Janice MacLeod's Blog, page 16

April’s Travel Letter is about Florence, Italy.

I don’t want to bad mouth Florence. It’s not it’s fault. I, like a good Catholic, like to blame myself for the travel failure that was Florence. I was a tourist in the high heat of the day in the high season of June. And it was the tourists that ruined everything.

First, they (we) rolled our eyes in reverie as we choke down white beans and pretended they taste better in Tuscany than everywhere else.

Then they (we) climbed the Duomo, because they (we) can’t resist climbing every dome in Europe.

Florence is also a top pick for the youngin’s to study abroad, so it was a European city filled with American accents. UGH! I went to hear Italian accents, thanks.

There was so much of this…

That I was all this…

I’m the guy lying down, begging to be put out of my misery.

But then this came along and cheered me up…

Never have I just LEFT a city spontaneously, but I bolted, lest I spend my entire time squished and sweaty in long lines.

I know I made the right decision to leave early, because when I finally collapsed in my seat on the train, a man sat across from me who was the spitting image of my grandpa…

I snapped a photo when he wasn’t looking to compare with a photo of my grandpa…

You have to admit, the resemblance is uncanny. These magical travel moments make us feel like we are guided, that angels are among us. Maybe that guy on the train really was my grandpa who came back to keep me company on my journey. Who knows. This guy didn’t speak English, but neither did my grandpa. And he died when I was really young, so… *shoulder shrug*

It cheered me out of my sulk. Thanks grandpa!

Florence is popular for a reason. I owe it another try, but this time, I’ll return in the off season.

April’s Travel Letter is now in the shop.

This April’s Paris Letter was inspired by blooms, all things pastel, and by Pinterest, that cavernous time-wasting/inspiring site of beauty and wonder. I’ve been a Pinterest maniac lately…

By far my most re-pinned pin. People go gaga for the pretty pastel macaron.

Other gorgeous springy palettes I found on Pinterest.

And over at the Paris Photos shop, I added a few pink Parisian blooms.

And roses, too…

Around here, the bunnies are turning from white to brown. When I told Christophe about this phenomena of nature, he didn’t believe me. He had to see for himself that the bunnies really do turn colour. I tried to catch a photo for you but those bunnies are too fast for my camera. A skiddish bunch. Don’t they know rabbit stew is only popular in France?

 

I didn’t even realize it until Facebook told me.

This was five years ago yesterday at the airport in Toronto:

Look at me. The sensible travel clothes, the beat up suitcase. The MEC backpack. So ready.

My sister dropped me off. She had a brave face but I could tell she was freaking out inside. I think it’s because I told her I brought with me a hundred Gravol pills. These are for motion sickness but they make you so very tired. They are Canada’s secret sleeping pill. I said if things got too bad, I’d just take the Gravol. She was not pleased with this comment. Nearly turned the car around.

When I landed in Paris, I hopped on the train to the Métro stop near the apartment I was renting. I remember feeling cold sweats the whole way, and being conscious that I probably smelled terrible. The lady renting me the apartment was there with the keys in hand, and after a brief tour, she left me to unpack. I didn’t.

Instead I picked up a tourist travel book on Paris, likely left there by another tourist who stayed there before me. I opened it and found where my apartment was located. Then noticed there was a market street nearby. That’s where I’d go. Find me a baguette.

This is the first picture I took in Paris:

Here is what is creepy cool about this photo. A few months later I moved in with Christophe, who lived in an apartment behind that boucherie with the red lettering. So basically my first photo of Paris was of my future apartment. And that white haired couple. I think that’s really the ghosts of Janice and Christophe future, visiting Paris later in life… or after life. Sensibly dressed. Still holding hands. Awwww.

I walked up the street RIGHT BY Christophe who worked at another butcher shop and plunked my travel-weary self down at a café.

He was standing right THERE roasting chickens like it was any other day of the week. Of course, I didn’t see him. I was sitting around the corner of the café. I incorrectly ordered a coffee and was corrected by the waiter. I opened my journal and began writing.

Another creepy cool fact. The waiter who served me my coffee is the same guy that gave us a glass of champagne on our wedding day when we sat down in the same spot a few years later.

But back to the first day… the caffeine propelled me up the street to gather fixin’s for dinner: Baguette, soup, wine, and cheese.

Just look at how pleased I am to have a baguette sticking out of the back of my grocery bag.

I returned home and made dinner. I was too tired to sit in a restaurant. Better to have my face fall in my dinner at home. I think I fell asleep at 8 pm. I was wide awake at 3 am and had received a text from Sharon and Alan (Akemi and Chapter 33 in Paris Letters) They had sent photos of themselves partaking in planking. They wanted one of me planking in return. That’s when I realized I couldn’t take a selfie of me planking. I felt very alone. I didn’t even have a friend to take a planking photo of me.

