Dip di dip di dip

My friend and student Sherry pointed out today that on Sunday, I blogged about my "guided mediation session." Well, I guess I could use some mediation too. Maybe I'd be better at that than sitting still and quieting my mind.

Classes are winding down, and packing is gearing up. This trip, I think, is going to be different from my past two European jaunts. The house here, first, is all organized and set, with friend Sally moving in to keep it running, and handyman John ready for crises, making it much easier to walk out the door. I'm not setting off into the wild blue, coping with strange cities alone - memories of last year, standing with my suitcase in the rain in Prague, unable to get the apartment building's door open ...

Bruce Kellett will be waiting for me at the Madrid airport, he'll already have found the apartment he's rented for us, and he has very strong ideas on where we should go and why. I am happy to follow meekly. He has booked our passage to Barcelona and another apartment there, and then we're off together to Montpellier, where Lynn and Denis live and which is familiar now. And then Lynn and I will travel together to Paris, where I'll spend two weeks in the little Latin Quarter flat that feels like a second home.

I hesitate to say that this trip sounds easy-peasy, because that's asking for trouble - for me, say, to leave my handbag on the train, or the equivalent. (See the epic journey of 2009.) But oh, my soul is ready to get out of this snowy vale and into a world of colour and smell and sound. I've got "Ghosts of Spain" from the library, recommended by my friend Margaret, a great read about how the Spanish buried the history of the Civil War of the Thirties and how the excruciating stories are emerging now. I have two Spanish phrasebooks and a book about the Prado. All I need is time to read these things, which, in the whirl of finishing many classes and preparing to depart, is hard to come by.

More excitement: after last Sunday's wonderful interview with Isabel Allende on "Writers and Company," I wrote to Eleanor, as I always do, to tell her how great it was. She wrote back that she was in Marrakesh. Of course you are, I replied; where else would you be? She's on her way to Barcelona and Madrid to interview Spanish writers, and it turns out we'll be in Madrid at the same time. I hope her schedule allows her time to meet with humble Toronto writer BK and humble Vancouver musician, also BK, for tapas.

Last night there was a fundraising show on PBS - mostly black groups of the 50's and 60's reunited to sing for an equally elderly and 100% white audience. My God, those groups still can sing. The Crests, the Chantels, the Ronettes, the Crystals, a group with the imposing name the Monotones ("Who wrote the book of love?" Good question for Eleanor), the Jarmels ("a little bit of soap"), the Platters, the Rays, the Marcels with the best song of all, "Blue Moon." The same guy, who must be 80 now, still singing the immortal words:

Bom ba ba bom ba bom ba bom bom ba ba bom ba ba bom ba ba dang a dang dang

Ba ba ding a dong ding Blue moon moon blue moon dip di dip di dip
Moo Moo Moo Blue moon dip di dip di dip Moo Moo Moo Blue moon dip di dip di dip
Bom ba ba bom ba bom ba bom bom ba ba bom ba ba bom ba ba dang a dang dang
Ba ba ding a dong ding

How great is that? Are those not the best lyrics? And the best group names ever? Kids these days have to try so hard to be weird and different. The Monotones!

At the same time, I watched an incredible show on Discovery about the history of the entire planet, with amazing animation - from the dawn of time to now. There was a real blue moon on one channel, and another, more melodious kind on the other.