Category Archives: Life

Last Day (and Last Supper)

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You would think that I had enough self-respect not to make a reference to the Last Supper.  But I don’t.

Before I start on today’s adventures, I must mention that during the visit to the Jewish Ghetto, we stopped at the Piazza del 13th (?) del Ottobre. (Sorry, IFOB, that I butchered the name of the plaza.)  It is the place where the Nazis rounded up the Jews and took them to Auschwitz on October 13th (?), 1943.  We were standing in the piazza and, as if on cue, a police car passes nearby, blaring Anne Frank noise (eeeeee-awwwwwww eeeeee-awwwwwww).  It is the sound that makes every Jew shutter.  The ambulances have a different noise, I noticed (eeeee-eeeee  eeeee-eeeee).  Now I have completed the tale of devastation and triumph of world Jewry.  Phew.

Today, our only aim was to shop.  Shop for things that are made here in Rome and not in Milan or elsewhere.  And of course look in the churches and walk in the piazzas along the way.  That is one thing about Rome, a church on every corner and lovely piazzas.  There is even an Episcopal Church that had Irish dancers and a bagpipe outside, trying to get worshippers to come inside.  Now that is a tough sell in the seat of Roman Catholicism.

So not a lot of things made in Rome.  We had to search out artsy areas, a hard thing for foreigners because it is so easy to get lost in Rome.  And, I get bored of shopping in less than an hour.  POB (partner of blogger) wanted to shop and so TLP (our son, the little prince) and I had to schlep along.  Mind-numbing and exhausting.  Some things but nothing really.  Milan would be the city for shopping.

So, nothing really absurd or crazy happened today.  We found some groovy areas that we would love to visit next time.

TLP had a great time in spite of his pre-trip whinings.  POB relaxed by mid-week despite her stress about traveling.  I got stressed as the week went on, because I was almost totally out of touch with everything in the US.  I did check in with the office daily and my secretary and colleague texted me as necessary.  I heard snippets of news — Dow tumbled on oil supply fears and not because of a massacre in Tripoli, Berlusconi’s Bill Clinton problems, Obama’s not defending DOMA anymore.  Other than the massacre, I really don’t care.  Monday I will care.

I think this means I actually had a vacation.  A real vacation.  But wait, the journey home is tomorrow.  So, I shouldn’t jinx it.

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Roma, Thursday

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Today we wandered a bit en route to the Jewish Ghetto.  We walked on meandering streets to the Tiber River and found our way to the Ghetto. We walked up to Capitoline Hill. We were a little lost until TLP (our son, the little prince) said, “this is Capitoline Hill.  I recognize it from our tour the other day and the map.”  POB (partner of blogger) and I looked at each other and sighed.  I guess we don’t have to worry about our child’s intellectual development.

IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) calls it the Jewish Quarter.  Euphemistic.  If an area was walled off with only day passes to the City, it was a ghetto.  A ghetto is a ghetto.  It was long ago and now the Jews of Rome thrive, with 15 synagogues.  We saw the two old synagogues and plaques from Roman times. But being Jews, we have to pick at the scabs of the past.  We have to wallow in the persecution.  All in, it took about 4 hours to recite the indignities since the 2nd century.  That was exhausting.

We had a kosher lunch.  That just means it is even more expensive than Rome generally and everything is overcooked.  IFOB gave us a suggestion for an eatery, but after the recitation of our people’s trials and tribulations we barely crawled to the first place we saw.  There was a sink and the blessing and men in yarmulkes.  All in Italian.  Very cool. A man came over to us and complimented us on how well behaved TLP was.  We were beaming, as in beatification beaming.  TLP got extra gelato.

We saw the four lesbians from the Jewish museum at the restaurant.  They were hard to miss in either place.  The particularly masculine one was flirting with a beautiful woman who worked at the museum.  The woman was clearly flirting back.  I was intrigued but my job as a Jew was to relive the painful past, so I didn’t have time for interesting side stories.  (IFOB: I am being my usual over-the-top self, so don’t be alarmed.  We really don’t going into excruciating details about the past.  We usually conflate a few centuries to save time.)

Then, we walked through various piazzas and along side streets where open doors showed courtyards and beautiful buildings.  Truly magical, as long as no one runs you over.

