Independent Confirmation

Last weekend my friend Michael visited from Boston. Michael was the first person I met when I moved to Boston. He was sitting on a bar stool in a coffee shop up the street from my apartment. I asked for the sugar, he handed me the Sweet n' Low, I asked if that was a hint. He had just moved to Boston from Wisconsin a few months earlier. We talked about being new in Boston, how New Englanders are difficult to meet, and became friends.

While he was staying with me in Brooklyn, we went to a bar in the East Village. A few other friends of his were also down from Boston and met up with us. One of them was a man whose name I can't remember. But he had lived in New York a few years ago and he was excited to be back. It came out in the conversation that he was born in Pune, India. "Pune?" I asked. "Did you ever take the train from Pune to Delhi?"

"Of course!" he said. Everything about his conversational style was exciting. "Whenever I go home to visit relatives I always go to Pune and Delhi! But now the airfare is not so expensive, so I fly instead of taking the train!"

"I see," I said. "And tell me, on the train between Pune and Delhi, is there a stop called 'Monkey Hill'?"

"Oh yes!" he said. "How do you know about Monkey Hill?! It's a wonderful place. The train stops and everyone gets out and feeds peanuts to the monkeys and takes pictures and laughs and has a great time!"

I knew about Monkey Hill from my friend Nisha. She was another English teacher in Grenoble and grew up in Pune. She wasn't as excited about Monkey Hill as this guy, but close. I can't imagine being on a train, probably in a rush to get from one place to the next, and have it stop halfway so everyone can go feed the monkeys. I can't imagine buying a ticket on a train with a scheduled monkey stop. "Express train only, please" I'd probably say. "I'm in a hurry and not much of a fan of the monkeys anwyay."

Nisha would smile when she spoke of Monkey Hill. "They dance and do tricks and pose and wave for pictures!" she told me. I wasn't sure if I believed her.

But, here I was, walking down Avenue A with a stranger who glowed at the mere mention of Monkey Hill. We started our conversation discussing the differences between Boston and New York, but ended with him reliving his childhood in Pune, feeding the monkeys. "You should see all the pictures I have of Monkey Hill!" he told me.

Lost in thought, I wondered what the US equivalent of monkeys would be. Squirrels, perhaps? Buffalo? Rats? I wondered if Amtrak added a stop called Groundhog Hill on the route between Boston and Philadelphia if more people would make the trip. And with the growing ease of air travel in India, what will happen to Monkey Hill if train traffic becomes a thing of the past?

Someday, I'll visit my friends in India. I'll be sure to see the Taj Mahal, the faithful bathing in the Ganges, and the Aga Khan's jewels. And I'll pack a bag of peanuts to feed to the monkeys at Monkey Hill.

Losing Joel

“You lost Joel?” Marcos was leaning over the railing from the third floor landing. He gripped the banister and looked down at me standing on the fifth step. Francesco was at the top of the stairs, his boxers Lucy and Rocco watching silently. Even Guido the yappy Chihuahua held his bark. For a change. ”You LOST Joel?” Marcos repeated.

“I turned around and he wasn’t there,” I said nervously. How do you explain not coming home with your neighbor?

“Did you call him?” Francesco asked.

“He didn’t take his phone with him tonight. He was wearing tight jeans and said it would ruin his lines.”

“Where were you?” Francesco asked.

The night began innocently enough. Craig called to say he was heading into Manhattan with two friends visiting from Montreal. I hadn’t seen him in a few months and we’d been playing phone tag, so I decided to turn a Sunday night doing laundry into an evening. Joel was hungry, so we headed out to grab a bite before meeting Craig.

“I was standing on the corner of 8th and 23rd with Billy yelling at me for not going to the Eagle earlier and Craig was mad at the Canadians …”

“You LOST Joel in Chelsea?” Marcos inserted. ”How do you lose Joel, he’s not THAT small.” Marcos lives in the apartment directly above mine. He grew up in New York. Recently shaved head, new tattoo, saucy attitude. He periodically knocks on my door or sends text messages asking to borrow my mop. He always has a supply of chips and salsa, a stack of comic books I haven’t read, and a huge collection of DVDs I’ll never get around to borrowing.

“Where did you go?” Francesco asked.

My mind was addled. ”We went to Xes. To Drag Queen Karoeke,” I said. Then softly added “it was Craig’s idea.”

“Who is Craig?” Francesco asked.

“The pilot,” I said, as if that explained anything. ”Joel was in the bathroom and Craig went to get another drink and when he came back he told me to go talk to a lesbian from Sarasota he’d just met. And when Joel came back they decided to go to a different bar. And then he told that joke about not having television in the Philippines and her brother thought it was funny …”

“You lost Joel to a lesbian from Sarasota?” Marcos asked.

