14 hours ago
Friday, May 13, 2005
(From Paris): wait, where is everyone?
Did anyone doubt that a trip where you’re traveling companions are a blogger and a non-blogger would wind up having high drama even before anyone reached the airport?
Traveling with me on this leg of the journey are Jeremy and Madeline (one of these is identified by their true name the other is not). Madeline was to meet me at Memorial Union to catch the bus to O’Hare. Jeremy was to meet us at O’Hare to catch our flight to Paris. I come to the Union, get on the bus – no Madeline. She missed the bus (for good reasons but who cares, Air France doesn’t reimburse for good reasons unless it’s a death or dismemberment and there was no death or dismemberment in this case).
I am at the airport now and I have no idea what’s going on. No Madeline, no Jeremy. Okay. DO I REALLY HAVE THE WRONG DATE??
No wrong date. Jeremy shows up. Madeline is en route, he tells me. There was confusion as to the departure time. She is now speeding with a co-opted friend. She may get here on time. Or not.
Meantime, Jeremy and I are given business lounge privileges and I am handed a dilemma. The AirFrance agent leans over and whispers: Madame, I can upgrade you up to business; you are our most favored customer [this is an artifact, btw, of this year where I have used AF for everything, including travel from Chicago to Tokyo: it earned me super brownie points, though only for 2005.]
What would the ethicist say? Abandon Jeremy and move to Business?? Here, I am proud to say that I did the honorable thing. And the more fun thing: I sat back with the sardines so that we could repeatedly beat each other in chess, checkers and hangman. [Jeremy will undoubtedly blog that he beat me at all these games but if you only knew how I set him up for a win you’d realize that I was the true victor.]
Madeline showed up as we were boarding. She showed up. On time. To board the plane.
Can this trip not be a success? No it cannot.
Damn it, in four hours I AM GOING TO BE IN FRANCE!!
Traveling with me on this leg of the journey are Jeremy and Madeline (one of these is identified by their true name the other is not). Madeline was to meet me at Memorial Union to catch the bus to O’Hare. Jeremy was to meet us at O’Hare to catch our flight to Paris. I come to the Union, get on the bus – no Madeline. She missed the bus (for good reasons but who cares, Air France doesn’t reimburse for good reasons unless it’s a death or dismemberment and there was no death or dismemberment in this case).
I am at the airport now and I have no idea what’s going on. No Madeline, no Jeremy. Okay. DO I REALLY HAVE THE WRONG DATE??
No wrong date. Jeremy shows up. Madeline is en route, he tells me. There was confusion as to the departure time. She is now speeding with a co-opted friend. She may get here on time. Or not.
Meantime, Jeremy and I are given business lounge privileges and I am handed a dilemma. The AirFrance agent leans over and whispers: Madame, I can upgrade you up to business; you are our most favored customer [this is an artifact, btw, of this year where I have used AF for everything, including travel from Chicago to Tokyo: it earned me super brownie points, though only for 2005.]
What would the ethicist say? Abandon Jeremy and move to Business?? Here, I am proud to say that I did the honorable thing. And the more fun thing: I sat back with the sardines so that we could repeatedly beat each other in chess, checkers and hangman. [Jeremy will undoubtedly blog that he beat me at all these games but if you only knew how I set him up for a win you’d realize that I was the true victor.]
Madeline showed up as we were boarding. She showed up. On time. To board the plane.
Can this trip not be a success? No it cannot.
Damn it, in four hours I AM GOING TO BE IN FRANCE!!
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Weather issues
I do get obsessive about looking at weather sites when I have many “outdoor” days before me. At http://www.wunderground.com/ you can get a motherload of information about the weather in the location of your choice. And so I’ve been curiously checking in: for Paris, Krakow and Warsaw – my destinations for the week to come.
One reason why I like this site is because they are more optimistic than, say, cnn.com. Where the latter has been predicting “rain” for Paris consistently for the past several days, Weather Underground has been scoffing at that with a “scattered clouds” icon neatly in place: a little picture of a smiling sun in a circle of puffy clouds. I like that. (Okay, Saturday, I may have to take an umbrella, but at least Friday remains solidly dry.)
It’s the temps that puzzle me though. Each of my cities will have one day next week (a different one) where inexplicably, the temps are to dip by some 15 degrees (for a high of 51). And it’s not like it’ll be tomorrow or the next day. We’re talking about something like Tuesday.
In Europe, there are not these continental drifts where you can see something heading toward you like in Madison. Or, at least I have never figured out what the meteorological relationships between regions are. All I know is that storms in Spain have little to do with the weather in the Polish mountains.
So what’s with the Tuesday dip and where is it coming from? Weird.
Weather on the continent is beastly unpredictable at this time of the year. One has to go with the flow and not mind, but I have to say that if the sun barely comes out in the next days, I will be good and mad. And cold, since I refuse to pack warm stuff on the theory that if I don’t want it to be cold, my suitcase should reflect these weather hopes and not weather resignations.
Right now my suitcase reflects great emptiness. The bus for O'Hare leaves in a few hours. I am behind schedule already. Time to surrender the blog until tomorrow. From Paris. Under scattered clouds.
One reason why I like this site is because they are more optimistic than, say, cnn.com. Where the latter has been predicting “rain” for Paris consistently for the past several days, Weather Underground has been scoffing at that with a “scattered clouds” icon neatly in place: a little picture of a smiling sun in a circle of puffy clouds. I like that. (Okay, Saturday, I may have to take an umbrella, but at least Friday remains solidly dry.)
It’s the temps that puzzle me though. Each of my cities will have one day next week (a different one) where inexplicably, the temps are to dip by some 15 degrees (for a high of 51). And it’s not like it’ll be tomorrow or the next day. We’re talking about something like Tuesday.
In Europe, there are not these continental drifts where you can see something heading toward you like in Madison. Or, at least I have never figured out what the meteorological relationships between regions are. All I know is that storms in Spain have little to do with the weather in the Polish mountains.
So what’s with the Tuesday dip and where is it coming from? Weird.
Weather on the continent is beastly unpredictable at this time of the year. One has to go with the flow and not mind, but I have to say that if the sun barely comes out in the next days, I will be good and mad. And cold, since I refuse to pack warm stuff on the theory that if I don’t want it to be cold, my suitcase should reflect these weather hopes and not weather resignations.
Right now my suitcase reflects great emptiness. The bus for O'Hare leaves in a few hours. I am behind schedule already. Time to surrender the blog until tomorrow. From Paris. Under scattered clouds.
And what will I take with me on this trip?
