Knowledge is power, another truism that I was raised with, was however presented to me with a challenge.   My parents, both university-educated, believed that no statements, especially universally-accepted, sweeping ones like this, should be automatically acknowledged as truth.  They knew it was the truth, but they realized that if I did not test it, discover and use the power for myself, then I might well become a sheep, a blind follower, and eventually lose the curiousity and passion and will that defined me. 

I was educated in traditional schools, but my education was by no means limited to those settings.  My parents never believed in home-schooling, never believed that a parent could provide the nessesary tools of socialization and specialization that a school could.  Of course there are good schools and bad, and they had the wherewithal to provide the very best academic environments which no doubt gave me an edge.  There are also good teachers and bad teachers but here, my parents took a different stance.  They were never upset on the rare occasions that  I got a bad teacher; instead they welcomed it, insisting that I could learn as much and in some cases, more, from them than I could from the good ones.  I would need to work with good and bad professionals throughout my life, learn how to filter what I needed from their work, discard the rest, learn and do what they couldn’t.  I learned that yes, those with less knowledge, usually had less power, especially over their own lives.  Above all,  I learned that because I was blessed with so many advantages, it not only didn’t mean I could act like a princess, it meant I had a greater duty to use those advantages to improve the world around me.    

Mostly, I learned that I love learning, that I love challenging my mind.  When I reached university, I discovered that most of the other students were not like me.  They were there purely as a means to an end, had limited interest in or ability to apply their knowledge, did not love learning for learning’s sake.  This was just what you did after high school.  They had no power, they wanted it, but had never been prepared to grasp it. 

Now, as I sit here poised to finish my third degree, and read dissatisfied facebooks and twitters and emails from those former classmates, now out in the working world, I want to tell them all to go back to school and discover learning for learning’s sake.  For the power that learning and knowledge give you.  For the shield, the protection it gives you to move through this world, this life.  For the understanding, courage, and compassion that allows you to extend olive branches, and to recognize them when they are extended your way.  For the sword to help you dare to stand up, dare to speak out, dare to be firm in your resolve to leave this world better than it was.

There are too many princesses in this world and not enough Queens.

She Who Dares, Wins.

 All this was yet to come, that crisp autumn day as I walked home from school, kicking the brilliantly-coloured leaves fallen from the majestic oak and maple trees that lined the streets of my neighbourhood.  I was a high-school freshman, but younger than most, and I was self-conscious of the male looks that slid over me, often walking with my head down when I was by myself.  I couldn’t know it, but I was about to undergo a sea change, a metamorphosis of self.  My head snapped up as I heard a familiar whistle, my face creased into a grin, and I bounded toward my dad.

 We sat together in our kitchen, munching a snack, and sharing the details of our day, for I was not yet of the age when I engaged in activities that parents do not need to know the details of.  My mother was at work, my brother and sister elsewhere, and it was just we two.  My father was home after an assignment, and the family was whole and happy, halcyon days for us all. 

“Your mom and I are taking a trip next month – to Southeast Asia.  Your sister will be in command, but you know she can’t be around all the time so you and your brother will need to work together to keep the boat afloat.” 

 I nodded, my mouth full, and tried to hide the smile of parental freedom that threatened to hijack my lips.  I asked a garbled question that my dad had no problem interpreting.

 “We’ll be gone three weeks, but you guys will be joining us for the last one, in Singapore.  We know some people there, with kids around your ages.”

 “That’s cool”, I said and his mouth twitched as I shot him a hesitant, slightly vague look.  I had heard of the place, knew where it was, but not much more.  He, of course, knew that.

 “I’ll tell you all about it and I’ll dig out some photos”, he said, smiling.

A few days after this conversation, I came home, excitedly brandishing an old movie I had checked out from the library.  It was called Raffles and it was about an international jewel thief who obviously got his name because he lived and worked at the hotel we would be staying at!  My parents quickly disabused me of the connection between Raffles, the venerable hotel, and Raffles, the charming, fictional, hero of novel and screen.  It was a fun movie though, and we all watched it, my head filling with romantic notions that I was Olivia de Havilland and that David Niven was sweeping me off my feet.  I talked incessantly about it after that, how there were no boys at all who were romantic like that, all the ones I knew sucked, how cool it would be if Raffles really lived at the hotel that bore his name, tiptoeing around the darkened halls at night, (the real inspiration, Sir Stamford Raffles having been summarily dismissed as any sort of romantic figure in my mind). 