“And her brother,” I said.

I was worried, Marcos was laughing, and Francesco stayed calm. “He’ll be fine,” Francesco said. “He knows Chelsea and if he doesn’t have cab fair he has friends there.” Francesco has a soothing presence, a voice like velvet and smiling eyes.

But tonight I wasn’t sure. I took Joel out and then came home empty handed. I continued: “When we left Xes, Billy and the Canadians finally showed up, there was some commotion, and when I turned around Joel was gone.”

“Who are the Canadians? How many people were you with?” Francesco asked, the dogs still quiet, their eyes darting from one of us to the other.

And then the downstairs door opened and we heard the heavy thump of Joel’s Kenneth Coles climbing the stairs.

“Joel!” I shouted and grabbed his shoulders when he came in sight.

“Don’t touch me,” he said and pushed past up to the third floor landing. ”You left me with those weird people.”

“Where did you go?” I asked. ”I thought we’d find you in a bathtub full of ice and your kidneys missing.”

“So did I!” he said, his almond eyes round and gelled hair standing a little higher. “We went to another bar and you and your friend never showed up.”

“What bar? How did you get away?” I asked.

He sat on the top step and removed his boots. “I told them I was going to the bathroom, then left and hailed a taxi.”

“I knew you’d be OK,” Francesco said and moved the dogs back inside his apartment.

“Anyone have any milk?” Marcos asked, the night’s drama neatly concluded.

“I’m sorry I left you. I was distracted and couldn’t find you,” I offered. I knew it was a pathetic thing to say.

Joel shook his head, the vodka and tonic having an effect still. “You left me. Alone. With those people.”

“Is it true the one was the editor of Out?” I asked. “Craig said he was the editor.”

Joel gave me the look, climbed down the stairs and went into his apartment. His door closed tightly, the sound of the deadbolt echoing in the stairwell.

The night over, I went back into my apartment, content.

In Praise of Feral Cats

They’re at it again. In the evenings I can hear the wild cats in the gardens behind my Brooklyn apartment. They play hard to get before finally going at it. On the street side the song from the local ice cream truck plays into the night, his customers staying up beyond bed time tossing a ball or skating or engaging in their own mating rituals.

My new apartment is in an old building; four rooms in need of some Tyrus Loving Care. I’ve been here since April Fools Day, pulling bastardized shelves off the trim lined walls, painting them, hanging curtains, fretting about the ugly probably asbestos made tiles throughout the apartment, wondering if the roaches will make an appearance, contemplating the security of that window that filled with water during a rainstorm, assessing the lean of the kitchen and the smallness of the bathroom.

Old friend Marc (ten years this June) has been out twice to frustrate at my slow pace and disorganization. New neighbor Joel appeared one Saturday to insist I take down the cupboards in the kitchen. Upstairs friends Marcos and Francesco invite me up to their dens of cleanliness.

From just over one month ago, I can see progress. The flaming orange that once covered three walls is now restricted to a heating pipe. A set of empty shelves grace one wall. The refrigerator resting in a new spot. But still living out of suitcases, it’s time to buy some furniture. And a pot (or two) to cook in.

And in the night the cats call. Their song a taunt to those “sleeping single in a double bed”. But their presence a smiling reminder that rats don’t dig in the trash cans. And that life punctuated by sounds from outside my four rooms continues, progresses.

One Night in Grenoble

One warm night in Grenoble, I was walking home from a drink with three friends: Emma from England and Leena and Nisha from India.  We turned a cobblestoned corner to walk down a narrow street and came across a huge pile of plastic coat hangers.  As if someone had taken a 5 bushel box of them and turned them out onto the street.  Leena and Nisha had just been complaining about not having enough hangers when drying their laundry.  So I said, “Hey! Free hangers!”

Nisha and Emma, being only 20 years old, were cautious of anything found lying in a heap in the street and stood back.  Leena and I, being over 30, were delighted at the sheer luck.  We each leaned in to help ourselves.  In a bent position, a hanger in each hand, I pivoted to the other two and said “C’mon!  Just take three.”

All of a sudden (I love this part, because when I retold the story in my French class I got the “all of a sudden” part correct), two police officers came running up the alley shouting - in French of course - “blah! blah, blah, blah?!  blah!!!”

Still in a bent position, my mouth turned into an O.  My brain couldn’t translate fast enough.  Giving up on explaining the situation in the here and now, my head leapt ahead to what I would say to Douglas in my one phone call.   “They were the clear plastic kind, with a metal hook sticking out the top.  …. No, I don’t think I’ll get to keep them.  …  You’ll probably need to bring my translated birth certificate, the housing contract, a bank RIB form, and a representative from the American consulate in Lyon.  ….  I haven’t seen the Indians, but I think I hear ‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I Seen’ in Hindi.”

