Photo via singforyoursupperblog.com

I was made aware of this fact last Saturday during A Prairie Home Companion, when Garrison Keillor and pianist Rich Dworsky teamed up for a lovely-yet-cheeky tribute to Herr Mozart.

Tribute to Mozart

Mozart has been a constant throughout my life. As a kid, I mirthlessly mangled his piano sonatas (much to my family’s distress). And as a teen, I backpacked through Mozart’s old haunts in Salzburg and Vienna.

But it wasn’t until 1984 that I developed a true appreciation for Mozart’s music—and for the man. That was the year Jan (Milos) Forman’s film Amadeus hit the screen.

I remember slumping limply in my chair as the closing credits scrolled, and sitting motionless until the theater’s house lights came on. I couldn’t believe that such a brilliant composer—such an extraordinary human being—could die penniless at 35 and be dumped like trash into a communal grave.

The film awakened in me a fascination for Mozart’s enigmatic nature: a rebel, a romantic, a prankster, a gifted teacher, a devoted son, a prodigy and a spendthrift … all of these coexisted inside one complicated (and oft-misunderstood) man.

I’ve watched Amadeus several times since that first screening, and each time my appreciation for the film has deepened. But now my reaction to the ending is different: Mozart isn’t dead. He’s immortal.

Happy 256th birthday, Wolfie.

Post script: No offense to F. Murray Abraham, but I still think Tom Hulce should have won the Oscar for his beautifully nuanced performance. You rocked me, Amadeus!

Today is one of the latter. On this day two years ago, I was told I have a brain tumor.

I’ve tried very hard not to let it be the thing that defines me, the thing that shapes my life. But the knowledge has changed me irrevocably.

In some ways, it’s been a gift: A little whiff of mortality can be a powerful aphrodisiac. Everything seems more meaningful and more poignant. Seeing what might kill me has made me feel more alive.

But in other ways, it’s been paralyzing. I’ve put off making some plans for the future. Every decision has come with a quiet but insistent bass line: “What if, what if, what if?”

I hadn’t realized until a few days ago just how much I’d surrendered to my fears.

The first wake-up call came via Skype. “I wish I could live in Europe, if only for a while,” I told my friend Jan. “So why don’t you burn your house and come over?” he replied.

The second wake-up call came over sushi. “I want to travel more and spend more time taking photos,” I told my friend Todd. “Sometimes you’ve gotta burn down the house and just go,” he replied.

And the third wake-up call came over the weekend, as I was trying to distract myself from a crippling headache.

“What if 2012 were your last year, your last chance at leaving your mark or doing something great or crossing out every item on your bucket list?” began the post at Olivier Blanchard’s BrandBuilder blog.

This has nothing to do with the Mayan calendar or the financial crisis, mind you. It’s just a simple what if question.

What if you went another year without writing that book you’ve been thinking about for a decade? What if you went another year without taking that trip to Paris or Moscow or Sydney you’ve been dreaming about your whole life? What if you went another year waiting to launch your startup? …

Here’s what I’ve learned in the last few years: There’s no such thing as the right time. All we really ever have is now. Now is the right time. Tomorrow is bullshit. Tomorrow turns into next year and then someday and finally never. Tomorrow and next year will be too late. Whatever needs doing, do it now. Today.

Early in my career, I wasted years – precious years – doing what I was told, trying to fit in and often playing it safe when every instinct in my body told me not to. You have no idea how much I now regret having thrown those years away. I lost so much time waiting for opportunities and “the right time” to do something, it makes me ill just thinking about it. Never again.

So the lesson here is simply this: Ask her out. Book that flight. Graduate. Take the job. Write the damn book. Get your funding. Finish that triathlon. Launch your startup. Carpe Diem isn’t a slogan on a T-shirt. It isn’t an abstract philosophy. It means get off your ass and do the thing that needs doing. Today. If it fails, it fails. If it works, it works. So what? Either way, the sooner the better.

That’s it. You have 365 days. Show me what you’ve got.

In other words, stop being so afraid and just burn down the house already!

Obviously, I’m not about to literally grab the matches. But I’ve decided that today—this bittersweet anniversary—is the best day of my life. And 2012 is my year to shine.