I did a lot of research in the weeks that followed, to satisfy my own natural curiosity, yes, but also as prep for the school assignment I was given to justify my time away.  My school was very tolerant of such absences, and they had developed curriculum-straddling travel assignments, incorporating history, geography, language, science, civics and more.  I was luckier than most, because I could add my dad’s brilliant photographs to make these places come vividly alive.

I watched the movie again, alone this time, and as I packed for the trip the night before departure, I slipped the box containing my cherished gold and small diamond necklace I had received for my last birthday into my purse.  I fell restlessly asleep that night dreaming of a full moon streaming through a foreign window and a dark figure slipping into my room, his hand caressing my throat as he reached for the necklace encircling it, my eyes opening wide…

Singapore was a revelation.  There were reminiscent elements of places I had been before, echoes of England, India, Hong Kong, but the vibe was its own, and I couldn’t wait to adopt it as my own, to slide into it, to become a part of it in ways I had not felt before.  When we drew up before the majestic entry of Raffles Hotel, my heart leapt; I was sure I was on the verge of an adventure more intoxicating and dangerously thrilling than even my previous one involving night tigers in India.  Today, right here and right now, I wasn’t a little kid holding a stuffed bear, I was a sophisticated femme fatale with a bazillion dollars worth of jewels around my neck and I felt sure that dark, mysterious eyes were watching me covetously from a shadowed corner.  I glided sexily across the marble floor, head up, and chest out, my face a haughty mien of sophistication.

 “Excuse me Miss, but you forgot your little bear in the car”.

 I whirled, shocked, and grabbed Abominable to me, my eyes huge with relief.  I couldn’t believe I had almost lost my beloved bear, and I was effuse in my thanks.

 “OhmygoshthankyouthankyouTHANKYOU!  I’m SORRY Bom-Bom, are you ok?!”

 My mother, having watched me from car exodus to now, smiled lovingly, her eyes thoughtfully resting on the thin chain around my neck.  We dined that evening on the hotel terrace and I spent much of it watching the other diners, my earlier bear-trauma forgotten, wondering which elegantly-clad man I saw might be Raffles.  To my great disappointment, none of the men I saw fulfilled my requirements, and I went to sleep that night and did not dream.

The next day, we met our parents’ friends and their kids, Ali, Steve, and Charyl.  Steve was 11, and he and my brother hit it off right away, spending the rest of the week hanging out and doing little boy things that I neither knew nor cared about. Charyl was 17, close enough in age to my sister that they became fast friends, but too old to be interested in me.  We hardly saw my sister once she met Charyl and her friends, and though I was glad she was having a wonderful time, I felt excluded.  Ali, the middle child was 16, gorgeous with a devastating smile that he turned on me exactly once as he shook my hand before making some lame excuse and taking himself off somewhere known only to him.  I slumped in my chair, fingering my necklace, my role of passion lady forgotten, and pretended not to see the sympathetic glances thrown my way by my parents.  This trip was going to suck.

I repeated that mantra to myself later that evening as I got into my pajamas in preparation for bed.  We were spending this night at my parents’ friends’ home and I listened jealously to the sounds from upstairs of my sister and brother and their new BFF’s planning the next day’s exciting adventures.  They were sharing bedrooms with Charyl and Steve while I, the odd one out, was given a tiny afterthought of a room on the main floor, a storeroom with a cot shoved in one corner.  At least it had a view of the garden, I thought, as I leaned on the windowsill and inhaled the heady aromas of night-blooming flowers.  I left the window open – there was no air conditioning and it was hot in that stuffy room and my eyes grew heavy as I listened drowsily to the night outside.  I slept.

I don’t know whether it was a shadow momentarily blocking the light from the moon or the faint scratch of fabric on wood that awoke me, but I know that it was my sharp exhalation of fear that made the dark figure freeze half in, half still outside of, my window.

“Fuck”, came a soft voice, the curse not said angrily but with self-recrimination, “I totally forgot you guys were staying tonight”.