How weird it is to remember this moment.

I didn’t know anyone and I knew that it could be quite some time before I had friends, and on my travels, they were likely to be fleeting friendships, unlike with my planking compadres Sharon and Alan.

I drifted back to sleep with these concerning thoughts, woke, showered, dressed and walked over to that same café on rue Mouffetard.

That’s when I spotted the lovely Christophe.

Five years later. A husband, successful online business, and a New York Times bestseller under my belt. Pas mal, as they say in France. Not bad.

(The husband is the best part.)

I spent half an hour on the floor today, grinding a tennis ball into my back.

So you know it’s book writing season.

Isabel Allende once said the hardest part of writing was the physical sitting. She’s right on, but it’s not the hardest for me.

For me, the hardest part of writing is getting beyond page 50.

Everyone who has the inkling to write a book, when they press themselves, they can write 50 pages of that book. Then something dreadful happens. You just don’t want to do it anymore. You print it out. Tell yourself you’ll edit while you wait for material to surface for page 51. You begin to edit, but then other more pressing events take place, like watching The Grand Budapest Hotel again, listening to Spanish language podcasts, or dusting.

Soon that manuscript is the only thing that is collecting dust.

And you ache for the WANT to keep working on it, but the want has disappeared. Then guilt appears and whispers all kinds of sour nothings in your ear.

That’s when you do one of two things:

Move on. It was a dumb idea anyway. No juice for it. Learning Spanish is a better use of your time.
Verbally abuse it. You heard me right.

 

Around the 50 page mark, the manuscript is starting to realize that you might actually want to do this. By halting your progress, it’s asking you if you really REALLY want to do this. If you are willing to live with it.

When you write a book IT NEVER LEAVES. Paris Letters will be with me forever through emails, posts, comments, Instagram photos, Pinterest, articles I write, articles written about me, book clubs, and even future books and bios will be written by “the author of Paris Letters.” I’m delighted, honoured, swelling with pride, and I’m so grateful to get to be the keeper of Paris Letters.

The most delightful photo of the book, from the beautiful, inspiring blog madefromscratch.

You’ve got to really want that book to be a book because then it’s yours.

Your manuscript isn’t being unkind. It’s giving you a slew of decent excuses to help pull out of the project with grace and dignity. No harm done. And ya, Spanish is a useful language to know.

But if you really want to write that book, read on…

You take that first 50 pages and you yell at it. You say, “THIS IS HAPPENING.” In all caps. It’s more effective. Enunciate.

This fun cup is from Holy Flaps over at Etsy.

(You swear more when you write books… you use up all the good words in the manuscript and are left with the second-tier vocabulary.)

Then you look at your manuscript again, but this time you point at it, too. “THIS IS HAPPENING.”

Then you call it on its ridiculousness. You say, “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to scare me out of this. I want this and you are going to help me make it happen, so bring back the enthusiasm, bring back the ideas, because THIS IS HAPPENING.”

Because you know the manuscript is sitting on gold.

Then you close the Spanish language lessons. That’s when the manuscript lifts a cheek and there it is… the ideas, the enthusiasm, the plan for this perfect opus that only you can write. You revisit page 49, reread what you wrote, continue to page 50, then set your hands on the keyboard ever so softly so you’re ready for when the next sentence comes.

And the next sentence will come. It will.

“I always worked until I had something done and I always stopped when I knew what was going to happen next. That way I could be sure of going on the next day.”

Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Since I’ve been partaking in the good winter work that is book writing, I wrote more about it in the Painted Letter  this month:

And because I watched and rewatched The Grand Budapest Hotel this month, this is the subject of the Travel Letter for this month:

I know without a doubt that Wes Anderson spent some time in the same scuzzy hotel that I did when in Budapest, because even though the hotel in the film is a mod-podge of different hotels, there is this one, very run down hotel, renovated in 1970… trying to be luxurious… and it’s just so weird.

Because you made it all the way down to the bottom of this post, here is some free Mendl’s stationery I created… another worthy diversion from book writing.

Now back to the Spanish language podcast. NO! Back to book writing. Book writing. That’s what I meant.

Somewhere between Canada and Paris I lost a button on my coat. Somewhere between the airport and the apartment, I lost another. And between the apartment and the Métro, I lost yet another.

Travel is not easy on clothes.

Coco Chanel once said “Dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman.” A coat missing three of 18 buttons doth a shabby dresser make, so I off I went to the haberdashery to either replace three buttons of similar ilk, or 18 new wonderful buttons.

Haberdashery is the best word in the English language.