Okay, everyone has their own essentials of travel: toothbrush, pills, underwear, books, passport, whatever. For me they would have to include these two photos (of daughters), taken just hours ago. They’ll be the first thing that I’ll show my old friends back in Poland.
[It was fantastic having the daughters in Madison these past few days. Such total pleasure to have them accompany me on my daily ramblings...]
[It was fantastic having the daughters in Madison these past few days. Such total pleasure to have them accompany me on my daily ramblings...]
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Reservations
It’s a special moment when I get to pick up the phone here in Madison and say Est-ce que je peux faire une reservation? It means that within a short period of time I will actually be using said reservation in a place where English is not the primary language.
Tomorrow morning I am heading out to Paris and by Sunday, I'll be in Warsaw and Krakow.
There are blogging challenges ahead: Obviously tomorrow's posting will be light as I will be traveling. However, there's more: out of the 18 days in Europe, only during the last 3 will I not be in the company of friends from Madison. This is a first for me. With the exception of an interlude some decades back, I have been going back to Poland at least once a year. Never ever has anyone volunteered to either travel with me there, nor to meet up in Poland. To France? Oh sure, many candidates, many trips with friends and strangers. But Poland has always brought forth this reaction:
So, you're going back to Poland! I really would love to go there someday!
And there it would end.
This Spring, I do not know what winds were blowing through Madison and messing with people's heads, but here I am now, setting out to Poland, with four Madisonians joining me for various portions of the trip.
I am still dizzy at the thought.
And -- weirder still, during the first week, one blogger will be tagging along and during the second week another blogger will be there to pick up any blogger slack.
Basically this will mean that you may well have more than one commentary on the places talked of (somewhat reverently, I admit) in Ocean. Sort of like point - counter point, where I write, for example: we just walked through the most beautiful park on the planet, and the other person notes: we just avoided being eaten alive by some vicious swans who thought they deserved a handout just because we're tourists passing through. Different perspectives.
Should be fun. And a writing nightmare! Poland has decent but not great Internet options and oftentimes I wind up posting from a hotel dial-up. But in addition, this time I will feel that my absolutely top priority is making sure that my cotravelers are happily experiencing Poland, to the max. That means I will probably blog between 2:30 and 4 am. When else will there be time? But post I will, for sure.
At least the posts will be shorter (especially as compared to this obscenely long one).
Okay, a few more parting words tomorrow a.m. and then Ocean does what it loves best: it transports itself across the ocean and takes up the story there.
Tomorrow morning I am heading out to Paris and by Sunday, I'll be in Warsaw and Krakow.
There are blogging challenges ahead: Obviously tomorrow's posting will be light as I will be traveling. However, there's more: out of the 18 days in Europe, only during the last 3 will I not be in the company of friends from Madison. This is a first for me. With the exception of an interlude some decades back, I have been going back to Poland at least once a year. Never ever has anyone volunteered to either travel with me there, nor to meet up in Poland. To France? Oh sure, many candidates, many trips with friends and strangers. But Poland has always brought forth this reaction:
So, you're going back to Poland! I really would love to go there someday!
And there it would end.
This Spring, I do not know what winds were blowing through Madison and messing with people's heads, but here I am now, setting out to Poland, with four Madisonians joining me for various portions of the trip.
I am still dizzy at the thought.
And -- weirder still, during the first week, one blogger will be tagging along and during the second week another blogger will be there to pick up any blogger slack.
Basically this will mean that you may well have more than one commentary on the places talked of (somewhat reverently, I admit) in Ocean. Sort of like point - counter point, where I write, for example: we just walked through the most beautiful park on the planet, and the other person notes: we just avoided being eaten alive by some vicious swans who thought they deserved a handout just because we're tourists passing through. Different perspectives.
Should be fun. And a writing nightmare! Poland has decent but not great Internet options and oftentimes I wind up posting from a hotel dial-up. But in addition, this time I will feel that my absolutely top priority is making sure that my cotravelers are happily experiencing Poland, to the max. That means I will probably blog between 2:30 and 4 am. When else will there be time? But post I will, for sure.
At least the posts will be shorter (especially as compared to this obscenely long one).
Okay, a few more parting words tomorrow a.m. and then Ocean does what it loves best: it transports itself across the ocean and takes up the story there.
Is the pope Polish?
Not any more. But this does not prevent him from addressing Poles on St.Peter's Square in their native language.
Yesterday, he said this to the crowd: Pozdrawiam obecnych tu Polaków. W tych dniach razem z wami oddaję cześć świętemu Stanisławowi i polecam jego opiece cały Kościół w Polsce. Z serca wam błogosławię. Niech będzie pochwalony Jezus Chrystus!*
A mouthful for a non-Pole, wouldn't you say?
* translation: oh, it's just the usual religious stuff, with a focus on St. Stanislaw and the Polish church.
Yesterday, he said this to the crowd: Pozdrawiam obecnych tu Polaków. W tych dniach razem z wami oddaję cześć świętemu Stanisławowi i polecam jego opiece cały Kościół w Polsce. Z serca wam błogosławię. Niech będzie pochwalony Jezus Chrystus!*
A mouthful for a non-Pole, wouldn't you say?
* translation: oh, it's just the usual religious stuff, with a focus on St. Stanislaw and the Polish church.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Mermaids and things
My sister, who lives in Warsaw, today sent me some notes on legends surrounding mermaids. Why? Because the mermaid is the mascot of Warsaw, and she knows that days prior to my arrival I especially get interested in things surrounding my home town.
But you have to ask yourself why a mermaid would be the city’s mascot. As someone pointed out, Warsaw is some 300 kilometers away from the sea. What sense does it make to give a mermaid a shield and a couple of good looking breasts and place her on every moving piece of public transportation, to say nothing of stamps and municipal buildings, supplemented by a couple of monuments honoring her?
And mermaid legends are a little bit unreal. Typically they go something like this: a fisherman finds her, falls in love, rescues her or she him and then either he is forever satisfied with a mermaid in his chambers or she turns out to be, in real life, a lovely, wealthy princess, with her lower body then suddenly transformed as she becomes readily available for marital consumption in all ways – as opposed to the mermaid who has to satisfy and be satisfied basically with her top torso, with perhaps a smack of the tail thrown in for those who love a little pain on the side.
Warsaw’s mermaid has been around for centuries. Currently, her monument resides in the center of the Old Town Square, and there is another, bigger version by the river. I grew up in her shadow. I liked her sword raised high, I liked that she was a woman, I liked that she belonged to Warsaw, and not, say, to inferior Krakow (there is great rivalry between the two cities: it has been an ongoing sibling thing for some 1000 years; I don’t know if Americans can appreciate that, given the baby status of all urban centers here).
