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This blog is dedicated to my wonderful son, who, at fifteen, has already suffered wounds inflicted by sharp-tongued and petty-minded faux amis .  I hope my words and love encourage you to develop armor that allows you to ignore the thoughtless minions.  For you, my son, are a prince. Whatever you say to me, comes out of you and has very little to do with me.       Virginia Satir I've been wanting to write a blog about the impact words can have on a person for months now but couldn't find the right...well... words to convey my thoughts.  Until this morning. I was making pâte à choux for tonight's meal (It has become a tradition in our family to eat fondue for dinner and eclairs for dessert on New Year's Eve).  I was incorporating the eggs into the flour/butter/water/sugar mixture when an unpleasant memory crept into kitchen and attempted to foul the otherwise savory moment.  It was June, 1996 - the summer after Kevin and I had eloped- and we were in South Weym

There are many dangers associated with travelling the world.  One can become a victim to illness, injury, crime or a myriad of other unforeseen tragedies.  We've all heard about the infamous pickpockets of Italy who prey on unwitting foreigners as they gaze in awe at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the frequent  shark attacks along the Great Barrier Reef, the kidnapping of tourists in Mexico, and the frightening bird flu epidemic in China. And the media has terrified us with their relentless stories of plane crashes, tour bus crashes , airport shuttle crashes, helicopter crashes , lost luggage, stolen luggage , misdirected luggage, cancelled flights , overbooked flights, hotel fires, car bombs , volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, blizzards, capsized ferries , and insufferably rude Parisians . There is one danger, however, that is rarely reported. One of the least-known but most-insidious risks of frequent travel is the potential for the sojourner to become disenchanted.

In the wash of mercury moonlight, I watched the mentally retarded man struggle to pedal his bike down the icy, snow-crusted sidewalk. Frankly, it was difficult not to watch him. His many red, blinking bike lights were mesmerizing in the inky Alaskan darkness.  His pursed lips and furrowed brow begged to be noticed and bespoke the Herculean effort he was undertaking. Apart from the blinking lights and his determined expression, something else prompted me to remain parked on the deserted city street - even after the stoplight flashed from red to green to red again. I didn't understand what it was about the mentally handicapped bike rider that was prompting me to delay my early-morning bagel run - but there I was, fiddling with the temperature control on my heated leather driver's seat in my luxury sedan, and counting each excruciatingly slow evolution of his bike wheel. Was it curiosity about his motivation for being out so early and in negative 4 degree weather?  Or