At Last!


In November 2007, after spending an idyllic 10 days in Switzerland, accepting the Big G's proposal of marriage and realizing that I was going to up and move The Max, the 3 kittehs and myself to live in this mountainous little jewel of a country, I submitted my first visa application to the Swiss consulate in Vancouver. Yesterday, almost three years and an unbelievable amount of nonsense later, I received copies of our 'permis de sejour' . What a long strange trip it's been.

March 1, 2008, Max, the kittehs and I arrived in Geneva, with no visa other than the standard 90 day tourist visa (implicit) that all Canadians get. And we were a little concerned...to be legal, the Big G and I would have to get married within that 90 days...of course, he would also have to get divorced first.*Ahem* Needless to say, that didn't happen for another 18 months, a bitter and sore point that I have yet to find forgiveness in my heart for. But no matter, we bought a new (ancien) house in summer 2008, went back to Canada for a visit, returned to Switzerland with not so much as twitch out of the immigration service at the Geneva airport.

In January 2009, I paid slight attention to the fact that Switzerland had become a nation member of the Schengen Agreement and we made plans to go to Canada for an extended vacation, possibly with a wedding, for July 2009. Knowing that we had long overstayed our 90 days in Switzerland, we had a little story brewed if we were asked about how long we had been in Switzerland; we hadn't really been here that long, we'd been traveling in France, Italy, etc, never overstaying our 90 days...should have worked, except...Schengen...we'd been in schengen the whole time and that, according to the officious, Swiss German Immigration official at the Zurich airport on our way out, was very, very bad. As the minutes before our flight was due to leave ticked away, The Max and I sat in one of those little rooms where they take the bad people, filled out forms and were told, by a slightly nicer but still officious Swiss German Immigration officer, that we would most certainly be fined and could be banned from entering Switzerland for up to two years, but that any decision or judgment could be appealed.With a strong sense of foreboding, we went to Canada, (where there was no wedding *sigh*), and visited, swam, folk fested, all the while wondering how The Max and I were going to get home.

A plan, of sorts, was hatched where we would travel to the UK (not a full member of schengen) and try to *ahem* sneak into schengen via France, thinking that immigration control at the Dover/Calais port would be more relaxed than an airport.Looking for all the world like two day tourists, with two HUGE suitcases, we bought our ferry tickets, boarded the bus and were whisked to French Immigration.After a quick scan of my passport, the nice and polite French officer asked with some concern,"What did you DO in Switzerland???!" Apparently, my passport now had a serious interdiction on it, with no explanation as to why...I could have been a serial killer, a drug lord or even an investment banker, and there was no way a suspected criminal was to be allowed into Schengen.The Max, however, could go if he wanted to (he gathered up his bag and ran to the bus, quick like a bunny). The British police were called to escort me back into the UK (and very kindly drove me to a nice pub where I could down some 'courage' and call Big G who was waiting in Calais) and thus began the exile.

For those of you who have been reading this blog for a while now, you know that The Big G came to Blackheath every weekend and we spent many many hours having 'the visa conversation'. We had heard no word from the Swiss authorities on the outcome of the forms that were filled out at the airport, other than a bill for 600 francs, which was paid, and waited and wondered and worried how to begin to solve the mystery of my schengen interdiction.When The Big G finally got his divorce decree in November, and after some furious letter writing to the Canton, we received a letter stating that as we were soon to be married, I could come to Switzerland for ... you guessed it ... 90 days. I got on a plane on Christmas Eve and on arriving at Geneva airport, no one even scanned my passport so we were still left in the dark as to wtf was going on with schengen.

In January 2010, The Big G and I flew to Canada to get married and when we returned to Switz, there was a lot of confusion for the Immigration Police at Geneva. Fortunately, we had a copy of our 'acte de mariage' and despite whatever the schengen computer was telling them, they said I now had the 'constitutional right' to be here and was effectively, a resident, but we should contact the ODM and get this straightened out if I didn't want a hassle everytime I traveled. More letters were written to the canton, showing that we were now married and btw, could you please look into this schengen thing for us? In the meantime, since my original visa application had been mysteriously cancelled in September, The Max and had to start that whole process anew, filling out new, complicated schengen visa applications which required we get new passports, as ours were about to expire in less than 12 months.Ah yes, and the consulate in Vancouver??? They made it clear there was no way I could be applying for 'regroupment familiale' while living in Switzerland, to which my response was, 'Yeah, whatever.'

