Strongly Worded

"Low Lights" of the Italy Trip

"Low Lights" of the Italy Trip:

1) Naples
When I told Giovanna I was going to Naples, she half-smiled and said “have fun.” I only now realize how deeply ironic that comment was.

First, we stood on the train platform waiting for the train to Naples. Despite the assurance from the guy selling tickets, no train arrived at the platform at the pre-determined hour. We looked on the departures board and found the the word SOPRESSO. We speculated about whether that meant express.

We waited a while longer, then asked a fellow passenger. Turns out SOPRESSO means cancelled. Train employees were on strike. At the ticket counter, we were redirected to an incredibly crowded double-decker bus, where we sat for two hours squeezed between three American backpackers and a Thai monk.

When we arrived at the Naples train station, I got off between the backpackers and the monk, after which the bus door slammed shut with my mother behind it.

I stood in front of the Naples train station with no idea where she was going. Genoa? Florence? Several random men asked me if I needed a taxi. Another, in a not-entirely-wholesome tone, asked me where I was going. I’m waiting for my mother, I told him in Spanish (which I once thought would be the next best thing to speaking Italian, but in fact is only marginally better than speaking English--it’s a big myth that the languages are so similar that foreigners can use them interchangeably).

What the hell was I supposed to do now? Should I wait where I was? Try to get wherever that bus was going? Try to meet her at the Santa Chiara cloister where we had planned to go first? Leave a message at the hotel? What if she didn’t show up? Should I hang out in Naples by myself? Head back to Salerno? What about SOPRESSO? I realized I had no map, no directions, and no way of getting anywhere.

I stayed put, and luckily my mom appeared minutes later (the next busstop was close by).

OK. Reunification acheived. Let me now describe Naples. It’s like the ninth ring of hell (is that the expression?). Neopolitans clearly interpret stop signs and traffic lights as recommendations. Swarms of vehicles--buses, scooters, taxis, trucks--all hurtle across the roads--clearly the whole lane concept is also just optional. It is also extemely loud, and polluted, and dirty (graffiti, litter, the whole bit). During our day, we observe not one but two demonstrations of labor unrest.

In the first fifteen minutes, I've decided that I hate Naples. But of course we will forge ahead and see if the city charms us after all. Even Fodor's guide book says that "the charm of Naples doesn't reveal itself until the third or fourth day of the visit. Visitors to Naples should have, at all times, a sense of humor, a detailed map, and a careful eye on their pocketbook."

To summarize: we spent four hours in Naples trying to find the fucking Chiara cloister. No joke. We wandered around, and asked at least ten people for directions, all of whom were very kind and very animated but very wrong. When we finally got there, exhausted and crabby, all we found was a pretty tiled courtyard, a wicked boring museum about the history of the cloister and all the fascinating ruins beneath it, and a sign over the cloister door that said CHIUSO. Which means closed. We took a taxi back to the train station and hightailed it out of Naples.

2) The National Musuem of Pasta Foods
On our extra day in Rome (caused by our cancelled flight), it rained. Thus, we could not execute our outdoor-travel plans. So instead my mother and I each paid 10 Euros (total of about $26) to visit the National Museum of Pasta Foods.

<>May I quote from the brochure: "the rooms of the musuem contain an exhibition prepared with loving care, a wealth of historical riches, comprising machinery, parts of machines, documentation, which all contribute to create an atmosphere that is anything but cold and tedious; on the contrary, this cultural laboratory provides a framework which presents the evolution of pasta from the economic and cultural points of view ... The more innovative and demanding objectives of the Museum are to make a contribution towards solving, or at least alleviating, the still unsolved problem of denutrition in the world, by extending the culture of pasta: this precious national dish ... pasta as the "national" food of the whole world."

You can probably already surmise that this museum was incredibly cold and tedious. Not to mention imperialist. Eleven rooms of machinery, parts of machines, documentation, and tacky art showing people eating pasta. AND there was a slow, painful audio-guide: "on your left, you will see a collection of photographs showing people eating pasta. On your right, an abstract painting by such-and-such Italian artist. The section at the top represents industrialized countries, where food and pasta are plentiful. The section at the bottom represents developing countries, where malnutrition persists. The noodle joining the two realms represents the key role pasta plays in addressing world hunger."

I know you want more! Visit the museum's website.

Posted by Dori at 6:13 AM 2 comments

Petulance

I lost a day. And I’m full of rebellious petulance about it.

I was scheduled to get home from my trip on Sunday afternoon, and, because of the fucking storm that closed Logan airport, I didn’t get home until Monday evening. I missed my 8:30 Monday morning meeting because I was stuck at the airport. This caused a domino effect: because I was out on Monday, I had to push back my Tuesday obligations. I missed another meeting. And, after a rushed day at work trying to catch up with a six-day backlog of email, voicemail, and snail mail, I also had to dig my car out from under the snow. I need it for my meeting tomorrow with this banker/donor.

I thought I’d shovel the car out in about an hour. Then I saw it. Or should I say, I saw the few bits of it that are visible under so much more snow than I anticipated. The three feet of snow that fell over the weekend fell not just on the car, but on the driveway, and on the street. Then this snow was packed together against my car by other people’s plows. I had no idea that snowplows have no regard for driveways. Because of this, I have ten feet of snow to shovel: the three feet on the actual car, the three feet packed between the car and the plowed walkway, and then the four feet that the snow plow wedged between the street and the curb. It will take me hours to remove all that snow. This sucks. And I lost a day.

Tomorrow night I have my Spanish Film class. I have no time to watch the assigned movie, which I spent about an hour procuring since everyone else in the class also lives in Greater Boston and thus have caused a local Film Shortage. The class meets from 8-10 p.m., and I will go there directly from work, such that there is no way I can dig out the car until the weekend. I also have no food in the house, because I deliberately ate it all before I left. Without the car, I cannot go grocery shopping, not that I have time to do that either.

I also have no clothes because everything is either filthy from wearing it on the trip, or filthy from splatters of snow and slush.

I am so utterly inconvenienced. I want my Monday back. And all this cumulative stress has activated the stress-o-meter on the right side of my lower back: this knot of tension that always emerges along with stress.

Aren't you fascinated by my bitching?

Posted by Dori at 10:45 PM 1 comments

When No Longer In Rome

I am back from my extended Italian vacation (my Sunday flight was cancelled due to the Northeast snowstorm, so I had to stay an extra day). I am jetlagged. Thus, it is 5:32 and I am blogging. Which is fun. I've missed you all!

Trip Overview: Fabulous. Near perfect weather with the exception of one rainy morning and, in general, more cold than I expected. I have eaten the most phenomenal food that puts to shame every so-called Italian meal that I have ever consumed in the U.S.. So yes, I'm probably even more of a food snob now, but this is unavoidable (more on that). I know it can be kind of boring reading about other people's travels, so I'll just include the highlights in separate posts so you can click through at your leisure.

