Fear of Traveling...my style.

by Vonnie Davis

Safety is never guaranteed.

Not here at home or abroad.

Danger can, and does, lurk everywhere.

Calvin and I went to see Tom Hanks in his new movie "Captain Phillips" this afternoon. Talk about suspense. It was a well-crafted flick about an American ship traveling in international waters, hijacked by a small band of desperate, money-hungry men. A true story that captivated the news a few years ago. By movie's end I was trembling and crying right along with good ole Tom...er...Captain Phillips.

You see, I worry about terrorists...and criminals...and nut cases.

Any time Calvin and I travel abroad, a sense of fear niggles as I pack, a series of what-if scenarios playing on a continual loop through my mind. What if the plane crashes? What if we lose our passports? What if we get deathly ill? What if we're in a terrorist attack? What if we're mugged? What if...

So you can imagine what my state of mind was before our trip to Paris and Berlin last month.

Truthfully, there are less muggings there than in most cities in the States. But there are more incidents of pickpockets. So much so, that the rental agency through which we'd rented our Parisian apartment sent us an email a couple weeks prior to our trip, cautioning us to avoid places like the Metro and to not wear clothing that would identify us as Americans, like white sneakers or baggy jeans. I kind of snickered. Heavens, my pants haven't been baggy in years!

In response, Calvin decided we'd take taxis instead of the Metro for long distances across Paris. In this photo, this is as close as he'd get to the Metro, leaning against the entrance.

Remember the movie "The Bone Collector" where two unsuspecting travelers get in a taxi and the driver takes them someplace they don't want to go and locks the doors so they can't get out? And then kills them? Oh yeah, after Calvin's decision, that scenario ran through my mind like a rabid skunk.

So when the taxi we'd hailed outside of Galleries Lafayette, a high-end department store in an old opera house, took us to a part of Paris that resembled nothing of "our" neighborhood, I freaked. Heart pounding, I was ready to beat the driver over the head with the new purse I'd just purchased at the Galleries. Turns out he'd misunderstood rue Bertholett with rue Bertholo. Whew! I'd hate to have messed up my new bag.

 

Window at the apex of the roof of the old opera house, now Galleries Lafayette.

 

 

This place is an all-day shopping experience. Calvin was a very brave man in this store. He handed me the credit card and said, "I'm going upstairs to the restaurant. Come get me when you're done." A new wallet, handbag, six scarves, perfume and a pair of earrings later, I leaned over and kissed his neck. He glanced up and quipped, "Do we need to take out a second mortgage?" Gee, maybe I should have bought that watch that snagged my eye. Sometimes, safety comes at a price.

Visit me at Vintage Vonnie. www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com
Or www.vonniedavis.com

Prepartions in August are HOT for our September vacation.

Vonnie Davis

One month from today we will be temporary residents in our Parisian apartment, enjoying all the sights, sounds and smells of the Left Bank. Our little rental is just a few blocks from where Hemingway lived post WWI as part of The Lost Generation. I cannot wait. This will be my second journey to the City of Light, while for Calvin it'll be like going home. Calvin will quickly tell you he was born in Lynchburg, Virginia, but his soul came to life in Paris. He lived there for a year, writing at sidewalk cafés.

Our keys for the three-room flat on the second European floor (third floor by American standards) arrived last week. Our passports are in order. Airplane tickets purchased for our overnight flight to Paris and then, two-weeks later, our flight to Berlin to see Calvin's son for a week. Our euros are on order. Calvin's French is refreshed after two months of daily lessons on Pimsluer CD's. We're getting more anxious by the day.

I have two story ideas I want to research while in Paris. One is a contemporary; the other is an historical set during The Lost Generation. Both, of course, will be romances. I'll be snapping pictures of the area like mad so I can study them for details when I'm working on the novels.

Setting stories in Paris is not new to me. Both Mona Lisa's Room and Rain is a Love Song are set mainly in Paris. Both involve a terrorist group known as the Red Hand. The heroes are agents in the French Counterterrorism Unit. My heroines are strong, plucky, opinionated sisters from North Carolina.

Mona Lisa's Room won the HOLT Medallion Award of Merit in two categories: Best Romantic Suspense and Best Book by a Virginia author.

I allowed more of my demented humor to show in Rain is a Love Song, which may or may not be a good thing. Calvin just shook his head when I showed him a few scenes.

What stories will my second trip to Paris spawn? I can hardly wait to find out. They might just be as "hawt" as our hot August nights.

BUY LINKS:
Mona Lisa's Room -- http://www.amazon.com/Mona-Lisas-Room-ebook/dp/B00A553HLY/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1376278251&sr=8-1

Rain is a Love Song -- http://www.amazon.com/Rain-Love-Song-Conspiracy-ebook/dp/B00BK9QV3K/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1376278355&sr=8-1&keywords=rain+is+a+love+song

What Will I Give My Love? by Vonnie Davis

As we age and mature, valentine sentiments evolve. Remember those Valentines we exchanged as kids? First there were homemade cards and then store bought. Exchanging them was always a big "ta-do" in elementary school.