So, a mermaid it is: right there, in the center of the Old Town of Warsaw, with her bottom covered but her top exposed. She’s awesome, even if a little out of place. Warsaw’s protector in some spiritual sense. Triumphant and …mermaid-like.
But you have to ask yourself why a mermaid would be the city’s mascot. As someone pointed out, Warsaw is some 300 kilometers away from the sea. What sense does it make to give a mermaid a shield and a couple of good looking breasts and place her on every moving piece of public transportation, to say nothing of stamps and municipal buildings, supplemented by a couple of monuments honoring her?
And mermaid legends are a little bit unreal. Typically they go something like this: a fisherman finds her, falls in love, rescues her or she him and then either he is forever satisfied with a mermaid in his chambers or she turns out to be, in real life, a lovely, wealthy princess, with her lower body then suddenly transformed as she becomes readily available for marital consumption in all ways – as opposed to the mermaid who has to satisfy and be satisfied basically with her top torso, with perhaps a smack of the tail thrown in for those who love a little pain on the side.
Warsaw’s mermaid has been around for centuries. Currently, her monument resides in the center of the Old Town Square, and there is another, bigger version by the river. I grew up in her shadow. I liked her sword raised high, I liked that she was a woman, I liked that she belonged to Warsaw, and not, say, to inferior Krakow (there is great rivalry between the two cities: it has been an ongoing sibling thing for some 1000 years; I don’t know if Americans can appreciate that, given the baby status of all urban centers here).
So, a mermaid it is: right there, in the center of the Old Town of Warsaw, with her bottom covered but her top exposed. She’s awesome, even if a little out of place. Warsaw’s protector in some spiritual sense. Triumphant and …mermaid-like.
I'm okay, I'm okay!
A reader, concerned that my my recent days demonstrate a pace that has more elements of frantic than of either rational or calm, forwarded a super nice message which included his wishes for more restful days and a photo to put me in the mood for a nice moment of repose. I am passing it on, wishing the same for my readers, who have patiently endured my frenetic and overly wordy posts:
Another one of those evenings where I fall asleep at the computer with a half-written post
It's midnight, I’m sitting here thinking: keep it short, keep it short.
My attempt at short:
Today (Monday) I get up worrying that maybe I have the beginnings of a tooth ache. I just had had everything checked several weeks ago, but I am having an acute attack of teeth hypochondria. So I go to the dentist.
Many people worry about being lost in a foreign country without knowing the language. That is never a concern for me. Instead, I have a hidden terror of being stuck in a country with a strange and frightening network of dentists incompetently playing with their instruments of torture. Like it’s a power trip or something to grind away at the exposed nerve endings of a person helplessly strapped to a chair.
Perhaps I remember too well what it was like going to the dentist as a kid in Poland. No pain killers. Just pain. Endless, horrible pain. I know much has changed since the fall of communism. I am sure market economy dentists are of a different breed and inflicting pain is not longer the top priority it once was. Still, I am left with an irrational fear of them and so I often find myself just hours before a flight sitting in a dentist’s chair here in Madison, attempting to convince my tooth doctor that there surely is a problem and could he please detect it and fix it before I take off.
My chart must have the following note scribbled in it: “this is one of those pre-departure emergency visits. If indulged, she will go away and leave us alone until the next planned crossing of the ocean." So this morning I am indulged. The dentist even took out some "special paint" and brushed it over the tooth in question with a “special formula” that would keep it from giving me trouble in the weeks to come. Even though, as he pointed out, there is nothing wrong with the tooth. (I think he just missed the emergent problem, that’s all. Still, I feel that I will survive the three weeks I am away.)
After my early trip to the dentist (I was there at 8:01, just as they were opening up), I deal with the suitcase issue (see post below).
Then I have a meeting at the Law School during which I feel like basically my entire professional life is being quickly, conspiratorily set for me as I am struggling to give coherent responses. I survive, but I come out sweating, being especially appreciative of Tom’s Natural Scent, because believe me, without it, I would have been too naturally scented for words.
Then, quickly in succession: a coffee meeting to talk about Poland, special dinner for a daughter, burgers with a couple of bloggers, a cosmo at Opus lounge with said daughter, and then, finally, a minute with the computer, with HENIEK blasting away in the background.
[HENIEK is a spirited Polish folk song that my pals in Poland presented me with (on a CD) a few years back. I listen to it more than I will EVER admit to (just about) anyone. ]
And before I know it, I wake up, find the half-written post, along with a toy bird perched at the side of the keyboard and a pair of sunglasses casually folded next to it. What was I doing? Could it be that I was singing HENIEK with sunglasses on? To a toy bird? I do not remember. Sleep took over. This morning (Tuesday), I am only cleaning up the pieces of an abrupt ending to a long day.
My attempt at short:
Today (Monday) I get up worrying that maybe I have the beginnings of a tooth ache. I just had had everything checked several weeks ago, but I am having an acute attack of teeth hypochondria. So I go to the dentist.
Many people worry about being lost in a foreign country without knowing the language. That is never a concern for me. Instead, I have a hidden terror of being stuck in a country with a strange and frightening network of dentists incompetently playing with their instruments of torture. Like it’s a power trip or something to grind away at the exposed nerve endings of a person helplessly strapped to a chair.
Perhaps I remember too well what it was like going to the dentist as a kid in Poland. No pain killers. Just pain. Endless, horrible pain. I know much has changed since the fall of communism. I am sure market economy dentists are of a different breed and inflicting pain is not longer the top priority it once was. Still, I am left with an irrational fear of them and so I often find myself just hours before a flight sitting in a dentist’s chair here in Madison, attempting to convince my tooth doctor that there surely is a problem and could he please detect it and fix it before I take off.
My chart must have the following note scribbled in it: “this is one of those pre-departure emergency visits. If indulged, she will go away and leave us alone until the next planned crossing of the ocean." So this morning I am indulged. The dentist even took out some "special paint" and brushed it over the tooth in question with a “special formula” that would keep it from giving me trouble in the weeks to come. Even though, as he pointed out, there is nothing wrong with the tooth. (I think he just missed the emergent problem, that’s all. Still, I feel that I will survive the three weeks I am away.)
After my early trip to the dentist (I was there at 8:01, just as they were opening up), I deal with the suitcase issue (see post below).
Then I have a meeting at the Law School during which I feel like basically my entire professional life is being quickly, conspiratorily set for me as I am struggling to give coherent responses. I survive, but I come out sweating, being especially appreciative of Tom’s Natural Scent, because believe me, without it, I would have been too naturally scented for words.