Of which the most important, of course, is my Italian romance with Giorgio!

As I may have mentioned, the whole impetus for this trip was my dad's seminar in Salerno. The director of Salerno University's chemical engineering dept, Giovanna, invited him to come to Salerno to give three lectures. On the first night Giovanna sent one of her students to pick us up from the hotel, since she was hosting a small dinner for my dad (and by extension me and my mom), and she lives in Avellino (the name comes from avellano, which means hazelnut.) Anyway, so Giorgio shows up at the hotel. Hes driving this practically microscopic car (practically all the cars in Italy are pocketsized, with no mufflers). As we pile into it, I notice his face in the rearview mirror, and conclude that he is spectaularly hot. I mean, classico italiano. Dark hair, dark eyes. Radiating warmth and charm. Adorably animated. Since (luckily for me) Avellino is pretty far from Salerno, I have ample time to take in his beautiful hands, his superior driving skills. The road is slick with seaspray, yet he is deft with the stick shift, smoothly maneuvering over the curving mountain roads. As Giorgio and my dad hold forth on the intricacies of emulsion levels and other juicy chemical engineering tidbits, Giorgio and I carefully smile at each other through the rearview mirror.

The little dinner is intimate. Luckily all the other postgrads are engrossed by the conversation (engineering, chemicals ...) so Giorgio and I easily escape the group and slip out onto Giovanna's balcony, where the view is phenomonal (but I can't exactly remember). Because Girogio's English sucks, we mainly gaze at each other, and slowly, slowly respond to the subtle, subtle cues of mutual attraction. We adjourn to the little mosaic bench, cuddling and shivering a little, since, as I mentioned, Southern Italy is way colder than I expected. We exchange several kisses that crescendo with intensity ... and then ...

Posted by Dori at 6:54 AM 1 comments

More on Southern Italy

Ladies and Gentlemen! Are you honestly going along with this? THIS KIND OF STUFF NEVER HAPPENS. ESPECIALLY NOT TO ME.

Giorgio the postgrad exists, and he did pick us up at the hotel in a very tiny car, but he was accompanied by some other, equally awkward, equally average-looking guy, and they left as soon as Giovanna finished serving drinks. Also Giovanna lives in an apartment building with no balcony and certainly no mosaic bench.

So ha. I got you. I told you, travel details can get dull if you don't punch them up a little with lies.

Anyway. So, here are some (real) impressions of Southern Italy:

Everyone is extraordinarily nice, and warm, and helpful. The people speak incredibly beautifully, with this lilting, musical inflection, and lively gestures. Men kiss each other hello. Young kids hold hands (girls and boys).I met two Italian grandmothers (Giovanna's mother and the proprietress of the incredibly authentic Tavernetta in Salerno, dubbed la cuccina de nona (grandmother's cooking). They were both exactly like you would expect: urging me to eat (mangia), and calling me bella and lamenting how old they were, and talking about the amore they feel for la cuccina.

The general appearance of Southern Italy is ultra old and shabby. It is not grand and fancy like the North. I know this is an unpopular thing to say, but Southern Italy (and particularly Naples, admittedly, based on about six very unhappy hours there--see "lowlights") is much, much poorer and dirtier than I expected. Not only are all the (admittedly charming) buildings falling apart, but even the ruins and historical monuments are un-user friendly (no signs, no explanations etc.), and poorly perserved, and don't even get me started on the public transit issues. However, the food in S. Italy is exquisite. Yum. More on that see ("food")...

The food is amazing. I am going to do a separate post about food because it might not interest everyone. Suffice to say that the pasta is made fresh, and has this slightly gummy, yielding texture that is entirely different, and vastly better, than the dried pasta, cooked 'al dente' in the U.S.. Also, the pizza in Naples (the only good thing I experienced in Naples) is an entirely different, and vastly more delicious, distant relative of the American version. The crust is very thin, tender-crisp, very subtly infused with smoke from the wood-burning oven. The sauce is made fresh from excellent tomatoes, and some very perfect seasoning--end result: a bright, slightly sweet taste that is like a canvas for a few globs of buffalo mozzarella and some basil leaves strewn across. Again, I could go into a lot of detail about what fresh Italian buffalo mozzarella tastes like, but I'll save that for the food post so you don't go insane with hunger and or boredom.

The landscape is beautiful: Positano, Amalfi, and Ravello are all stunning--little towns wedged into the cliffside, between the Mediterrean and the sky. The roads are so windy and so narrow that the drivers honk at every turn because they can't see oncoming traffic. Periodically two cars have to pass one another and one has to back up against the mountain so that there's enough road for both of them. This is at once charming (the drivers have their own chivalrous, unspoken language of honking and determining who will back up!) and harrowing because the cliffs are so high, and so steep, and all that separates the road from the cliff is a guardrail and the skill of the driver. The towns essentially consist of old-world cobblestone streets winding between buildings and shops, all turned towards the sea. The buildings are all made of stone, and painted shades of yellow and red, so that, when the sun goes down and the clouds arrange themself in just the right way, the rays are channelled into a spotlight, and the towns glow gold.

In addition to the Amalfi coast, we saw Paestum (famous Greek ruins--I am really not a ruins person ... you've seen one crumbling structure, you've seen them all ... but this was a Giovanna-planned (aka mandatory) excursion) , hung out in Salerno (not much to see beyond the cute historic center and a very good Picasso exhibit), and spent an afternoon in Herculaneum (see "highlights"). OK, these are also ruins, but these are world class ruins with the whole Vesuvius eruption thing (Pompeii and Herculaneum are two cities destroyed around 59 A.D. by the eruption of the Vesuvius volcano, and they're amazingly well-preserved because the lava just sealed everything up until the excavations started. Pompeii is a lot bigger (I saw it in 1997) but Herculaneum is better preserved. In neither city can you see any furniture/household implements/fossils of actual people, which is what I had hoped, but it's still amazing anyway. Not just your average boring ruins).

OK. So there's the gist. Let's move on to highlights, shall we?

Posted by Dori at 6:37 AM 0 comments

Trip Highlights/Adventures

In no particular order ... some memorable aspects of the trip ...

1) Lemons
I love everything lemon--lemonade, lemon cake/cookies/mousse/ice cream. And Amalfi is famous for its own unique lemons, which are much bigger than ours, and lumpier. Somehow, entire lemon groves have been terraced into the cliffs, covered with black nets to attract light. One night, we stopped in a produce shop to buy fruit, and I noticed a whole pile of these lumpy lemons. The shopkeeper saw me, and I was afraid he was going to yell at me, because Italians have this very protective attitude towards their fruit, and customers are definitely not, under any circumstances, supposed to touch it (the fruit gets doled out by the vendor. If you try to touch it they will yell. I know from firsthand experience). But this guy didn't yell. He took an ancient-looking knife from behind the counter, and hacked a few flecks off the skin of the fruit, just to show me. Suddenly I smelled groves, and gods--a fresh, intense scent, a burst of tart.