Truly, a mouthful of glee. Haberdashery. Five gorgeous syllables that when spoken feel more like a sentence than a word. A haberdashery is called “mercerie” in French, and is one of the few examples of an English word being better than a French word. At the haberdashery, you’ll find all the bits and bobs you’ll need to sew and mend clothing to invoke your inner Coco; from latches to buttons, ribbons to zippers, and all the needles and thread you’ll ever need. Most people head to the 18th arrondissement to take care of their DIY tailoring needs, but you’ll also find wonderful vintage buttons in dusty old antique shops. Look at what I found…

You know a shop like this is going to distract you for much longer than it should.

The packaging is so pretty I felt like buying these just to frame them. Now I wish I had. Drat.

I have NOTHING that would go with these buttons, but I considered buying the buttons, then finding the dress. Gorge.

More gorge. Mostly for the pretty pink and black colour combination. Boring buttons but great packaging.

I found six lovely buttons of the same style, but alas I required 18. That’s the problem with going the vintage route. These are likely all that’s left of this button. Zut alors.

Fabric remainders were also on hand to distract me from my goal. I wouldn’t even know what to do with these lovely squares of fabric, but I wanted them anyway.

And there were all these gorgeous labels. Vintage papers are my kryptonite. I found a lot of lovely bits and bobs, but not 18 of the same bob so off I went to the 18th arrondissment to duke it out with the other shabbily dressed Parisians.

At Mercerie Saint Pierre (6, rue Charles Nodier), they have an entire wall of buttons. All the buttons are neatly stacked in these little tubes. The trick is to find a button you like, then hope to God there is 18 more of said button in the tube. Then hope to God each button doesn’t cost a gazillion Euros… times 18 buttons.

In the end, I opted for a sensible set of silver buttons….

Then I bought a bunch of fun red ones that I couldn’t resist adhering to another coat that doesn’t even need new buttons.

These are the new red buttons that inspired the red in the latest Paris Letter, available when you subscribe over at the shop.

Even button shopping is fun in Paris.

I have been in love with my new painting journal. It’s a great way to organize random tidbits about Paris. I might just have to do a page for every day of the year. Or maybe I’ll have to do a Paris Sketch series in addition to the Paris Letters series. All the art sans les mot. Hmmm. The possibilities.

Speaking of…

We’ve had, I kid you not, beaver issues. One big hungry beaver took down three trees. This was the subject of the latest Painted Letter (formally the Café Letter series, but that took too much explaining. This one is just a painted letter about life these days. No Trumps included.)

Oh Canada’s national rodent is having quite a par-tay in my backyard. BTW, have you heard the song Silver Beaver? All the Canadian readers are giggling right now. And imagine me having to explain to Christophe in English why Silver Beaver is a funny song. Oh my stars. The first time I heard this song was a drive from Toronto to Tillsonburg, Ontario. It was the first time I decided to adult and rent a car to drive home rather than arrange a ride. And just when I decide to grow up, a trio of seniors sing me a song about their private parts. How deliciously juvenile.

Surprises galore with my new project of sending Valentine Paris Letters for people:

Some people want me to send them the Valentine. Other people are having it sent to friends, sisters, and parents. I expected a bunch of mushy mushy romantic people buying it for their lovers, and there is that, too, but those wanting one for themselves or for friends has outweighed the romantics by far. If you want me to send the Valentine’s Paris Letter shown above, get it over at the shop.

And in the other shop…

Because I have two shops now that I discovered it was a scrolling nightmare to have everything in the same shop, I listed a few romantic photos of Paris. Sigh with me now… quelle romantique.

He wants to consume her. She wants a nap.

Someone is in love. I wonder if the painter is in love with the patina on the door, the marriage between this vintage blue and bright red, or with someone who lives in an apartment beyond the door.

This guy has love on his mind, too…

Modern love. And old love at the same time.

Then there is this one…

I took this photo in one of those wonderful Paris cemeteries… Montparnasse I think. She looks like she’s longing for love, longing at the loss of love, longing, longing, longing. And while she longs, moss begins to grow on her lap. Perhaps trying to bring her back to life. We all know someone who has suffered great loss of love, and for a time, they seem like they are living in between the world of the living and the dead. I think that moss is trying to bring her back to the land of the living.

Sometimes the best ideas happen when writing journal pages. I highly recommend it, as you likely already know. Today, whilst sipping tea over my pages, I came up with the the idea of sending out Valentine’s Paris Letters for people who either don’t have the time, or know someone who loves Paris and would love a Valentine about Paris.

Sweet Mary.

I listed it pronto:

You buy it. I’ll send it. No need to find a stamp. I’ve got plenty. Inside the painted letter, I will include a little card that explains your gift and can include a personal message from you.

Don’t say anything that will make me blush.

Why on earth haven’t I sent out Valentine’s mail before?  It’s fun to get fun mail, especially when you’re not expecting it. Find it over at the shop.

