But this year I had a vested interest: I recently had the pleasure of rewriting the parent organization’s website. And through my work, I also had the privilege of meeting some of the artists who make this extraordinary event possible.

Art-A-Whirl takes place the third week of May, primarily in the Northeast Minneapolis Arts District, just across the Mississippi river from downtown Minneapolis.

For me, part of the attraction was the fact that most of the artists’ studios are housed in old factories and warehouses that still carry vestiges of their past.

Another part of the attraction, of course, was seeing the art — which covered pretty much every coverable surface.

I adored TimMonsters‘ whimsical bags and stuffed animals …

… and Craig VanDerSchaegen’s photography. I also very much enjoyed finally meeting my friend-of-a-friend Howard Christopherson, and viewing his beautifully curated photography exhibits.

And I loved seeing how different the artists’ studios were, considering that they all started out with basically the same space.

But most of all, I enjoyed interacting with the artists themselves. Like Randy Walker, a sculptor who works primarily with thread.

“What inspired you to do this?” I asked of his unusual medium. He said it started with a few found objects and eventually evolved into his unique style. We talked about his creative process, about how he first visualizes his sculptures, and about how they evolve as he brings them to life.

I went home wishing that I’d given myself more time to listen and explore: In the end, I made it to only seven of the 50 sites and met only 11 of the 400 artists. But it was a wonderful experience just the same — and already I’m looking forward to next year.

Such was the case a few months ago, when she surprised me with a handmade gift. I put Mr. Wampire on my desk at work and marveled at his ability to always bring a smile, no matter how crappy my workday.

I’m not exactly sure how or why, but at some point Laurice and I decided that he should go with me to Paris — sort of like the traveling gnome in Amélie. Mr. Wampire was the very last thing I packed.

He was also among the very first things I photographed when I arrived. I captioned this one “Notre Dame has a new rose window.”

I had fun making him “pose” at a handful of familiar landmarks, including the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre museum.

But it didn’t take me long to start dreaming up goofy Wampire scenarios. The first of these came during dinner with my friends Chris and Silke, when I asked the waiter to put Mr. Wampire on his tray. To my surprise, the waiter didn’t bat an eye. (Pardon the pun.)

I also approached a couple of cops who were on patrol along the Seine. They looked nervous as I reached into my bag, but they laughed out loud when I pulled out Mr. Wampire and asked them to stage an “arrest.”

I also posed Mr. Wampire with a boulanger (note the tiny apron) …

… a bouquiniste …

… a market vendor’s blood oranges …

… in front of a métro map …

… among Paris’ ubiquitous pigeons …

… “performing” with a host of musician friends and buskers …

… horseback-riding at the Parc Bercy …

… and relaxing with a glass of O Positive at my favorite sidewalk café.

Mr. Wampire also provided a bit of social commentary about doing laundry in Paris — and about Parisians’ fascination with monsters and the macabre.

One day, he accompanied me and my friend Henry to the beautiful Schwartzwald (Black Forest) outside Freiburg, Germany. Hats off to Henry for his dedication to wampire photography!

He also spent a day with me in Strasbourg.

But as much as I enjoyed staging these goofy scenarios, what I liked best about traveling with Mr. Wampire was the opportunity he provided to interact. I never would have spoken with the cops, for instance, if not for Mr. Wampire.

Nor would I have met James while climbing the towers of Notre Dame. We had the ultimate “small world” experience when we discovered that his dad is a former colleague of mine at the Star Tribune.

Alas … our journey together is over: Today Mr. Wampire and I returned to the office — and to our respective routines.

But I look forward to traveling with him again soon.

In the meantime, there are many, many more photos and stories to come. Thanks for tagging along.

Yesterday — my last day in Paris — I lit three candles: one for each of my moms.

It’s the only way I have of thanking my first two moms.

My first mom was the 36-year-old redhead who brought me into the world. I can’t imagine the strength it must have taken to give me up for adoption, but I’m deeply grateful for her decision. I wish there were a way to tell her what a rich, full, wonderful life she gave me through her loving, selfless act. I thought of my first mom with gratitude as I lit the first candle.

My second mom — “Mommy” — was Dorothy, my adoptive father’s first wife. She was as intelligent and intrepid as she was kind. She had a natural grace, I’m told, and she made friends wherever she went.

I have fleeting memories of her face and her voice. But my last memories of Dorothy are from Mexico, where she died of asthma when I was five.

I’ll never know exactly how Dorothy shaped me during those early years, but I do know that I felt loved. I thanked Dorothy for making my early years so happy as I lit the second candle.

One year after Dorothy’s death, my dad remarried. The wonderful woman I know as Mamá adopted me, and with her two daughters, we all joined to form a blended family.

I had a difficult time adjusting at first: I now had three sisters, instead of just one. But my new Mamá — Carolina — reached out to me gently and patiently. She sought to understand me. And over the years she showed me consistently that she loved me, in a thousand different ways.

So yesterday I honored mi querida Mamá with a third candle, and with my heartfelt gratitude and love.

I’ve been extremely fortunate to be loved by three strong, remarkable women. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for my life. And Happy Mother’s Day to my three moms.

