Today it is snowing huge flakes and raning. That means it is cold rain, but it breaks up the otherwise numb greysky.

This morning I woke up early, 6:50, to get croissants and 'pain au lait' from the bakery. I had the forsight to know that I would suffer the cold poorly and I prepared myself to get into my big oversized down winter jacket the night, or more accurately, the morning before-since I finally made my way into dreaming somewhere inbetween the hours of 2 and 3. I prepared myself for the Big Monstrosity (my winter jacket) even though it is april 17^{th, good thing too :} Yesterday, April 16, was a primer. It was one of the calendar days marked as a ‘day to rember’. It was in preparation for this day that that I got out of bed and into the market another cold grey day last week, to hand out flyers about this very event. That was where I met the meatvendor who invited me to drink his cherished 'alenvers' or 'renverser'…and the Kebab stand vendors who, seeming to lean on the Yes side for the 'constitutional treaty' vote, asked me what I would be voting, and then why as a Canadian, after I inevitably explained why I would not be voting, I cared. Good question.

. It has been so long since I have had to defend myself in specifics. In particular specificity is not my general tendency. Haha.

It’s a thin shield. Like cheese cloth in this wet clumpy snow/rain.

for some clarity: The 16th was the day of the ATTAC speaker and NON education campaign event, here in Annemasse. It was held in the Centre MLK: I like the events at the Centre Martin Luther King—Appropriate for a community centre, maybe. I like them (March 8^th being the other one) because, for example, with the three assistants from Bonneville in tow, I met people who recognized me enough to give me ‘les bises’. I cant recall most of their names for the life of me. I can however find home in their faces. Even just a temporary home.

On this clumpy wet morning, the cherry tree in bloom-- its striking white bloosoms set against its own young green leaves; the wet brown soil frosted with slushy snow-- is perhaps a sign of hope. It is nice to be awake early. It gives me more time in my day. I have a reason to get up. Today I am on Breakfast Duty. Arthur (age 4) has long awaited my promise of croissants and hotchocolate in the cottage (this is how I think of my home, especially on days like this, a reffuge from the cold bleak outside, a home to tape precious crayon-coloured gifts to the fridge with meticulous care).

I could hear the rain when I woke up. I love hearing the rain when as I fall asleep.

Having scored two rides to salle MLK yesterday--one on the way there by the Bonnevillites who, thank gd decided to come up, and thus who were able to help me complete my evasion of the cold wet weather-- this weather ducking that was enabeling my usual habbit of being late slow starting (a skill perfected near the farthest most south westerly point on the European continent... sigh. sometimes i think im dreaming

Because it was wet and cold, prior to thier rescue I was evading any exit from my cozy cottage by learning about globalization and the economy in welfare states, and drinking coffee instead of sleeping, in a last ditch effort to re/educate myself incase I had to talk about the GATT or anyother trade agreement again, like my first meeting with N

today however I jogged to the bakery—recalling couscous at midnight--yes, oh right, that was last night.

My blue pants were soaked. I was warm except for where I was wet. An acceptable state. I ordered, in my confused groggy morning state, a 'croix de swiss' —a faux pas since what I wanted—what was in fact offered--- 'was a croix de savoie' (historical territorial tension, oops). The boulangere corrected me—achieving what the cold rain had not managed to do, that is wake me out of my morning daze. With my 6 euros worth of delices from the boulangerie (baker) now filling my back pack with the paperbags I used to write letters on, when I wrote letters---the bags filled with two pain au chocolat, two croissants au beurre, an almond chocolat croissant, the real heavy kind (my favourite since montreal, the Architecture Café, now that I think of it), and a 'brioche au pepites de chocolat' and a of course a croix de savoie (lets not forget where I am, now) –

charger, loaded up if you will bearing my gifts of morning, wondering if I'll last long after only 4 and something hours of sleep.

The rain slapping the trees, walls and sidewalks, the low clouds at once dampening and amplifying the sounds of this little cartier (neighbourhood)—birds chirping, slapping rain-snow drops hitting leaves cement and the damp big black jacket; the few car tires hissing by in loud wet whispers over the slushy pavement, a child calling for a parent, probably the sound of my heavy feet pressing through the cold slush on the sidewalks as I run—testing my breathing in this chest-cold- outfitted body of mine. The sound of a someone calling draws me out of whatever I was doing. Listening apparently. The sound echoes everywhere, I realize that it is the only human voice I hear in this grey wet place. It echoes. I hear a tinge of panic. I think I hear the child, a young boy perhaps, what does it matter, calling Papa –ouvre? What is it? I don’t so much as hear the words as the panic. Now I start to search. The tone changed, I think it is because a child has been locked outside in this wheather, perhaps in a sweater, perhaps running out to take the garbage or get something and forgetting a key to the building… The panick sobers me more than my faux pas at the bakery. I thought I had woken up then. PaPA PA PA

She is waist high out of the window oddly placed in the roof of a two story building. Here houses and building oftern mimic eathother. Against the white grey sky her bright yellow longsleve shirt clearly cuts a shape—blond head two arms raised, shaking..palms open

AU SECOURS, AU SECOURS AU SECOURS

And when my eyes fall on her, when i finally find the source

It is not a young child

It is a woman

She is screaming for anyone to hear

I know again there is no one on the sidewalk, there isn’t even a car

She sees me

AIDER MOI AIDER MOI

I think that is what she is screaming now

IL VA ME TUER

oh my god.

I think that is what she says

My French is gone. I stand for a moment. I want to run

To where?

I wonder as I am reassuring her in some broken language that I will call I will call, horribly aware I don’t have my cell phone

She will think I am running away

She wont know

I tell her I will call the police

Yes

I think that is what I said

AU SECOURS AU SECOURS the desperation that makes my heart climb the walls of my ribcage, my spine, crawls up my neck.

I don’t panick

I couldn’t find the police number on the phone

They don’t have operators in france.

I dial the emergency medical number as my eyes fall on the police number

One

Two

Three

Four

Racrocher

Racrocher

Racrocher

This phone is not helping. It wants me to leave the phone hung up for longer before it will let me dial

Thank god the 1 and the 7 work…

I am chastising myself for wondering if she is crazy.

She did hear me

I remember she told me, when I said I would call the police, she told me

La 2eme etage!!

They went by they told me later and it was quiet. 10 minutes later the woman in yellow had been thrown out of the balcony.