Portland, Oregon

Hannah and I waltzed around the Pearl District that afternoon, trying to blend in with the other Portlanders and speaking broken French. (Not that they speak French in Oregon, that was just an added bonus). 
The real story is that for 15 dollars and half a tank of gas, we saw Yann Tiersen play at a tiny venue called the Wonder Ballroom. Front row, right-of-center, touching the stage with an unforgettable view of the most magnificent pair of hands in the world. It blew away my expectations, and by the end of the night I had watery eyes and my hands over my heart. Yes, very much like Precious Moments; Hannah can vouch for that, we were both a heartbroken mess. 
The violin renditions of Amelie songs, French poetry, and "merci"-s were enough to make me feel like I could walk outside and be in Avignon. I'll always carry with me the memory of the wisps of violin string blowing about his face, with its expressions that have taken me 45 minutes looking through a thesaurus to realize I can't describe even one. He looked like an artist. And oh, those hands. And oh, Yann.


so i look to You
so i look to You
no one else will do
no one else will do

(hillsong united was amazing.)



Kristi and I got ready for church--pastels and bright colors, high spirits and high heels, only to put on dark, autumn overcoats and walk out in the most intense rain we've had in a month. 

Believe every stereotype you hear--it always rains here. Don't worry, though. The sun finally came out (at 7 PM), and it was the most glorious display of sky and clouds, of sailboats and the sun reflecting off the windows of the houses on the hills across the way. Makes it worth the greys.

I missed "Cristos a ├«nviat!", all day. And picking p─âtrunjel for Buna. There are little things like that you forget about when you move away, and remembering them is a sweetly spent minute of your day.

We took a trip to our favorite bakery, and split a Bird's-Nest-Coconut-Cupcake. 


This was my first silent film, and subsequently the start of a new fancy of mine. 

"The mediator between head and hands must be the heart!"

Aside: I'm starting to feel like this blog is turning into a media review journal. I promise to start posting real-life stories and photographic proof. 


"Siki Siki Baba", on Blogotheque and on repeat.

I can't sleep, so I've been listening to Kocani Orkestar and watching their videos for the past hour. Sometimes, at the end of the song you'll hear a dog barking and hear them yelling in their gypsy language--which is weird to find out you understand. I thought I was just tired and hearing things. 

Furthermore, I like that my favorite singer hangs out with them. (I knew he had good taste.) Playing crazy brass instruments and wailing at the top of your lungs with these guys looks wild. Maybe I can convince them they need another tambourine player. Wink.

I hope I make it to at least one gypsy fest this summer. These guys are too hip to play anywhere but France, but I'm sure there are plenty of street musicians who are just as good, lining the streets of Eastern European capital cities.