Then, quickly in succession: a coffee meeting to talk about Poland, special dinner for a daughter, burgers with a couple of bloggers, a cosmo at Opus lounge with said daughter, and then, finally, a minute with the computer, with HENIEK blasting away in the background.
[HENIEK is a spirited Polish folk song that my pals in Poland presented me with (on a CD) a few years back. I listen to it more than I will EVER admit to (just about) anyone. ]
And before I know it, I wake up, find the half-written post, along with a toy bird perched at the side of the keyboard and a pair of sunglasses casually folded next to it. What was I doing? Could it be that I was singing HENIEK with sunglasses on? To a toy bird? I do not remember. Sleep took over. This morning (Tuesday), I am only cleaning up the pieces of an abrupt ending to a long day.
Monday, May 09, 2005
The suitcase
I am to transport a suitcase from here to Chicago for a friend later this week. I picked up the suitcase from a prearranged place where it was left earlier this morning. It’s packed and ready to go.
However, as I lifted it into my truck, I noticed that one of the zippers was broken: it was one of those situations where you think you’ve pulled the zipper shut, but it leaves a trail of unconnected little zipper teeth in its wake. It was not a crucial zipper, not the foundation that holds the whole bag together, but it does expand and contract the suitcase and so it does serve a function.
Dilemma: should I fix it before handing it over to the friend in Chicago? I mean, Cecil over at shoe repair is a magician with these things. But if I fix it, shouldn’t I unpack it first? [The friend cannot be consulted with on this one – he’s up in the air somewhere, flying around the States.]
I could unpack it and no one would ever know. Unless my friend put one of those crucial hairs or threads in a particular place to see if any person would poke around his personal belongings. But the ethics of such an intrusion notwithstanding, I do not really want to poke around someone’s stuff. There are things that one doesn’t really want to know, even about very very good friends. Like how many mismatched socks they have or if they fold shirts neatly.
Handing a filled suitcase to Cecil is also unfair. Do you know Cecil? He is old, stooped, frail. He should not have to muck around with packed suitcases.
What would the ethicist say?
Answer: for every ethical dilemma there is an innovative solution. Cecil solved this one for me by fixing it on the spot while I lifted and moved the bag around for him. The guy is a repair genius – always has been. My kids were raised to show great reverence and respect for the man, as he has bailed us out of many shoe and suitcase problems over the decades.
Cecil understood the dilemma. Of course! He’s the kind of guy who may have himself packed an odd little private something in his day. He’s a man of strange habits after all – the same man who kept cats in his store and got chased out of the strip mall because the cats peed on the hallway carpets. Cecil didn’t seem to mind. He loved his cats and proclaimed: if the cats go, I go. And so out he went, to a different strip mall, one without any carpeted hallway to pee on and mess with.
It says something about my days that this was by far the most interesting thing that happened to me all morning.
However, as I lifted it into my truck, I noticed that one of the zippers was broken: it was one of those situations where you think you’ve pulled the zipper shut, but it leaves a trail of unconnected little zipper teeth in its wake. It was not a crucial zipper, not the foundation that holds the whole bag together, but it does expand and contract the suitcase and so it does serve a function.
Dilemma: should I fix it before handing it over to the friend in Chicago? I mean, Cecil over at shoe repair is a magician with these things. But if I fix it, shouldn’t I unpack it first? [The friend cannot be consulted with on this one – he’s up in the air somewhere, flying around the States.]
I could unpack it and no one would ever know. Unless my friend put one of those crucial hairs or threads in a particular place to see if any person would poke around his personal belongings. But the ethics of such an intrusion notwithstanding, I do not really want to poke around someone’s stuff. There are things that one doesn’t really want to know, even about very very good friends. Like how many mismatched socks they have or if they fold shirts neatly.
Handing a filled suitcase to Cecil is also unfair. Do you know Cecil? He is old, stooped, frail. He should not have to muck around with packed suitcases.
What would the ethicist say?
Answer: for every ethical dilemma there is an innovative solution. Cecil solved this one for me by fixing it on the spot while I lifted and moved the bag around for him. The guy is a repair genius – always has been. My kids were raised to show great reverence and respect for the man, as he has bailed us out of many shoe and suitcase problems over the decades.
Cecil understood the dilemma. Of course! He’s the kind of guy who may have himself packed an odd little private something in his day. He’s a man of strange habits after all – the same man who kept cats in his store and got chased out of the strip mall because the cats peed on the hallway carpets. Cecil didn’t seem to mind. He loved his cats and proclaimed: if the cats go, I go. And so out he went, to a different strip mall, one without any carpeted hallway to pee on and mess with.
It says something about my days that this was by far the most interesting thing that happened to me all morning.
We are the young, the children of the world…
I knew it. My trust in Peter was well-founded. I came home at dusk and found him thus, proud keeper of my yard: (thanks, nine-year-old pal! you rule!)
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Motherlicious: seven degrees of bond-ification
A happy mother's day to all my mother-ly friends!
So my first gift of the day – an e-card… mmmmm, so nice…
My second: come on, let’s not get up just yet, a few more hours! It was the longest repose I have had in years…
My third gift: a walk. To the Arboretum (a mere five miles away), then from the Arboretum to Borders (add three more) and then home (another three, easily);
My fourth gift: martini glasses from my girls (they read Ocean too carefully). Beautiful! With a swirl of blue!
My fifth gift: dinner out (where I meant to post pictures but ultimately forgot, as is my tendency these days);
My sixth gift: the best Cosmo I have ever had at Eno Vino. With cranberry essence swirling down the glass… yum!
My seventh gift: looking at the album of photos where my older daughter was learning to bond with her newborn sister. You wonder then: where is this heading? How strong will their connection be? So now, twenty years later I know. And it truly is the accomplishment of accomplishments for me: to know that I have not derailed (indeed, facilitated?) this deep bond between two sisters. Happy mother on this day, indeed.
So my first gift of the day – an e-card… mmmmm, so nice…
My second: come on, let’s not get up just yet, a few more hours! It was the longest repose I have had in years…
My third gift: a walk. To the Arboretum (a mere five miles away), then from the Arboretum to Borders (add three more) and then home (another three, easily);
My fourth gift: martini glasses from my girls (they read Ocean too carefully). Beautiful! With a swirl of blue!
My fifth gift: dinner out (where I meant to post pictures but ultimately forgot, as is my tendency these days);
My sixth gift: the best Cosmo I have ever had at Eno Vino. With cranberry essence swirling down the glass… yum!