I was huddled under my sheet, staring at the window when I heard the sounds of activity above.  The figure moved, glancing upward sharply, and the moon fell upon his face, the face I had met so briefly hours before.  There was the sound of footsteps now, and then Ali was beside me, a finger pressed against my mouth, his lips inches from my ear.

“Tell them you had a bad dream,” he whispered, as the knock came at my door.  He flattened himself beside my bed, and I sat up quickly, my bear falling out of my arms to land softly on Ali, as the door opened and my dad stuck his head through.

“What’s wrong, baby”?  His eyes studied my face then moved around the room, stopping at the open window.  He frowned, started toward it, and the words tumbled from me.

“I just had a bad dream, I’m fine dad, it’s so hot in here I need the window open”.  My eyes implored his to leave, and I was halfway out of bed, ready to intercept him if he kept moving.  I could see Ali out of the corner of my eye, pressing himself as far under my bed as possible.

He thought about it for a moment then said he would return with a fan, that he really had to insist the window remain shut, locked.  He left my room and I fell back in the bed, my heart racing.  There was a soft click and then Ali was on his feet, that smile illuminating the room, and he held out my bear.

“Good girl, you, I owe you one.  Sorry, I guess I trod on your bear on my way in.  I’ve ripped it a bit but I’ll fix it for you tomorrow, ok”?

I nodded, my heart slowing its mad tattoo though the fear sweat had yet to evaporate.  Ali’s eyes changed, moving across my upper body, covered by a thin pajama top but no sheet from my almost-dash to intercept my father, and then they met my eyes and held them.  He reached out a hand and brushed a stray strand of hair from my forehead.  I parted my lips and then we heard my dad returning and he was gone, slipping through the window like a wraith.

We returned to Raffles early the next day, with Charyl and Steve in tow, but of Ali, there was no sign.  My skin tingled where he had touched it, and I replayed the scene over and over in my mind, seeing his dazzling smile, feeling his breath hot in my ear.  I dutifully trudged along Orchard Road with our two moms, feigning interest in the clothes they held up against me, but I was glad to escape later to the pool, to be alone with my exciting secret, pleading the need to keep up my conditioning by swimming laps.

I swam like an automaton, my head elsewhere, and I think I must have willed his presence, because I was only mildly surprised to see Ali sitting at a table as I climbed out of the water.  He held out a towel and I dried myself, surreptitiously watching him look at me as I leaned forward to rub at my hair.  I felt a surge of heat, those lovely tingles, and I blushed as I straightened.  His eyes moved quickly to my face, a faint flush to his cheeks, and I felt the first surge of womanly power I’d ever felt.

“I was watching you swim, you are better than anyone else here”. 

I felt a thrill and decided he wasn’t just talking about my speed.  I arched my back a little, as I reached up to tie my hair back, trying out new moves that were strangely comfortable, and his eyes flickered.

“Thanks…hey, I’m going wakeboarding tomorrow if you wanna come…”.  I was breathless at the thought of spending time alone with him, but my heart plummeted as I watched Ali frown and shake his head slowly.

“I can’t, I’ve got something to do –“, he stopped as he saw the look on my face. 

“I’ll try and change my plans, ok?  You know, if not, I’ll see you at that birthday thing Friday”.

I mumbled something affirmative, my face aflame.  I hated how I blushed all the time; I knew I must look so hideous to anyone, to him.  I touched my necklace and he looked at it.

“That’s a beautiful piece, looks great on you”.  His voice was soft, and my heart soared again, but then crashed at his next words.

“I have to go, but I feel bad for ripping your bear and I thought I’d take it and get it fixed.”

 I nodded wordlessly, and we walked into the hotel and up to our suite.  I brightened in the elevator as Ali talked about the movie we kids were all going to see as part of Steve’s birthday celebrations.  My head was filled with visions of sitting in a darkened theatre beside him, his hand reaching for mine.  Our maid was there when we arrived; explaining that my mother had given my bear to them to be stitched but, she assured me, he would be back by the time I was ready for bed.  I turned to Ali, smiling, and the light caught the diamond of my necklace and glittered against my skin, shooting a spark across his chest.  He had a look I’d never seen anyone give me before, and I became very aware of my body.  He touched the tiny indent in my throat where the necklace nestled.

“You know, I think I’d rather hang out with you.  You feel like grabbing some food, maybe see a movie”?