In March, The Big G and I had to go back to the UK to close up the exile flat. Armed with my new passport, the schengen scanner didn't detect that it was actually me, the dangerous criminal, and we left and re-entered with no problems. We returned home to find a somewhat schizophrenic letter from the Canton, stating that the Schengen Authorities (or ODM) considered me 'a threat to the safety and security of the nation' and I was banned from entering until August 2011 and we should really look into clearing that up...oh and by the way, please go and register at the local commune so that we can issue your permis de sejour. Uh huh..ummmm...gotta love interdepartmental bureaucracy. It was time to get a lawyer...

Herr Kenny (This is actually his first name, something I find endlessly amusing for some reason) spoke with the officials at the Canton, who assured him that YES, I was allowed to be in Switzerland, and as stated before, now had the right to be here because of my marriage. The ODM/schengen guys told him that the Canton had it all wrong, had mishandled the dossier and that, NO I was NOT allowed to be here.So, Herr Kenny took the ODM to court (actually it's called a tribunal here) asking to appeal the interdiction and be allowed to remain in Switz until the appeal was completed. The tribunal looked at the case, pointed out over and over that I was married, but declined to tell the ODM what to do and gave them 30 days to present their case. The ODM's response was basically, "Oh yeah, right, we don't think you're a criminal anymore because now you're married so we're taking that nasty little flag off your passport now." Herr Kenny scores one for the little guys!!! In less than 2 weeks after the ODM backed down, the Canton issued our permis de sejour! Phew!

And that, my faithful bloggy readers, will be the last time I write about, think about or care about 'the visa conversation'.

Legal!!!



Yahoooooo! Long, possibly boring, post to follow!

Adventures in Knobblyland Part 1 
So I've been away for a bit...didja miss me? It seems more like a month than a mere 10 or 12 days of driving back and forth across France, ferrying our way to England, travelling from Bath to Blackheath, packing up the flat (my exile abode) and the constant cloud of doubt surrounding how the shengen troll was going to behave at shengen border entry/exit points. 

On the final Friday of February (aaaaaaahlliteration) the Big G and I set off for the 8 hour drive across France to Calais where we would catch the ferry to Dover the next morning. My favorite part of this drive, aside from sitting next to Big G and reminiscing about sitting next to him in the Mighty Gland Bruiser way back when in the 1970's, was the trip through the Jura mountains.Once we reached the motorway it all got pretty flat and boring, kinda like driving across Saskatchewan except the speed limit is 130 km/h which means everyone drives at least 140. It was dark when we reached Calais, so we had a quick dinner, accompanied by a very tasty and wonderfully inexpensive Bordeaux, and retired early to watch a documentary about Johnny Halliday (the French Elvis) from the comfort of our hotel bed.

Leaving shengen was a non event and when scanning my brand new passport for entry to the UK, the woman didn't flinch or make a comment about my shengen status, so I was mildly reassured that I would be able to return just as easily. As we neared Dover, I caught a glimpse of something white and towering sticking out of the water and, being Canadian (and perhaps mildly retarded) I said, 'Look! Ice!' The Big G gave me a look that conveyed both his incredulity and wonderful acceptance of my shortcomings and I tried not to dither on about how any 'normal' Canadian always assumes that large blocks of white things must be composed of ice and snow.

We rolled off the ferry alongside the famous White Cliffs of Dover and drove onto Bath to meet up with Big G's oldest son, Adam. In Bath, we had a few pints, dined at the marvelous Tilley's Bistro , had a disappointing pie at the Raven Inn and set out for Blackheath on Monday. 