We took a bus to the Sistine Chapel and TLP survived, barely.  He is not a Raphaelite or a fan of Michelangelo or Titian.  I told him that I am not either, but one has to appreciate the art and the extraordinary talent and skill that is evident.  We took the subway back.  TLP was in transportation Heaven.

We napped and went shopping.  Then off to dinner, in a quiet restaurant. That is, until the LARGE, LARGE group of American adults and children came in.  Three huge tables.  And one of the adults thought it was appropriate in a public place to give a LOUD, VERY LOUD toast to the group’s leaders.  All the English speaking people in the restaurant looked on, stunned and gobsmacked.  The Italians also were talking, and I am sure not in the most glowing terms about the Americans.  One group of kids was being loud and I turned around and said, “Really? Really?  You think this is appropriate?”  They were silent.  Phew.  It could have backfired.

There was one family from the UK also in the restaurant.  They looked similarly distressed at the large (did I mention, LARGE), loud group. As we passed their table on the way out, I looked at the mother and said simply, “Oy.”  She held up her hand and we high-five’d.  Now, THAT’S international communication.

Another great day in Rome.

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More on Rome

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Last night, we had gelato and coffee in the bar of the hotel after dinner out.  I was talking with two retired travel agents from Detroit, Michigan.  It must be a good business because everyone I have ever met has wanted to get out of Detroit.  These older women were on a two-week tour of Rome and the surrounding areas.  Not bad.

Our conversation continued after POB (partner of blogger) and our son, TLP (fka SOPOBAB, and nka the little prince), went upstairs.  They were curious about how TLP was dealing with the violence depicted in the murals and other art.  The Renaissance Masters loved blood and gore.  As I mentioned in my last entry, kids figure it out, so I said that I think he’d be ok but it was a good thing to keep in mind.

I watched as TLP looked at the greatest collections of Renaissance and Roman art over the course of hours at museums and galleries.  He really didn’t focus on the blood and gore but he did like all the naked ladies.  He was disappointed that there was not full-frontal nudity and that the females were not prettier and more voluptuous.  So, my son reduced 2000 years of art into: “the girls look too much like boys”.  I responded that, for a long time, it was not ok for females to be artist’s models and, so, young boys were the substitute models.  TLP thought that was silly.

Out of the mouth of babes. . . .

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Are we there yet?

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Since we are going to Rome, the city where the Holy See is resident, I figured there would be pilgrims because a former Pope is being beatified next month.  I didn’t realize that the choir of the Bridgeport Diocese would be going – 23 people strong.  All are glowing in the reflective glory of the Lord.  “Padre” said “Amen, Brother” twice and we haven’t taken off yet.

We had to wait until the entire group arrived which held up our departure time.  So now we are over an hour delayed.  And they seem oblivious to that, or unconcerned about the inconvenience.

They are quite a boisterous group.  You can tell them by their matching crosses.  Big, scary, pilgrim crosses.  Padre likes to talk loud and be the center of attention, so much so that he was quite un-Padre-like when another passenger asked if they all would stop talking loudly across the aisles.  They all felt put upon and gave each other annoyed glances.  Padre said to the passenger, “we are on vacation,” to which she responded, “so are we.  And we have all paid a lot to be on this plane.”  I backed her up even though I had an altercation with her earlier.

This group thinks that we all want to watch their interactions and think that their various pithy commentaries are bon mots for all to appreciate.

POB (partner of blogger) is sitting stunned and gobsmacked by the ill manners.  Perhaps she is still shell-shocked by the profound underarm hair of the women trip leader.  The length suggests a lifetime achievement.

There is an obviously gay man in this choir (trust me on this).  They were talking about church classes and he said he has taken 5 courses on blasphemy.  In the law business, we call that forum shopping,  Is he looking for a (gay) friendly judge who will issue a different ruling on those pesky verses of Leviticus?