I murmured a throaty, ‘why not’, and was rewarded with an intimate, dazzling smile.  ‘Ohhh’, thought I with the ages-old flash of womanly awareness, ‘so that’s how you do it’.

He waited patiently in the living room, staring out at the marvelous view of his city, while I showered and went through all of my clothes, all of my sister’s and even my mom’s, looking for the outfit that would cause him to take one look and decide I was the most ravishing creature he had ever seen.  I heard my sister come in, exchange words with Ali, then she bounded into our room, eyes alight with mischief.

“You’re going on a date with Ali….ooooh do the parents know”?

I hissed at her to shut up and close the door.  She flung herself on her bed and looked at me critically.

“Come here, your hair is all wrong”.

“Oh my god – you have to fix it!” I wailed.  She shushed me.

“Sit still, I’ll make you look beautiful.  What are you going to tell mom and dad”?

We concocted a story for the benefit of our parents, with her agreeing to say I was with her and making me promise to meet her right after the movie so we could return to Raffles together and maintain the fiction.  She stood back, admiring her handiwork, and nodded, smiling softly, proprietarily.

“One more thing, I’ll go get it, wait here”.

 She slipped from the room, and I heard a short exchange of muted conversation from the next room, then she was back.  She grabbed a purse from a chair and thrust it in my arms.

“‘Don’t lose it kiddo and have fun.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t”.

I squealed breathlessly and hugged her then stepped out into the living room.  The look on Ali’s face made me blush furiously and mentally hug my sister.  All three of us left the hotel together then, shooting a final glance at Ali, who nodded, my sister left us and the two of us were alone.  In the ticket line, he casually slung his arm around my shoulder and after awhile, I reached my arm around his waist tentatively, relaxing fully, my heart singing when he looked down at me with a big smile.

Choosing the last row, he again put his arm around me, and I leaned against him as the lights dimmed and the movie began.  His other hand took mine and then he was turning my face to his and his lips parted so I parted mine and then I was receiving the first real kiss of my life.  My toes curled and I remember hearing noises coming from my mouth that I had never made before.  Throughout the movie we never watched, I was kissed so thoroughly, so completely and intimately, that I heard nothing but the roaring of blood in my brain, felt nothing but his liquid skin beneath my hands and lips, saw nothing but his eyes probing deep into my soul as we caught our breaths before diving down again.  He awakened the woman I was to become, was becoming, and I would never be the same.

We stumbled out of the theatre, blinking at the sudden noise and lights, and my sister’s laughter brought me back down to earth.  She mirthfully handed Ali a pocket mirror and Kleenex and laughed again as he sheepishly rubbed lipstick from his face.  He insisted on escorting us back to Raffles, back up to our suite, where we read a note from our parents saying they had taken our brother out for dinner.  My sister headed out, pointedly waiting for Ali to say his goodnights, which he did with an achingly tender kiss that reached deep inside of me and then they were gone.

I danced around our suite, throwing the window coverings wide and staring out at the moon, just rising, laughing aloud with this new and wonderful emotion flooding me.  I loved him!  At a quiet knock, I flung the door open and inhaled loudly then flung myself in Ali’s arms, burying my face in his chest.

“I just had to have one more kiss”, he groaned and then we were kissing and kissing and staggering across the room, tangling ourselves up on the couch and then he was excusing himself, heading for our bedroom and I told him there was one off the foyer, but he was smiling and saying this one was closer and I collapsed on the couch, my hair streaming across the pillows, my shirt half unbuttoned, and then there was the sound of the front door opening, the noisy sound of my brother racing inside and stopping to stare curiously at the bedroom doorway, at Ali standing there.  I sat up fast, pulling my shirt down, staring at my parents who were poised in the room, mouths open.  For a moment, the only sound was my breathing then my parents quietly ordered Ali to leave, my dad following him out to the hallway, my mother moving to my side to search my face anxiously.  I cast a despairing glance after him, but my mother blocked my view.

“Mom, we didn’t –“, she relaxed, nodding.

“Go to your room, please, and wash up and get ready for bed.  We’ll talk about this tomorrow”.