2) Transit to Herculaneum
We took the train to Herculaneum. It was unclear where to get off, but a very helpful guy indicated the stop, after which we disembarked, only be to informed, through the conductor's urgent gestures, that this, in fact, was not the stop. We got back on the train, just a little rattled, and then got off where it says "Herculaneum/Porticia" (or something. If you haven't noticed yet, I don't speak Italian). At "Herculaneum/Porticia", where, I'm assuming, droves of tourists arrive every summer to see World Class Ruins, there is no sign, no ticket office, no indication of anything that would suggest where the hell the ruins are and how to get to them. We asked a young Italian woman who also got off at the station, and she shrugged kindly but unhelpfully. There was only the train station and a deserted driveway and a small kiosk selling soda and popsicles. We consulted with a popsicle-selling guy, and it turned out he was also the seller of bus tickets to the ruins (again, no sign or other indication of the sale of bus tickets, the existence of a bus, or a bus stop).

We stood there, a little dazed, wondering what to do with these newly purchased tickets, when the tiniest car you have ever seen lurched into the driveway, and the formerly shrugging passenger got in, waving at us to come with her. Somehow she conveyed in Italian that her aunt (the driver) would take us to the ruins. We looked dubiously at the tiny car, where three women are already seated (the driver/aunt, the formerly shrugging passenger, and her cousin). They gaily said what I imagine is the Italian equivalent of "Pile in!" And because there was no bus, no stop, and no other easy option, we did. My parents and I squished into this tiny car (me sitting on my mom's lap--tilting my head sideways so it wouldn't hit the ceiling--my neck was strained for days). The aunt zipped through the city (the non-ruins part of Herculaneum is actually a pretty busy urban place), honking and swerving at oncoming traffic, and then they left us at the gate of the ruins as casually as if they picked up random foreigners at train stations every day of their lives.

But wait! The adventure continues! We wandered around Herculaneum (which really is incredible--it's a town excavated from under 30 feet of lava, where you can walk through streets from Roman times and explore villas full of wall paintings and mosaics. Amazingly, the edges of the ruins but up right next to the city's modern apartment buildings.) Then we decided to leave. We had bus tickets in our hot little hands, and emerged from the ruins to another dusty, deserted driveway with no sign, no bus, and no bus stop in sight. We approached a police officer standing nearby, and again, with elaborate Italian gestures, he conveyed that the uncoming bus (the one now screeching by us) was in fact the one we needed, and he stood in the middle of the street and stopped the bus and explained to the driver where to let us off. As if stopping and redirecting buses for clueless foreigners was the kind of thing he did every day of his life.

3) La Tavernetta
The very smarmy-but-helpful clerk at the hotel in Salerno recommended a restaurant. "It's where I go myself," he told us. He called the restaurant to reserve a space for us, gave us a card with its address, and explained the complexities of getting there. "It's at the end of the fourth alley after the lantern, near the church." (FYI the church he mentioned was some very old romanesque-looking building with a neon cross. No kidding). We got to the fourth alley and saw nothing. No sign, no evidence of any kind of restaurant (theme?). We knocked tenatively on the only lighted doorstep--it was like a speakeasy. A beautiful waitress named Valeria opened the door, and we took in the cozy tables, the brick walls, the wooden beams, and the trove of wines set into the wall. When we were seated, Valeria put down a basket of bread and a bottle of wine. No menu. Then the food started coming. First antipasti: noodles made of eggplant skins. Strips of pickled green pepper. Marinated fancy mushrooms. Marinated zuchinni. A kind of quiche with scallions. Deep fried gnocchi with herbs. Veggie croquettes. The cook/owner, Olga, emerged from the kitchen at this point to check on us. She wore an apron, her completely-white hair pulled back in a bun, and enormous Jackie-O glasses. Through gestures and a mix of Italian/Spanish/English, we conveyed that everything was fabulous. We looked over at the next table to see what the diners were eating, since there was no menu and a need to "budget" the food intake based on what was coming up.

In bubbling ceramic bowls we were presented with a delicately seasoned stew of white beans and spinach. Then pasta with cream sauce, with tiny bits of ham and potato mixed in. Then pasta bolognese. Then a cold squid salad with parsley. And fresh buffalo mozzarella. And THEN the main course! Very thinly sliced pork with rosemary. And FINALLY, homemade canolli and lemony custard cups. At each course Olga came out to "talk" (better to say "attempt to communicate") with us and spoon more food on our plates and insist that we eat more, but piano, piano. Which I assume means slowly. After finishing with limoncello (a very potent lemon liquer-definitely not my thing), we waddled back to the hotel. I had just eaten one of the best meals of my life.

4) Italian coffee and gelato. They were just highlights. Delicious, pure, and simple.

5) Giovanna (my dad's host at the university). She was hilarious and delightful and totally enhanced the trip by providing a local perspective on all things Italy (and not just the food!). She took us on the Paestum tour (not itself a highlight--as I mentioned, I'm not a ruins person, and it was freezing cold and windy), with her husband, son (a brat), and mother, and we had lunch with her Italian family in this rustic "agri-tourist" place in the middle of an artichoke field. (No sign. No indication at all of anything "agri-tourist." The directions said "turn left at the large tire on the side of the road" and it took us ages to find the building, the entrance, and eventually the restaurant.) The former farm now functions as an inn, with a fireplace, a rustic dining room, and a fixed menu of endless local dishes including a silky artichoke risotto. Without Giovanna, neither that or another fabulous meal in Avellino (where I had ricotta cheesecake and raviolli with truffles and no romance) would have happened. And I wouldn't know all I do about contemporary Italian culture.

Posted by Dori at 6:12 AM 0 comments

Ciao!

Lovely readers! Just wanted to let you know that I am going on VACATION. I have not had any vacation in a year, and any actual fun on vacation since long before then.

So I am very glad to be leaving this very afternoon for 9 days in Italy. I am going to the Amalfi Coast and Rome. Part of this trip will involve the island of Capri, which, I have learned, is pronounced CAPri. Also I will visit the island of Ischia which features hot springs and volcanic landscape. I am hoping that the next week will involve much capuccino, animated Italian speech, and family harmony.

Because--yes--ladies and gentlemen, I am going on vacation with my parents.