Apparently caught red-handed, with the loot firmly in her hands, Leena tried to explain “We just found these here”.  Emma and Nisha took another step away from us.

Finally, a voice screamed from the walkie-talkie (or a talkie-walkie as the French call them) that a vandal had been spotted at a store up the street.  The two cops ran off as quickly as they arrived.

Leena and I put down the hangers in our hands and the four of us slipped away into the shadows.

My Uncle

Before moving to France, my mom and her sister drove out to Boston and helped Douglas and I move furniture back to the island. The four of us rode in my aunt and uncle’s truck across the Eastern Time Zone, taking turns behind the wheel. My aunt cleverly made an X out of the white sticker strips from a book of stamps and stuck it on the inside of the tailgate. This X was visible in the side view mirror and told us, at a quick glance, if the tailgate was still up or if it had burst open and all of my possessions flung across the highway.

Long road trips are a great way to know your fellow passengers better, build friendships, test boundaries. In the week that Mom and her sister spent inBoston prior to our leaving and the two days on the road I never grew sick of their company. The time was spent learning about each other. We ate together, joked over shared characteristics, and explored different perspectives on common memories. The departure is high among my favorite memories of living in Boston.

At one point on the trip, with Douglas and Mom in the back seat navigating, me driving, and my aunt riding shotgun, she told me a story about her early married years. She and her husband were working around the clock. He was employed full time as a ferry captain and she was busy creating Island Bike Rental. In addition they raised three kids. They saw little of each other during the day and “only had time to argue at night, and by then the boats weren’t running so I couldn’t leave him.” She laughed as she said this, so I took it that she didn’t mean it.

But I did appreciate learning that they argued so early in their marriage. Being the youngest of three in my household growing up, I mostly saw my parent’s marriage unraveling. The tender moments were few and my aunt and uncle in the little yellow house were my young example of how happy life with someone can be. Her joking disclosure that even they had stressful moments was cheering.

Her husband was born on the island. His grandfather was a lighthousekeeper and in his career tended the Fresnel lenses on a few of the lake’s islands. His father had white hair in his youth and was called Cotton. By the time I knew him he’d lost the hair, but kept the nickname. Skip’s mother wore horn rimmed glasses and a Mamie Eisenhower dress in my parent’s wedding pictures. They were of the island and uniquely typical of the characters who inhabit it. In this vein was my uncle.

The holiday season on the island is a marathon of parties, open houses, potlucks, and other reasons to be merry. Every Christmas Eve at St. Paul’s church starts at 10:30 and stretches until midnight. After the bells have rung and the anthem sung and the choir has marched up to the altar the late comers would sneak into a pew. One teenaged year, my uncle was among the sneakers. He and a friend ended up seated directly in front of me and my sisters. They swayed when we stood to sing. But not in rhythm with “Joy to the World”. Their tipsy swaying brought an eye roll and giggle from my aunt’s face.

Another Christmas, I came home with a boyfriend who was also an island boy, but of a different type. My uncle lent us his snowmobile and we spent the night in borrowed winter gear and my mom’s 1970s electric blue disco motorcycle helmet racing through the snow covered field of wild flowers near the cemetery. Twenty years earlier, in that same field, I was riding with my uncle on his snowmobile. My sister and a cousin were in a dog sled behind us. He let me steer, I pulled too hard to the left, and everyone tumbled. I pulled my helmet off to hear him laughing the loudest.

Last month my uncle passed away after a long fight with cancer. And it was a long fight. When I made the road trip with my aunt and mother and Douglas, we knew he was fighting. My aunt wore a necklace with two figures embraced in a dance. It was a gift from him to remind her that he always wanted to be with her sharing a dance.

In August my cousin told me that she was introduced to coffee drinking by her dad. He would bring a cup to her in the morning as a way to encourage her to get out of bed. When she became a property owner he would visit on winter mornings and they’d share a pot of coffee. And talk. He was a good talker.

But now, another member of the old guard has moved on. Symbolically, my uncle’s death is significant to the island. Prohibition, the Depression, the War, and the automobile took their toll on the island’s thriving turn of the century economy. He was of the post-war generation that was raised there and built their livelihoods and prospered there.

Tangibly, my uncle’s life was more significant to the island. In the 40 years since their businesses were created and expanded, he and my aunt have employed thousands and generated millions in revenue. The impact is hard to measure. Ferries from both of the boat lines cruised alongside each other as his casket was carried home for his funeral, which filled both island churches.