This Valentine Paris Letter is from the archive. It’s about life in Paris on Valentine’s Day. Le jour d’amour.

In other shop news, the colouring books are gone and done. It was a delight while it lasted. I still have the digital colouring book up there. It’s a much better value. You only have to pay for it once, print out copies for all your friends, take it over to the copy shop to get it bound (or not):

And colour at will. Here are my beloved copy shop guys from Paris:

And here they are being sexy…

I should send them a Valentine. Humina humina.

Valentine’s Day is fast approaching. Order your letters now so they can arrive in time for the big day and you look like a romantic rock star for remembering.

Most people think Parisians sit in cafés all day long, that they never exercise and they are thin because of something they eat. Likely the cheese and wine that makes their gut bacteria that perfect solution that makes you lose weight with no effort.

All true.

And also…

Paris is a giant jungle gym for adults. You can’t take care of your daily life without going up and down stairs, and up and down streets. Plus, Paris has a gazillion swimming pools that are always full.

So somebody is working off the comté.

But I still think DNA is at play because my Canadian body stayed pretty much the same in Paris. A little less or more the same. Quelle dommage. And near the end, a little more of the more because I felt I had to eat one of everything before I left.

“The only reason I work out is to live longer so I can eat more cheese and drink more wine.” —Ricky Gervais

But I walked up and down those stairs and I ate all the things they ate. So who knows.

What I do know is this:

They don’t go on about body issues like it’s a pillar of their value system.

They don’t buy into dietainment. (That’s a link to a commercial about dietainment… good to watch.)

They don’t berate themselves whenever they eat something delicious.

Even when I’m in Paris, I don’t have the same problems I have when I live in North America. And my body isn’t better or worse for it. It’s astoundingly the same. The only time I talk about it in Paris is when a friend from North America is visiting and brings it up. And then I think, “Oh yeah, my body issues. I forgot about them.”

But the Parisians do exercise, not so much to be skinny, but because it’s a pleasure, like when they slowly swim up and down the length of the pool. No one slips into the pool with the Make-It-Count mind that races body issues to the end of the pool.

Anyway, I didn’t expect this sermon on the “mound,” so to speak. I just wanted to show you my January Paris Letter about life in the pool in Paris.

And also to show you some ideas for what Paris might do with their 11 ghost stations. These are Métro stations that were closed some time ago because of remapping the system or whatever else. One idea is a pool:

Another is a night club:

And it wouldn’t be Paris without adding a garden in there:

Read more about the proposed projects here, and if you’d like the January Paris Letter, get it over at my shop. Mention the January letter in the Notes section and I’ll send  you something extra for fun.

I’m a bit of a magpie with my Paris art. A few watercolors, a slew of photos, a mishmash of phrases, a handful of quotes. Beautiful clutter. Nice to look at but still has the anxiousness that accompanies clutter.

Something must be done.

I found a gorgeous Lett’s 2016 diary at the bookstore inside Le Bon Marché department store in Paris (24 Rue de Sèvres). Inspired, I began sorting and making collages of my collection.

So fun!

We forget to add fun items on our New Year’s resolution lists.

Shame on nous.

A few of the January pages…

In other news, my Etsy shop was a complete mess, so I cleaned it up. Remember that 2015 goal I had of getting to 500 items? Turns out, more is not better… and honestly, most people want fun mail so I’m just going to stick with letters in 2016.

Plus it’s winter and I’m writing le sequel to Paris Letters, and having another Research & Development year isn’t going to get the next book written. I’ll offer the last of the coloring books until they are gone. Then that’s that. I feel like we’ve arrived at the winter of that project anyway.

I just finished reading Paris Keys by Juliet Blackwell. She has gorgeous little gems sprinkled throughout, like this quote about the gargoyles of Notre Dame:

Making the visual diary of Paris has already taught me so much about how my brain works.

When I’m writing le sequel, and I get stuck, I move over to the glue, tape, paint and photos. As I’m literally piecing a collage together, I am piecing together the ideas for the book in my head. How odd and enlightening.

Perhaps the right side of my brain works best when bouncing against the left side, and vice versa, or side by each as they say in the east.

I can just imagine the day of the lady in red. She walked over to the café to have her morning brew and read some of her book about the letters of Vincent van Gogh, then hopped on the Métro to meet a friend for lemon gelato. Or maybe that was me.

I brought home some of the famous Angelina’s hot chocolate in a jar to indulge in on a day when I really needed it. The seal must have popped somewhere along the way because it was rancid and dégueulasse when I opened it. Tragique.

Alright. Enough fooling around. Back to the manuscript. Or perhaps first just a few minutes on Pinterest. No! Focus. FOCUS!

Or maybe just one more collage…