The benefits:
- all expenses paid;
- assurance of good and compatible companions (I love and get along with my parents);
- ability to travel in "daughter mode" thus avoiding the hassles associated with navigation, travel arrangements, and planning in general;

The drawbacks:
- "daughter mode" can really suck (mainly because it affords little-to-no decision-making power, and involves patience, deference, and getting up much earlier than I would like);
- my parents (my dad especially) are tense travelers, and therefore a lot of energy is expended ensuring that nothing gets lost/stolen and nobody is late/alone; and
- Italy is romantic! Not so family-friendly. I keep telling myself that I'm lucky to be traveling with my parents now, while they're still spry, and while I don't have to worry about abandoning my love interest. Once I meet him, we'll be all wrapped up with our own travels to Venice and other even more romantic places, so it will be hard to find time to hang out with my parents and therefore this is a great, limited-time opportunity. Yes.

Anyway. I will miss this blog. It is super fun "living out loud" in this manner and checking sitemeter obsessively to see who's reading. Please be sure to come back! The next strongly worded installment will be posted on the 23rd. Til then: !Ciao, bambinos!

Posted by Dori at 9:58 AM 0 comments

Food Snobs

A recent email exchange with AP, a loyal “strongly worded” reader, has inspired these ruminations on the topic of Haute Cuisine and its symbiotic relationship with members of Gen X and the Creative Class.

AP, lives in California with housemates. Their fridge contains three kinds of milk (not—as I thought—skim, 2%, and whole—but rice, soy, and a kind infused with cardamom pods). Before he ditched Boston for sunshine and Arnold Schwarznegger, AP guilted me into buying organic lettuce (most of the time) and cage-free eggs, although he still hasn’t sold me on the $6 organic orange juice. AP also inspired me to acquire an entire set of German kitchen knives, because my old ones sucked so much. We have shared some of the best meals I have ever had, because AP, like me, has become a Food Snob.

Similarly, my friend Daria (who hosted the Jewish Christmas Party), buys her vegetables at the Haymarket (which is as famous for its produce as for the rudeness of its vendors). On Christmas, Daria made the most exquisite pork roast. She tracked its progress with a (digital!) meat thermometer and then let it “rest” before serving. She also made a linzertorte for dessert with chocolate cherry ganache and a basket-weave crust. She was all casual on both these fronts, saying, “well, it’s Christmas, isn’t it”?

Neither AP nor Daria have gourmet upbringings. AP describes a recent attempt to introduce his parents to sushi: “ Neither Dad nor Mom will eat sushi, would even consider eating sushi. Neither of them really knows what sushi looks like or what is in sushi. As far as I can tell, they both learned during childhood that sushi was raw fish and that it was gross, probably from people who fought the Japs in WWII.”

And Daria shudders when she describes the alternately bland and offensive meals of her Midwestern childhood. We have discussed at length whether her fascination with food is some kind of reaction to the early suppression of her taste buds.

But is there more to it? As AP wonders, “why don't my parents know how to eat (any of them)? I'm starting to think it may just be generational, meaning that I, too, will at some point be confronted with some cuisine I can't fathom from the glittering fingers of smug young people …it's also class, in that any place where the per-plate goes over $6 is outside of dad's comfort zone. And finally, it's culture … some people have no issue paying for steak or salmon, but try to serve them borscht, kale or any other 'unfamiliar' vegetable and you might as well be offering poison.”

An interesting observation. I’m finding that increasingly food is replacing material as a way to express sophistication. Within my liberal-arts-college-educated -politically-correct -twenty-something realm, nobody talks about how much they earn, or even where they went to school (some of my Ivy-educated friends say they went to college in “New Jersey”, “Cambridge”, or “Connecticut”).

People wear jeans and clogs to parties, so there’s no point in having fancy clothes; nobody cares
much about cars or other traditional status symbols.

But food! Food is a whole different story. Now people are going to parties in jeans and clogs and
drinking port. And banging around their kitchens looking for decanters. (This needs to stop. Port is just pretentious. Extremely, extremely pretentious. What’s next? Smoking jackets? Adjourning to the drawing room?) People are eating Thai food and correcting the waitstaff’s pronunciation (yet another hideous date story). People are comparing notes about whether that meyer lemon soufflé from Gourmet magazine trumps the one from Bon Appetit. People are ordering burgers with andouille sausage and gruyere cheese and then complaining about the food being too rich.

Food is also strategy for obscuring bourgeoise behavior with Crunch. Coop-dwellers can spend $6 on orange juice or $8 on a wheel of goat’s milk brie—without affiliating with any high-brow food sensibility. There is no challenging a sustainable (albeit expensive) lifestyle. Of course not!

Not that I’m (entirely) complaining. When we Gen Xers were crawling around in diapers, Americans were just beginning to switch from Chock Full of Nuts to venti lattes, from Lipton Onion Dip to Hummus, from wine coolers to fucking port. More interesting – and more healthy -- food is more available now than it ever has been, and that’s a good thing. (Although I still love Lipton Onion Dip, and Pistachio Jell-O pudding. And I will make no apologies.) Some things that may have seemed pretentious when we were young are mainstream today (not port, though).

Food will continue to evolve, but I don’t think we will hate our future kids’ food the way we’ll hate their music and clothing. First, because we will be the ones serving it to them. And second, because truly excellent food is classic, steeped in tradition, timeless.

Posted by Dori at 2:53 PM 2 comments

Mr. Ponytail: another UpDATE

Loyal readers, you will remember that a few weeks back I met a very, very nice guy
who I agreed to date despite his ponytail.

Here's the latest:

After our Afghan meal (see earlier post), and New Year's, we decided to go see a movie, and during the scheduling process, I realized that I needed to be upfront about the fact that I was experiencing more "friendly feelings than romantic feelings." I conveyed this to him via email, explaining that I still would like to see him on a friendly basis, but would understand if that didn't work for him.

His response (note how very, very nice he is):

"Don't worry. I totally understand and respect your feelings. I am, however, a bit bummed to hear of them. To be honest, I was unusually optimistic about you. If it means anything, I was indeed feeling a romantic vibe, but of course, I know it's got to be a two-way street. I appreciate your honesty in letting me know it won't be, and I'm sorry about that. Can I at least pay you a compliment on your physical attractiveness? I hope that's OK!

Anyway, I do have plenty of friends, but if the movie doesn't include machine guns or spaceships, well, let's just say, my opportunities are more limited. So I'm happy to go on as movie friends. Oh, one more thing: As friends, might you have some constructive dating criticism for me? I feel like such a failure in the womanizing department. I'm not one. I can't be. I am desiring some romance, and I've gotten your kind of email response in the past. I'm sort of stumped. I tend to be not-forward at first, so if you felt more of a friendly vibe, that
might be why."

I responded with praise--after all, isn't he very, very nice? And thoughtful? And a good listener? And smart? I told him to keep doing what he's doing, and I shared with him the long sad story of the year of fruitless dating that preceded my last relationship.