On this trip I had no excuse, though: Strasbourg lies almost exactly halfway between Paris and Freiburg, my two main destinations. So I decided that Sunday would be my Strasbourg day.

I almost chickened out when I saw my landlord’s travel instructions.

But he’d kindly given me a train and tram ticket along with his hand-drawn map, so I felt somewhat obligated to go.

I was at the train station by 9 a.m.

One of the things I love most about Europe is how easy it is to get around by train.

Each country’s system is slightly different, so it can take a bit of trial and error to figure out how to buy tickets, whether you need a reservation, and which cars you’re allowed on. For example, I gathered that this particular car was reserved for handicapped people and teddy bears — so I chose another.

But one thing the trains do have in common is their general efficiency and reliability: I made my connection effortlessly, and within an hour I was in Strasbourg.

I decided to start with the cathedral. At 446 feet, it was the world’s tallest building until 1874 — and it remains the sixth-tallest church in the world. What this means photographically is that it’s pretty hard to fit the whole thing into a single frame.

So I settled for shooting some of the building’s beautiful details instead.

Then I strolled through the über-touristic medieval Altstadt.

I enjoyed hearing both German and French, in about equal measure. And I loved seeing evidence of how these two nations’ cultures had blended.

Then I found my way to the river.

Strolling along the river in an old city is one of the best ways to appreciate its history. Not only does the river provide a great vantage point from which to view the architecture, but it’s also a great way to see the oldest buildings, because most cities start out along the water.

I soaked in the beautiful architectural details along the way.

And then I suddenly thought about the time. I needed to be back in Freiburg by 4 to meet some friends for a concert. It was now 1:45 … could I make it back to the station in time for the 2:30 train? I picked up the pace, even though it pained me to be speeding past so much beauty and history.

In the end, it was a swan that did me in. I paused just long enough to take a couple of shots …

… and I missed the train.

Thank God for taxis — and for this driver’s willingness to negotiate a reduced, long-distance fare.

I managed to see a lot of Strasbourg in four hours — but not nearly enough. I have a feeling I’ll be back. And next time, I won’t stop to shoot the swans.

visited Strasbourg …

… heard an Irish music concert by The Kilkennys  …

… joined the lads for a wee session after the show …

… moved out of my beautiful home in Freiburg …

… taken the TGV to Paris, and settled into a charming little apartment on the Ile St. Louis.

But those stories will have to wait for another day.

Today I want to talk about doing laundry. Specifically, doing laundry in Paris.

Doing laundry in Paris can be a bit of an ordeal, because you have two basic choices: You can schlepp your dirty clothes to a public laundromat and spend hours under swirling-clothes-induced hypnosis.

Or, if you’re lucky enough to have a washing machine in your apartment, you have to figure out how to use it. Yesterday afternoon was devoted to the latter.

After a week of hand-washing I was eager to give my clothes a good, thorough soak. “Where is the washing machine?” I asked the owner of my rented apartment. “C’est juste là,” he replied, motioning in the general direction of the microscopic kitchen.

Nothing in all of my life experience up to this moment could have prepared me for what I saw when I peeked around the kitchen counter.

Yes, that’s right: You have to crawl under the kitchen sink to do your laundry.

To my dismay, I immediately recognized the machine as the same model I’d done battle with last year. And now I’d have to find all of those knobs and buttons in the relative under-sink darkness! My concern must have registered on my face. “It’s a good thing that you’re small,” said the owner. “You should have no difficulty.”

Ah, how I love Paris …

The past few days have been a whirlwind of activity: I’ve shot over 2,000 photos, hung out with 12 friends, attended three concerts, gone on two hikes, visited two markets, climbed one cathedral, and slept, oh … about a half hour. Thank God for Nescafé Capuccino.

The last thing I remember is getting on a train at Paris’ Gare de L’Est and despairing at the monkeypile of luggage on top of my red bag.

The view from the TGV (the “train à grande vitesse” — very fast train) was beautiful, if a bit difficult to photograph.

All told, it took only about four hours to leave Paris behind and find myself in Freiburg’s Altstadt — the historic part of town.

It was fun to see the charming bächle again. I adore these little canals — and the opportunity they offer to absentmindedly fall and get your feet wet.

But I was especially smitten with the lilac garlands that adorn the Konviktstraße. Seriously: Could this place possibly *be* more picturesque?

I met up with my friend Jan and his girlfriend Sarah for some dinner, and before I knew it we’d shared several more meals and a couple of concerts. But for me, the highlight was returning to Bei Gundi and being reunited with my old gang.

At various points, I feared lives would be lost. But everyone survived.

I also enjoyed listening to one of Jan’s outdoor concerts. After this particular show, I dubbed him “The Pied Piper of Hamburg.”

I was delighted to discover that my Rosetta Stone German lessons are finally kicking in. I read this sign and immediately understood: “The outdoor beer hall is open.” Waahhooo!

One evening, I hiked to the top of the Schlossberg to watch the sunset. I loved hearing the sounds of merriment from the biergarten grow steadily louder as the light grew dimmer. Die Menschen hier sure do love their bier!

I have lots more to say about Freiburg, but the Münster and the market and the Black Forest will have to wait for another day.