Make it your year to shine, too.

So I wasn’t too surprised this morning to find myself surfing for blogs about this beautiful German city. The first hit was something called “Iron Blogger Freiburg.” I clicked on the link, expecting to find a post about heavy-metal music, or maybe the torture devices in the Augustinermuseum. Instead, I stumbled upon a marvelous blogging project.

Iron Blogger is a group effort that requires the participants to write at least one blog post per week. Otherwise, they’ll have to chip in a “fine”. Every so often, the fines will be converted to drinks collectively.

… I like this idea and invite all bloggers in Freiburg to join Iron Blogger Freiburg!

Freiburg, blogging and beer?! Sign me up!

Alas, there was one hitch: I’m not actually *in* Germany. Not even close.

“I’m wondering whether you’d consider adding someone to your group who doesn’t currently live in Freiburg,” I wrote to Jochen, the group’s organizer, “… but who will be there in September to settle any fines she may incur.”

I was delighted to get Jochen’s response this afternoon. I’m officially a Freiburg Iron Blogger!

Fortunately (für mich und Deutschsprechers everywhere) I’m not required to post in German. Still … I’ve found my motivation to at least try, on occasion—and I’ve found my motivation to start blogging regularly again, too.

A big thanks to Jochen for setting up Iron Blogger Freiburg—and especially for being so gracious to the group’s newest (and most geographically challenged) member.

Prost !

I’m a big supporter of self-improvement. So if you’ve decided to lose weight or quit smoking or cut down on your drinking, I highly recommend zenhabits.com.

I’m also a big believer in the power of making small changes. Every thought and action either moves us closer to our best selves, or farther away.

In fact, I believe that our thoughts can help shape our future. What we think about, we become. And with that in mind, I offer this story (courtesy of my friend Norine):

One evening a Cherokee Elder told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said: “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is good: It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, kindness, empathy, generosity, compassion, faith and truth. The other is evil:  It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, resentment, superiority, arrogance, self-pity, and lies.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”

The elder simply replied: “The one you feed.”

May 2012 bring you health, happiness, and hope.

Today I picked up Karsten Heuer’s Being Caribou, a birthday present from my dear friend Jim. (On Christmas morning, it seemed fitting to read about reindeer.) But I didn’t even reach the first page because of what lay inside the front cover.

I loved the old Christmas photo of Jim and his dogs. Jim has long since lost and mourned them, but he still has the same radiant smile.

And I chuckled at the old Far Side cartoon a colleague gave me on my last day at the Star Tribune. I’ve lost touch with Tod, but his scrawled writing brought back a flood of happy memories.

Then I found an old newspaper clipping. I vaguely remember Steve handing it to me one Christmas morning, years ago. “A song to the stars  in times of darkness … There’s joy in this season, but also loss,” read the headline and lead-in.

For many — myself included — the holidays are bittersweet. This morning I thought of the loved ones I’ve lost, of my own uncertain future. I thought of the friends who have mourned children and parents this year. And I couldn’t find words more beautiful and fitting for all of us than those of Camille Gage.

Merry Christmas.

A song to the stars in times of darkness

Last Sunday was the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. There were 8 hours and 46 minutes of sun. It was the first official day of winter, but here in the upper Midwest winter has already made itself known. As of this writing, I’ve shoveled the snow off my sidewalk three times in the past 36 hours and it’s 6 degrees below zero.

It’s midnight, the house is silent, and I’m thinking about that weightless place between joy and melancholy. The holidays always do this to me.

I’ll admit I cried three times in the past 24 hours. Once for close friends who are struggling; once for my mom, who died 27 years ago and whom I still miss every day; and once at the Pantages Theatre during the musical play “All is Calm,” about the World War I Christmas Truce of 1914.

“All is Calm” chronicles an event that took place on a battlefield in Europe on Christmas Eve. In the dark of night, under a star-filled sky, a German soldier lay down his arms, walked out of his trench, and sang “Silent Night” in the so-called No Man’s Land between the British and German encampments. Following his soulful lead, soldiers on both sides laid down their weapons for the night, sang together, exchanged modest gifts and helped to bury each other’s dead.