His reponse:
"My god, this is one of the most amazing emails I've ever received. I'm honestly at a loss for words. You've managed in a short span of time to bum me out and bring me all the way back up, and then some. The effect has been as if your words make me WANT to get rejected more often. :-) I never get such kind words, and I've pretty much been speechless since
reading this email. Dating has always been rather difficult for me, so I can somewhat relate to how you've felt. But, I'm appreciative of your kind words of encouragement, and because you've given me your story of perseverance, I'll repost my personal ad. I'm really surprised you've "spent ages" seeking romance. I'm maybe stroking your ego here, but I'd think
you'd have been swiped up quickly!! That really puzzles me. Well, consider me a friend anyway. Oh, and thanks for thinking I'm cute. That's another thing I wonder about. Am I? One never knows... Anyway, see you next week."

Posted by Dori at 2:34 PM 1 comments

Nightmare

I slept deservedly horribly last night. I had one of those running-around-agitated days, with the plan of meeting Mr. Ponytail for an evening movie (more on that in a later post).

Around 7:00, we settled into the theater to see Hotel Rwanda, which I had read about previously. I don't watch violent movies, and didn't agree to see this flick until the New York Times confirmed that it mostly avoided gore. Also, I'm a sucker for these "leader in spite of everything" films.

This movie was so tremendously engaging and upsetting that I spent the whole time coiled with tension--trying not to cry too much or shudder too much in front of Mr. Ponytail (although he asked me at one point if I was OK, so I'm not sure I succeeded on that front). Hotel Rwanda depicts the true-story struggle of Paul Rusesabagina, who sheltered over 1200 people in a hotel during the Rwandan genocide of 1994.

I vaguely remember this "conflict"--at the time, I had some dim sense of what was happening. Until last night, I had no idea that a million people were slaughtered--with machetes--by an "army" resembling frat boys on spring break. Their machete-wielding joy was the worst part: left me wondering how humankind can devolve to the extent that people actually find murder enjoyable.

The movie also features a disheveled but bright-eyed American aid worker who shuttles supplies and orphans around rebel territory (this part was kind of Hallmark-esque). I kept asking myself why I wasn't doing her work. How do I feel OK about addressing relatively small and nonthreatening American social problems when global catastrophes are underway every day? Why aren't I among the people who feel compelled to drop into a chaotic and dangerous war/disaster zones and attempt to do good? Throughout the whole movie, I was astonished that the aid worker didn't give up and get the hell out of there. I went back and forth being horrified that the U.N. and U.S. didn't do more, and then, on the other hand, thinking that I would never send a loved one into that bloodbath. Idealistically, I like to think that countries and aid organizations have a moral obligation to address situations like this, but practically, I can't imagine doing it or asking anyone else to.

All night I had violent dreams about evil. It was hard to stay asleep. This movie wasn't like a horror movie that can be shaken off as "made up." This stuff happened, happens. Like many ugly Americans, I sigh compassionately when I hear tragic world news, and then I change the channel. I stand idly by. Trying not to imagine what would happen if, someday, I was among those in danger, turning to world neighbors for help.

Posted by Dori at 1:25 PM 1 comments

Women Should Ask

Last summer, my friends R., K., and M. and I formed an ill-fated book club (meaning, we read two books, sort of read a third, and then haven't met since.). We first read Women Don't Ask, which is a brilliant, brilliant book which basically attributes some of the gender divide (in terms of unequal pay and opportunities, etc.) to women's reluctance to ask--for promotions, raises, help with caregiving and domestic work--you name it. My favorite line in the book is the author's recommendation that pregnant women ask their partners: "how are you going to take care of your child while you're at work?"

The book presents compelling research that shows that, in controlled experiments, women are much less likely than men to advocate for themselves and to negotiate for what they want. While I believe that "not asking" is only one of MANY factors (such as sexism, socialization, discrimination ...) that screw women over, I do concur that it has a place in our understanding of women's issues.

Since reading that book I negotiated:
- a higher salary than I was offered for my current job;
- deals on multiple yard-sale items, including my beloved Crate and Barrel table;
- credit from my phone company when they gouged me on calls to Europe; and
- some too-boring-to-get-into concessions from my landlady.

HOWEVER, despite all this, and the strident indoctrination I received from my women's college, I am still, fundamentally, a wimp.

Case in point: I hired a consultant months ago to do some "benchmarking" and "business planning" work for us, and today he submitted a two-page "report" which includes insights such as "the availability of foundation funding is declining" and "your leaders need to clarify their visions and goals." (In case it's not obvious--I ALREADY KNOW THIS.) Consultant also submitted a spreadsheet summary of the FOUR measly interviews he conducted. The summary includes strange highlighting and spelling errors. I was so disappointed with the product, but I felt awful raising my concerns, because we've already paid him, and really, the budget was so small, and he's been so nice about everything ...

Then I had a pep talk with David L. (with whom I had brunch recently--and FYI, he is MARRIED), who insisted that I call up Consultant and bring him to task. We practiced wording and the "praise sandwich":

1) "Thanks so much for what you did. I especially liked ..." [what? the font? This will require creativity, because I don't like anything that he did].

2) "However, I was expecting a more coherent report in a format that I can present to the higher-ups ... I need ..." According to David L., the key phrase is "I need" e.g. "I need these changes made by the next staff meeting, and a polished report for distribution by the end of the month."

3) Then I finish up by saying "Thanks so much for all this. It's been a real pleasure working with you and I look forward to the final product."

Of course Consultant was out when I called. But I wrote down assertive talking points so I won't chicken out when he calls me back.

But, alas! The shame continues. Today I had my third (and I think, last) lunch at the "Why Not" diner (that's the real name. It's too funny for a pseudonym. And now I definitely know "Why Not"). As I did last time, I received truly hostile service (I mean that: the bill flung in my face, inconvenienced sighs at my requests for water and napkins ...). So today I asked tentatively for a Western omelet with no ham, and the waitress/owner denied this request with such vigor that I meekly settled for a plain omelet accompanied by an inadequate serving of homefries. And no napkins. Or water. And did I say anything? NO! Did I leave a tip commenserate with the level of service? NO! I just left, feeling totally belittled by this woman.

Although maybe, in this case, actions speak louder than words. There are three other breakfast-all-day places in this town--so--Why Not boycott hers?

Posted by Dori at 5:43 PM 0 comments

Man Sandwich

So I end up going to Anne's party, despite the bad weather and the fear of S. (who never materializes, probably because he is busy having sex with PlusGuest). And I spend almost two hours leaning against the kitchen island sandwiched between men: Mark, Joe, and Fred.

I immediately find Mark attractive in this kind of edgy way--he is wearing a gray top that resembles scuba gear (I mean this as praise) and funky glasses.