I bit my lip, and moved to my room, avoiding my dad’s eyes as he stepped back in the room.  I hazarded a glance at the open hallway door, but there was no sign of Ali and my dad shut it firmly.  I trudged into my room, automatically picking up my bear from the floor, and hugging him to me, tears in my eyes.  Everything was ruined, I raged to myself, as I scrubbed my face and put on pajamas.  Now I was going to get grounded for something I didn’t even do and no way would I ever get to see Ali again, not that he’d want to anyway with my dad probably threatening to kill him or maim him at the very least if he ever looked at me again.  I was thirteen for fuck sakes, not a kid, almost an adult woman!  It wasn’t even fair, I mused sullenly, cross-legged on my bed, moodily plucking at threads where my bear had been sewn.  Stupid hotel can’t even sew properly, and just throw people’s things on the floor; I thought savagely, and yanked a piece of the offending thread from the white fur, before hurling my bear against the wall.

I felt instant remorse, and picked Abominable up gently, carrying him to the bed.  The rip from Ali’s inadvertent misstep that first night had widened and the memory of him made me sob once before I stifled it, casting an anxious glance toward my closed door.  It remained shut, thankfully, though I could hear the muffled tones of my parents talking and no doubt plotting dire punishment to mete out to undeserving me.  I scowled and poked my finger inside my bear, wiggling it desultorily and widening the hole.  Absentmindedly, my thoughts still with Ali, my fingers closed around something alien to a stuffed bear and I drew out a small black pouch.  Ali forgotten now, I stared at it quizzically, then slowly pulled its drawstring and upended it.

I leaned back and gasped.

I stared and stared and stared, my eyes huge in my white face, the blood draining from it.

Liquid fire, red and green and deep blue and dazzling white.

In that moment, I grew up.  I was no longer a child.  I became a woman.  A woman looking at jewels…

All sorts of fantastic snatches of thought raced through my brain.  Aladdin’s cave…cursed stones…the Hope Diamond…romance…RAFFLES…I in a black silk gown with a flashing necklace around my throat and Ali’s velvet lips brushing across it as he kissed my neck…

I sat and gloated and dreamed.  I held the stones in my fingers and let them fall through in a rivulet of fire, a flashing stream of wonder and delight.  I lay back on my pillow, stroking the jewels, smiling dreamily, seeing Ali climbing through my window with his wonderful grace and lightness, chuckling as my bear landed on his face and him unable to move it with my dad standing there…

I sat up slowly and my eyes moved to my sister’s bed, to her makeup case left carelessly open after her hurried makeover on me earlier that evening.  I felt a pang as I recalled Ali’s face as he saw me after that, and I plucked a small pair of tweezers from the bed where they had fallen out of her bag.  My mind replayed everything and my fingers reached nervously for my necklace but found only bare skin.  I looked at the door, then back at the jewels, my resolve wavering, and then my parents were looking up at me in the doorway, at me opening my fist, at the waterfall of gems pouring to the carpet, mirroring the flow of tears from my eyes.

Months later, I walk home from school, alone, my head down.  It is springtime, the trees are brimming with new life, and it is a time for renewal.  I don’t feel anything much though, I have had a hard time coming to terms with what happened in Singapore.  It has made me feel isolated and alienated – my family and friends unable to break through.  I feel older than my years and my world has narrowed to a dull routine of school and swim practices.  I feel my parents’ worried eyes on me, I patiently hear them out while they hesitantly suggest I see a shrink to help me sort through everything, and then point out that I am achieving straight A’s in school, am winning gold medals at swim meets, and generally being all a parent could want, before retreating to my room.  I study and swim to forget, and I do forget sometimes.  Sometimes, I imagine that Ali never stole a thing, never got arrested, never used me, but I am a clever, sensible girl and I don’t imagine that for too long or too often.

I reach my home, and step quietly inside and head for the stairs to my room.  I halt then turn to the living room where voices murmur.  I step inside, noting my parents sitting together on a couch, then friendly, intelligent-looking green eyes in a white face surrounded by a shock of black hair look up at me from an armchair, and I am shaking the hand belonging to those eyes and a British-accented voice is saying he is pleased to meet me.  My hand tingles and then more of me tingles as my mother explains that Dave and his parents – I nod politely to the couple sitting across the room, are newly transferred from London, his dad to work in my mom’s office.  My dad is smiling, squeezing my mom’s hand, and he suggests I get myself a coke from the kitchen.

“Oh, and there’s a letter for you on the hall table”.