For now, I leave you with a few more photos of this beautiful city. Bis später !

I decided to walk along the Seine today, past the Institut du Monde Arabe and across the Jardin des Plantes. The sky was overcast, but a couple of stray sunbeams broke through just long enough to illuminate the poppies and cast long shadows off the plane trees.

As I pondered my next destination, I decided to abandon the no-way-to-get-lost safety of the Seine and stroll through some neighborhoods instead. The city felt eerily quiet, with its deserted sidewalks and shuttered shops. But I welcomed the solitude as an opportunity to savor the stores’ window displays.

Window-shopping is a national pastime in France, I think. It’s not uncommon to see someone meditating intently on a shop window, studying it as if it were a Renaissance masterpiece. And with good cause: Some stores’ windows truly are works of art. Others more closely resemble a museum, like this pharmacy’s somewhat macabre display.

Of course, I got hopelessly — though blissfully — lost. I wandered into a church on Rue Vaneau, where I met (but respectfully didn’t photograph) the world’s oldest priest. The church’s ornate interior was a sharp contrast to his plain, long white robe.

As I zig-zagged my way back to the hotel, the city slowly repopulated itself. The weekly markets began to sprout, as if out of the ground, and the ladies emerged with their almost-microscopic dogs.

With its quiet, leisurely pace, May Day is a good day to be in Paris. But I must say farewell for a while: I’m off to Freiburg to have some new adventures with some old friends. Back with more tomorrow … in German.

All joking aside — and no disrespect intended — that’s exactly how I felt today when I walked into the Grande Mosquée de Paris. Crossing the threshold from the rue de Desplas into Paris’ largest mosque felt like stepping into a different world.

I don’t think I can improve on my friend Corey’s description of the place: It is an oasis (both figurative and literal) in the middle of Paris’ crowds and noise. In fact, I was so overtaken by the mosque’s beauty that I almost fell into one of the reflective pools.

But walking among the mosque’s beautiful halls also made me a bit pensive. I thought about the rich history of the French, and the equally rich Muslim tradition, and I mused about their delicate détente.

If there are any cultural tensions, they were not evident today: Every person I met greeted me with a friendly “Bonjour, madame,” and a couple of the passers-by turned on lights for me in the library and offered to interpret the scriptures.

At first glance, the mosque seemed a bit empty and austere.

But upon closer inspection, I marveled at the exquisite craftsmanship that adorned almost every square inch.

It’s incredible what we humans can accomplish when we’re moved by hope and faith.

And as if to confirm this thought, a final meditation greeted me as I walked back outside toward Paris’ crowded streets: “God is most certainly powerful over all things.”

I hope that will hold true as Paris continues to grow and evolve. In spite of our cultural and historical differences, we have more in common than we realize.

À demain.

I savored the sense of familiarity this morning as I got off the plane, snaked my way through the gray maze that is Charles de Gaulle airport, and presented myself at the taxi stand for the next available cab.

But as familiar as Paris may feel, this city always has some surprises for me. The first came today when the cabbie’s GPS failed and we found ourselves circling a single block, like a fruit fly orbiting a watermelon.

Thank God I’d remembered to pack my Paris Plan Circulation map. The cabbie was both surprised by and grateful for my wherewithal. The score: Heather 1, Paris 0.

My hotel room wasn’t ready yet, so I set off for a stroll. My mom had asked me yesterday morning to say a prayer or two for her health, so it seemed fitting to start my day at Notre Dame. Alas … even on a rainy, blustery day the Sunday crowds are impenetrable. The score: Heather 1, Paris 1.

I didn’t feel defeated, though: I still took a few moments to savor the tourists’ antics …

… and create a few antics of my own. (A shout out to my friend Laurice, who is one of the kindest, most creative people I’ve ever met — and who made this crocheted wampire for me.)

Sunday in Paris is also market day, which compelled me to browse the €2.80 wines …

… gawk at the restaurants’ preparations for a busy day, and …

… compliment a florist on her beautiful shop.

Indeed, Paris is in springtime — and in bloom.

From my favorite streets (near St. Julien le Pauvre) …

… to a sweet tribute to George Whitman …

… to the tiny details of everyday life …

… Paris is a city that feels at once familiar, and ever-changing. Maybe that’s why I visit as often as I do. Or maybe it’s just for the food. Or the photography. Whatever the reason, I’m back in Paris — and I’m happy.

I’m off to catch a pint, a couple of musicians, and a handful of friends. But tomorrow is another day. Please stay tuned.

As I tackled the task once again this morning, I thought of all the treasured memories those tiny silicon chips contained: Thanksgiving dinner in Paris; four days in Freiburg; strolling through the Christmas market on the Champs Elysée; watching a building come down; meeting a fellow blogger; browsing in an ancient wine shop.

The memories remain, of course, even if the data is gone. But this morning it struck me that there’s something deeply symbolic about the task of erasing my cards: To be open to new travel experiences, I have to let go of the past.

Over the next two weeks, I’ll see many dear friends and old haunts. But who knows what new adventures await among those cherished faces and places?

I hope you’ll join me as I set off to find out.