considering not going, I had hoped to spend some more time in Cologne. With all my travel disappointments with missed flights and lost tickets I only had a mere two days. They were a rich two days. Myron, another person right up at the top of my list of favorite people, opened his home for me right in the center of the city. I love Cologne. One does not have to go far to get anything. There are large grocery stores, and just stores of every kind with cafe’s and pubs of every kind on every block it seemed. There are large portions of the city where it seems to be just one massive mall, streets and streets of what makes up St. Catherine's in Montreal, only no cars. 

My favorite moment would have been drinking beer lemonade (and then just beer), from a little kiosk with Myron near his place right after my arrival. The weather was amazing, just sitting in the sun and talking. I had wondered why visiting Myron at the start of my trip seemed so important-and it was. I felt that the moment I get to Germany, I would be fine. Truth is, I was fine the moment I hit Toulouse, but there was a safety and familiarity with Myron which I haven’t felt with too many people over the last few years. A feeling not associated with the Chans, or Joel (I will be meeting Joel in a few weeks), and I realized it is because, Myron is one of the very few people connected to my past, but not to the painful moments. He is not family, neither mine nor my ex’s, and he is not connected to the church (he’s in fact a zealous atheist). He is a friend to those connected to that part of my life, but he is not from it or of it and holds no need for me to explain any shame away for the choices I made to abandon those parts of my life.

My head is singing, “the hills are alive with the sound of music” as I travel through Austria and try not to get motion sick from watching the landscape while writing. My travel companions are both great girls. One is a journalist. She has been amazing to me. My train is delayed-yes, another travel delay... I must have pissed off the gods of travel somehow, they hate me. However, last night it was a possible three hour delay which would have made it very difficult making it to the shuttle in Eggenburg on time. The journalist had offered me her home which is near the train station and her boyfriend even to possibly drive me to Eggenburg!! Fortunately we should be arriving into Vienna quite shortly with only an hour delay. I found it interesting that my main concern and frustration was with being delayed and not actually with the fact that there was a broken wheel on one of the cars...

Well, I suppose that is enough for this update. I will be getting to Vienna soon, and off to meet my first couchsurfing experience and directly off to a Viennese wedding.

Alas, I am in Paris. Je l’aime. Outside le Gare Nord, everything is familiar. I remember the train stations well. And again I wonder why I thought it was a good idea to purchase the eurorail pass. Well I did. I held up a ticket agent for easily a 1/2 hour if not more humming and hawing over whether to take the plunge and force myself into train travel. I now have 10 days of train use until August 4th. Planning has its merits. Decisions have  never been my forte. I am sure they were at one time. I used to be so strong headed and focused. Christianity changed that on me. All of a sudden decisions had an eternal impact and my choices were to reflect the will of the almighty God, the creator of the universe. Ya there’s no pressure in that, my poor 18 year old self who hated disappointing a random stranger let alone the Alpha and Omega. I went from someone once strongly self-assured to frozen in the face of any choice. I remember meeting a newly re-born again Christian, just after myself having become newly born again. She had grown up in a solid Christian family, her grandfather and brother were both missionaries and ‘godly men’. She was exuberant about her relationship with Jesus, she and Jesus were tight. She talked how she would discuss her morning breakfast choices with God... It seemed rather excessive to me, that God would take the time to advise me on whether to have a bowl of Cherio’s or an omelet, but who was I to argue with this one friend who had an obvious history of spiritual superiority over myself. 

And so began the beginning of the demise and distrust of my inner voice. Discovering that God cared about every menial choice propelled me to a learning curve to become an expert hearer of God. I disciplined myself to prayer, reading every book I could find, whether it was two weeks old or two hundred years old. Surprisingly enough, little has changed regarding the spiritual disciplines of Christianity and the interpretation of scripture throughout the past hundreds and even thousand years. I fasted. I meditated on ‘the word’, attended conferences, and surrounded myself with like-minded people. I became a pro. Regarding what I heard, or saw, or felt in those times I considered myself in the presence of God, with messages either to myself, or to others, is beyond my ability to rationalize, and so we shall not talk about it anymore.

Anyways, I am back on the path of self-discovering. God discovery turned out to be not all that ‘Godly’ in the end. Only self-seeking man could make the rules I imprisoned myself to. Utterly buried, between Christianity and marriage I was lost beneath gender-scripted roles and doctrine I had grown aware I was not to question. 