It was this last thought that brought the tears. I thought of the U.S. troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. Though their experience bears little resemblance to the trench warfare of the past, they still suffer the sight of wounded comrades and mourn their dead. Their sacrifice is enormous.

Loss occurs every day and everywhere, not just on the battlefield. Over the past year I’ve watched friends and family struggle to cope with life’s challenges: a child’s debilitating drug addiction, serious health problems, financial insecurity, job loss, and the death of partners and aging parents — of heart disease, cancer and suicide.

Why do we so often feel stranded in our sorrow and alone in our grief? The presence of loss and experience of pain, while intensely personal, is also extraordinarily common. It’s the tie that binds us but is too often buried beneath a silent a soul-stifling stoicism.

The Christmas Truce of 1914 brought to mind a passage from Henry David Thoreau’s book, “Walden.” Thoreau wrote, “It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look … To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”

This holiday season I will aim to channel the artistry of that German soldier, who walked out of the trenches and sang “Silent Night” to the stars above — who was willing to be shot at, to die — to bear witness to our shared humanity and yearning for connection.

For everyone who has lost a loved one — and that is most of us — the holidays are a bittersweet time. This year, may we step out of our individual trenches and sing together to the stars.

George Whitman wrote those words on the chalkboard outside his bookstore on January 1, 2004.

George Whitman, who died in Paris yesterday at the age of 98, was a dreamer indeed—and an optimist, a philosopher, a lover of words and books.

But most will remember him best as the founder of Shakespeare and Company. That’s how he became a patron saint of writers and a Parisian literary legend.

I wish I’d met George Whitman. Although I spent many hours in his shop over the years, I never mustered the courage to ask, “Is George around, by chance?” It seemed presumptuous, and too much of an intrusion.

Plus, what would George Whitman—who had known Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, Samuel Beckett, James Baldwin, Allen Ginsberg and even Ernest Hemingway—want with a fifth-string writer like me?

After reading George’s biography on the Shakespeare and Company website, I am filled with regret: We would have had plenty to discuss. (I, too, once got lost in a South American jungle.) And we could have chatted in Spanish.

After his graduation [from Boston University] in 1935 he decided to travel again. With $40 in his pocket he caught a ride to Mexico City and began a voyage that was to trace almost 5000 kilometers through Mexico and Central America, including Honduras, Guatemala, Costa Rica. During this time he became fluent in Spanish.

This trip was a formative experience in George’s life. Much of his traveling was done alone and on foot. He had many adventures and close calls. In an isolated part of the Yucatan he fell sick with dysentery and was forced to walk alone for three days through the swampy jungle with no food or water. Eventually he was found and nursed back to health by a tribe of Mayans. George was deeply impressed by the fact that despite hardship and extreme poverty, the people he met were invariably friendly and generous. This philosophy of “give what you can, take what you need” would become one of his founding principles.

And live by those founding principles he did: Above his bookstore were several rooms he let out freely to visiting writers (and at least one musician I know). Some stayed for a few days; others for weeks or even months. According to the obituary article in today’s Irish Times, by his own estimate George lodged some 40,000 people.

I was touched to read some of those people’s tributes to George on Facebook this morning.

I’m sure George had no idea how many lives he’d help shape, when he opened the first incarnation of his bookstore in 1951. (He certainly enriched mine by creating one of my favorite places on earth.)

But even the richest and most wonderful of stories must end. George’s message on the chalkboard concluded like this:

… In the year 1600 our whole building was a monastery called La Maison du Mustier. In medieval times each monastery had a frère lampier whose duty was to light the lamps at nightfall. I have been doing this for fifty years; now it is my daughter’s turn. —GW

My heartfelt condolences to George’s daughter, Sylvia Beach … and my heartfelt gratitude for carrying on her father’s light.

To read more:
A personal recollection from XpatScot
The Washington Post
The Telegraph
The Los Angeles Times
Janice Harper for The Huffington Post

But—thanks to a customs loophole—there was no need to declare the tuna ($30 value), the Ariel detergent ($30 value), the chocolates ($60 value), or the salad dressing ($10 value) I’d mailed home.