My seventh gift: looking at the album of photos where my older daughter was learning to bond with her newborn sister. You wonder then: where is this heading? How strong will their connection be? So now, twenty years later I know. And it truly is the accomplishment of accomplishments for me: to know that I have not derailed (indeed, facilitated?) this deep bond between two sisters. Happy mother on this day, indeed.
A Tale of Two Parties
Why is my recollection of them so fuzzy this morning?
Two parties: one -- a gathering of the Sad Liberals in the neighborhood, the other -- honoring Chef Tory, the new proprietor of Madison’s legendary restaurant downtown.
Snippets, I remember snippets. From the Sad Liberals:
Are our houses built on landfills? No, farmland.
But there is a landfill underneath the schools. Did you know it has been documented that men in this area have an unusually high degree of sexual (something or other: here my memory fails; what was it: impotence? malfunction? virility? what???)…
...No kidding, and then there’s that run off “stream” that comes out of nowhere. Where is that water from? The 100-year rain pond off of Mineral Point Road. The 100-year rain pond? It is 100 years old? No (explanation follows, I have little recollection of it).
...Oh, if you are making martinis, you can have the olives in my refrigerator. Go ahead and take them, the front door is open. (a few minutes later) You have absolutely no food in your refrigerator! You didn't see the organic eggs, organic skim milk and organic strawberries? Not nothing in my book.
Do you know that it has been said that there are six layers of meaning to every Dickens novel? And that it is nearly impossible to get at some of them? Classes are constructed to analyze just some of these layers from one text. Why do you write your blog (a direct reference to Ocean here) like a Dickens novel (this was not hurled as a compliment, nor was it received as such)? Why not just say what you mean so that we do not have to have a class to analyze the six layers of Ocean (this was perceived as a compliment even though it was probably not hurled as such)? Sometimes there are only three layers of meaning. Sometimes there is only one. Sometimes.
From the Tory night:
My sister is managing the business itself as I take charge of the kitchen. You know, if I had known half a year ago that I would be co-owner of a “French” (one could call the style of cooking here that, if pressed for a label, though Alice Waters would, I suppose, protest) restaurant, I would have paid attention to what and where I was eating when I happened to be visiting Paris.
I love some of the new things you are already doing with the menu! Like the chili pepper in the chocolate Vesuvius truffle. Yeah, that was awesome. We want to update the dining room. Soon! Of course, we have to be prudent. We just bought a restaurant!
This is the best damn sangria in the world... all in the quality of the wine and the cutting into it of the right fruits, don’t you think? When was the last time you have had great sangria?
After which I vaguely remember telling Tory’s sister (who maintains her residence and also work connection in Racine and is desperately looking for a decent and affordable place to stay in Madison) that she should stay at my house which is too big for me anyway, if indeed I myself am still staying at this house since it is too big for me anyway. Though, I forgot to warn her that men in this neighborhood have a high degree of sexual something or other. [I can’t believe I virtually gave away my residence to a person whom I barely know. I tend to do things like that if I like someone. And no, it is not the result of drinking too much sangria. Though it was really good sangria.]
Two parties: one -- a gathering of the Sad Liberals in the neighborhood, the other -- honoring Chef Tory, the new proprietor of Madison’s legendary restaurant downtown.
Snippets, I remember snippets. From the Sad Liberals:
Are our houses built on landfills? No, farmland.
But there is a landfill underneath the schools. Did you know it has been documented that men in this area have an unusually high degree of sexual (something or other: here my memory fails; what was it: impotence? malfunction? virility? what???)…
...No kidding, and then there’s that run off “stream” that comes out of nowhere. Where is that water from? The 100-year rain pond off of Mineral Point Road. The 100-year rain pond? It is 100 years old? No (explanation follows, I have little recollection of it).
...Oh, if you are making martinis, you can have the olives in my refrigerator. Go ahead and take them, the front door is open. (a few minutes later) You have absolutely no food in your refrigerator! You didn't see the organic eggs, organic skim milk and organic strawberries? Not nothing in my book.
Do you know that it has been said that there are six layers of meaning to every Dickens novel? And that it is nearly impossible to get at some of them? Classes are constructed to analyze just some of these layers from one text. Why do you write your blog (a direct reference to Ocean here) like a Dickens novel (this was not hurled as a compliment, nor was it received as such)? Why not just say what you mean so that we do not have to have a class to analyze the six layers of Ocean (this was perceived as a compliment even though it was probably not hurled as such)? Sometimes there are only three layers of meaning. Sometimes there is only one. Sometimes.
From the Tory night:
My sister is managing the business itself as I take charge of the kitchen. You know, if I had known half a year ago that I would be co-owner of a “French” (one could call the style of cooking here that, if pressed for a label, though Alice Waters would, I suppose, protest) restaurant, I would have paid attention to what and where I was eating when I happened to be visiting Paris.
I love some of the new things you are already doing with the menu! Like the chili pepper in the chocolate Vesuvius truffle. Yeah, that was awesome. We want to update the dining room. Soon! Of course, we have to be prudent. We just bought a restaurant!
This is the best damn sangria in the world... all in the quality of the wine and the cutting into it of the right fruits, don’t you think? When was the last time you have had great sangria?
After which I vaguely remember telling Tory’s sister (who maintains her residence and also work connection in Racine and is desperately looking for a decent and affordable place to stay in Madison) that she should stay at my house which is too big for me anyway, if indeed I myself am still staying at this house since it is too big for me anyway. Though, I forgot to warn her that men in this neighborhood have a high degree of sexual something or other. [I can’t believe I virtually gave away my residence to a person whom I barely know. I tend to do things like that if I like someone. And no, it is not the result of drinking too much sangria. Though it was really good sangria.]
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Spinning tops
Life is a blurr (like the photo below?)
Things are spinning, spinning, oh! those of you who were children in the fifties and sixties: remember those tops we had? The ones where we wound the string around and around, climbing it up the sides of the top and then with one fast release – off it went!
Sometimes I think that I have been using my years to wind up this top of mine and now I am letting it fly. Wheeee! Such a cool toy (sometimes the spin is a dud, a failure).
So I’m spinning along, only it seems that, unlike the toy, my speed is increasing.
Diversions, there are diversions: currently I am enjoying the company of one daughter who is home for a few days. Another will join us soon. This is a movement I can live with. Their popping in for a brief spell is like a coating of rich dense chocolate over a candied orange peel. [Now why did I think of that? I am not sure…]
This morning I went to the Saturday market. My first this year! I’m posting three pictures: one of our local cooking hero of the year, Chef Tory, taking care of foraging for foods at the market because his employed forager (me) decided she didn’t feel like working today. [Does he look peeved? No, that’s what makes him cooler than cool. More Tory news later as I plan on celebrating his ascent this week to restaurant stardom later tonight.]