It felt a bit strange to be back in the flat after being away for 2 months, and the prospect of packing up all the bits and pieces I had acquired during my exile was almost bittersweet. It seemed like a good idea, at the time, to use the newly available BT Openzone wifi from the flat, as I would be able to use both my laptop and my iTouch with it, rather than being restricted to my O2 dongle connection. After paying the ₤22 for 33 hours of access and logging in once, I was unable to reconnect.Ok...let's try the dongle then...nope. Arrrrrrrrrrrrgh no internet for me, no keeping up with my fellow bloggers, no wasted hours of pointless surfing!! All of which I could (and did) live with, but my fear was that my networking abilities would continue to be compromised once I returned to Switzerland, so an appointment was made to see a 'Genius' at the Apple Genius Bar on Thursday. In Kingston-on-Surrey. 

On Tuesday evening we ventured into London to meet up with the Big G's boss for dinner at the Gay Hussar in Soho. We stopped briefly at a currency exchange right off Leicester Square to buy some Canadian dollars that I needed for my shengen visa applications (which we mailed from England due to the fact that I'm not allowed to apply while in Switzerland) and strolled through the heart of Soho to the restaurant where we had a most excellent evening with Andreas, good conversation, delicious food and the obligatory speculation about the manager, John Wroble whose Bela Lugosi accent and Old World manner makes one wonder if he's not a distant relative of Vlad the Impaler.

Wednesday morning it was sunny and haircuts for both of us were on the agenda. As we were leaving the flat, I looked in my purse to find my wallet was gone! The Horror!!! The Agony!! The Screaming Fit!!! I lost my wallet in Paris last spring and getting all my bank cards, credit cards and my ALBERTA driver's license back had been an enormous hassle. In fact, the only way to get a new DL is to present oneself at an Alberta Registry and it took me until November to get my license sent to me in England last time. I was, needless to say, most upset (this is a polite euphemism for a lot of swearing and moaning with the phrase 'F**k me!' being most prominent).I told my sad tale to Mark the stylist (whose part in this knobbly tale turned out to be pretty important), who was suitably sympathetic and then met up with the Big G to commiserate over a pint. 

Thursday morning I did a quick email check on Big G's 'petit ordinateur' and in big bold letters in the subject line was: 

GOOD NEWS! YOUR WALLET HAS BEEN FOUND!

The only thing in my wallet that gave any indication I was in England was the business card of my (now) friend forever stylist, Mark. When my wallet was found on the streets of Soho, after having all the cash in assorted currencies removed, the man who found it tracked me down via that card...goes to show, the old saying about your hair dresser being your best friend is true. The rest of the day was spent travelling around the suburbs of London, where it was determined there was nothing wrong with either my laptop or iTouch and meeting up with the Red Cap Warden of Oxford Street who returned the wallet, with the precious Alberta driver's license inside, to a very grateful and relieved me. My faith in human nature and the beneficence of the gods restored, Big G and I celebrated our last meal in Blackheath with a Thai feast at the incomparable and truly authentic Lai Cram. Our final walk home down Lee Park Road to the flat was blessed with a sighting of the Lee Park Road fox (who knows his name is 'Fox' and will stop dead in his tracks if you call him) and I took that encounter as a lucky sign for my ability to vanquish the shengen troll and have an easy return to shengen.

Stay tuned for Adventures in Knobblyland Part 2 where you will find the answers to these and many other questions:

Are there any good restaurants in Canterbury? 

Who knew you needed Lessons in Curtain Terminology?

Will Brite get past the Shengen Troll?

What the fuck is 'shengen' anyways?

Is schizophrenia a requirement to become a bureaucrat?

Dreamy and Scattered

I'm a little overwhelmed these past few days. After so many months of regulated solitude, I'm finding life awfully busy these days.There's the 'getting the house' back in order to contend with and I manage to get a room a day done.This is not to say that Big G and The Max were utter slobs, in fact they did a very admirable job keeping house while maintaining an insane schedule of work, school, and travel.But there's stuff that needs to be done and done kinda the way I like it...because I'm picky that way.

