“How was Father’s Day?”
“Fantastic. I spent all day “playing” with Blogger templates, and FeedBurner. Good thing my husband’s computer is in the same room as mine, (the kitchen) otherwise we wouldn’t have seen each other all day.”
“Well, Gutsy Writer, looks the same. Why didn’t you change it?”

“Let me tell you what happened. It’s a bit like my shopping for cereal story.”

Photo from Flickr by a touch of dutch.blogspot.com

I like having choices, but I also like goals. Now my blogger friend, Gramma Ann, seems far more bold than I am. After I complimented her on her new blog template (which you should go take a look at), she said: 

“GUTSY AWARD” for Gramma Ann

•  JUNE 24th , I’M HOSTING RITA GOLDEN GELMAN’S BOOK TOUR. Her new book: Female Nomads and Friends: Tales of Breaking Bread Around the World. Many of you love to TRAVEL and experience ADVENTURES in other countries, just like I do, and one of my “followers,” has FOUR tales published in the book. Guess Who? 

• JUNE 29th, GUTSY BLOGGING FOR WRITERS. Learn how to build your author platform, Watch highlights from a video/podcast of my presentation at the CWC (California Writers Club) to help build your author platform. Also Angela Ackerman, from her amazing blog: The Bookshelf Muse,  has tips on why writers need a blog: “Everyone has something to offer and knowledge to share.” 

•  JULY 5th, HOP ON OVER TO  SHE’S COOKIN’  where I shall guest post about the amazing one star Michelin “Restaurant du Vieux Pont,” I experienced in the quaint old village of Belcastel in southwest France.

Have you ever experienced going through a lock on a barge? If not, come share a three minute ride on a barge with me on the river Lot in southwest France.

Did you see the boats you can rent on my video? You don’t need a boat license. Only a quick demo and you’re off on your own, heading through lock after lock. Have Fun!

Oh my God! What happened to my finger? I dare not look down in case I might find it.

I squeeze my throbbing index finger with my left hand. Perhaps if I apply enough pressure, it will revert to its pre-accident state.

This is not supposed to happen. Not at one o’clock in the morning in a small village in the south of France. Not after our gourmet one-star Michelin restaurant celebration for dad’s 85th birthday. And certainly not when all seven of us are back in our tiny hotel rooms and I cannot cry for help.

I should have known better; remembered that hotel rooms in France are not required to conform to the high safety standards I’m used to in the U.S. But that’s what gives them their charm. And yet, I’m cursing at the lack of directions on how to close the metal shutters. You see, these antiquated hinges act like sharp knives, and if not folded in a manner known only to the French, result in a chop, akin to the guillotine. Why would this come as a surprise when all ten rooms sit on top of an antique store with bureaus dating from the eighteenth century, and rats scuttling under the rafters?

Perhaps my finger is no longer bleeding? I release my tourniquet grip and squint, hoping that a quick glance will minimize the injury. There’s a deep cut. Do I need stitches? If so, is there an emergency room in Rignac?

I have no Band-aids. Is anyone awake? I listen. The cats are screaming. They sound like newborn babies waiting for a nipple to soothe their hunger. A throat in the room next to mine sounds raw and infected.

My neighbor is coughing. I hear the phlegm in her chest. She cannot sleep and through the walls, her bed creaks as her feet hit the linoleum and tap their way to the bathroom for a glass of water. I know her husband is asleep; his snores cause the wall to vibrate.

I take a risk and tap on her door. This is my last hope, or I shall have to wrap a towel around my hand all night.

She opens the door, turns on the light waking her husband up. He sees me and within seconds, I have a couple in their seventies, taking care of me as though I were their own daughter. I feel strange. No one has nurtured me like a daughter since I was a kid. Those few seconds remind me of what it must be like to have a mother still alive.

I cherish the warmth and kindness offered to me by this couple.

Do you have any weird stories to share about something that happened during a vacation?

This post is for Robert-the-Skeptic, since he’s requested photos and videos of my stay in southwest France. I believe Robert is planning a trip to France with his wife. I hope you visit the southwest part of France. It’s beautiful, and you won’t be disappointed by the cruise on the river Lot.

There is no better way to view the history and charm of 13th Century French villages, than on a one-day “croisiere” (river barge cruise) meandering along the river Lot in southern France.

Our cruise started in the town of Cahors, located between Limoges in the north and Toulouse in the south, and meandered through eight locks ending at the charming village of  Saint-Cirq Lapopie.

How would you like to live in this house at the base of Saint-Cirq Lapopie?

My Danish friend and I wait for the “Big Bus Tours” bus stop on Park Lane, a road flanking the eastern side of Hyde Park.
We are bundled up in warm sweaters, and I’m wondering how global warming can make May feel like December.
A young man approaches. He reminds me of a college student, and I think of my oldest son.
“Want to catch the “Big Bus Tour?” he asks with tour guides fanned out in his hands.
“We already have our tickets, ” I say pulling mine out of my purse as proof.
He stays next to us, like he’s part of our group.
I turn my back to him and continue my conversation in Danish with my friend.
“Where you from?” he asks listening to us speak in Danish. I’m used to that question, especially in the U.S. where people think I’m South African or Australian, and in Britain, where they think I’m American. Even I’m confused about my own roots. I tell him.
“I’m a student from Hungary,” he says. “I study here.”
Now I’m feeling sorry for him, wondering if he makes enough money to pay his student bills. Then I remember that Hungary has been part of the (EU)European Union since 2004 and must have some sort of reciprocal study program. He probably doesn’t have the same astronomical university fees my son had for out-of-state tuition.
I start having “motherly” feelings towards this poor student. Then he says, “I like older women. They smell so good. We could have a good time.”
My throat feels all scratchy and I start to cough. Who is this young Hungarian? Do we look like Cougars?My Danish friend blabbers something I cannot repeat.
“I have a son your age,” I say, and run towards the bus.

I cannot imagine something similar happening in my neighborhood. Are Cougars  taking over the world?

The next day, on my way to South Kensington tube station, I passed Christie’s Auction and never realized it was open to the public for viewing and photography.

Auctions take place on Tuesday mornings and viewing of items is from Saturday-Monday.

I wanted to share this video before I move on to southern France.