The second photo is of a person who loves her spice girl treat on a Saturday morning (a daughter who has heretofore resisted being part of an Ocean post, but for some reason decided to oblige today; the surprise of the moment was so great that I rushed with the shot blurring it to pieces, of course).
The third is of the bouquet that traveled home with us. If only I could post the incredible fragrance. It smells like…lilacs. Real, wonderful, blooming lilacs. No surprise there.
Things are spinning, spinning, oh! those of you who were children in the fifties and sixties: remember those tops we had? The ones where we wound the string around and around, climbing it up the sides of the top and then with one fast release – off it went!
Sometimes I think that I have been using my years to wind up this top of mine and now I am letting it fly. Wheeee! Such a cool toy (sometimes the spin is a dud, a failure).
So I’m spinning along, only it seems that, unlike the toy, my speed is increasing.
Diversions, there are diversions: currently I am enjoying the company of one daughter who is home for a few days. Another will join us soon. This is a movement I can live with. Their popping in for a brief spell is like a coating of rich dense chocolate over a candied orange peel. [Now why did I think of that? I am not sure…]
This morning I went to the Saturday market. My first this year! I’m posting three pictures: one of our local cooking hero of the year, Chef Tory, taking care of foraging for foods at the market because his employed forager (me) decided she didn’t feel like working today. [Does he look peeved? No, that’s what makes him cooler than cool. More Tory news later as I plan on celebrating his ascent this week to restaurant stardom later tonight.]
The second photo is of a person who loves her spice girl treat on a Saturday morning (a daughter who has heretofore resisted being part of an Ocean post, but for some reason decided to oblige today; the surprise of the moment was so great that I rushed with the shot blurring it to pieces, of course).
The third is of the bouquet that traveled home with us. If only I could post the incredible fragrance. It smells like…lilacs. Real, wonderful, blooming lilacs. No surprise there.
On having someone important ripped from your life
It takes time to develop trust and confidence in a person, to experience mistakes, to repair them, to start afresh, to build and grow, to feel happy and secure in what you have created together. You can’t have that special bond right away, no matter how good the chemistry, how delightful the encounters.
Okay, so it’s there, you’re happy, you hope they’re happy. And then pffft! They’re gone. Just like that.
This is the story of Eva, the waxing woman, the one who was the first to ever shape my eyebrows, the one whom I had just recently grown to rely on. I come home and there is a message on my machine: Eva has moved. She is no longer available. I need to schedule an appointment with someone else.
Easier said. As if I can just plunge right into another relationship. Eva, whom I trusted to be part of my Madison days for a long long time, Eva who loved to talk about how wonderful her visits to Warsaw had been, Eva, who convinced me that my future lies within the world of wax, Eva has betrayed me and moved to greener pastures. Thanks a lot.
Okay, so it’s there, you’re happy, you hope they’re happy. And then pffft! They’re gone. Just like that.
This is the story of Eva, the waxing woman, the one who was the first to ever shape my eyebrows, the one whom I had just recently grown to rely on. I come home and there is a message on my machine: Eva has moved. She is no longer available. I need to schedule an appointment with someone else.
Easier said. As if I can just plunge right into another relationship. Eva, whom I trusted to be part of my Madison days for a long long time, Eva who loved to talk about how wonderful her visits to Warsaw had been, Eva, who convinced me that my future lies within the world of wax, Eva has betrayed me and moved to greener pastures. Thanks a lot.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Would you take the last miserable piece of sushi offered on an empty plate?
Tonya, Oscar and I were at a party today where there was not enough food. An hour into the event, all platters stood nearly empty. The saddest was the sushi tray, for on it rested one solitary piece of sushi – the reject, the one that no one grabbed in the end and in its isolation, it appealed to none of us.
Oscar remarked that the three of us were of different ethnicities and each of our heritages lead us to demand of parties that there be food. I had to answer that each of our heritages was actually uniquely focused on food and no one from our necks of the woods would regard a party a success unless people left saying “there’s too much food!”
We left early. It is a rule: you leave a party before the last piece of sushi gets taken. Take heed: never, ever run out of nibbles one hour before the guests are supposed to leave.
Oscar remarked that the three of us were of different ethnicities and each of our heritages lead us to demand of parties that there be food. I had to answer that each of our heritages was actually uniquely focused on food and no one from our necks of the woods would regard a party a success unless people left saying “there’s too much food!”
We left early. It is a rule: you leave a party before the last piece of sushi gets taken. Take heed: never, ever run out of nibbles one hour before the guests are supposed to leave.
Local hero
If you're dining at Madison's L'Etoile anytime from tonight onwards, seek out Tory: chef, and as of today, proprietor. Tell him congrats and that you're rooting for him. And then do root for him -- he's got the talent to truly succeed.
My future with the restaurant? No longer uncertain. I'm on board after the month of May -- with the coolest sign-on in the world: whichever Saturday I feel like working.
My future with the restaurant? No longer uncertain. I'm on board after the month of May -- with the coolest sign-on in the world: whichever Saturday I feel like working.
An ode to the insolent and surly
God, I love these two: rotten and crabby, mean and quarrelsome, churlish and ill-tempered, oooooh, they are my kings and queens! I love their boldness, their from-the-gut honesty, their bravado, their swagger, their “don’t mess with me” stance.
I love it, love it, love it!
I love reading it, eating it first thing in the morning, I love running into it in the course of the day – sends chills down my spine! You vamp! You monster you! Let me get a little closer so that I can feel a tingle from your impertinent and saucy self!
It’s like a cuddle with the devil: get rid of the pink, the fluff, let’s have a black & red attack, with fierce fires raging, pushing that steamy arrogance forward…mmmmmm, sexy, nice!
Oh, to trample down the timid wretches, the cowering cringing unassuming yielding, always goddam yielding spineless wimps: get out of my way!
Yeah, bring on the disdainful, domineering, self-centered ooooh, there are not enough adjectives out there to describe them: my kind of people! Come out, let’s play, I’m in the mood for YOU!
And now that we had our little play, can we all please settle down and try on kindness for size? **** (fill in your favorite curse word), it can't be that hard.
I love it, love it, love it!
I love reading it, eating it first thing in the morning, I love running into it in the course of the day – sends chills down my spine! You vamp! You monster you! Let me get a little closer so that I can feel a tingle from your impertinent and saucy self!
It’s like a cuddle with the devil: get rid of the pink, the fluff, let’s have a black & red attack, with fierce fires raging, pushing that steamy arrogance forward…mmmmmm, sexy, nice!