Settling back into Swiss lifestyle hasn't been too difficult (I gained another kilo..grrrr) but there are adjustments that I have to think about; my mangled, strangled not even close to adequate French, driving (I didn't drive the whole time I was in exile), quiet Sundays where everything is closed, so you have to plan ahead for Sunday.

Then there's The Max...and school...and I alternate between hope and despair, as does Max on semi daily basis. Last spring he set the bar very very high for himself and insisted on taking the IB Diploma program, against the advice of most of the faculty at his school. At the time, I had thought it would turn out ok, because he's very bright, but lacks 'student skills' and it was my intent to work with him on those skills (how to write a proper paper, how to organize workload, etc). And then I was in exile...and Max had to contend with an insane commute as well as the demanding IB program. And he's not doing well, not academically, not emotionally and he's stressed. 

The ongoing visa application, new passport, wtf is up with schengen issue...yep, still hammering away at the bureaucratic brick wall and I'm not only crap at that kind of thing (because I have no patience) but it makes me both fearful and weary at the same time.

Oh...and Big G and I are flying to Manitoba on Saturday to get married! So I'm excited and worried (because there's bureaucrats involved and what if they don't let me back into Switz and OMG) and feeling all blissed out and frantic at the same time. The kittehs will be on their own for 4 days, The Max will go stay with a friend up in Bern (so he doesn't have to get up at 4 am to get on a number of trains to get to school) and I'm leaving the house again and I just got back and I don't want to go but I really really really want to get married and....

So you see how it is.

The wonderful Spot gave me an award the other day (yesterday??) and I'm not sure if I properly thanked her (um...Thank you Spot!) and I haven't had the available brain cells to do the 'award post'... yet.I haven't commented much lately, but I am reading all my favorite bloggy bloggers.So, it's me folks, not you and I promise I will return to better form shortly...just have to catch my breath a bit.

Must go pack now...

When you wish upon a star...

(or the very BEST Christmas present ever!)

Way back in September, when I first encountered the Schengen troll and realized I would have to spend some time here in the UK, I thought I'd be home for Christmas, no problem. As the weeks dragged into months, I'd given up even wishing for such a thing, thinking it would only make me miserable to dwell on something that just wasn't going to happen.So I made plans to have Christmas vicariously with the Big G, the Max, Matthew, Adam and the kittehs with the help of a webcam and video stuff and was pretty pleased with my state of mind. I wasn't coming apart at the seams, I didn't snivel everytime I heard a sappy Christmas carol or looked at all the Christmas decorations around Blackheath.

Last Friday, the Big G flew over for the weekend (as he has diligently been doing every single weekend since I got here) and we had our usual lovely, perfect time together. As he was leaving Sunday night, I was a little more anxious than usual, because it would be 10 whole days until I saw him next, so he could spend Christmas at home.But there was something in the air...and on the ground and the runways,a snowstorm had closed the Geneva airport! I was thrilled, it meant a couple more days with my man and a few less days of being without him.On Monday, we strolled around Mayfair in London, window shopping all the posh jewelry shops, high end galleries and tippling a few pints in a cozy pub watching the weather alternate from snow to sleet to rain.It was romantic and magical and I was so damned happy just have him for an extra day or two.

When he left the flat this morning, I vowed to suck it up and not be sad or whinge about anything, because I'd had those couple of extra days and I wasn't going to get all ungrateful on my own ass.I settled into some serious (or frivolous) web surfing and when the phone rang a few hours later I knew it was the Big G letting me know he got home okay.But...(it gets better...sooooooooo much better) what he really had to tell me was a letter had arrived from the canton ( the local authority in Switzerland) stating that since we are going to be married in January, I can go stay with him (er...go home, but shhhhh) while awaiting my visa application to be processed.What does this all mean? It means I'm getting on a plane on Christmas Eve and going home! It is possible that the Schengen troll may have some issue with this, but as I now have a piece of paper from the government saying I can go to Switzerland, I think I can whack him over the head with it until he crawls back under his bridge. And what kind of heartless meanie would turn me back at the Geneva airport on Christmas Eve, with my fiance waiting in arrivals for me? Hopefully no kind at all. Somehow, someway, back in the early crisp autumn nights walking down Lee Park Road, I wished on the right star...I guess miracles need some time to be created.

