It's time to pound on your homemade drum, climb a tree to harvest some palm wine or, at the very least, dance around your computer.  Yep, it's time to celebrate.  It's completely official and the paperwork is done.  Patrick Gono has come to America.

He was invited by the Dayton Society of Artists as well as their Sister City Association for an artist residency in Ohio, of all places!  Dayton is about an hour and a half from my home.  (If you need further clarification, that is a public transportation ride from Monrovia to Kakata.)  As far as I'm concerned, it's right around the corner and in my neighborhood.

The big question all along was if he could get a visa.  Dayton (unbelievably, foolishly) picked another artist before Patrick.  That person was denied a visa.  So, it became Patrick's turn.  He was scheduled for an interview on July 26 and he needed to depart that week.  Nobody wanted to purchase an airline ticket for someone without a visa.

Somehow, somebody pulled strings.

Patrick got an early interview.  When he sat down with the woman from the embassy, he had the best visa interview in the history of visa interviews.  The woman said, "I've seen your art and I am blown away.  You don't just draw with realism.  You capture their souls in your drawings.  You deserve this art residency."  Of course, there were the usual kind of questions that you have to have when applying for a visa, but it was one incredibly positive interview.  And, Patrick received a visa for one year!!!  Like I said, the easiest visa in history.  Yep, join me - at the very least - in dancing around your computer.

It's been three years since I first met Patrick painting a community mural in Zwedru, Liberia.  Thank goodness for email and Facebook.  We stay in close touch.  And, throughout the three years, I've mentored him, supported him and sent art supplies that he just could not get in Liberia.  Patrick is an amazingly talented young man with a true gift from God, but he wouldn't have arrived in Dayton if he hadn't met me.  It's a humbling responsibility.

And, last night, Patrick had his first art exhibition in the United States.  I was so proud to be at his side.  He gave a brief statement before the crowd of art-lovers, and it was delightful to see how far he's come in three years.  When I first met him, it was several days before I could get him to look me in the eyes.  I never learned if it was due to African respect or shyness.  But, it was an entirely different young man standing before the audience.  He delivered his speech perfectly.  I could not have written a better expression of heart-felt gratitude.  That's just the kind of person Patrick is. 

Patrick had six pieces of art displayed in a small room of the gallery.  It was a part of a larger exhibition with other artists also displaying in other rooms.   But, it was a very personal moment for the guests as they viewed Patrick's work.  The room was too small not to see and talk to Patrick while his work was admired. 

When Patrick told one woman that a painting was created from one of my photographs, she asked, "Who are you and what is your connection here?"  I spent the next twenty minutes telling her about my visit to Tugbaken in the painting, my murals in Liberia where I met Patrick, and why the warmth in the eyes of Koko (in one of Patrick's portraits) was directed at me.    Then, together we marveled over Patrick's amazing talent and how graciously he mingled with the people in the room.

My other long conversation was with a City Commissioner.  I told him a tale of Tugbaken that included five welcoming ceremonies, four chickens, a three-piece country cloth African gowning ceremony, two rural villages and my best friend from my Peace Corps days.  And from there, we moved on to the Patrick story with murals, mentoring and a bond over the past three years.  The only question I couldn't answer was, "Are you a part of this art residency experience for Patrick in Dayton?  Why not?"

I know I am the last person that I personally know to do this.  Who knows?  I may be the last person in the United States.  It feels like, due to all my travels, that I could even be the last person in the whole world.  Kicking and screaming, I finally bought a smartphone.

I'm not a fan.  I see the damage they cause everywhere I go.  Nobody talks to anyone else in public, in the car, or even in the privacy of the dinner table.  And, it may be against the culture today, but I am thoroughly convinced that a smartphone has no place near anyone who is eating.  I'm a firm believer, and I know I'm right, that when you sit down to eat with friends or family for twenty or thirty minutes, they should be the most important people in your life for that brief period.  Listen to what they have to say.  Communicate.  That's who you should speak to at that moment in time.  But, when I go to a restaurant, it appears nobody believes me. 

I'm still right.

When I first heard that texting and driving was a problem, I thought that couldn't possibly be true.  Who could be that stupid?  Well, there are a lot of teenagers - as you might suppose - who fit the adjective, but I see so many adults on their phones as I drive around Columbus.  And, the heart of Buckeye Nation can't be that much different than any other place.

Of course, I have taken my antique flip phone with me as I paint my murals.  It has been mocked, even in one inner city school that I visited.  As I said, everybody else has smartphones.  And, at that particular school, the phones were used by students in their classrooms as they ignored anything and everything they were supposed to learn.  Don't get me started on that conversation.

