When I first moved to California, I heard people say, “Why travel? We have it all here.”

I wanted to say, “Well I feel sorry for you. You must be blind.”

I’d like to focus on what traveling and seeing the world does for me, and share my perceptions and some cross-cultural comparisons. (For a quick sightseeing trip of Big Ben, the Natural History Museum, Oxford Street, Picadilly Circus and South Kensington tube station, please my Flip video.)

Traveling around London is easy with an Oyster card. You can catch a tube as many times as you wish. I’m happy to inform you that the English are extremely polite and patient. Even young women offer their seats to elderly women–not me yet– on the tube.

A few things you need to know if you’re from the U.S. “For here or to go,” in England is, “Eat in, or take away.” It took me a while to get the hang of it.

If you like half and half in your coffee at Starbucks, you won’t find it. They only have skim and whole milk. When you ask for cream, you don’t get to pour it in yourself. The barista will reach down, in his hidden fridge and take out a container of heavy whipping cream. He will then pour a 1/4 cup of heavy cream into your coffee, turning it completely white, and because he has been so kind, you’re too embarrassed to complain.

Trash cans in London and Paris are almost non-existant and yet, there is no litter. How come?
I have several theories: People don’t snack, therefore there’s no extra trash. I know this applies to the French who frown upon eating between meals.
All trash cans in Paris are see-through.Why?
To avoid terrorist bombs being placed inside. This is the explanation I was given.

The restrooms in London and Paris rarely have paper towels. Why? Probably to reduce waste, so the British have these high-tech hand dryers, that almost blow your hands off.

There are still holes in the ground toilets in southern France.

Fortunately, these are not as common as when I lived there.

In a small French cafe in the town of Cahors, southwest France, I heard Lady Gaga, followed by a French Brittany Spears. A couple of middle-aged French women hummed to Lady Gaga’s Pokerface, while filling out a Rapido (lotto card) and drinking their on-the-way-to-work espressos.

A pharmacie in France is a combination of a US pharmacy and a beauty supply store. They are all over the place, more common than grocery stores. With a minimum of ten people working to serve you, they give advice on medication, aromatherapy, anti-wrinkle creams, self-tanners and perfumes. Customer service in French “pharmacies,” makes it pleasant to be sick, unlike the unpleasant, overworked and stressed out local pharmacy staff in my neighborhood.

So why do I love to travel? Because we don’t have it all here. There are too many places to see, things to learn and minds to open.

News from southwest France and a meal at a one-star (Michelin) restaurant in Belcastel, a fairy-tale village. See photo below.

I’ve been debating what to wear when I meet President Obama in Ann Arbor, Michigan on Saturday.  I haven’t worn a dress in so long, I had to buy one. I don’t think my fuschia and black, above the knee dress will do for the occasion so I purchased this one at one at my favorite store: Ann Taylor. I can also wear in Paris, for my dad’s 85th birthday on May 20th.

 I love the necklace my husband gave me for Christmas. It just happens to go well with the colors in my dress.

My problem is the weather. It seems like there’s a 40% chance of rain on May 1st, in Ann Arbor, and I plan on wearing sandals. I shall of course shake hands and get a photo with President Obama. (I must be dreaming, but who knows? My next blog post will tell.) President Obama is making the commencement address for graduates of the University of Michigan, and my oldest son is graduating. (Yes, he’s the one who triggered our move to Belize in 2004 to get him back on track, and I’m happy to say IT WORKED!)

Do you think I can film the President with my flip camera? We are not allowed to bring any fancy cameras and have to go through airport style screening devices.

Why do I always have to organize my house before I leave? Is it in case I don’t make it back, and want to leave a good impression?

I gave my dog a bath and washed her covers so she would smell clean, just in case.

Six years ago, I kept a journal.

My friends encouraged me to write about our adventures in Belize, and turn it into a book.

Since our return in 2005, my life revolves around writing and rewriting; well, that’s when I’m not distracted with side-jobs, because writing isn’t “working” is it? It’s not considered a job–right?

It’s a painful, yet addictive cycle. I won’t bore you with a list of jobs, conferences, classes, and volunteer jobs I’ve been involved with, but let me say, I rarely watch TV or movies, because I want to write. I’ve become a prisoner of my mind. Everything I see, smell, hear or dream, needs to be written down, before the moment escapes me.

Not long ago, I received an e-mail to submit a short story, memoir, essay or poem. It was dedicated to Orange County writers, and I submitted two hours before the deadline. Just go for it, I thought, What do you have to lose?

Thanks to that Gutsy moment, I now have my first published short story with Windflower Press. The book launch is on May 12th, at Paradise Perks in Irvine, from 7-9 p.m. How sad I shall miss that day due to a scheduled trip to Europe to celebrate my father’s 85th birthday. I have learned that baby steps do pay off, and hopefully my journey will bring me closer to publishing my memoir.

My Italian Lover
by
Sonia Marsh

(My middle name is Patti, or is it?)

I have a new lover. His name is Capresso, and he’s Italian.
Like most Italians, he takes great pride in his looks. I can see through his form-fitting Armani silver-gray suit, the interplay of muscles and tendons that remind me of one of Leonardo Da Vinci’s detailed anatomical drawings. In today’s world, he’s the perfect metrosexual. His aroma is addictive, and to me, he’s impeccable.
Every morning, I spend quality time with Capresso, before my husband wakes up. When I sneak into his room, he’s always available and ready for me to turn him on. This morning is no exception, and as I pull out his gold filter, I place four heaping scoops of malty, sweet East African blend Uzuri coffee with its medley of dark berry notes. Capresso thanks me for the filtered water I pour into his receptacle, rather than contaminating his interior with chlorinated water from the faucet.
“Graci mi amore,” Capresso whispers in his sexy Italian voice.
The following morning while I snooze, my husband decides to make coffee for himself. He’s never laid hands on Capresso. Instead of adding coffee to Capresso’s gold filter, he stuffs a brown Mr. Coffee paper filter inside Capresso’s gold cone. He places Folgers inside the paper and hits start, unaware of the deluxe feature which allows for smaller brewing quantities.
“Please don’t use a paper filter in my gold cone,” Capresso says, but Duke doesn’t understand Italian. Even if he did, he wouldn’t listen. From my bedroom I can hear Capresso sputtering and coughing. My lover is calling me for help and as I rush to his side, I see chlorinated water flowing over his sleek physique, like an eruption from Mt. Vesuvius. Hot, sticky, black lava travels down the side of his silver tuxedo and mixes with tears of pain from a blocked aorta.
“Sonia, il mio amore,” he cries, embarrassed by his mess, and tired of being verbally abused by my husband.
“Don’t ever give me coffee out of that stupid, over-priced pile of junk,” my husband barks. I cover Capresso’s ears and clean him up, but worry he needs medical attention. I call his hot-line number and am instructed on how to unblock his aorta.
Capresso and I are still lovers, and I’m the only one allowed to turn him on.