I think that that’s what has been empowering the determination behind my trip. It’s not so much a vacation I am seeking, or the adventure of discovering new countries and people, but the adventure of discovering myself. Relearning to make decisions again-and to be proud of them. To get my personality back, my freedom and independence. To only do what I want to do, to spend money on a coffee if I wanted a coffee, to drink a glass of wine not judged-freedoms I never seemed to have in my 10 years of marriage and Christianity. 

I cannot seem to finish an entry when I start. I started writing this when I arrived into Paris. I am now 3 days(?) since, on a train leaving Cologne towards Venice. I spent that morning sitting in the sun on a Parisian terrace drinking allonges and eating croissants. I probably had enough time to tour a museum or visit the Eiffel tower, but I chose instead to enjoy the sun outside the train station. To allow my waiter to flirt with me kindly while I practiced my French--he guessed right away that I was from Montreal. I truly am allowing myself to enjoy every moment.  

congested snoring from other passengers as poor as me prevents me from finding rest. I had forgotten why I swore that I would never travel on an overnight train again--I remember now. the smells, the noise, the contorted positions your body must make to fit in stiff seats not meant for sleep. 

I am unsure what I’ll do once I get into Paris. I am hoping I will find a Eurorail pass not obscene in price which will allow me to make it to Cologne hopefully within the day. 

I finally made my overnight train to Paris. I am back to the unknown. I find that to be the constant I can never shake. The learning curve of a new job or business venture, university, or a move to a new house, apartment, city, or country. I am really quite awful at experiencing the unknown. My determination insists that nothing should be difficult and that I must master every new experience upon first site. I throw myself into these situations head-first and overwhelmed. I must never ask for help, I must never show that  I struggle, or am perhaps already drowning. I distance myself from everyone in these situations. Alone I rise, alone I fall. I am alone on this train. I have a sense of loss from leaving my host. Somehow, likely unintentional, he made me feel not alone. He came with me to the train station, he carried my bags. I am often amazed when people insist  on helping and then do. I always give the ‘out’ kind gestures are looking for. The, “oh, it’s ok, I’ve got it”, which is sincere, I do have it. Very rare is there an insistence past that. This is not a comment on perceived human nature, or a lament on empty words, it’s simply how it goes. 

I’ve eaten foie gras twice now in the past two weeks(?) Once with a Montreal friend, and just now with my host. I remember crying when I learned how it was made and swore myself off of eating any animal product. The refusal to consume anything animal lasted a little over two years. And along with everything else I once held sacred, my veganism too came crashing down from circumstances stronger than my will. I no longer hate those moments of weakness. Those weren’t moments of weakness, they were perhaps moments of profound strength mustered from nothing. Like the pent-up broiling energy tremoring the volcano to violent eruption. 

I am unsure as to what sparked this moment of reflection. I think I am tired and jet lagged. There’s a sombre hush of white noise deafening the less intense thoughts, the jovial thoughts. I think I will try sleeping. 

The jet lag is making me stupid. Or so that is what I've decided to scape goat it with. I had a nap, which was perhaps a bad idea, I woke up suddenly and I still haven't shaken my disorientation. It's a mixture of my internal time clock being off, therefore not being hungry, therefore not really eating and yet drinking lots of coffee in an effort to secure some sort of WIFI signal-rendering me caffein fuelled and non-functioning. I've decided to not go into detail regarding why I've decided jet lag is making me stupid. I realized I must stop airing all the things which colour me scattered and ditzy--

I'm baking in the sun in a cafe. The owner was a former resident of Montreal for about 7 years. I always love being in other parts not home, finding people in those other parts who have connections to the place I call home. Montreal, because it is so big and cosmopolitan, does not have the same wonder involved when meeting others who can share their similar stories, but it is still a happy moment of familiarity.

I am finding the WIFI too tediously slow for my liking. And my book, too tediously heavy for carrying around. So lets write. For no other reason than to pass time and encrypt my memories into type. And yes, I know that that was a phrase, an incomplete sentence. I am determined to blow every grammatical rule and start sentences with ‘and’ and ‘but’ despite my computer yelling “no” at me with green dotted lines. I am not being graded nor am I writing for academic purposes-thank God my semester is over! 