My antique flip phone didn't work when I traveled overseas with my murals.  My biggest problems with that happened on a very bad day in Fiji.  And, how is it be possible to have a bad day in paradise?  Let me tell you.  The previous day, I was told to be at the airport at 4:30.  Nobody bothered to tell me A.M. or P.M. and I assumed the afternoon.  I was wrong and missed my flight because nobody could contact me.

Plane tickets were changed and I headed to the airport for an afternoon flight.  I was there in plenty of time.  But, I missed the flight.  Without my phone, I couldn't call for help in time of need.  I waited in lines, three of them, for help that never came as the clock ticked away.  I can tell you, with complete certainty, the embassy staff was not impressed with me.  Ever since that disaster I knew what I needed to buy.

I still resisted.

At home I relied on a computer phone service.  I probably shouldn't name it, but there was nothing magic about the service.  It had been giving me problems for months.  Sometimes it worked perfectly, but then you can guess about the other times.  I often didn't receive calls, about as often as I couldn't place them. 

It was maddening.

This past week, I waited two hours for on-line help from their lack-of-service department.  The person I chatted with actually got the dang phone to work for one telephone call.  When I tried the second time, no go.  No dice.  No call.  No luck.  And, certainly, no patience.  So, the following day, I was online with a representative for FOUR, count 'em, FOUR hours.  Of course, the phone worked when we were done.  And, of course, it didn't work the next day.  It hasn't worked since. 

I had to give up.  There was no other choice.  It was time for that dreaded smartphone.

The actual purchasing process was awful.  I should have been nurtured and soothed into the device.  That didn't happen.  I waited over a half hour for a surly sales clerk to return from lunch.  I am always happy after eating.  He wasn't.  He showed no interest in helping me.  He mumbled questions and really didn't like it when I needed him to repeat himself.  And at one point in the transaction, one of his co-workers stopped by.  I didn't need to hear the vulgar conversation that transpired.  I did my research.  There was only one place locally to get the service I wanted.  I was there.  Otherwise, I would have left immediately.

Another one of my reasons for hesitation with the modern world is the lack of privacy.  I've watched enough television shows to know your movements can be traced on a smartphone.  Why else would they require my driver's license and social security number during the transaction?  On top of that, ads pop up when you near certain restaurants and shops.  No, I can't say I'm happy about this.  But, it was a necessary trade-off.

I must have communication.  That's obvious.  I knew it was something I needed, especially for international mural projects.  So, come on, Universe.  I'm now prepared and ready to go.  And, once I figure it out, there is a handy dandy app that translates words - both written and oral - into English.  That'll rock my traveling world like no other convenience I know.  Yep, I can't wait to find that app.  In the meantime, I guess I better learn how to actually place a phone call on my new smartphone. 

I haven't done that yet.

Sometimes there is a lot of "same old, same old" going on in my life in central Ohio.  But, there are times when life is a-maze-ing.  I prefer my truly amazing experiences to be overseas in distant locations where none of my friends really ever want to visit.  I'm not sure why I thrive there, but that is the way life is for me.  Give me a paintbrush and a ticket and I'll gladly paint in the least visited country in Europe, the smallest island nation on the planet, deep in the rain forest of West Africa, or anywhere in Asia or Australia (I'm still waiting for those murals to happen).

Part of my "same-old, same-old" was my most recent mural in the Buckeye State.  But, even it wasn't really a same-old kind of experience.  Let me tell you how things happen in my life.

When I last painted overseas, in Mexico, I traded services with a dentist.  I painted a mural for a deserving grandson while she took care of a root canal and crown.  Who won in that exchange?  It's my feeling that everyone did, especially the very lucky grandson.  But, I knew it was one of those wonderful experiences that only happen outside of the borders of the good old US of A and never inside those borders.

Or so I thought.

My pastor connected me with a chiropractor in need of an artist.  The name of his practice had "Back Pain" mentioned in it.  In passing conversation, I said, "I wish you took care of feet."  Sometimes, it's not good to get what you wish for.  Other times, things just fall into place.  This  was one of those "fall into place moments".

The chiropractor was willing to exchange services.  I received treatment that helped my feet and a local church received a community mural for a newly finished Sunday School classroom.  Everyone won, especially a collection of children around six to nine years old.  You can read the full story here.  If you want the rest of my a-maze-ing tale, you'll have to read on.

Networking is not high on my skills list.  I have lots of talent.  Networking just isn't one of them.  It doesn't stop me from trying.  I have contacted every United States Embassy to tell them about my community murals.  Closer to home, I have written to nearly every school in the neighboring five or so counties.  And, in Columbus, I've contacted all of the neighborhood area commissions to introduce what I do.  It's my conclusion that most people simply delete anonymous, unsolicited emails like mine. Most of this networking has done nothing for me.  Like I said, it's not one of my skills.