Each year that I spent away from home it was on my mind that I was missing another Christmas Eve of witnessing him sneak into church and laughing the loudest. And I kept thinking back to a blessing from the French Protestant minister Henri Amiel:

Life is short;

And we do not have too much time

To gladden the hearts of those

Who travel the way with us.

So be swift to love

And make haste to be kind.

Because it sums up my uncle so well. In addition to all the hard work, he loved so easily.

Punk Rock Aerobics

Last summer while I was in Columbus, I was introduced to Punk Rock Aerobics.  The Surly Girl Saloon, a bar in the Short North, offers a free class once a week.  It’s led by three women who do it just for kicks.  They begin each class with a disclaimer about their amateur status and a reminder that we shouldn’t sue them.  At the end of each class everyone is offered a complimentary can of beer.

I started the class with new friend Michael.  As a 12 year old, Michael climbed a tree to read a book instead of taking out the trash and accidentally touched an electric line that sent him flying.  He fell to the ground screaming.  His next memory is coming in and out of consciousness in an ambulance and then a lengthy recovery at Children’s Hospital.   Twenty years later, he had a burn scar across his thigh but no super powers. 


Three weeks into Punk Rock Aerobics, Michael decided the class wasn’t for him.  In spite of being abandoned in a room of sweaty girls, I chose to stick it out.  We did moves called “The Lead Singer” and “Beat on the Brat” to the music of the Sex Pistols, the Breeders, and the Ramones. 


After one particularly grueling class, I drove to Kroger to get a bite to eat.  I wandered the aisles of the supermarket trying to find something satisfying and healthy.  I passed a display of Entenmann’s cinnamon rolls.  Jumbo sized.  I have a weakness for Cinnabons and can’t seem to manage to get through an airport without buying one.  I decided to pick up a box of the similarly delicious Entenmann’s just to hold onto while I pushed my cart through the store.  For comfort.  As a reward for not ditching the class as my friend had.


My plan was to have the box in the child seat of my shopping cart so that I could fantasize about their sweet glaze and sticky cinnamon while I filled a container at the salad bar with lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, peppers, celery, etc.   Afterwards, I would remove the rolls from my cart before checking out.  I rationalized that the pleasure was in the memory, not the experience itself.


When I got home I set my salad on the kitchen counter, filled a glass with water, pulled a plate out of the dishwasher and heated up one of the cinnamon rolls in the microwave.   Some plans don’t work out as intended.  Something came over me as I was checking out of Kroger.  I hadn’t pushed past the Entenmann’s display on my way through the store and never had the chance to replace the box.  And I didn’t want to be one of “those people” who unload stuff in the gum and magazine racks.  I ate the heated roll before even opening my salad.  Punk Rock Aerobics was hard.  I was hungry.  The roll was delicious.


My salad wasn’t bad either.  I ate it dry, without any salad dressing.  You know, because of all the extra calories and corn syrup they put in there.  

Sixteen Percent

“Candy in the morning?”  It was the first thing Luswin said to me today.  Shortly after 6am, I was woken by the coffee grinder instead of my jetlag for the first time since arriving home last week.  I climbed out of bed and had my hand in a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses on the dining room table.  Already the night before I had to hide a bowl of red and green M&Ms to stop myself.


Being back has been a junk food tour de force.  I arrived in Washington on Tuesday night and gorged on pecan pie, mini-brownies and some raspberry pastries in George’s kitchen.   And again Wednesday morning.  Then an egg and bacon (hmmm, bacon!) croissant at a buffet downtown DC.  Dinner that night was a taco salad with college friends Rachel and Bryce.  Craig joined us too. 


Thursday morning was round three with the mini-brownies.  Some secret ingredient was keeping them fresh.  I flew to the dedication of the Asia Trail in the National Zoo and afterwards grabbed a Blimpie sandwich.  After the memorial service at the National Cathedral I continued my diet regimen with rocky road fudge, assorted cheeses, and tarts.  And an herbal tea.  That night at the second reception I nibbled on beef satay and a carrot stick.


Back in George’s kitchen I had another mini-brownie.  They’re so small, you know?  Friday morning I made waffles, and managed to eat three throughout the day.  George wisely stuck with one before heading to work.