Alas, my genius plan had one small flaw: The cap on the salad dressing was apparently not designed to actually contain the product. So when I went to pick up my package at the post office last night, the clerk said “I’m so sorry” as he handed me a moist, moldy box.

It’s never good to see your contraband wrapped in haz-mat plastic.

I felt like I was doing an alien autopsy as I gingerly removed the contents one by one.

I was relieved that my wide-angle converter lens had been spared a creamy, garlic-and-chives demise.

And I was amused to see that some of the unneeded tampons I’d tossed in the box had done their super-absorbent best to sop up the spill.

In the end, I was able to salvage the tuna, the bath gel, and much of the detergent I’d bought for my friend Laurice. The three boxes of mini-chocolates from Maxim’s, however, were a loss. Sigh.

I’m disappointed, but I’ve learned an important lesson: Next time, I’ll seal the salad dressing lid with tape. And then I’ll send it home in Steve’s luggage.

Just kidding, honey …

By the way: In spite of my mishap with this shipment, I highly recommend the French postal service. For €42 you can mail home as much as you can fit in one of these extra-large Colissimo boxes, up to a total of 7 kg., and it usually arrives within about a week. It’s a great way to send home a big ol’ pile of souvenirs without having to schlepp an extra suitcase.

I’ll start at the beginning—the part where I pity my husband for having married me. For reasons I don’t entirely understand, I haven’t been able to stop crying for two days. I didn’t expect to be so heartbroken about leaving Paris, but it’s hit me really hard.

So I think it was a brilliant move on Steve’s part when he suggested that we simply take a long walk today. “Let me show you the Pont Bir-Hakeim,” I suggested. “Isn’t that by the André Citroen park?” he asked. We had our destination(s).

Few tourists venture into these distant districts of Paris, because there honestly isn’t much to see there. But—on a clear, wind-free day—the André Citroen park is well worth the trip. Amid the bizarre (yet cool) postmodernist gardens …

… you’ll find an enormous helium balloon.

Alas, today was neither clear nor wind-free, so the bird wasn’t flying. But I have it on good authority that the view from 500 feet up is pretty spectacular.

At the far end of the park you’ll also find two enormous greenhouses, one of which contains only plants from Australia and New Zealand. My lungs welcomed the shot of oxygen after spending two weeks in Paris’ smog.

After a quick break for lunch we strolled along the Seine toward the Eiffel Tower. I’m so envious of the people who live in the converted barges along the riverfront.

I’m also extremely envious of this person’s mad parallel-parking skills. Seriously!

On our way to the Bir-Hakeim bridge, we finally spotted the scaled-down replica of the Statue of Liberty that stands on the tip of the Isle des Cygnes. I felt like a major multi-tasker, shooting two monuments simultaneously.

Heck … as long as we’re multitasking, here’s Tour EiffelInvalides.

After a bit of an off-road adventure we finally arrived at the Pont Bir-Hakeim. Few tourists have ever heard of it but if you’re into photography or history—or if you just want a great view of the Eiffel Tower—it’s well worth the visit.

From there, Steve and I decided to walk down the Champs Elysees. I didn’t give a rat’s fuzzy butt about the luxury shops on Avenue George V, but I adored the kitschy knick-knacks, food kiosks and Christmas lights of the public market. It reminded me of the Minnesota State Fair … but with a French accent.

I also finally got to see the American Cathedral. The organist’s rehearsal drew us into the apse but just as quickly repelled us: The poor thing kept getting stuck in the same spot, stopping, and starting over again. It’s not often you’re treated to a live version of a skipping record.

As the light faded, we resumed our walk along the river and were again reminded of why Paris is known as the city of monuments and lights.

We stopped for our last bistro dinner—another round of boeuf bourgignon at La Frégate—and for a bottle of wine on the way home.

I absolutely adore this wine shop at 82 rue Vaneau. More than anything in the world I wanted to ride in the 18^th-century dumbwaiter, but I didn’t have the courage (or the vocabulary) to ask. Maybe next year.

Tomorrow we’ll get up extra-early to catch our ride to the airport. As we have for several days, we’ll tiptoe carefully across our apartment’s über-creaky floors in a fruitless attempt to “please don’t noise here.” But as we have for several days, we’ll fail miserably.