.... I'll be posting from Switzerland next time!

A Fairy Tale

I don't usually post things that are personal in nature, you know, the stuff about my relationships, or my family. But now that there are a few people who might occasionally read this crap, I wonder if they are confused at some of my posts that refer to my exile, etc. So I thought I it might be time to tell you a little about my situation, as it were. And it's a pretty good story, romance,star crossed lovers, mean, faceless government officials, rude, over officious Germanic (was that redundant?) immigration employees, a little house built of sweetness and bread and history and full of kittehs...yep this a grand story. So here we go, snuggle down in your bedding and lays your little heads on the pillows...

Once upon a time, in the middle of the cold, snow blown Canadian Prairies, there lived a girl (Brite) who had a couple of brothers (their names don't matter, they are totally superfluous to this story...and they don't read this blog).One of Brite's brothers had the most fabulous friend; a tall, skinny and brilliant boy who also happened to secretly be a prince of purest heart (in fact it was so secret, I'm not sure he knows his true self even now).The heretofore unnamed brother (ok..his name is Jamie) and his prince of a friend, the future Big G, let Brite hang around and occasionally drove her to the Big City (Winnipeg) to watch Monty Python on Friday nights, where much laughter ensued.But lo...it was the 70's my children...the decade of me, me, ME and Brite was far too busy indulging in all that 'me-ness' to realize that the love of her life was right there.

And so, the 70's turned to the 80's; Big G moved far away and Brite languished in the deep, wet forests on the Wet Coast.And the 80's dwindled into the 90's and a whole new millenium began. Brite had wearied of the endless drip drip drip on the mosses of the forest floor and moved herself and her young cub (the Max) back to the tundra.One sunny day, less than a decade into this new era (you know, a couple of years ago) the Big G sent an email (because the interwebs had finally been invented) and showed up on Brite's doorstep forthwith.But the Big G lived in far off Switzerland, land of chocolate, mountains, cows and cheese and had to return to his kingdom.The interwebs (bless its little soul) allowed the geographically challenged lovers to pledge their troths (er...you know...send sappy love letters back and forth and chat aimlessly while supposedly at work) until Brite could stand it no more and packed up the Max, the kittehs and all her worldy belongings and moved to the Big G's domain, Switzerland, albeit not entirely with a visa or permission or all that bureaucratic crap.And it shouldn't have been a problem...but there was this witch...a fairy tale always has to have a witch.I will not dwell on this witch and all her evil ways, except to say that her prevaricating, procrastinating ways prevented (oooooh alliteration) Big G from being free to marry the fair (albeit middle aged at this point) Brite.And as long as they remained in the wonderful land of chocolate and cows this posed no problems.

So the Big G and Brite bought a little house, a former bakery with its very own grange in the backyard, roses, a cave (wine cellar) to stock and roaming room for the kittehs.It was such a perfect home that one day, a beautiful and most forward kitteh decided she would live there.The Max attended school and Big G and Brite were ever so happy.But it was the summer of 2009 and the call of their homeland could not be ignored.There were festivals to attend, people to see and lakes to be dunked in.But returning to Canada was perilous, not only because we were flying in an Airbus, but most importantly because the Swiss had changed the rules in the past year.Suddenly Brite was no longer allowed to return to her happy home( a little more alliteration), because of an evil troll called Schengen .Schengen said that Brite was persona non grata, not welcome, fuck off and cancelled her visa application that had been grinding its way through the Swiss bureaucracy for 2 !!! freakin years (oh I'm sorry...shouldn't swear around the kiddies).Luckily, the troll Schengen did not notice the Max and he returned to the land of cows and cheese and continued his education.