Ok, so the passenger who was flipped out by all the hoopla and Christian comraderie, is a first-time flyer.  She brought her pillow from home, black-out eye patches, 2 meals from Burger King, fluffy slippers and earplugs.  Still, she was unsettled by the din.  That’s air travel these days.  The turbulence was hell-ish (50 mph winds), but that didn’t bother her.  The 2+ hour delay and the jocularity in Christ (they were comparing prayers for wind – I think they should have specified unscary, non-wrath-of-G-d type wind).  She whipped out her smartphone while we were waiting on the tarmac, and I said, “you give up the higher moral ground if you don’t obey the rules.” “I know, but I need to tell my family I will be two hours late to arrive at a family event.”  “I am sure they’ll check the planes,’ I said, trying to be helpful.  “You don’t know my family.”  I looked at her, and thought, that is true but based on the hair, the outfit, and the accent, I bet I could get a sense if I watched Snooki et al on The Jersey  Shore.

Our son was a trooper on a terrible flight in terrible weather with terrible people.  So, was POB who caught his projectile vomiting in her hands and I was a rocker for cleaning everyone up.

We got into a cab and the driver had two phones and was reading from a clipboard as he was driving on the autostrada.  When in Rome . . . put on your seatbelt.  We tipped him extra for not killing us.

Now we are so exhausted that our son doesn’t even want to stay awake for gelato.  We arrive at the hotel and collapse in our beds.

I can’t even read this over to see if it makes sense.  We are going to bed.  Today, purgatory.  Tomorrow, glorious Roma.

But we are, finally, here.

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Freckles or Age Spots?

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I need to stay out of the sun. 

I am freckling. 

On my hands. 

In the middle of winter. 

Through winter gloves and while in my office. 

Wow, the sun is REALLY strong. 

We really need to worry about the ozone layer and climate change because if this is happening to me, babies are in trouble.

WAIT.  HALT.  STOP.  I SAID, STOP.  THAT MEANS THE MUSIC, TOO. 

Those aren’t freckles, are they?  They are age spots, aka liver spots.

Say that with me, li-i-i-i-i-i-ver-r-r-r-r spots. 

Let me hear it. 

And look at your hands, too. 

And if you have them, too, say it louder. 

I CAN’T HEAR YOU.

That’s better.  I feel better.  You?

Two months ago, I was suckered into paying $600 for an ounce of mystery fountain of youth emollient.  Which we all know is the same as Duane Reade’s generic skin lotion only packaged in faux gold leaf. 

POB (partner of blogger) told me return it.  I was feeling buyer’s remorse, so I was glad that POB said that.  Although when face-to-face with the salesperson who sold it to me the day before, I had to blame stingy POB.  Because I am a wusssssss and I couldn’t say, “you know, this is too damn much for fancy packaging and we know there is no elixir of youth!!” 

Now, those who know me, know that I rarely shy away from giving my opinion and I am a bull-in-a-china-shop even when I try to be smooth.  So, this was aberrant behavior.  In truth I was embarrassed that a salesperson — a stranger — could play so well to my vanity, so much so that I would throw money away on that.

Now, though, I am looking at my li-i-i-i-i-i-ver-r-r-r-r spots, which could have been just freckles if I had used the elixir.  Hmmm.

Is this what they call, early-onset dementia???

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Sunday School

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My son has a Hebrew tutor on Sunday mornings.  He goes to our synagogue’s bi-monthly Saturday program, but that is more about culture and being part of an LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer) community.  (Please don’t ask me to explain bi-sexuality or queer-identification.  Those concepts arose after I settled down and became middle-aged.)

He has 4.5 years until his Bar Mitzvah and he needs to be able to read Hebrew.  I would also like him to understand modern Hebrew, as well, which is about as different from biblical Hebrew as English is from Russian.  And I think it would be more fun and interesting for him.  And that means he would squirm less in class and learn more.  You get the picture and, of course, as with many of my blog entries, it all must end in Kumbaya (this time sung in Hebrew).

Today, POB (partner of blogger) and I took turns going to the gym while our son had Hebrew class.  Since my gym is close to West Side Judaica, I took the opportunity to go in and see about kids’ books that have been translated into Hebrew (POB’s great idea for transitioning into modern-day Hebrew).  I was looking for books like Goodnight Moon or the Giving Tree that our son read when he was young.  He would know the story and be able to connect Hebrew words with its English counterpart and . . .  you get the idea.

I walk into West Side Judaica looking, as one might expect, as if I had just come from the gym, complete with ear buds attached to my iPod.   All Hassidic men in this store.  Can you say culture clash?

So, I ask Shloymi (that is really his name) if he had children’s books.

“Do I have children’s books?  Of course!! I have a beautiful section full of beautiful books!! For every child, I have a book.”

