Who Says Old Ladies Can't Travel Alone? by Vonnie Davis #EuropeanTravel #TravelingSafe #Paris #Edinburgh

Some fool man recently said a seventy-year-old widow had no business traveling overseas by herself

Then he had the nerve to say, "Mom, I want you in your hotel room by nightfall. And don't use the Metro. Terrorists like to bomb those things."

Since when, I ask you, should a woman listen to a man--even if he is her baby boy? Needless to say, I packed my bags and went. I showed him! Baby boy, or not! Why...the nerve I mean, really, would you listen to a thing this guy would tell you?

So, here's the view from my hotel room in Paris. My hotel was across the street from the Seine.

Sorry about the glare from my windows.

Notice the grey cast? That's how I saw Paris this time. I didn't have Calvin to hold my hand as I visited our old haunts. Instead I walked new streets and checked out new neighborhoods. I made my own memories. For example, I took a bus trip to Giverny where Monet painted his famous water lilies. The gardens there were fabulous. A sight I'll never forget.

Monet's house was gorgeous inside and out.

Kelly, Calvin's son, flew in from Berlin to join me for two days to be there when I spread some ashes in front of the building where Calvin and Kelly's Mom lived for a year. I couldn't do it. I broke down and Kelly ushered me up the street, telling me I didn't have to do it that day. "We can come back tomorrow," he said in a calming voice reminiscent of his father's. Instead, we went to Calvin's favorite writing café and had espressos.

Notice my swollen eyes. That night I had a long talk with myself and actually looked at the ashes, something I should have done earlier...but... 

The next morning we went out for breakfast and then walked to 21 rue Galande. This time I was able to fulfil my promise to my beloved. A part of him will remain in the City of Light he loved so much. When Kelly left to meet his flight, he hugged me and told me I'd be all right. I laughed through tears and said, "Kelly, I've never been right in my life. I wouldn't recognize myself if I were." He was laughing as he strode away.

A few days later and I was in Edinburgh where the ancient castle of Scotland sits atop an inactive volcano. Some hills and current streets are formed of hardened lava. I walked the Royal Mile from the castle to the parliament building.

The view from my hotel room. The castle and the Royal Mile are on the hill. I took a bus tour to a whisky distillery, which makes the whisky preferred by Prince Charles. The Scottish spell whisky without the "e" and get a little pissy about those who mis-spell it with that "e" in it. I sampled aged whisky from ten to twenty-eight years old and doona recall much after that. 

Another day I took a bus trip to see the Kelpies and the Highlands. Kelpies are mythical creatures that live in the lochs (lakes) and rivers as monsters and come ashore as beautiful horses with long, beguiling manes. When anyone tries to touch the manes, they are dragged into the water. Here I am, standing in front of two iron sculptures known simply as "The Kelpies."

Our tour guide, Calum, in his kilt. He told us the Scots spelled his name with one "l" and the British with two--Callum. There's your trivia for the day.

And the "hurry coos" that grow in the Highlands... or hairy cows in American-speak.

So this ole broad walked through  ancient streets and beautiful European cities alone. I didn't get lost. I wasn't mugged or hurt by terrorists. OK...ok, so I was in my hotel rooms by dark. But it didn't get dark until nine at night, so... And who needs to ride the metro when there are taxis and comfy sandals. I did come home with four handbags, but each one called my name...honest.

I admit to being happy I'm back home. Evie was over-joyed to see me and I missed my little Shih-Tzu. In many ways I had a lovely trip and in an important way a very lonely one. I wouldn't mind visiting Scotland again, going to the more northern part of the Highlands. The best part was garnering some story ideas. Travel tends to do that. New sights mean an increased curiosity and "what-if's..." for a writer's imagination.

Follow me on twitter @VonnieWrites. Or visit my website www.vonniedavis.com and sign up for my newsletter--soon to be a monthly mailing. I've been lax on my newsletter of late. I'll get better. Promise.

At the Lake With Two MIT Dudes by Vonnie Davis #vacation #inovermyhead #greattimes

I'm back home from a week at Lake Marion in Santee, SC. As I mentioned in my last post, Mike, my baby boy (tongue in cheek here), and his wife Tina decided Kelly, his wife Katrin, and I should travel with them for some relaxation after the Celebration of Life for Calvin.

They rented a large SUV that hauled seven--Mike, Tina, Kelly, Katrin, Ryan, me, and Ryan's five-foot telescope to set up on Ron and Debbie's dock.