Now, if I can get my foot in the door and share what I do, that is a completely different experience.  And, I got my foot into Netcare, a 24/7 organization that provides mental health and substance abuse crisis and assessment services where I live.  My connection was Allan, who heard me present my murals at an area commission a few years ago.  He kept my business card and remembered me.

Netcare didn't exactly want a mural.  They wanted an a-maze-ing labyrinth where people who strolled their courtyard could peacefully wander.  And, when they finally reached the drainage grill in the center, they could throw their worries down the drain.  So, I met with a few people at Netcare.  I told them I had absolutely no experience with what they wanted.  (Sometimes, you just have to be honest.)  However, I wasn't afraid of paint.  And, I assured them that everything would be touched up before I said it was finished.  When they saw the quality of my murals and heard some of my travel stories from Africa, the deal was sealed.

A-maze-ingly, I was going to paint a maze.

It is much, much easier said than done.  The maze came with a diagram and around 80 numbered rectangles of a stencil pattern that needed to be adhered perfectly on the cement surface.  It would have been easier if four two-person teams assembled the stencils.  There were just two of us.  Now, if there were four working teams, of course, something could have gone wrong.  The stencil patterns might not have aligned perfectly.  Nobody would really know who made the mistake.  However, everyone could sit back and blame problems on another group.  When there's only one team working, it better be perfect.

It took an entire day to get the 80 stencils applied with a-maze-ing perfection to the concrete surface.  It was, unfortunately, the sunniest and warmest day we've had in Ohio all year.  I'm not usually one to complain about glorious weather, but it was hard to line up the pattern in the glaring sunlight.  And, when the day was done, I was a mazed artist.  In case you aren't sure, that's not really a good thing.  The job required crawling all over concrete.  I used gloves to protect and cushion my hands.  It helped.  Allan had knee pads, but said they hurt as much as they helped.  I crawled around with a pillow to cushion my knees.  It barely helped at all.  By the end of the day, I ached everywhere.  It was a-maze-ing how many new places could hurt.  And, it was equally a-maze-ing how long everything hurt.  Allan and I both agreed that the stencil should have been applied by a bunch of twenty-something artists from the Columbus College of Art and Design.  They probably wouldn't have ached at all.

I certainly hurt the following day when we applied the paint.  And, I hurt the next day as I started touching up the edges.

I'm used to touching up projects.  All murals require touching up and that's when I shine as the invaluable artist to finish off the work.  I knew all along that I would need to touch up this a-maze-ing maze  I just didn't realize how a-maze-ing I would have to be.  The seal for the adhesive stencil patterns probably would have worked just fine on a gym floor.  We didn't paint one of those.  It was concrete and just as bumpy as you would expect it to be.  The adhesive wasn't meant for that kind of surface.  Paint seeped under the stencil.  I had to go back and touch up the entire border of the maze.  So very fortunately for me, we had several days of rain in the Buckeye State.  I stayed home until the following week and it gave me time for my muscles to recover.

I felt wonderful.  And, as you may expect, a mazed artist completed the task and it simply looks a-maze-ing.

Easter has always provided special memories for me.  When I was a kid, we always went to my grandparents home for a family reunion.  Always.  It was like a Norman Rockwell painting.  Easter included a house full of cousins, Easter baskets, chocolate eggs, egg decorating, an egg hunt before church, "Sunday Best" clothing, all girls (and most women) wearing bonnets, Sunday School where we learned that the eggs represented new life and the Resurrection, and then home for a family feast.  And, that family feast always meant an Easter ham.  You can't really celebrate Easter without a ham.  It may not be written in the Bible, but you still need to have a ham.

One Easter even had a science lesson for me.  I loved chocolate Easter eggs that were coated with a hard candy covering that was mostly white with colored speckles.  I thought that the robin in our backyard might like one in her nest.  She already had a pretty blue egg.  Well, I learned that robins don't like chocolate as much as I did (and still do).  She abandoned the nest.  Some chocolate melts in your mouth, not in your hand.  I guess all chocolate eventually melts in a nest.

Decorating eggs has always been a delight for me.  And, I still love to do it.  Unlike anybody else I know, I decorate my eggs for my Christmas tree, but I remember my mother hanging plastic eggs on a tree in the yard.  My tree has real eggs but the actual tree is fake.  Mom did it the other way around.  But, I know it was Ukrainian eggs at Easter that inspired me to decorate eggs at Christmas.  When I saw them in a magazine, I thought, "I could do that!"  My tree has over 700 egg ornaments.  I guess I really could do that.

My favorite memory of Easter as an adult took place in Eastern Europe where I painted a mural for orphans in Romania.  My host and sponsor was a devout member of the Orthodox Church.  Plans were made to attend an Easter service on my visit.  I don't really think it was an option, but I really wanted to attend anyway.  As I already told you, the "Norman Rockwell" Easter with my grandparents included Sunday morning services.  When you celebrate Easter with Romanians, it's a midnight.  I'm not really at my most alert at midnight or anytime after that.  It didn't matter.  I was at church and everything was in Romanian.  No, I didn’t understand a lot of what happened.  But, that didn’t stop the overwhelming sense of devotion and faith.  No words were needed for that. 