Still … it’s good to know there will be at least one person out there who will be glad to see me leave Paris.

__________________________________________________________________
To all of you who have cheered me on/cheered me up with your kind comments, Merci mille fois. But please stick around: There are still stories to tell and pictures to show.

And if I feel truly inspired, maybe I’ll finally do that post on What To Do Last Day Paris. I’m becoming somewhat of an expert, after all …

Steve and I ended up there today by default. We’d planned on getting out of town —maybe to Chartres, or Strasbourg—but we weren’t motivated enough to get out the door early and onto a train.

Plan B consisted of an aimless walk through our neighborhood. I loved spotting one of the old street signs I’ve been photographing all over Paris, along with another addition to my “cool menu handwriting” collection.

I also enjoyed gawking at the gorgeous architectural details that adorn almost every apartment building. I wonder if the residents even notice them?

But the highlight of my day was seeing the Luxembourg Gardens again. I was delighted to find some color still clinging to the trees and planters.

But a few other parts of the grounds seemed barren already, as if winter had tiptoed in when no one was looking. Even the statues looked a little bit subdued.

In spite of the gray skies and intermittent rain, though, the people-watching was as good as ever.

At one point I suddenly remembered my “100 inconnus à Paris” project. I approached a group of officers who were chatting nearby.

“I’m trying to photograph 100 strangers before I leave Paris,” I told them as I decided whom to shoot. “I haven’t photographed a cop yet, so would you be willing to oblige?”

“We’re not cops,” said my intended victim. “Well … whatever you are, I haven’t shot one of you yet. Would you mind terribly?” He didn’t mind at all. In fact, he turned out to be a bit of a ham. Merci, monsieur.

On our way out of the park we accidentally stumbled across the apiary. Having a bee colony in the middle of an urban park is rare. Offering the public courses in beekeeping? Extraordinary. Alas, today the bees were asleep.

On our way to the gate, we made one final stop to look at the braille map of the park. I wondered how anyone would be able to “see” this map with their fingers and keep it in their head long enough to navigate the grounds.

As we exited the gate, I found it hard to believe we’d spent three hours languishing in this park. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon in Paris, we agreed.

Tomorrow will be Steve’s and my last day in Paris. I’m heartbroken to have to leave and have already cried my first farewell tears.

One last time: À demain, mes amis.

It’s common to see construction in Paris, a city that seems to be perpetually reinventing—and repairing—itself. But I’d never seen anything on this scale before.

“It’s a rainy night … and as I watch the enormous demolition project across the street, I can’t help but be reminded of your wonderful ‘Walks Through Lost Paris,’” I wrote to my author friend Leonard Pitt. I wasn’t surprised to get an eager request for more specifics.

I didn’t have to work too hard to identify the old buildings.

The Hôpital Laennec was founded in 1634 to replace the Hospice des Incurables. Over the years, the complex grew to occupy an entire city block along the intersection of rue de Sèvre and rue Vaneau, in what is now Paris’ 7th arrondissement. But the buildings have been sitting empty since 2000, when the hospital’s services were moved to the Hôpital Européen Georges-Pompidou.

Here’s how the site looked before the demolition:

The site in 2007. Photo © Comité Laennec-Turgot DR. Source: Maisonapart.com

In 2002, Altarea Cogedim bought the site and obtained development rights. Dubbed “Paris 7 Rive Gauche,” the ambitious project was conceived to preserve some of the old buildings while creating several new luxury apartment complexes.

If the architects’ renderings and promotional photos are any indication, the project is envisioned as a sort of self-contained community.

The façade, as seen from rue de Sèvre and the Allée Laennec. Rendering © Altarea Cogedim. Source: Maisonapart.com.

I’m sure the new condos will be lovely, but I couldn’t help feeling a pang of sadness as I perused the 18 or so demolition permits. The red graffiti’d “zut” (“damn”) pretty much summed up my thoughts.

But—perhaps like the other curious onlookers—I also know it’s useless to resist change.

So here are a few parting shots to record what I saw on a particular Saturday in Paris. I hope to be back in 2013 to give you a full follow-up report.