Ryan positioning his telescope for best night-time viewing.

Oh, and let's not forget packing in everyone's luggage plus Ryan's three laptops, guitar, trumpet, and Kelly's two laptops. The ride down was like MIT on wheels. Kelly did his undergrad degree there. and Ryan is halfway to his undergrad degree in Computer Engineering with a minor in Music technology. As the ride progressed my mind swirled with conversations about bitcoins, string theory, writing computer code, and Kelly's expertise at Mozilla--artificial intelligence. In rapid-fire communication, the two moved onto deep-brain thinking. What the heck is that and where do I learn how to do it?

Calvin would have been right at home. Me? I was in over my head and I'd yet to reach the lake. When I did, some adult beverages would most definitely be in order to clear my mind.

At a local Mexican restaurant--Tina's Dad, Ron, Mike (aka Baby Boy), and Margarita Momma

(note dazed and confused look from ride to Lake Marion). 

The days were filled with zipping up and down three lakes connected by channels in Ron's new boat or walking through historic Charleston just an hour away. Nights brought star and planet gazing. I saw Venus and Mercury. Ryan would play on the trumpet as we sat on the dock. Neighbors in this gated community would cheer and applaud. 

AND I woke up  one morning with a series idea! One that involved a book I've slowly been working on. Getting away and seeing new things really does help the creative bent of the mind. Mine had been in a tight knot of grief. Evidently it's starting to loosen.

I'm hoping my next trip will waken the Muse. Two weeks from now I'll be in Paris. Calvin had told me several times before he got so sick that he wanted some of his ashes sprinkled in a green space in front of 21 rue Galande. He'd lived there for almost a year while on sabbatical in a fourth floor apartment. Kelly thought it was a perfect idea. He's flying in from Berlin so we can do it together. Here's a picture of Calvin in front of the building, reminiscing.

I'm staying in Paris for a week. Since this will probably be my last trip there, I have a few art galleries I want to meander through.  Once I leave there, I'm flying to  Edinburgh, Scotland. After writing six books set there, I figure it's about time I got a look at the country. All my research has been done online or in travel books. Finally, I'll get to see the real thing. I've got day trips booked for the Highlands, a whisky distillery with a wee bit o' tastin', and Loch Ness. If my energy holds up, I want to take a train ride to Glasgow and check it out. Aaaaad a day at the Highland Games where guys in kilts do "manly stuff." Mainly because a woman would have more sense.

Since Edinburgh is home of the deep-fried Mars Bars, I'll be forced--forced, mind you--to eat a couple. All the while, I'll be soaking up sights, customs, and local color for future bear shifter books. Och, aye.

To read more about my writing, go to www.vonniedavis.com or follow me on Facebook. Vonnie Davis is the name...writing is my game.

Found in Translation - Part 3 ~ by Leah St. James

Tessa looked from the FBI agent’s outstretched hand up into his expectant eyes. Dancing meant more close proximity with the man after she’d unwittingly asked him to sleep with her. Apparently she hadn’t scared him off. And if he danced anything like he kissed...

“Thank you. I’d love to dance.” She stood, smoothing  the skirt of the dress that she’d spent half a paycheck on. 

Before they made it from the alcove, he twirled her into his arms and in seconds navigated them into the midst of the swaying bodies on the dance floor. It was a waltz, of course, a scandalous dance at one time, at least according to the historical romances she devoured like crack to an addict.

She’d always wondered why, but no more. He held her with perfect decorum—if the length of a paperback could be decorous—but with each of the music’s downbeats, each swing into that wide, looping circle, those inches evaporated, and they touched, just a beat in time. But her heart thumped with each beat, and her lungs seemed to hold less and less oxygen. Moisture erupted along her forehead and at her temples, and she licked her suddenly dry lips.

“Thirsty?”

They were the first words he’d spoken, and he held her attention again in that predator’s gaze.

Her mind battled between the part of her that wanted to stay in that trance, in his arms that felt too good too soon, and the part of her that wanted to escape his intensity. She swallowed. “After this dance?”

His expression cleared, and he nodded. It might have been her imagination, but it seemed the distance between them had grown even slighter, so there were more of those touching beats amid the looping circles. More moments of breathlessness.

The song ended too soon, and he held on to her hand and led her toward the bar. She wouldn’t call his move dragging exactly, but she had to hurry her steps to match his pace. And if that warm clasp of his hand didn’t feel so good, she would have tugged it free.