I am in Toulouse. I was here 3 and a half years ago with Phil and my mom. I was concerned visiting places I had first created memories with my ex husband (apparently husband is no longer politically correct to use according to my liberal-leaning spell correct). It was an odd feeling driving by the Ibis hotel we stayed at the night of our departure back into Canada, or was it Casablanca we flew to from Toulouse? Walking around yesterday evening I stumbled upon the spiral parking garage we parked at the evening Phil and I ditched my mom and drank expensive small coffees in the fancy square-I’m too lazy to search for the name I apparently forgot-la Capital maybe? It’s funny that I remembered that parking place. Perhaps it is because it is a close rendition to the Tyco’s Parking garage I used to play with at Chris and Curtis’ when I was a child-the one with the foam car wash. The same foam car wash which I am sure has seen the digestive track of many small children throughout the ’80’s. 

My insides are tremoring with caffeine. I leave in about 2 hours for Paris. It was never my intention to goto Paris, but as I was rather unorganized, or more aptly put, disinterested, to plan my trip before I flew out of the country, I didn’t realize that Toulouse is not the place to be if you’re planning to get to Cologne, Germany next. In Paris I can buy a global train pass, a pass which Toulouse has some prejudices towards as it’s unavailable here. 

So far I am doing fine. Toulouse is beautiful. I wasn't even panicked when I arrived in at 7 in the morning with no clue as to where I would stay or what to do. I messaged someone on airbnb.com and found a foldout futon sort of thing, right in the centre of Toulouse for $35. My host has been amazing, and I think I prefer sharing someone's home to a cold overpriced hotel. He even had breakfast waiting for me when I woke up, which I only found out after an email I received around dinner time. Thomas is a rocket scientist, en route to a black belt in karate, and a musician-and hasn't even hit thirty yet. People like him inspire me. For some reason I grew up thinking that one must start young to excel and accomplish things, by things I mean music, sports, arts and such. There were many things I simply did not try based on the fact that I did not start doing it at the age of four, or tried only to discover I did not have an immediate natural affinity towards it and therefore discontinued my effort. Silly Paige. I realize how off that thinking is and am now determined to do and be everything I think is awesome. A Toronto friend along with Crossfit showed me it’s really just hard-work and determination.  

I started this post yesterday. I am actually still in Toulouse, a story which can wait for my next post, which I shall probably commence now. Here's to discovery and independence; small expensive coffees and horrible internet service; derailed plans and recoveries. 

Cheers.  

I made a grave mistake.  And it's paralyzing me.  Nothing exciting, purely school related.  I don't know how to bounce back and be productive in this moment as I so desperately need to be, I basically lost a much needed day.

Ahh *super large and long sigh*. When budgeting my time to ensure I keep all my reading and paper assignments on schedule, I was careless.  I have two papers which were technically due yesterday, the professor kindly granted the entire class until Monday to complete said papers.  The assignment was reading journals.  We were to read one or two primary sources relating to the ancient Christian church and the Greco/Roman period between 64 CE to 604 CE (CE means common era, same as AD).  I had chosen to read John Chrysostom's On Virginity.   We were also to choose two or three secondary sources, academic writings about the information we have in the primary sources.  I quickly located a few of the suggested monographs (books) online and skimmed through a few mentally noting an average page count of under 30.   Easy, a couple hour read each.  ahhhhahah.  This morning as I was already panicked in trying to finish the text--another after sight (read the 250 page book yesterday, destroying my eyes and making my brain fuzzy), I thought I'd find my secondary sources to start reading.  *muffled cry* That was when, to my horror, I learned that what the online library had found in regards to my searched author and book requests a month earlier, was in fact peer review articles of the original work--not the actual work.  My budgeted time to read two, thirty paged documents all of sudden became two books of over three hundred pages each.  My brain was already over-saturated from the plus 200 pages absorbed the night before.  I have humbly emailed my professor, but haven't heard back.