The real fun began Friday night when I relocated to Karen’s home in Alexandria.  The piece de resistance was a bag of Cheetos.  It called to me from on top of the refrigerator (sorry Rachel, they weren’t the baked kind).  And then some potato chips and French onion dip.  Karen and I went to a bar on Capitol Hill where we found Tommy Yost.  He’s in the process of moving to DC and she let me know that he isn’t in the habit of eating everything in sight when he stays with her. 
We lamented the fact that Kristin couldn’t join us, but deduced that having just the three of us in the same room was the equivalent of 16% of the PIBHS 1989-1990.  Math is hard and took a little bit to figure it out.  The biggest laugh came after we counted everyone in HS that year using only fingers and toes. 


In the morning the eating continued when I discovered a secret stash of rice krispy treats in the laundry room and Karen made a bowl of popcorn.  I put my foot down at lunch time and had a salad.  Which I then smothered in creamy Italian dressing.  Tangy!


Dinner was at Alper and Jeremy’s house where they were having a holiday party.  The first thing on my plate was a chocolate chip cookie made by Gerry Altoff.  (He wasn’t there but Kristin and Cyndee were.) 


For breakfast on Sunday I discovered a packet of apple and brown sugar oatmeal next to the bag of cheetos (which I finished).  Karen’s roommate Leeana made me two sausage links too, even though I only asked for one.   But I ate both. 


On the drive up to NJ with Nate and Naomi we stopped twice for gas and bathroom breaks.  Somehow I just wasn’t interested in the honey roasted peanuts Nate was pushing.  Not the trail mix Naomi offered either.


But there were the bowls of candy at Luswin and Fritz’s.  And the grilled steak and mashed potatoes.  And the cheese and crackers. 


It’s good to be home.  Even if I get tsk-tsked for my morning food habits

Blessing

The Blessing from the World Wildlife Fund Memorial Service, held November 30 at the National Cathedral:

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, so that you may live deep within your heart.
May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.
May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation, and war, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and turn their pain to joy.
And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done.  Amen.

WWF update on the Eastern Himalayas team.

FYI - Update

I’ll be back in the US this month. I’m flying into Washington on November 28. I’ll be staying with my ex George and his partner Rudolph for a few days. While in DC I will be attending the memorial service for my friend Matt and his colleagues from the WWF who perished in a helicopter crash in Nepal.

And then I’ll be heading up to New Jersey and staying with friends Luswin and Fritz while I get settled.

Douglas has a job interview in Berlin at the end of November and is planning to head to New Jersey in the first week of December.

Forty

I remember when my mom turned 40.  When an islander reaches 40 s/he is rewarded with an obnoxious trophy most appropriate for bowling or cheese making tournaments.  The recipient’s name is etched on a brass plaque and attached to any available surface, joining the names of those pioneers who’ve gone before.  Mom was officially old in my 12 year old mind.  And like her contemporary Tina Turner she was rocking - albeit to a slower, more country-western beat.  She held onto the trophy until the next islander crashed into old age.  In this case it was my 7th grade science teacher. 


This is what I like about island life.  The small town flavor is compounded by isolation in the winter.  The population drops to 400 and everyone has at least three relationships with each other.  Your teacher will also be your neighbor and mother’s best friend.  Your cousin is your boss and volleyball team captain.  The church organist is also your aunt’s arch-nemesis and the favored toilet papering target of your older sister.  There’s no avoiding anyone.


Just before turning 40, when Mom was a newly minted divorcee, she and three other island women formed a club. Demographically they had a lot in common: in their 30s, raised on the islands, divorced, children at home.  Reliving their 20s, misspent on organizing PTA fundraisers, they became the Midnight Ladies.   They committed alcohol induced activities a son prefers not to theorize. 


One of their adventures I do recall vaguely.  Or rather, I have a memory of a mother nursing a hangover, saying to me “Don’t drink too much when you’re older.”  And then later that same day driving with her to the home of a neighbor around the corner.  I witnessed her apologize to him while he mourned the carcass of a 1929 Ford Model A Roadster. 


This neighbor was a good friend of my father.  My sisters and I regularly climbed the tree in his front yard.  One of my earliest memories is sitting on my father’s lap in his home and tasting the foam of a just opened can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.


But on this particular day I stood silently observing my contrite mother and him shaking his head sorrowfully.  When we left I asked her “What was that about?”  The night before, assisted by a fair dose of spirits, the Midnight Ladies “bought” the vintage car with an envelope of Monopoly money.  On their late night adventures with the car they managed to break an axel, rendering the car immobile.


Fast forward 20+ years, when my own sister is on the edge of 40, while visiting the island this summer I saw my dad’s latest project.  He and my cousin Michael are reconstructing a Model A.  They’re reconstructing the engine and frame but keeping the car’s rusted body.  It’ll have the appearance of a clunker but the Conshafter/Burgess talent beneath.  The first part to be replaced will be an axel, broken years ago, by a crew playing a midnight prank.