Oh, to trample down the timid wretches, the cowering cringing unassuming yielding, always goddam yielding spineless wimps: get out of my way!
Yeah, bring on the disdainful, domineering, self-centered ooooh, there are not enough adjectives out there to describe them: my kind of people! Come out, let’s play, I’m in the mood for YOU!
And now that we had our little play, can we all please settle down and try on kindness for size? **** (fill in your favorite curse word), it can't be that hard.
Blogging mommies, blogging women
Oscar (what, you have never read Oscar? Go read Oscar!!) does a nice tribute to moms who blog.
I, too, am enamored with this group: their stories are poignant and often brilliantly insightful. Their dilemmas are real and heartfelt. Their blogs are among the most captivating to read. And whereas the typical blogger makes a million references to every nuance of her or his latest little worry or disgruntlement (I include myself in this group), blogging moms are living the saintly lives where internal peace of mind always always has to be put aside when a kid calls. And a kid calls very often in the course of a childhood.
Oscar asked me if I minded being “outed” with my parenthood. He was right to ask as, for the most part, I keep my own daughters out of the blog. I traded away the right to comment here on their lives by writing under my own name. True, they live far away (in a small city on the east coast, easily recognizable by the careful reader as I visit there often enough) and they are older (23 and 20) and so stories of toddler antics would have to be replaced with their more adult cleverness and sharp wit. And they are the wittiest of all witty people out there! But I stay silent about their world.
One question that I have for you, the reader: so what has happened to all the women who are done with child-rearing? Are they too exhausted to blog? With one notable exception, every female blogger that I know is either prior to or in the midst of child rearing. And even if she decides not to have children – she is definitely under the age of fifty. Young voices permeate the blogosphere: they set the tone even as they write from a history that is very very short.
Oh point me to the blogging woman who is a decade older than I am! Missing, she is missing from my list of daily blogs. [The one small consolation is that Ocean has linked me with readers who fall into that group. They are among my favorite correspondents. They pick up things in Ocean – small, deliberate things that, with rare exceptions, a younger reader will have missed, being, it seems, forever in a hurry to get to the punch line and move on to the next blog.]
Still, I am mesmerized by the singular and yet familiar stories of the mommy blogs. And I read them with a smile, because I know that eighteen years of mommy-sainthood brings you the reward of an adult friendship that is indescribably wonderful. And strong. And enduring. Like no other.
I, too, am enamored with this group: their stories are poignant and often brilliantly insightful. Their dilemmas are real and heartfelt. Their blogs are among the most captivating to read. And whereas the typical blogger makes a million references to every nuance of her or his latest little worry or disgruntlement (I include myself in this group), blogging moms are living the saintly lives where internal peace of mind always always has to be put aside when a kid calls. And a kid calls very often in the course of a childhood.
Oscar asked me if I minded being “outed” with my parenthood. He was right to ask as, for the most part, I keep my own daughters out of the blog. I traded away the right to comment here on their lives by writing under my own name. True, they live far away (in a small city on the east coast, easily recognizable by the careful reader as I visit there often enough) and they are older (23 and 20) and so stories of toddler antics would have to be replaced with their more adult cleverness and sharp wit. And they are the wittiest of all witty people out there! But I stay silent about their world.
One question that I have for you, the reader: so what has happened to all the women who are done with child-rearing? Are they too exhausted to blog? With one notable exception, every female blogger that I know is either prior to or in the midst of child rearing. And even if she decides not to have children – she is definitely under the age of fifty. Young voices permeate the blogosphere: they set the tone even as they write from a history that is very very short.
Oh point me to the blogging woman who is a decade older than I am! Missing, she is missing from my list of daily blogs. [The one small consolation is that Ocean has linked me with readers who fall into that group. They are among my favorite correspondents. They pick up things in Ocean – small, deliberate things that, with rare exceptions, a younger reader will have missed, being, it seems, forever in a hurry to get to the punch line and move on to the next blog.]
Still, I am mesmerized by the singular and yet familiar stories of the mommy blogs. And I read them with a smile, because I know that eighteen years of mommy-sainthood brings you the reward of an adult friendship that is indescribably wonderful. And strong. And enduring. Like no other.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
New York Interlude: and how will I choose to remember my trips to the city?
If you go out on a bright day, you can find what you're looking for: the good stuff.
Isn't it important to leave places with good and kind images? Isn't it entirely within us to think just in this way?
P.S. In the last possible second the purse issue resolved itself: small, sleek, marigold yellow, a pouch crossing over and freeing your hands, from Canada, sold with a smile.
Isn't it important to leave places with good and kind images? Isn't it entirely within us to think just in this way?
P.S. In the last possible second the purse issue resolved itself: small, sleek, marigold yellow, a pouch crossing over and freeing your hands, from Canada, sold with a smile.
New York Interlude: admission
If I never left Madison, I would spend no money on clothes. The town does not require updating a wardrobe (the slogan t-shirt from ten years ago still works today; the walking shoes look pretty much the same). Moreover, I hate the malls and the one or two stores on State Street that could tempt me are not on my daily path. No see, no buy.
Damn this city of many stores! New York is another matter altogether. You come here, you spend money, even money that you don’t have. One swipe of the plastic and you are four sacks of clothes richer and that much closer to entering credit card debt forever.
It’s in the walking, I know it is. You have to pass stores to get places. Stores with wonderful sales. Stores that have your size in everything. Stores that remind you what fun it is to put on a bright neon green skirt and set it off with a hot salmon shirt. Stores that tell you that there is a reason why you tend to your appearance (in Madison, I often wonder – why bother?). Devilishly self-indulgent places where you can focus on yourself: I am being good to me me me! I am layering protective armor that’ll keep me from tumbling into an abyss of despair!
And there’s the “this’ll be the last chance” bothersome thought. Man, I am retreating into a Neanderthal shopping cave, where I wont be buying much of anything. I better attend to my wardrobe now, because there may be no shopping tomorrow. Never mind that I wont even be in Madison a full week before I am out again, tempting myself even more.
Damn this city of many stores! New York is another matter altogether. You come here, you spend money, even money that you don’t have. One swipe of the plastic and you are four sacks of clothes richer and that much closer to entering credit card debt forever.
It’s in the walking, I know it is. You have to pass stores to get places. Stores with wonderful sales. Stores that have your size in everything. Stores that remind you what fun it is to put on a bright neon green skirt and set it off with a hot salmon shirt. Stores that tell you that there is a reason why you tend to your appearance (in Madison, I often wonder – why bother?). Devilishly self-indulgent places where you can focus on yourself: I am being good to me me me! I am layering protective armor that’ll keep me from tumbling into an abyss of despair!