He also reveals, within the first minutes of our meeting that: he is now an investment banker, but he used to do disaster relief work in Somalia, and prior to that he was in the Peace Corps in Kenya, and along the way he has earned a master's degree from the Fletcher School for Law and Diplomacy and an MBA from "abroad." He started at Harvard Business School but left because he "hated Harvard."

I ask him where he ended up studying, and he replies with a mouthful of European-sounding syllables that begin with "institut." I was asking about the country, not the "insititut." But apparently it is in France, and it was established by Napoleon, and (surprise!) it's among the most exclusive schools in Europe. Also apparently, the select elite who are admitted don't have to do any work once they enroll, in part because "MBA coursework, taught anywhere, is so rudimentary" and in part because the students are so rich and smart they don't need to actually answer the questions on exams. They just turn in blank paper. I keep asking him questions because I have social skills and it seemed the only way to generate conversation (clearly he was not interested in any aspect of my life). So I also learn that when he was heading up disaster relief efforts in Somalia, he had 90,000 people working under him, including a full security staff, and that it was challenging juggling job offers from USAID, Save the Children, and CARE.

Another option is to talk to Joe, Anne's brother, who is very tall and geeky, and very friendly in an earnest Midwestern way. But he does HR at Harvard and there are only so many questions one can ask about that. He inquires about general things like my work and my hometown, but again, limited conversation potential. Periodically he pauses awkwardly and I fill the void with yet another inane question, trying to establish whether this beats war stories from Mogadishu. He stands directly in front of me, making it extremely hard to escape his intense gaze and the obligation of talking with him.

Oh! And there is option #3! On my other side is Fred, from Australia, who is really, really interested in Cricket. He educates me about the rules of cricket, the different regions where it is played, the evolution of cricket uniforms, and the dearth of cricket coverage in American TV. Then I also learn about how in India there is an "all cricket, all the time" TV network that he experienced as true heaven on a recent visit. Also I learn about the barriers to women's participation in Indian cricket leagues. I could go on (and he did) but I won't.

I got my coat and headed out. Often I complain about not meeting any men at a parties. This time I'm complaining about the men I met.

Posted by Dori at 11:49 PM 0 comments

Context: the Former Object of My Obsessive Crush

A bit of context about why I really, really hope this guy does not come to Anne's party:

I met S. at a community meeting in January of 2003. I sat down across from him, noticed his astonishing good looks, and hoped fervently that we’d have a chance to talk. The meeting consisted mostly of a “human barometer” exercise in which we all moved among the four corners of the room depending on our level of agreement with statements about the organization’s mission. S. and I ended up in mostly the same corners. He said articulate, well-reasoned things even though he was brand new to the group.

After the meeting, I began some extensive Internet research. Thanks to google, I learned that he owns his own consulting firm, collects art, has studied an obscure Japanese ceramics technique, and has lived in England, Guatemela, the United Arab Emirates, and California. I looked up his phone number in the group’s contact directory and “reverse dialed” it to see if he lived with a girlfriend or wife (it seemed that he did not).

Over the next few months of meetings, S. and I would look at each other, smile furtively, and look away. We each nodded approvingly at the other’s comments. But that was the extent of our contact. He joined the outreach committee; I joined the program committee. Before every meeting, I would promise myself that I would approach S. and talk to him. After every meeting, I would find myself too nervous to do anything but lurch in shame towards the subway.

My mother would call me after each failed attempt and rebuke me for being so shy. She encouraged me to wear makeup to the meetings, to do something about my hair. She consulted with multiple friends about whether S.’s last name was Jewish (they concluded that it could be).

At an event in March, we exchanged pleasantries for a moment as we drifted among the crowd. I still remember the close fit of the yellow dress shirt he was wearing, his animated expression. Unbeknownst to me, someone snapped a picture of our seconds-long conversation and posted it on the web. It’s a hideous picture of the back of my head mostly blocking an S’s face; he looks odd, captured in an unflattering light.

Afterwards, S. came right up to me and asked, “I was wondering if you want to grab a drink on the way home. If you have time.”

“I would love to. Yes. Of course.” I hoped my enthusiasm wasn’t overwhelming.

As we were all leaving, Daria asked S. what he was doing for Passover.

“I don’t have any plans yet this year.”
I sighed with pleasure.

He bought me a pink drink in a frosted glass; we nestled close to the candelit table. I invited S. to my friend’s seder, and he not only came (charming everyone, being utterly adorable, looking stunning, insisting on washing the dishes and then flinging hot suds at me) but walked me home afterwards, and we made cupcakes and ganache from scratch, late at night, for his friend’s birthday party the next day. He barraged me with questions:

“Chocolate or vanilla?” he asked me, playful. “Downtown Crossing or Newbury Street?” We spent a long time in this mode. Tea or coffee? Breakfast or dinner? Fall or spring? Singing or dancing? Camping or B&B? Voicemail or email? 10 p.m. or 10 a.m? Sushi or Chinese? Satin or cotton? Salon.com or NPR?

The next morning I spent a blissful brunch at my friend’s house, debriefing the evening. I arrived back home, and found S. was waiting on my doorstep. “Your people were after me,” he said, “I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t return this.” He handed me my cupcake tin.

Over the next few weeks, I teetered between happiness and anxiety as we danced around the border between friendship and romance. We exchanged playful emails and flirted over the phone. At irregular intervals, we’d meet for lunch, go to movies. S. said sexy, complimentary things. I wanted desperately to kiss him, and consulted with many friends about how to make this happen. Jonathan advised me to wear good underwear. K. said this would jinx things, so I switched to bad underwear. With careful probing, and coaching from R,, I ruled out Gay and Girlfriend. I tried cooking for him (a surefire method, according to Xavier.) I fixed my hair and wore my most fabulous jeans (Mom). I tried kiss positioning (Avi). Nothing happened, and gradually, I heard less and less from S..

Every day, I’d log into my email, wait for the screen to change. Often, I’d read the words “Welcome. You have 1 unread message.”

And I’d summon my resolve, and try to suppress the surge of motion within my heart. It was like trying not to hiccup. And I’d tell myself that the message was about that reimbursement check, or those still unconfirmed weekend plans. I’d tell myself that the message was NOT from him, because I couldn’t fathom enduring the disappointment of finding this to be true. I’d tell myself that it was absolutely too early to hear from him. That really, I’d seen him so recently, and he’d been so busy …

And regardless, I’d want, with an urgent, excruciating intensity, to see his name in the “sender” column, to read and reread his words, to own them, savor them. I tried not to want it, but I did.

As the vague friendly outings became less and less frequent, I finally purged the sound of his voice from my answering machine. And I finished off the last sweet scrape of the ganache we’d made together the night of the seder. I tossed out the recipe he’d scrawled on the napkin—the one I thought I’d save and giggle over once we married. I tried hard to look out onto new prospects and possibilities, not back at what I could or should have done differently. I pushed the phoenix back into the fire. S. went on vacation. I fantasized that he’d return, and I’d run into him with a new boyfriend on my arm. I imagined looking at him, wisely, over the lenses of new love, and watch detachedly as he looked back.