I carry the letter to the kitchen, and open it quickly, impatient to get back to the living room. 

‘Dear Dagny,

I never got a chance to thank you for recovering my jewels, and I wanted to amend that now.  I had collected those stones over many years, and had finally decided I had enough to turn into a glorious set of jewelry.  When they were stolen by that no-good hooligan next door while I slept, my heart broke.  I was sure I would never see them again, and I never would have but for your keen mind and moral soul.  I know some of what that boy did to you, I certainly know how you felt when he stole your precious jewelry and threw it into the river as the police surrounded him, and I want to tell you that you are worth ten – a hundred of him and that he never was good enough for the likes of you.  Nor will he ever be, so you just remember that you are rarer than any gem and deserve someone just as rare.  Never settle, my dear, and never dwell on such matters, for they are necessary in your growth into the extraordinary woman I know you will become.  Dwell instead on the incredible tale you now have to tell, for how many people can ever say they were involved in solving a jewel heist!

Please don’t let this ruin your feelings toward Singapore, my home, for she is much like you will be – beautiful, bewitching, compelling, and mysterious.  It is this last quality that decided me on the gift I enclose to remind you of your adventure and I hope one day you will return here so you can make your peace with this place.

With deep gratitude and the very best wishes,

Mrs. A. Robinson’

I let the letter fall and I reach for the tiny envelope tucked inside the larger one.  The words, ‘green for mystery’, are written upon it in a spidery hand and I shakily open it and slowly withdraw a glittering green gem.  I stare at it and it feels cool in my hand and once more, a woman looks out of a child’s eyes.  I hear a lilting, boyish laugh from the other room, and I tuck the emerald back in its envelope, and move to the door.  I hurry to the living room, and the only shining, green jewels on my mind are the beautiful eyes that light up when I walk back in to the welcoming room.

**   There really was an Ali in Singapore, though that was not his name, and he did take advantage of me in the ways described, but there was no jewel heist.  Ali was a cad, through and through, but he was no thief – I have taken literary license in the interests of creating a more interesting tale.  I wrote this and named him Ali to honour in kind a new friend who wrote a song for me.  I do not mean to imply that this lovely man is a cad or that he would have played with a young girl’s emotions and vulnerabilities, rather, I mean to honour him by suggesting that his kisses and touches would sear the way that boy’s did.  I remember them even now…*smile*.

This was taken when I went to see the band in Glasgow last year, and it turned out great!  This band hadn’t played live in 16 years, hadn’t released a record in 17, surely major reasons for their deep legendary status.  They are also brilliant and I hadn’t ever thought I’d get to see them.  My cousin, a uni student in Glasgow, miraculously grabbed us tickets and I jumped on a plane, as excited as I’ve ever been about seeing a band, (well almost .  The show was everything I had hoped for and more – I drowned in the sound, it assaulted me and kept on coming, relentless, primal, shocking even, (the band only played venues where there were no db restrictions!).  I think this picture captures their essence even though you can’t see any of them in it.

I cook a little better than she does, the family agrees, so I am always in great demand as a chef when I visit relatives.  This cooking class was a bit of a novelty and it was such a great success and fun time, that I repeated it last month when I threw one of my biannual big parties.  I served little plates of simple tapas with some tasty wine while the class ran, then I sauteed up the chicken “lollipops” we made from the leftover middle wing sections, while our rolled, stuffed chickens were cooking and had those while we finished the wine and talked. 

It is a really wonderful way to spend some time with your friends and learn something new and tasty at the same time.  It doesn’t have to be anything quite so exotic as the ones I did, I think most people have at least one thing they make that is amazing, and the spirit and camaraderie of such a gathering pays off in multiple ways.  I encourage everyone to host one

Don't forget the wine

So, this band yeah…they pierce me, they resonate in that urgent, electrifying way that makes my heart and soul soar, that is an equal mix of  justification and inspiration.  I love the way I feel listening to them, they are astonishing.

I reel.

This is a band you listen to Friday evening, that suspended time moving past day to night when everything is possible, when you feel most certain, when you feel most alive.  

I had this whole post written about the gig, about meeting them, but it is too personal, I feel like I just want to hug it to myself.