Brite stood on the Dover shore, watching the ferry sail off to schengenland, bitter tears coursing down her progressively wrinkling face. Exiled,with nowhere else to go, she turned north and found a flat in twee ole Blackheath. The Big G makes the journey every weekend to soothe and reassure Brite of his love and faithfulness and over tasty meals in fashionable eateries they have 'the visa discussion' until they are weary.But there are good things to come...a wedding (at last) in January and perhaps the troll schengen will be appeased with a document that says Brite and Big G are legally bound to one another.I am convinced there will be a happy ending to this tale...but it may take some time yet. G'night chilluns...sleep tight.

Look what they've done to my art, Ma...

The horror...the HORROR! The National Gallery in London has ripped out my heart, macerated it ruthlessly and spit the shreds out onto the wet pavement of Trafalgar Square. But worse than that, they have destroyed, utterly, irreparably destroyed countless works of art.Why, why would the national conservators of such treasures perpetrate these heinous crimes on the beautiful Botticelli's, Raphael's and countless other masterpieces? All in the name of 'restoration'. But these paintings have not been restored, they have been bleached, blanched and cleansed of countless, painstakingly applied( by the original artists), layers of varnish that just so happened to have collected a lot of dirt of the years. So let's just throw out the baby with the freakin' bath water in the name of cleanliness and a 'modern day asthetic'.These 'restored' paintings are but a white shade of the glory of the originals acheived by the great masters of art.

Oh, oh! I am so aggrieved! As a teen, I spent weeks roaming these galleries,studying, absorbing and imprinting these images on the core of my visual memory. I loved,with all my soul, some of these masterworks of the Early and mid Renaissance.Today,as I started to stroll through the galleries, my initial shock and disbelief soon turned to nausea.After merely an hour (when once I spent entire days at the NG) I fled to stand in Trafalgar Square, smoking a cigarette and choking back tears of anger and despair.

Restoration/conservation has always been a controversial topic in the art world; for the National Gallery, the debate goes back to the 1840's when it's most virulent critic J. Morris Moore wrote scathing letters to The Times under the pseudonym, Verax.More recently Harper magazine published a withering review of modern restorations in the August 2005 issue entitled 'Inglorious Restorations'.

 

(photo from Harpers August 2005) 

I have also had mixed feelings about restoration in principal and in experience. I followed the 10 year (1984-1994) saga of the restoration of the Sistine Chapel closely, and although I reserve judgment until I see the final product with my own eyes and compare it to my earlier viewing in the late 1970's, overall I feel the team managed to 'clean' the frescoes and yet still retain some of the original varnishes.As I wandered through the Louvre in Paris last spring, I had the same feeling of disquiet as I did today in London; paintings I had studied all my life and had nearly prostrated myself in front of in the 1980's, were now eerily bright, white and almost cartoon like in their lack of depth and shadow.But the French restorers were more subtle and light handed than their English counterparts, preferring to peer through countless layers of dirt to capture a master's brushstroke.The Italians fall somewhere between the two, depending on the restorer and conservator in chief.But the Brits have done something vile...in fact it is criminal.In fifty years art historians (backed by the anguished cries of today's critics) will posthumously call for the evisceration and flaying of the fools responsible for the destruction of the finest paintings ever produced by the human species.

And it cannot be undone.We no longer know how to create those delicately flavoured lacquers (ask any luthier or violin expert about this), much less how to apply them as Raphael and Michelangelo did. In the pursuit of 'the original masterpiece', struggling with the knowledge that much of the wonderous detail of the works was obscured by centuries of dirt, the conservators of the National Gallery collection had the temerity and the misplaced confidence in 'science' to CLEAN masterpieces, remove the dirt even if it meant removing the artists' original brushstrokes.

I am sick at heart over this, I cannot return the those galleries I loved and knew so well.I will spend my time at the NG in the Impressionist galleries...for the conservators haven't fucked with them....yet.

Knobbly Bits

The Big G lived in the UK for some years before moving to Switzerland and he has said, with some affection,"The Brits are a nation of eccentrics." I prefer to think of all those little quirks and tics as 'knobbly bits', much like the tactile paving that is used to facilitate the blind on almost every street corner (I might add that they make navigating in heels a challenge).