The melodic Yiddisha English is comforting to me because it reminds me of my grandparents.  I decided that his last comment wasn’t a dig at the sad nature of my child’s life since he was not being raised in an orthodox home.  I also decided that I would not be passive-aggressive and mention that we were two lesbians raising a Jewish boy.  I think that admirable restraint deserves an honorable mention and, voilá, here it is.

There were indeed many books.  All in English and all about G-d and wonderful Torah stories that will keep children trembling before G-d.  Greeaaaat.

I ask a younger man, Chaim, whether there were English books translated into Hebrew.

“Ach,” he said, “we have Curious George [really, is that what we export?], we have . . . .”

He pointed me in another direction. I found shelves of books.  The problem is that I don’t speak or read modern Hebrew.  So, how do I know what I am buying?  I look at the pictures.  Like any other illiterate.

Then I saw it!!  The distinct pea green color of the “Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein.  And there is the tree on the cover (the back cover because Hebrew is read left to right).  And then, I read, in the only thing that is English transliterated with Hebrew letters:

של סילברסטיין

(SHEL SILVERSTEIN!!)

Hooray!! Reform Judaism’s redemption in front of Chaim and Shloymi.

My son was not as excited as I about the book.  So I have begun reading it, in Hebrew. Why is this book so important to me?

I bought the book years ago, when our nanny, Leta Murray, died (may her memory be for a blessing).  She was my siblings’ and my nanny for 18 years (make no comment).  I read it and cried, because she was the tree and I was the taking child.  I know she knows that I loved her and still do.  So, I will teach my child, in Hebrew and in English, the importance of being the giving tree and not the taking child.  At least, not always.

מדור לדור

(from generation to generation)

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lucky

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I hopped a cab tonight because I really, really, couldn’t deal with the humanity that crowds the subway.  Well, actually, it was late enough that the trains wouldn’t be crowded, but still.  There was a chill in the air (frigid, perhaps) and I needed to get home.  A long-ish day.  Not like the “old days” but then again I am not in my 20s or 30s any more (barely still in my 40s).

The cab driver was talking on the phone.  His driving skills were basic:  if your foot is not on the gas (accelerating in a way that gave a born-and-bred Manhattanite motion sickness), then your foot must be on the brake.

Ok, so I needed him off the phone and off the gas pedal.  Hmmm.  I struck up a conversation.

“Where are you from?”

“Sudan.”

“What do you think of the elections?”

“I don’t think it will change much.  There will be fighting.”

“Are you from the north or the South?”

“North.  Independence won’t change anything.  People will fight each other now in the South.  Many different peoples.”

“Same problem in the North?”

“Government there is strong.  So, no fighting in north.”

I offered “brutal” as a more apt description.

He said, “way of life there, not here.”

I had no response to that simple statement of relief and admiration for this country.  I asked him what he thought about Egypt.

“Now the world knows what has been happening there.”

I was silent.  Maybe I should have known before.  I just didn’t think about it.

He offered up, “no one speaks to police.  too much bribes and danger.  not here, government is less corrupt.”

I had never thought of our government in terms of lesser corruption.  Not the superlatives we were raised to expect of our government.  But he meant it as a true compliment.

My world view, turned on an incline — “less corrupt” as a compliment and an ideal.

Another lesson in life from a stranger.

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Dragon Wimpering in the Year of the Rabbit

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My son keeps trying to teach me how to say Happy New Year in Mandarin, but he is soooooo frustrated with my horrible tones (for those of you who may not know, Chinese languages are tonal).  At the tender again of 8-1/2, he has been taking Chinese for a few years and apparently has really good tones.  But I wouldn’t know since I am obviously tone-illiterate.

As someone totally demoralized by the economic bloodbath of the last few years, I have taken to looking up any horoscope in any culture in a — yes, yes — futile attempt to divine (or control, let’s be honest) the future.

Since it is the Chinese New Year, I looked up Dragon in the Year of the Rabbit.  But that isn’t enough information.  I need to know my elements: am I wood or metal, earth or water or fire?  I always imagined my elements would be like 1920s-30s modern furniture — brushed steel or carved wood structure with fabrics in deep red accents or bright thin stripes.