I’m going to Salt Lake City this weekend…*smile*

We went to see the NIN/JA show last week, and it was fantastic!  This picture of Nine Inch Nails was a complete stroke of luck – the camera was held up, the light suddenly changed to this cool purple with the band bathed in white, and the button was pressed;  it wasn’t until we checked through them later that we noticed the guy in front had raised his arms at the precise moment the picture was snapped.   Pretty cool huh…*smile*

The foundation that sprung from this is building and connecting  music/art programs around the world, empowering children to create and share their music and providing a healthy outlet of their personal expression.  It is enabling collaboration between students of these  new schools and students from established music schools in the U.S. and abroad.   It is giving hope and inspiration to communities and people in need of them.

You can learn more about the group at: www.playingforchange.com (there is a link to the foundation there too).

And since everyone can use a little more hope and inspiration,  here’s the video that started it all – Stand By Me.  Although it says it is 10+ minutes long, it isn’t – it is just over 5, (the rest is black screen).  I hope you are inspired by it too…*smile*

Hitler Plans Burning Man - enjoy!

Well, not exactly – the gold forming its base is certainly worth something, and of course the sentimental value is incalculable, but that gorgeous, twinkly diamond that makes your friends ohhh and ahhh?  It is barely more precious and valuable than a pretty chunk of cut glass.  Before you drop all those hints to your boyfriend about those pretty blue boxes at Tiffany’s or launch a discussion on the relative merits of Princess versus Emerald cuts, you should read on.

Everyone knows that de Beers has held a tight-fisted global monopoly on diamonds for well over 100 years, and it is well-known and well-documented that the cartel has an enormous stockpile of diamonds, despite engaging in production controls.   There are so many natural diamonds in the world, that if they ever let them out on the street, the value would plunge in a way that would make the recent stock market losses pale in comparison.  De Beer’s has attempted to explain it away by saying that almost all of those diamonds are brown diamonds, inferior to white, but they don’t tell us that brown becomes white by a very simple, widely-used process, and that those newly-white diamonds are identical to their more rare naturally-ocurring brethren.  All of this is known, all of this is carefully controlled by the firm, and all of us turn a blind eye to it.  But this is not all of the story.

It is now possible to make synthetic diamonds that are indistinguishable from the naturally-ocurring ones.  I am not talking about imitation diamonds, such as CZ, which are easily differentiated by any jeweler with a loupe; these synthetics are REAL, identical in chemical properties and composition and only a very expensive test in a very expensive geophysics lab can usually pick out the minute differences.  Usually, not always, and indeterminate findings are only going to become more prevalent.  In any case, the testing necessary is so prohibitive that it precludes 99% of the diamonds sold, and even if it didn’t, what does it matter?  The one grown in a lab is the same as any mined diamond from South Africa, only without the blood.  You, your friends, your jeweler can’t tell the difference because there is no difference.

Currently, de Beers enjoys government protections stipulating that all synthetics must be laser-identified as such so that the company’s artificial price inflation practices will hold.  No wonder then that less than scrupulous interests in such places as Russia have set up labs and begun churning out synthetics, foregoing the laser ID, and smuggling them in to this country, (which is the major global market by far for diamonds), to be sold to that nervous groom-to-be who can’t believe his luck at getting that ring for less than half what Tiffany’s sells it for.   

Can it be long now, before you can pick up a genuine multi-carat, flawless, diamond at a dollar store?

Not anytime soon, not until attitudes change regarding the value of gems.  Gems historically held value due to their scarcity, people’s belief that they owned something that would hold or rise in value, that was small, barterable, easily transportable if the world went to hell and they had to flee.  De Beers has a vested interest in maintaining that fiction with their business practices, and they will do anything to maintain it.  For over a hundred years, they have wielded unprecedented and awesome power over global governmental policy to keep things business-as-usual.  How ironic then that a bunch of crooks are attacking de Beers head on, playing the game they created – that they perfected, and winning.  I guess it takes a thief to catch a thief.

Synthetic perfection has not just been achieved with diamonds either.  Rubies, emeralds, sapphires and more are now able to be reproduced, and the Russians, and others, are hard at work making them.  There is a global shift, a massive change in the value of gems coming, and for those of you hoarding those sparkly stones as a hedge, you’d be better off collecting matchboxes.

As for me?  I never look gift horses in the mouth, and I am a sentimental romantic who would treasure anything, but one day, I hope to see a man drop to his knees in front of me and hold out a box that has nary a gem in sight, just a gorgeous ring of pure gold.  We can’t recreate gold…yet.