So during my exile sojourn here,whenever I run across something that is British in that peculiar way, I say 'knobbly bits' to myself (and invariably giggle out loud).The London Review of Books is a bimonthly publication with well written reviews, interesting editorials and completely 'knobbly' classified personal ads.For your consideration:

 

Okay. I can actually see some logic in this. But then there's this:

  

A bit knobbly, I'd say. But the KBOTD (knobbly bit of the day)Award goes to this submitter:

  

Very knobbly indeed.

Enjoying 50 or how I learned to stop moping and love being in exile

So last Monday, in my halfhearted quest to find a gym to workout at, I stopped into a local for a pint and got into a conversation with a gentleman around my age. We chatted about this and that,what brings me to this bit of southeast London, all very pleasant. But when we said goodbye he told me, "Enjoy your 50th year!"

And it got me to thinking...I haven't been enjoying it very much. I haven't been enjoying this exile, even though I know that there are people who would give their eye teeth (and more) to be 'stranded' in London with nothing but time on their hands.My mother is probably spinning in her grave as I write this, for she would have been in her glory here, a museum or gallery each day, enjoying every pint, the greasy fish & chips, the way the air tastes and smells, walks through all the lovely parks and commons with the conkers and leaves falling,not to mention the spectacular weather. She would most likely berate me for my lack of enthusiasm for all these things.And she would be correct in doing so.

When I turned 50 around a month ago, it was not a good day.I'd only been here a few weeks and was still hoping that this stay would be only a couple of months, but even that seemed awful and egregious.I felt old, and uninspired.My body doesn't appear in the mirror as I imagine it should, my roots are greyer than ever before and the wrinkles and lines and middle age spread leave me feeling as if this bag of bones and skin has betrayed me.My darling Big G assures me that I am as lovely to him as ever, which is, of course, the most important thing really, but I'm tired of this constant feeling of dissatisfaction.So, am I dissatisfied because I'm middle aged, or because I can't be where I want to be RIGHT NOW? Or both? Either way I have to make an effort to stop this destructive, whingy, state of mind and take the gentleman's advice.

I will put my frustration with the Swiss bureaucracy aside.I will accept the fact that I will not be with Big G, Max and the kittehs for Xmas and not snivel about it.I will accept that aging is the alternative to being dead. I will banish my anger at the unfairness of it all.And I will start being truly thankful, not just begrudgingly grateful.For this year, my 50th year on this little blue planet, I will finally marry the man I love, I will get to go home,I will get to work in my garden and cuddle with my kittehs.And maybe with this change of heart I will enjoy being in exile.

The Limits Of Control
"Reality is arbitrary"
I have never seen a Jim Jarmusch movie before, although apparently he is known to "create difficult and beard-scratching movies".But this movie was just so freaking beautiful it somehow doesn't matter that it has little or no dialogue, a very sketchy plot and an ending that is akin to waking up from a dream after a night of too much curry and beer. Most people will express boredom at the very least and more often, extreme annoyance when subjected to the retelling of 'that wild dream I had last night', but for myself, I found Jarmusch's reverie compelling and fascinating.
The opening scene, shot from above, is of a man doing minimalist tai chi in a bathroom stall at an airport.This man (Lone Man played seamlessly by Isaach De Bankolé) meets with two men in a waiting lounge where he is given a number of instructions, one of which is to use his imagination.I suspect this is Jarmusch's gentle suggestion to the audience, you need to let your imagination run during this movie, the hints are subtle and delicate.It's important to listen to the dialogue, there is no excess or repetition and if you miss something you may find yourself quite lost. 
The Lone Man travels to Madrid, Seville and Almeria, sitting in cafes where he drinks two espressos in two cups and meets his 'contacts'; Violin, Blonde, Molecules, Guitar, all the while dressed in immaculate silk suits and an aura of calm expectation.He lays on beds in apartments and watches the sun rise, listens to the street sounds and refuses sex with the luscious Nude.He hates guns and mobile phones, and spends time not just looking, but somehow absorbing certain paintings. The contacts (a stellar cast that includes TIlda Swinton, John Hurt and Gael Garcia Bernal) trade red or blue colored matchboxes with him, and casually offer up bits of philosophy or personal observations about movies,molecules, and the origin and nature of la boheme.
Visually this movie is lush.Each new location is rich and slightly grainy in texture, the Lone Man's suits iridescent in the Spanish sun, the oblique and changing angles of the tai chi routine all kept me entranced when so little seemed to be happening to further the plot. The gritty and sometimes discordant soundtrack (by Boris) reinforced the chimera-like quality of the whole experience, although Jarmusch is much more linear than, let's say, David Lynch.
I walked out of the theater into a dull, grey afternoon in Leicester Square, bustling with tourists and the babble of at least ten different foreign tongues, feeling as if I had been rudely awakened from one of those deeply mysterious and potent dreams you have during a midday nap.And perhaps that was the case. 