Once there, he tipped his chin toward her. “What can I get you?”

“White wine spritzer, please?”

Another smile that made her insides go fuzzy flashed across his face. “Big drinker, are you?”

“I like to keep my wits about me, especially around an FBI agent.”

His eyebrows lifted as he handed her the drink. “We don’t bite.” He took a sip of his Coke, then added with a shrug, “usually.”

“Ha. You’re a funny guy.”  More heat swam through her body as she pondered whether the innuendo had been only in her head.  She couldn’t tell by his expression, so took another gulp for courage.

“Let’s get some food.”

Great. The man probably thought she was drunk after half a glass of diluted wine. He’d latched on to her free hand to tow her  to the buffet table, where savory aromas filled the airspace around it.

Her stomach grumbled, and she pulled her hand free to press it against her the offending body part as they strolled the length of the food tables. She was calculating calories when he paused next to her, his plate already full.

“Can’t decide?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Ah, an analytical woman, I see.”

She glanced up from her perusal to find his gaze was pinned on her again. “When it comes to food? Yes. You can only have so much. I like to make it count.”

“Like kisses or...otherwise...under the mistletoe?”

His mouth pursed, but then he grinned, like he’d just lost a battle of holding in his amusement. Game on.

“The way you rushed down the stairs, it looked like you were ready for some action.”

“Always am.”

Certain her skin had turned the color of over-ripe tomatoes, but still refusing to give in to whatever game he was playing, she gave him her shoulder and made her selections while he followed. Funny how she could already pick up on his particular scent, even within feet of dozens of savory foods.

Moments later, they were seated in another isolated alcove, alone. A candle at the center of the table flickered gold across his skin, and she reached for her spritzer.

 “So, tell me about yourself, Tessa—short for Contessa—Baxter.” He forked a bite of  ham into his mouth and chewed, eyes never leaving her face. “What’s  it like being a math professor? Deadly boring?”

“Boring? No! Not at all. Numbers have always fascinated me.” Calmer, she pinched off a piece of biscuit and popped it in her mouth. “Mmmm, that is so good. I haven’t had a good biscuit in...I don’t know when.”

His eyes flared a darker brown, and he seemed to be inches closer than he had been moments ago. “Tastes of home?”

She nodded and was about to dive her fork into the mound of sweet potato casserole when Matthew’s phone chirped.

“Excuse me,” he murmured as he pulled it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen and his eyebrows did a nose dive, then he stood. “You’ll need to come with me, Ms. Baxter.” The teasing lilt in his baritone had turned to something much darker.

“What?” She laughed. “Seriously, the whole sex invitation thing was a mistake. My French skills are not what I thought they were.”

“It’s nothing to do with your language skills, Ms. Baxter...or should I call you Epsilon?”

“Epsilon?”

Ignoring her, he snagged her wrists behind her back with his one hand and forced her forward, an arm around her back.  Her mind frozen, she forced her gaze forward and hoped it looked like a lover’s embrace rather than a perp-walk.

They paused when they reached the foyer. Around them conversations halted and people gasped.

“Matthew, what are you doing?” The handsome blond man with the sexy French accent appeared, frowning.

“You texted confirming the presence of Epsilon,” Matthew said.

 “Yes, we got her.” He gestured to his rear where a group of the liveried servants had a blonde woman subdued, face down on the floor.

Matthew turned another laser-like gaze on her and after a beat released her wrists. He pointed to her ankle. “Why did you tattoo an epsilon on your ankle?”

“My father was a math teacher. He called us epsilons...meaning we were small fry, diminutive. It was a nickname.  He’s the one who got me interested in math. He died. I wanted a remembrance of him.” Now that he’d released her, anger churned in the pit of her gut. “Why? What were you thinking?”

His face paled and he swallowed thickly, looking like he needed the nearest restroom. “I can explain.”

Before he could, Sammi rushed up, interrupting. “Did you see that? They just arrested some spy. Epsilon or something. Mom’s freaking out.”

“Oh really?” Tessa crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her captor. “You thought I was a spy? Because of a tattoo?!”

His mouth firmed into a tight line. “It was more than that.” He explained the alerts the embassy had received, the vague description of the suspect. “You fit what we knew. My humblest apologies.”

She snorted. “Get real. You don’t have a humble molecule in your body. You better have more than that or I’ll...” Her mind searched for a punishment that would fit his crime.