It felt like everyone in the country went to church at midnight.  The chapel was not big enough for the crowd.  The place was packed, standing room only, and the crowd of the devout spilled outside the church, down the sidewalk and into any open area.  Everyone went to church.  I had to ask if there were seats for the worshippers on days that did not have hoards attending the Easter celebration.  No, I didn’t like the answer I received.  Chairs were for old women.  Everyone else stood no matter how long the service. 
 
I felt like an old woman and really wanted a chair.

Each person inside or outside of the church received a candle.  However, none of the candles was lit and the church was dark.  Darkness in a standing room only situation wasn’t ideal, but there was a reason for this.  A recent Orthodox tradition across Eastern Europe included candle light brought directly from Jerusalem.  I have no idea how that was actually accomplished.  I'm going to guess that that flame didn't go through the scanner at the airport and probably wasn't x-rayed or patted down.  The candle light must have traveled by chartered jet, which is certainly better than I have ever traveled. 
 
At one moment, around midnight, a priest appeared holding a bouquet with a flaming candle in the middle.  And from that flame, imported all the way from the Holy Land, one by one all of the candles were lit inside the chapel and out on to the street.  There was a lot of chanting in Romanian, or Latin, I couldn't be sure.  But, even I learned how to say the main greeting repeated by all the devout, “Christ is Risen!” and “He is risen indeed!”
 
The celebration continued throughout the night and into the wee hours of dawn.  It was approximately one in the morning when we left (much earlier than most of the devout).  After the service, there was a traditional Easter dinner with my hosts.  I’m not usually (ever) hungry after midnight.  I’ve always considered it a good time of the evening, er … morning, to sleep rather than eat.  But, it was a feast!  The meal started by breaking Easter eggs.  You shared the experience with someone else at the table (each person took a turn to crack the tip of their neighbor’s egg with their own egg) and proclaimed Hristos a Înviat!  (Christ is risen). 
 
The table was filled with meat wrapped in cheese, as well as a dish that was sort of like potato salad.  It was heavy food and there didn’t appear to be any light eaters in Romania.  I love any and all forms of potatoes.  So, I filled up on the delightful food.  But when the plates were taken away, another course was delivered.  Why didn’t anyone tell me about another course?  I didn’t need another course.  I had no room for another course.  I received another course.  This time I was served turkey and lamb.  The correct way to eat the lamb was with a bit of yogurt/garlic sauce and a sip of local red wine. 
 
And, yes, there were desserts.  Two of them!  I was too full and too sleepy to even remember what they were.  But, I remember two.
 
Before leaving for the hotel at three in the morning, I asked about the recipe for that potato salad.  It was the only dish of the evening that I possibly had a chance to reproduce.  It was very fun trying to figure out the names of some of the ingredients in English.

                                                                    Monika’s Potato Salad
                                                                      Bucharest, Romania
 
                    1 pound of potatoes                           2 eggs
                    1 pound of carrots                              oil                            
                    7/8 cup celery root                             dash of salt
                    2/3 pound chicken breast                  little bit of mustard
                    1 ¼ cups sweet pickles                      1 lemon                
                    1 ¼ cups sweet peppers                            
                                                                   
         
Boil the potatoes, carrots and celery root (if you know what it is and can find it) in water with a dash of salt.  After they cool, dice them.
 
As the vegetables cool, dice the chicken, pickles and sweet peppers. Then, add everything to the vegetables.  For this recipe, the peppers were not the kind you find in the fresh vegetable section of the grocery.  They were bottled and pickled in sweet vinegar.  I’d never seen this product before.  But, if you can find them (and I have since seen them even at my local grocery) use the pickled version.  The whole mixture is held together with mayonnaise.  And the amount used is a matter of taste.  Mold the mixture on a platter to form a flattened igloo shape.
 
In Bucharest, the recipe called for homemade mayonnaise.  That’s another thing I’ve never done before.  Probably never will!  To make this, start with salt and an egg yolk.  Add oil a drop at a time (I have no patience for that!) and stir only clockwise.  Add the juice of the lemon and a taste of mustard.  I’ll add mustard to the mayonnaise I buy.
 
The entire surface of the salad on the platter is glazed with the mayonnaise.  Very long slivers of the sweet pickles are coiled to decorate the base of the igloo in a series of red circles.  Decorative flowers on top of the salad are made by piles of finely diced egg whites and garnished with sprigs of dill (or parsley) for the leaves. 

Hristos a Înviat!