I have had the entire day to at least finish the paper on the On Virginity work and even get a decent start on one of the other books.  But I haven't.  I have instead, bathed, thinking it would relax me and help focus; needlessly researched the Encratites, an ascetic people, possibly who Chrysostom was referring to when talking about heretic virgins, or so the notes inferred, but the Oxford Classical Dictionary dates them with the Essenes (think John the Baptist) who were wiped out along with second temple Judaism in 70CE, and Chrysostom wrote in 400CE.  None of this relevant to my paper or academic future, or even curiosity- I just found the coined term "heretical virgin" funny and wanted to know who could have pissed John off so much that he begin his first paragraph directly and angst-fully addressing them in their heretic virginal ways.  What else did I do? Watched a few tv episodes on my computer: Whitney, Big Bang, and The Neighbors, damn you ctv.ca; facebook of course-my niece posted a picture of me from about 10 years ago when I had dreads, which distracted me, burying me in thoughts of then time and then hair; I decided to soak the at-least two year old chick peas found with plans of making hummus-they will likely stay in water for three days before I find them again and have to throw them out; showered-eventhough I had bathed only two hours previous, I hadn't washed my hair and a friend mentioned possibly coming by.  So of course that lead to doing my hair and getting dressed and creating a new outfit with my ridiculous 4inch stiletto chinese red heeled booties, sigh; Oh and I cleaned my entire house.  And now here I sit, listening to music and writing my woes away.  Note: friend never came by, so add being bitter from wasted time cleaning hair and house.

I hate wasted days. I hate not bouncing back fast enough.  I hate the crippling effect of discouragement.  I know I will be fine.  I am rather hopeful I will get an extension, and if not, what does that mean? I lose up to 10%- I think that's it.  I get a B grade instead of an A grade, or God forbid a C.  But perhaps that's where it is.  I get admonished-LOTS for being too hard on myself, for expecting too much from myself.  Perhaps it's not so much I am disappointed with myself, but each of these minute challenges often measured in pass or fail, for me anyways, are affirmations or disapprobations to choices sometimes being blindly felt through.  When I do well in school or a business venture or a relationship, it's feels right, it's the high-five of approval to being on the right path, doing the right thing, in the right time for me.  I know that's silly thinking, especially seeing it in writing, but when being involved in things which require heavy investments, such as time and money and identity, it's often required to feel confident that your investment will not be wasted.

hmmm...I somehow don't think I'm talking about school anymore.  

hmmm...

I am over-everything.  I have been for a while, I just haven't had a moment to update the world on my new found status of reconciled and emotionally indifferent (to the rather most horrific few years of my life).  *large sigh*.  I am such a wimp, I suppose.  Or I guess more accurate-unforgiving to myself.

But I am through.  A state, three years ago, I would not have been able to conceive ever again standing in.  Christianity, the method of saving my 18 year old effed-up self, in end crucified me.  The spear of 'God's word' certainly pierced my soul, only to displace all that effed-upness to implode on me later.

Christianity did save me, in a way suppose.  It removed me out of my small community, a likely fated marriage to a highschool boyfriend and three, four, maybe five children all before the age of 25.  Not that that cannot be a lovely life--just for anyone not myself, and besides, my track record for highschool boyfriends, was left greatly wanting.  Christianity opened the borders of my world.  It created a purpose I so desperately sought, so desperately needed to justify why I must be tortured with continued healthy breathing while I'd rather watch slit-wrists bleed the pain I couldn't connect with--I am being quite melodramatic.  never did that-my skin was always too tough and the Hofer knives all too dull.

mehhh, This isn't where I am wanting to go with this post...

No, but I'm good. I have removed from my life every friggen person who has ever held control over my life and it feels --sooo incredibly satisfying--  I breathe deeply knowing it's free.  No one holding control or criticism or demands or angry words at loud volumes which scare me... I breathe deeply knowing that I had the strength to remove myself, yet again, from situations which cost more than gave.

I am proud of myself--finally.

School, usually tedious, but deeply gratifying-it's who I am now. I am a little disappointed.  I feel I cracked the code, and learned the formula on how to do well, all maybe and scarily too soon.  I must trust the pedagogy of the system, and hope that there is enough in my creative and unique make-up which will keep me from being formed into just another cookie-cutter liberal-thinking university graduate.  The vocabulary is all the same, the arguments all predicated to form the same conclusions.

Business, I am taking the risks again.  And this time, it's only for me.  That was perhaps the most difficult in getting me back on my feet.  My entire self identity and will had been stripped.  Looking back, knowing my strong independence and goat-like stubbornness, I don't know how that happened.  Well, I do, but that's for another night of writing, I am just amazed how quickly I folded.  But I feel strong again, confident in my choices and failure in anything isn't even comprehensible.  I have no pressure, the pace I set is my own, and I don't care if my method may look handicapped and duct-taped together.  It's the way I roll.

I guess that's my update for tonight.  Thanks for coming out.