His lips relaxed, and that grin broke out on his face again. “You’ll try more of your French on me again?”

 “Oh! That was just rude, making fun of my lack of skills. At least I tried. Let’s see how well you’d do in a calculus competition.”

He lifted his hands, palms out.”You got me there.” Silence fell for a few moments.“Tell you what. In two weeks I’ll be back in New York. We’ll get together for some lessons. French, I mean.” The tease was back in his voice and her anger evaporated.

She tried to keep the sternness in her mouth, but couldn’t hold it. Her heart lightened,  lifting her lips into a grin. “I do need the practice. But I’m not sure I can wait. I wouldn't want to get myself in another compromising situation.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Tessa moved closer, braced her palms on his chest and nudged him backward several feet, then looked up to where the mistletoe hung directly overhead.

He glanced up, then met her gaze.

Her heart thundering, she said,  “Embrasse-moi?”

He smiled as he drew her closer. “Practice makes perfect.”

- The End -

I hope you've enjoyed Found in Translation. Please stop by tomorrow for the first part of Brenda Whiteside's story. I can't wait to read what she has in store for us!

Wishing you and yours a joyous holiday, and a safe, healthy and happy 2017!

Leah

www.leahstjames.com

 

"Santa, In Brief" Part 3 of 3, a Christmas Short Story by Rolynn Anderson

“Santa, In Brief”

By Rolynn Anderson

Part 3 of 3

The softness of Nick’s Santa suit drew Emilia, a cushion against a harsh, disappointing world.  But she rose, and instead of resting her head against her golf instructor’s fuzzy collar, she straightened her back.  “I was conned.  When he knew I’d be alone at Christmas, he showed me a picture of his family, his father, mother, and brother, all to join us here, for a week of golf and holiday tourist stuff.”  She paused, considering how Paul had netted her.  “He talked about how close he was to his mother and how she’d always wanted a daughter.”  Emilia swallowed her despair.  “When he added golf lessons, I was hooked.  The carefully wrapped Christmas present was the closer.”  She sighed.  “Maybe he was arrested or he decided it wasn’t safe to claim his package.”

Santa said nothing.

Emilia stepped away, her brain whirling with goals.  “I’ll call an attorney.  A criminal lawyer, here in Palm Springs.  I won’t open the thing until I’ve been given permission, legally, to do so.”  She rubbed her hands together and paced a section of the driving range.  “As soon as I have all that settled, I’ll persuade my father to fly here.  My family agreed to gather in Buffalo for New Year’s instead of Christmas this year, but I’ll explain I’ve changed my mind.  At least I can spend Christmas in Palm Springs with my Dad.”

She closed her eyes, satisfied with her plan.  She’d put Paul in his place, resolved not to feel less of a person because she was duped by a professional con man.  I’m a good woman.  Now, a little wiser.

She opened her eyes to see her rented bag of clubs resting against the bench.

Santa was gone.

“Emilia Gant?”

She turned to the entrance of the pro shop where a bald, slim man stood.  Emilia nodded.  “That’s me.”

“I’m sorry I made you wait out here while I tried to locate Nick.  He just got ahold of me on the phone.  His mother is undergoing some emergency surgery, so he’s on a plane to Wisconsin.  Wants you to know he’ll be back in three days and promises to make good on the lessons.  Apologized for not making his appointment with you today.”

Emilia squinted at the guy, startled at his words.  “But I…”  From behind her came the sound of golf balls plopping into cups, along with the ‘click, click, click’ of driver heads striking teed-up balls on the driving range.  When she turned to look at the six men putting around her and the eight men at their stations on the driving range, she understood she’d only owned the course in her imagination.

The bald man clasped his hands.  “He feels awful, ma’am.  Hopes he didn’t mess up your holiday.”

She smiled.  “Good Saint Nick.”

“Come again?”

“You tell him I’ll take him up on his offer.  And I’ll think good thoughts for his mother’s recovery.”

The memory of Nick’s eyes, so full of hope and compassion, soft, like his Santa suit, lifted the last layer of disappointment from her week in Paris.  She stood by her golf bag, hand on a Santa hat sitting jauntily over her clubs.  “And wish him Merry Christmas.”

The End

Thanks for reading my story.  For more suspense, read LIE CATCHERS, about two cold cases in Petersburg, Alaska.  Check out my books at http://www.rolynnanderson.com

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