Weeks went by. And then I needed a moderator for the panel. I left him a purely work-related message, didn't hear back.

And then, when he called unexpectedly, I tried to sound breezy, casual. In fact, I felt extremely excited. We hadn’t spoken in over a month, and I assumed this was because he was too busy having sex with models.

I asked, “So what’s up? What’s going on with you?”

“I have to tell you something important. I haven’t told many people this, but I just found out I have cancer.”

“Oh my G-d,” I said, “How did you find this out?”
He told me the details briefly, about feeling the mass, and getting it checked out, and having surgery to remove it. He didn’t say what kind of cancer he had, but I assumed it was something embarrassing; prostate or rectal or testicular cancer. If he had the kind of cancer one could talk openly about, he would have talked openly about it.

“You need to know I’m going to be fine,” he said, strong and sure.

I felt this overwhelming wave of love and concern.

“That sucks. Wow. I’m so sorry. How do you want me to be?” I asked him, “Do you want me to be perky and cheer you up? Or wallow along with you?”

S. was surprised at the question. “No one had asked me that before. I don’t really know,” he said, “I guess it depends on the day. Mainly I don’t want you to tell anyone. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, or treat me any differently. I’m serious about that—I don’t want anyone to know.”

We talked a little more about ordinary things, and then hung up. I felt this tiny wicked flicker of joy: he hadn’t been having sex with models; he was now and ordinary person who gets sick and struggles; I now have the opportunity to do something for him without being a crazy stalker reject.

I deluded myself into thinking that he had dropped me before because of his testicles, that he had felt too unmanly to kiss me, and that therein lay the reason for the lapsed contact. Now, I thought, I could seize the opportunity to be Caregiving Barbie, and I made him soup and read "What Not to Say to a Person With Cancer" and made and gave him a Box of Joy which included some funny articles and I can't remember what else.

Anyone who remembers me at that phase (this was Fall of 2003) knows that I was completely obsessed by his mixed messages and my own unwarranted hope. My tough-loving friends insisted that I ask him, once and for all, what his intentions were, so I could move on with my life.

I left him a message saying "I have something I want to run by you." And of course he didn't call me back, which, in retrospect, was a tremendous strike of cosmic fortune, because I learned days later that THIS WHOLE TIME he'd been on-again, off-again with some woman in New York. I was thus spared abject humiliation.

The person who shared this with me knew S. from school, and said that he had a long-standing reputation as a player, and thus, our whole pseudo-flirtation was just one long cruel installment in his life without balls.

Posted by Dori at 7:50 PM 1 comments

Evite Evil

If you are fortunate enough never to have heard about Evite, let me give you a quick introduction. It is a free web site/service that generates automatic invitations to parties and events. So, if you are hosting a party, you go to the site, type in the event details, enter a list of all the people you want to invite, and they all get an email link to your "party page" where they learn when and where to go, and what to bring.

Like many technologically-enhanced social tools, Evite is more tortuous than convenient.

For example:
- On the site, you can see the number of invitees, and also the names of people who have RSVPed "yes", "no", and "maybe." For some reason, people feel compelled to RSVP with their name and some pithy remark, i.e. "I'll be there with beer on." Or they refer to some "inside" joke that illuminates how quirky and hilarious they are.
- Because people in general are flaky, and do not RSVP even after repeated automated Evite reminders, there are always many more invitees than RSVPs, which can make the party, and consequently the host(ess) appear pathetic. From the perspective of the host(ess), this is horrible not just because of the self-esteem erosion, but because most people do not RSVP at all, rendering moot the entire point of Evite (which is ostensibly a tool for counting guests).
- Evite also fosters host(ess) obsession because (s)he receives notification whenever anyone opens the evite email--regardless of whether they RSVP. So (s)he is regularly informed of who has considered the invitation and chosen not to respond.
- The "plus guest" option and the visible list of "maybes" extend the angst to invitees. Today, for example, I responded to my friend Anne's birthday party Evite and discovered that the Former Object of an Obsessive Crush has also been invited, AND that he MAY attend AND, even worse, if he comes, it will be "plus guest". This is enraging because:

1. He has a date, whereas I do not, and this wounds my pride.
2. He "may" come, so I can't justify skipping the party altogether, BUT, every time the door opens I will experience a surge of anxiety. Throughout the evening, I will worry that he and his fucking "plus guest" might materialize.
3. His pithy comment: "I may come, depending on when I get back into town." Subtext: "I have fabulous out-of-state plans and me and my fucking "plus guest" are too cool to commit to this party."

Posted by Dori at 2:14 PM 0 comments

The Breakfast Test

We are at a local famous breakfast place, where I rarely go because it’s always full and the Lebanese owners nudge at you to leave even when you’ve barely finished swallowing and the maple syrup still clings to the lip of the pitcher.

But it’s the middle of the week, and so we linger, savoring our breakfasts. And from his Tunisian omelet with too many vegetables and not enough egg, my new friend David L. extracts a hair, a long wavy hair. He does it with precision, with a certain tact; his fingers are like pincers. He drops the hair on the ground by the table, raising his fair eyebrows at me.

And it’s a test moment—he could get all dramatic and call the waiter over and demand a free something, or he could get disgusted and rush to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth. But he doesn’t. He’s clearly appalled, more than I would be under the same circumstances. And he says, “well, it could be worse,” which I know, because during our recent lunch he told me about finding a band-aid in his burrito at Anna’s taqueria.

Now, all he says, is “check, please.” And he stops eating the omelet and starts eating his bagel, which he tells me he feels is safe. And then the waiter comes to take away our plates, and David L. tells him how everything was great, and he couldn’t finish his meal because he’d eaten beforehand (which was a lie). Proof: he is nice and kind even when revolted.

Posted by Dori at 11:01 PM 3 comments

Chinese Manicure

I am noticing that my nails are still sporting vestiges of my Christmas manicure. On Christmas Day, my friend K. and I planned to have Dim Sum in Chinatown, and then see Bad Education at our local independent cinema. After we consumed a great deal of shrimp, pork, and other more mysterious elements of dim sum, we found we had hours to kill before the movie. Since Chinatown was bustling despite Christ's birthday, K. and I decided to get our nails done.

We entered a salon across from the restaurant, which had an odd chemical smell, and asked whether they did manicures. The woman at the desk said no in a hostile voice, and we asked whether she could recommend any other place. She said no again, with equal hostility. We left, and walked directly into--surprise!-- an adjacent nail salon.