Exile In The UK
53rd Annual
BFI Film Festival


So, yeah I said I wasn't going to post any reviews...well I'm a bit of liar, so fuck you. First film that I got to see at this festival: From Time To Time. And I only have three words: Dame Maggie Smith.
I have always had a sweet affection for those plots that revolve around the  the mutability of time. You know, the  movies (and novels) where the young protagonist is drawn into the past by ghosts that he/she can see and subsequently discover the plot devices that solve whatever dilemma is currently inflicted on said protagonist. This movie is no different from the many, many like it that came before. Predictable plot arc, sweet and on the brink of adulthood adolescent, curmudgeonly but wise household retainers, cheap but not entirely ineffective flashbacks to past events, and a sour/sweet beset upon relative that requires age old mysteries to be solved.Nothing new here kids, but it wasn't an entire waste of time and money, simply because Dame Maggie Smith is the shizz!This Grande Dame  of the stage and screen has somehow avoided becoming a caricature of herself, despite the numerous roles where she trots out the wise, mildly embittered but clear headed spinster persona and takes what is a pedestrian movie,plot and all, and runs away with it.She is helped by the understated performances of Timothy Spall and Pauline Collins (Gawd I love her!) to make a film, that although being somewhat mawkish, is sweet and worth and hour or so of your day.
So out of the paddock.. From Time to Time rates a 3 outta 5.

PS. When I left the theater in Leicester Square wandering around looking for a place to have a bite, I got caught up in a LOT of hoopla as the class act George Clooney worked his way around the crowd signing autographs.So I've been 2 feet from celebristardom and all I can say is it looks like ole George has had a bit of 'work' done.Still, he was very cool and if all celebs took the time to do the 'routine' with as much aplomb as he does, maybe some of the hoopla would be well deserved.

Exile In the UK
It's on now! I procrastinated buying tickets and so won't get to see the films  I really wanted to, but the glory of film festivals is that you usually end up seeing great films that weren't your first picks.
Starting tomorrow:
From Time to Time
Cold Souls
The Limits of Control
The Last Days of Emma Blank 
Metropia
There are soooooo many films that I was too late (or slow) to buy tickets for, like The Road, A Serious Man or Up In The Air,but these big movies will make it to local theaters and eventually onto dvd.I may have to stand in a queue to catch the short and animated short compiliations (which were sold out in a blink) because to me the short films are often the most compelling and rarely seen.
Just in case you're expecting reviews or something, unless the wonderlords over at Pajiba express an interest in the droolings and ramblings from this knobbly corner of the interwebs, or a film simply knocks me so far off my block that I have to rant about it, I won't be posting any. As if I don't have enough angst already just thinking about writing reviews for the upcoming Cannonball Read.

Exile in the UK

(or what to do when you have nothing to do)

So I'm a little bored these days...but this was certainly an hour or so well spent.


It took about an hour to make this over at xtranormal.com ...not too shabby for my first movie.Speaking of movies, I will be getting out of the flat next week to go see some of the offerings at the 53rd BFI London Film Festival.