And there’s the “this’ll be the last chance” bothersome thought. Man, I am retreating into a Neanderthal shopping cave, where I wont be buying much of anything. I better attend to my wardrobe now, because there may be no shopping tomorrow. Never mind that I wont even be in Madison a full week before I am out again, tempting myself even more.
I know. Many have walked this path of addictive buying before me. It is evil. It is vain. It is fantastic!
Ah, what the hell: I need the pick-me-up. I need the full blue skirt and the coffee pants and of course the neon green thing because everyone has something in neon green this season. I tell myself that I am a deserving professional woman (even though my acquisitions seem almost anti-professional) and that I buy everything on sale anyway.
Life is all about adornments and tragedy. Not that the former obliterates the latter but I can sure as hell deal with tragedy much better if I'm wearing the shoes with the yellow ribbon and a full skirt hugging the hips, with a cool little T just reaching the beltline.
New York Interlude: leaving the city
I’m on my way home to Madison today. I have a morning in the city. Did I miss anything? Should I have gone somewhere, done something differently?
Yes, definitely. Why is it that over the years I have shifted in my thinking so that these days, more often than not I am convinced that each day could have been done with greater panache, savvy, strength, cleverness? Only when I was much younger (twenties, thirties) did I believe that my days were forgivable lessons rather than correctable mistakes.
So on a practical note: what does one do with a last morning in NY?
The obvious is chasing down the cursed purse. Perhaps I should strive for the less obvious.
Yes, definitely. Why is it that over the years I have shifted in my thinking so that these days, more often than not I am convinced that each day could have been done with greater panache, savvy, strength, cleverness? Only when I was much younger (twenties, thirties) did I believe that my days were forgivable lessons rather than correctable mistakes.
So on a practical note: what does one do with a last morning in NY?
The obvious is chasing down the cursed purse. Perhaps I should strive for the less obvious.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
New York Interlude: once a brat always a brat
Continuing on my trend of seeing NY-specific movies when in New York, I took in two in the last couple of days. Both pleasant and nicely big-applish. One, the Interpreter, struck a chord.
This is not a post about how I could not get enough of Sean Penn’s face – especially in the last scene. Were I to write on that, I would have to add that in addition to great chefs and great writers I am prone to falling in love with men with expressive faces. Or at least with that particular expressive face.
It is, instead, a post about the UN – an organization that elicits tremendously strong feelings in me, though not of the “I am in love with Sean Penn’s expressive face” kind.
Now that I live in Wisconsin, the word brat connotes big greasy sausages, on a bun, with beer.
But many decades ago it was a label thrust upon me by virtue of my father’s work for the United Nations. I was a UN brat. We, children of the diplomatic corps, we ran around the UN building thinking our parents would save the planet for us. We believed in their work and in the hundreds of relief agencies that came to the aid of forgotten, neglected people in far off places.
And I am sure every one of us, even the greatest cynic who’ll flaunt countless examples of failure will acknowledge that the world without the UN, would be worse off. Even without the top fifteen floors of the Secretariat building, it would be worse off.
Today I watched the mayors of Nagasaki and Hiroshima sign declarations of peace just next to the General Assembly (Ocean felt that it ought to bear witness). The Japanese media were there en mass, but ours was conspicuously absent. It struck me right then that in the parts of the UN open to the public, foreign visitors outnumber Americans ten to one.
As I was waiting for the signing, I looked hard at the 1945 photos from Nagasaki on display in the background, the kind of photos that you don’t really want to remember.
Forty years ago, you did not have to pass through countless security stations to enter the UN. Forty years ago we, at the UN School sang songs about Zulu tribes and kookaburras and Per Spelman and his cow. Such brats we were!
And so where has this bold confidence taken us? We, the unhappy surveyors of the now damaged organization, resurrected to prominence in a movie, but not in real life. Even as it keeps chuggin’ away, mostly quietly, providing relief and promulgating dialogue. Not enough, we say, and kick it around some more, listing all its failings, in the same way that bodies were counted after epidemics, ethnic cleansing, nuclear blasts.
This is not a post about how I could not get enough of Sean Penn’s face – especially in the last scene. Were I to write on that, I would have to add that in addition to great chefs and great writers I am prone to falling in love with men with expressive faces. Or at least with that particular expressive face.
It is, instead, a post about the UN – an organization that elicits tremendously strong feelings in me, though not of the “I am in love with Sean Penn’s expressive face” kind.
Now that I live in Wisconsin, the word brat connotes big greasy sausages, on a bun, with beer.
But many decades ago it was a label thrust upon me by virtue of my father’s work for the United Nations. I was a UN brat. We, children of the diplomatic corps, we ran around the UN building thinking our parents would save the planet for us. We believed in their work and in the hundreds of relief agencies that came to the aid of forgotten, neglected people in far off places.
And I am sure every one of us, even the greatest cynic who’ll flaunt countless examples of failure will acknowledge that the world without the UN, would be worse off. Even without the top fifteen floors of the Secretariat building, it would be worse off.
Today I watched the mayors of Nagasaki and Hiroshima sign declarations of peace just next to the General Assembly (Ocean felt that it ought to bear witness). The Japanese media were there en mass, but ours was conspicuously absent. It struck me right then that in the parts of the UN open to the public, foreign visitors outnumber Americans ten to one.
As I was waiting for the signing, I looked hard at the 1945 photos from Nagasaki on display in the background, the kind of photos that you don’t really want to remember.
Forty years ago, you did not have to pass through countless security stations to enter the UN. Forty years ago we, at the UN School sang songs about Zulu tribes and kookaburras and Per Spelman and his cow. Such brats we were!
And so where has this bold confidence taken us? We, the unhappy surveyors of the now damaged organization, resurrected to prominence in a movie, but not in real life. Even as it keeps chuggin’ away, mostly quietly, providing relief and promulgating dialogue. Not enough, we say, and kick it around some more, listing all its failings, in the same way that bodies were counted after epidemics, ethnic cleansing, nuclear blasts.
New York Interlude: waiting
New York is always described as a frenetic city. The legendary rush hour, the quick pace on the sidewalks, the subway -- all speak of a crazy speed. You forget that here, like elsewhere, so much of time passes in simply waiting: for events to occur, for the game to begin, for problems to resolve themselves, for the sleeping person to wake up.
Two photos this morning of people waiting, just as a reminder that patience is needed here as well, every day, just to get by.
Two photos this morning of people waiting, just as a reminder that patience is needed here as well, every day, just to get by.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