The salon was large and hip-looking, with high ceilings, sleek black fixtures, and, incongruously, a life-sized statue of Venus near the door. Several staff member clustered around the front desk, but only one other customer was having her hair cut. They were very startled by our arrival. A great deal of confusion ensued about whether K. and I could have our nails done at the same time. There were two manicure stations with many extraneous rolling chairs, and it took a while to get K. and me set up with both manicurists and chairs. The whole encounter was conducted entirely through gestures, since no one in the salon spoke even rudimentary English.

"My" manicurist was a middle-aged man, which was awkward in itself. We both avoided eye contact as he dropped my right hand into a bowl of lukewarm water (intended, I assume, to soften my cuticles). As he twisted my ring off, and proceeded to buff the hell out of the nails of my left hand, it became clear that his concept of a manicure did not involve pampering of any kind. Soon after, I noticed a cuticle-cutting implement on the table. I hesitated about whether to say outright that I didn't want it used on me. I was pretty sure that the trimming of cuticles is illegal in Massachusetts: but was Chinatown exempt? Is it like a quasi-autonomous region like an Indian Reservation? Should I say anything?

Ultimately, my fear of hepatitis won out over my fear of being a diva, and I said, as clearly as possible, that I didn't want my cuticles cut. This created even more confusion, and a frantic consult between colleagues, one of whom came over and interpreted, after which my cuticles were trimmed regardless. While the manicurist was vigorously applying lotion to my hand, a woman dashed into the salon, greeting everyone, scattering tinsel, and presenting each staff member with a little foil package with sweets inside. Everyone was so happy to see her, I gathered she was a family member visiting from afar.

Trying to "get in the spirit", I asked whether she was a relative. Again, a furrowing of brows and a hurried attempt to interpret my question--unsuccessful. The manicurist pulled each of my fingers away in a quick snapping motion, and then pronounced me "all set."

K. was already "all set" and we approached the cash register hoping that the manicure would be "affordable." It was. We paid and left. The manicure lasted all week.

Posted by Dori at 4:09 PM 0 comments

Black Ice

I am a new driver and have no experience with winter driving (as you may know if you read my post about the de-icer). Until today, I have never driven in snow. But it was seriously snowing this morning, and I decided to drive regardless. I got in the car, and as I swung the door closed, I noticed a patch of black ice beneath it.

That ice brought back a fleet of memories. Almost exactly last year, I visited my beloved friend Ina in California, because I needed some love and sunshine. I was deeply depressed at the time, and needed to escape the New England cold, the gnawing loneliness, the sense that the coming months would hold only stress and strife. I was running out of faith. Things had sucked for so long that it was hard to remember when they hadn’t, or that someday they wouldn’t. I wanted to rollerblade on a boardwalk, hug my best friend, and take strength from her love. I wanted to eat fresh food and buy beautiful clothes and share her sunny world, just for a week.

On the third day of my visit, we learned that Ina's college friend Kate and her mother had been killed in a car wreck. They were on their way to a holiday party in their hometown of Portland. I have never met Kate or her mother, but I can imagine them, dressed in velvet, their hair brushed, smelling faintly of blush, of perfume. I imagine the chains on the tires, the fog on the windows. The car a shell of warmth and chatter.

And then the black ice. The whirling screeching catastrophe. And silence on the road, the snow dusting a motionless car.

Ina and I talked about whether the hostess of the party noticed their absence. We wondered who was driving. We asked questions and speculated, attempting to make sense of the senseless.

In the following days, the response to the tragedy—the mobilization of love—astonished me. Kate's high school friends emailed all the people in her life about the funeral arrangements. They came to the airport in shifts to greet mourners and drive them to the service. Kate's college community made frantic travel plans. A Portland family turned over their home to the eleven women gathered in grief.

<>I thought about what I would do if, G-d forbid, one of my college or high school friends was killed. Would it occur to me to contact her friends from other life phases? Would it occur to me to pick them up at the airport?

Then I thought, what if I died? Who would come to my funeral? How would people know who to call, how to get in touch with all the different realms of people I know? I had thought about setting up a contingency plan "just in case." I could give my parents my email password so they could send a mass email out in case I die, and set up an auto-reply message--so people trying to contact me would know that I was not flaky, but dead.

I was strangely jealous of Kate--of this rush of love, of her instant sainthood, the foundation established in her name. I was so depressed at the time that I even envied her release from the dreary business of living.

Now, ice reminds of her, of then, of what I now consider the precious privilege of living.

Sleet is in the forecast tomorrow. I'll be taking the bus to work.

Posted by Dori at 10:36 PM 0 comments

Little Brown Bird

So I was walking along in the unseasonably warm weather, with a new CD in my discman. Somehow, in spite of the sporadic drizzle, the Monday morning traffic, the loud music, and my own self-absorbed thoughts, I noticed a struggle at my feet.

In the middle of the sidewalk, a little brown bird fluttered. It was an ordinary bird, the kind you see all over the city, without noticing it for its commonplaceness. For the first time, I appreciated the perky roundness of the bird's body, and its crisply engineered wings. I watched the bird as it tried with bursts of thwarted energy--to right itself. The bird was off-kilter, badly unbalanced, and its nearly silent effort was heartbreaking in its futility. I couldn't tell what was wrong with the bird, maybe it had fallen out of the tree, and broken a wing--maybe it was diseased somehow, and it was crippled by vertigo. I bent over the bird, willing it to right itself and fly away.

I knew there was nothing I could do to help, and I wished I'd stayed on the other side of the street, so as not to witness this suffering, and be touched by it. Luckily another woman stopped as well, and we traded possible diagnoses. Gradually we concluded that we should try to scoop it off the sidewalk, so that it could continue struggling without the added risk of being trampled by pedestrians. We each had a bag from HMV, and we used our two new CD cases to scoop the bird off the sidewalk and into the brush. The bird didn't look any happier there--but I noticed the way it blended perfectly into the wood chips and softer ground at the edge of the curb. A few bushes provided privacy, shade. If the bird was going to die I felt better about it dying surrounded by earth and bushes. Both the woman and I wanted to leave, but something about the situation made us feel that this would be callous. I said a few times that I wish I could help somehow, but that probably even a vet wouldn't be able to do much. We watched the bird spin in the softer dirt, its wings furling uselessly in rhythmic, feathery spurts. A third woman with a backpack joined our caucus. She said that she'd go and get her roommate, who was great with animals and would know who to call--wildlife rescue or a vet or whatever. This was a tremendous relief. We could leave now. We thanked her for relieving us of the responsibility of the injured bird.

And then we left--3 women brought together briefly, swept back into the swirl of city life. I watched the first woman as she disappeared down the street. Like me, she'd disposed of her HMV bag in the trash can on the corner. I have no idea what happened to the little brown bird. Since then, I see the birds everywhere, and I try to look closely at them, and see how pretty they are. But they're skittish and savvy, and fly away before I can approach.

Posted by Dori at 11:15 PM 2 comments