Now, I am a traveller, as opposed to a tourist;  I have little interest in “seeing the sites”, making lists of must-sees, checking them off like a grocery list and snapping the obligatory pictures to prove I was there.   This isn’t to say that I don’t experience them, on the contrary, for I am lucky enough to know a whole lot of other travellers, and they show me their cities and countries in ways that tourists never experience – by making me a part of their lives.  In Paris, I have many such friends, but noone exemplifies the ethos of The Global Village more than Jim Haynes.  My parents having prior plans that I declined to join, I contacted Jim and asked if there was room for me to come to his Sunday Dinner.  There was, he affirmed, avowing that he remembered me from a previous dinner party, and I jumped in a taxi and headed over. 

Back in the 1980s, Jim Haynes edited a guidebook that contained no hotels, no restaurants, no museums, monuments, maps, nor any of the usual tourism trappings.  It was filled with about 1,000 brief biographies of people, in nine Eastern European countries and Russia, who would be prepared to welcome visitors to their countries.  He called them people-to-people guides.  ”There are two ways of travelling,” says Hayne,  ”One is to be a tourist where you go to see things and the other is to be a traveller where you participate in the daily life of locals.  I’m a strong advocate of the latter.” 

Indeed, he is.  Every Sunday for the past 30+ years,  he has brought friends and strangers – up to 60 people, more if the weather is good and there’s room to tumble out into the garden – from every corner of the globe for dinner at his atelier, a former sculpting studio in the 14th arrondissement.  No wonder he has been called “the godfather of social networking.”

Jim Haynes has quite the backstory, one you can read on his website.  An American by birth, he ended up in Edinburgh more than 30 years ago when he was in the US Air Force.  He spent his nights monitoring Russian radio transmissions and his days running a student bookshop called The Paperback and studying at the University of Edinburgh. 

As the self-proclaimed “Dr Love” of the Sixties, Haynes went on to found the experimental Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh, where John Lennon and Yoko Ono, amongst others, did performance art.   He also started the archetypal underground magazines IT and SUCK  before settling in Paris in 1969.  Home is a sculptor’s studio, one of a block where Matisse once lived.  “Sam Beckett and Henry Miller – dear friends – lived nearby, so did Juliet Greco,” says Haynes. “Francoise Sagan lived on the other side of that wall . . .”. 

The dinners started off small, catering mainly to Paris locals.  The Internet and international press have changed that, and today the dinners are legendary.  People visiting Paris simply call or email in advance.  Each Sunday features a different cook.  Recently, an American neighbour made lasagna and tiramisu and an Irishman served.  “Seamus was passing through Paris for three days on his way to Tokyo 30-something years ago and he never left,” Haynes says.  ”He’s great. He stretches the food and always makes sure people get extra helpings.”

He has entertained William Borroughs, Indira Gandhi, a slew of acting and business royalty, and though his dinners have taken on the air of a Salon, it is remarkable for its lack of pretentiousness.  Jim himself is a quiet, generous host who treats every guest as special, and has a knack for remembering names, faces, and introducing people.  The Dinners are lively, boisterous, fun, and stimulating, as about 120 000 people and counting have discovered for themselves.

This Sunday, I met a pianist from Romania, who invited me to a recital, a filmmaker from Singapore, a political cartoonist from Holland, a woman from Toronto who knows people I know, lots of Parisians who also invited me into their lives, many students, and more.  Always, at the centre of it all, was Jim who gave me a big hug when I arrived and called me, “Dear girl”, as he welcomed me back.  The food was decent and plentiful, as was the wine, but the conversation and exchange of ideas and information was the main focus.  I left later that evening, with a few others, and headed to a bar to continue drinking, talking, learning and laughing until the wee hours.  I saw most of them, as well as the pianist, (who was indeed talented), again, and I know I have made some new friends who will give me the same sort of experiences in their hometowns as Jim has in Paris, and that I try to emulate in mine.  That is truly the gift that is at the heart of Jim’s Sunday Dinners.

If you are in Paris and want to experience one of Jim’s Sunday Dinners, check out his website for details – http://www.jim-haynes.com/  Everyone is welcome and advance reservations will be necessary.