"They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself."--Andy Warhol

Home is home is home is home.

It has been a near-two weeks since our final plane touched ground in an icy Winnipeg. Fourteen days, in the scheme of things, is nothing...and yet it is everything. In this slender frame of time, I have become re-acquainted with my bed, meshed voices with many a friend, embraced Christmas avec la famille (and also a haggard infant tree in mine and Sambo's apartment), flung myself into the throes of a newborn job, coaxed my startled body back into frosty temperatures...and so on and so forth.
It is overwhelmingly good to be back to all that is familiar--back to being able to pluck books at will from my collection; back to 3 a.m. apartment-cleaning sessions; back to brothers and my own sweet computer and my closet and my purple bedroom walls and infinite amounts of music and snow-laden streets, and such. Here is a glimmer of what my days have been looking like of late:







Or something like that.

This afternoon I took myself to the Winnipeg Art Gallery...wandered beautifully alone, and checked out two insane exhibits:


(Warhol)






(PostSecrets)






I'd wanted this to be a shade more inspired...but my eyes are glazed with sleep even as I attempt to write now.
I shall channel creativity...but in the meantime, good night and Happy Christmas and I hope you are all sleeping tighter than tight.

xoxo,
r.b.

Europia: Take Two.

Still in awe of L.V., Paris.


Out for dinner, Paris.


The Louvre...Madge embodies the loveliest of Ukrainian grandmothers, Paris.


Street food, Paris.




Trife dinner, Paris. Tasted even more gag-worthy than it looks--unbelievable, I know...but true.


Bordeaux wine from a grunge corner store for mere pennies, Paris. This one's for you, Mama Dange.


Freshly-hacked hair, McDonald's, Paris.




Oscar Wilde's grave, Paris. (not pictured, but definitely scoped: Edith Piaf's and Jim Morrison's)


Yet another cafe, Paris.


Our own French apartment, Paris. Markus became our kindred spirit for a week.


He preferred to drink tea out of gargantuan bowls.


Our version of Roman Holiday, Rome. Obviously.




Outer skin of the Colleseum, Rome.


Babes in front of the Colloseum.


Innards of the Colloseum.


Wine and some roses, just down the street from the Pantheon, Rome.






Laundry day and an explosion of colour, Naples.




We hunted down the legendary pizzeria from the novel "Eat, Pray, Love" and stuffed ourselves sick, Naples.








(for Sambo)




Rain on the train, Rome to Venice.


The city on water, Venice.




Back alley, Venice.


Spectacular gloves for sale, Venice.


Creepy mask-shop guardian, Venice.


Venice, Venice, Venice...






Mos Def in an underground nightclub, Barcelona. For Les, Turner, Ains--with LOVE.


Running wild on the beach, Barcelona.