By high school, boys were giving girls chocolates in red or pink heart-shaped boxes. The bigger the box, the bigger his love. Or so we thought back then. Candy changed to necklaces and earrings. Roses. Wine and candlelight. Sexy lingerie.

But what did we give the guys in our lives? Their favorite meals? Tools? A private peep-show wearing that lingerie?

This year I'm giving Calvin a special gift of the heart. He has a manuscript he'd written years before we met. He sent a copy to me while we were dating long distance. By the time I'd finished reading this tale of a bi-racial love story set in the early sixties, I was in love with the author.

Last year, Calvin pulled out that manuscript, revamped it, preparing it for self-publication. Then he set it aside. He claimed he didn't know anyone to format it for Amazon. Enter The Wild Rose Press's new self-publishing branch--Wildflowers Publishing. And the birth of my idea: I would move the process forward to get Calvin's Love in Opposing Colors published. It would be a gift to share part of his creative soul.

I hired Ariel Burnz to create a book cover. I set things in motion with Wildflowers. This would be my gift of love to Calvin this year. Yesterday, Ariel sent us two covers from which to choose.  Here is the one Calvin picked...

 

            In the mid-sixties, civil rights protests dominated network news. Klan violence proliferated. In Washington, DC many senators were convinced a communist lurked under every grain of sand. Nationwide, Americans feared a Russian nuclear attack was imminent. And my problems? Me? Paul Harris? I was young, fresh out of college, book-wise, life-foolish, floundering, broke—and black. So, I didn’t need to add another hurdle to my long list of challenges—especially one blonde named Karen Ennslaw.

I met her the first day of my job at a large advertising agency. Karen was my exact opposite and my new boss. She was a beacon of contradictions, a magnet of silk over steel and the woman I would come to love more than my next breath. Yet, societies—hers and mine—were against us. Their hate and bigotry pushed us closer together, as close as any two people can be. Ours is a story that needs shared: Love in Opposing Colors.

 

SPRINGTIME IN PARIS

We've been talking about Spring in our own little corners of the Universe. I thought I'd share a bit of Springtime in Paris, my favorite city in the world. However I knew my words couldn't measure up to my husband's. You see, Calvin lived there for a year on sabbatical, writing at sidewalk cafes and absorbing French culture. He unashamedly admits Paris is his mistress.

I knew the passage I'd share with you. For I'd read it many times. The one in Calvin's Phantom Lady of Paris, where his hero, also a teacher on sabbatical to write a novel, shares his impressions of Paris. I'm taking the liberty of inserting a few pictures here and there to share the Jewel of the Seine. Allow my husband to take you to Paris on a Magic Carpet ride of words, as I so often say.

Skies sparkled like diamonds, and the fragrance of blossoms was everywhere. Trees on Boulevard Saint Michel transformed into impressionists’ canvasses and in the Luxembourg Garden, flowers dazzled with violet and gold. When you sat on the terrace of a café in Saint Michel Plaza, breezes whispered past, cooling and refreshing. Spring had come.

Latin Quarter inhabitants who hibernated through much of winter reappeared and once again strolled boulevards. All the cafés on Boulevard Saint Germain were now open (many closed during winter months). Once again their terraces bubbled with laughter and conversation. If one paid attention, there were sounds carried on the breeze—the gurgle of wine filling goblets, the pop of champagne corks, and the hiss of espresso machines spewing the aroma of fresh java. It was an aroma that called back memories of Sunday mornings and good times at home. Spring had come.

On Sunday afternoons, couples, their toddlers in hand, strolled Boulevard Saint Michel. Cradling toy sailboats, youngsters frolicked into Luxembourg Garden and as parents looked on, the young dynamos of energy splashed through wading pools, squealing and laughing—orchestrating the sound of youth and immortality. Spring had come.

Gypsies once again panhandled on street corners, their favorite, the intersection at Saint Germain and Saint Michel, where they stopped passersby, glibly spinning tales of “hard times,” and “starving babies,” and the imperative need for a few francs to buy milk and/or medicine for their emaciated, “near-death” children. Translation? “We need money to buy wine.” When Gypsies returned, there could be no doubt, spring had come.

Neighborhood bums reappeared and bought bottle after bottle of vin ordinnaire, drank themselves into stupors, then snoozed away the afternoon. Spring had arrived. It came soon after Bonnie left. Yet springtime in Paris did not delight me, for Bonnie—the woman I loved—was gone.

There you have it: a verbal picture of Springtime in Paris thanks to my husband. Enjoy your Spring day where ever you are.