"I don’t know of any motels around here,” the Delaware toll-taker announced, “I don’t have to stay in a hotel or motel.  I have a HOME.”   The interesting thing about coming home to America is that we see it with entirely new eyes.

From the 14 until the 22 December, we visited clients and galleries that collect our work, from New Jersey to North Carolina.  We sold all of our new stock.   But more than money, we acquired marvelous experiences.

We hit the ground running after our arrival in Newark the night of the 14th.  Our first appointment lightened our load by twelve paintings.  We will like this life of itinerant painters.  Many of our customers have the idea that the paintings are painted by “a little old lady who lives beneath the Eiffel Tower”.  I love that image; our first Paris apartment was right at the foot of the Iron Lady.

In Philadelphia, I painted from the balcony of our friend’s apartment.  He took us on an historic tour of Merion, where there were once many grand homes, owned by people who helped shape the America we dream of.   We met R in Paris, last holiday season, and together we listened and translated French stories of the Heugonots.   One resolution, again this year, will be to learn French.

We bought a wreath for the front of our car, and stocked up on Soul and R&B Christmas CDs, unavailable in Europe.  Singing along with the Blind Boys of Alabama, we continued our rounds, to Richmond.  It was the most Christmas-y house we visited, with music from the Nutcracker setting the mood. 

North Carolina was to be the new home for “Fog”, our last artnotes endeavor.  We ate a marinated roast pork and drank Italian wine with friends, in a wooden house perched on a lake.  The first snowflakes fell as we drove away, four paintings lighter.

A mile of boardwalk is decorated at Virginia Beach, with the theme “12 days of Christmas”; we love the three French hens perched on the Eiffel Tower.  The self-catering hotel we chose wasn’t built for 15 degree weather, and we pushed the sofa cushions against the door to stop the draft.   The next morning it was much warmer, and I sat on the beach feeding seagulls and painting their pictures.

Driving up the Eastern shore of Virginia, through Maryland and Delaware, we stopped at a bar, looking for a beach hotel.   “We’re going in to order beers,” I tell Blair, who removes his beret.  We chat up a sailor missing a few teeth and wearing a bandana on his head.  Blair tells him we’re from Seattle.  “*!#@!*”, he exclaims, “you have real sailors out there.”   We meet the mayor, also drinking at the bar.  There’s only one place to stay in this town, but the proprietor isn’t in.  We push on, to deliver the baby Jesus elsewhere.

We are completely exhausted, this New Year’s Eve in Paris.  Sitting around the house contemplating resolutions, we are sorry to unpack our bags.



Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER
painting 9 x 12"  acrylic on masonite