But, you can’t simply pick what you think works for you.  That is determined at your time of birth.  Not so simple, now that Mom is gone.  But it wouldn’t have been so simple either if she were still alive. Mom gave birth in a classically 1960s way:  she was under anesthesia before the first labor pain and woke up for the hairdresser (surgery can play havoc on one’s slightly poofy, Jackie Kennedy look).

So, even when my mother was alive, she couldn’t say, “I stopped screaming at 3:00pm, so that’s how I know that’s when you were born.”  It would always have been, “Oh, darling, you were born sometime between when I was told to breathe deeply into the gas mask and when the hairdresser woke me for an in-hospital hair emergency procedure.”

So, it isn’t as easy as one might think to get tired, trite and vague prognostications.  I needed information from a third party reliable source.

I got out of bed where I was web-surfing and I started hunting around for my birth certificate.  I found only half of it.  The copy I have was the original copy given to my parents and, well, after 47 years, the part with the relevant information had disintegrated.

POB (partner of blogger) asked if she could help and I told her she would laugh at me if I told her what I was doing.  She didn’t laugh but she did roll her eyes.  The Big Eye Roll. The one that means “I had a crazy day and now you are going off the deep-end trying to find out the time of your birth so you can read some free, on-line horoscope and use that to guide your and — therefore my — life for the next 12 months?”

Ok, she had a point.  I cannot control the future.  I cannot divine whether my loved ones and I will be financially successful, or happy, or healthy or . . . or . . . .  But, crazy is as crazy does, because I keep trying.

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Protesters in Egypt

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I am following the events in Egypt.  As I understand the situation, there was long simmering unrest about the irreversible decades-long slide into poverty and human indignity.

Then, the harshness of life for one-third of the country crossed a line.  People took to the streets no longer fearful of the repressive regime because there was nothing more to lose.

I hope, naively for sure, that there is an orderly transition to representative government.  But not a government that looks like ours;  the government must be authentic and legitimate within Egyptian history and culture.

I think about these protesters and then I think back to the 2000 election in the US, where the voting irregularities, and finally a Supreme Court decision, effectively awarded the election to George W. Bush even though Al Gore won the popular vote.  Americans didn’t take to the streets.  Why?  Because we were rich, comfortable and had too much to lose by unrest.  Hey, I was angry but I didn’t really do anything but talk.

If we knew then what our nation would look and feel like 8 years later, would we have, should we have, taken to the streets to protest the fraud and the Supreme Court’s ruling?  Still, probably not.

And even thinking we might trivializes the determination and the courage of the protesters who are standing up against poverty, repression and hopelessness.

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The caterpillar who became the butterfly

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A friend told me a story about a caterpillar.

This young caterpillar was the first egg to hatch and ate up her shell faster than anyone else.  She was skating down the path to becoming the beautiful butterfly that was in her.  She did all of the right things.  She ate all of the nutritious stuff available.  Everyone around her said so.  They even told other, younger caterpillars to do just what this caterpillar was doing.  Months later, she started her cocoon, and she spun and spun and it was the best cocoon ever.  It had a separate chamber in case another caterpillar needed shelter from a substandard cocoon.

The caterpillar metamorphosed into a spectacularly beautiful butterfly.   The problem was that the cocoon was so carefully woven that the beautiful butterfly became ensnared in the fibers.  She couldn’t find her way out.  All of sudden she was frightened of what was outside.  Maybe she was meant to stay in the cocoon that was becoming her prison.

Her friends who were caterpillars had since become butterflies.  Some had holes in their wings, some had scars from life and some turned out to have colors as dull as moths.  But all surrounded the cocoon and begged the beautiful butterfly to come out and fly free.  Her friends knew that the world would be even a more wondrous place if she left her cocoon and spread her wings.  She would be so happy soaring!!

But the butterfly knew that her friends had been flying for a while and had laid their eggs and what if she couldn’t fly as high or as well because of all the years in the cocoon?  Nonsense, her friends told her.  “You were born to soar but you have to shed your cocoon.  It is dragging you down.  Flying weightless into the great blue sky and seeing the wonders of the great world is an experience like no other.  And you will appreciate it more because of your time in your cocoon.”

She whispered, “I will try soon but I am afraid right now.”

“We will be here when you first fly,” her friends responded.  “We know you won’t fall, but we will be there to catch you if you forget that you are not a caterpillar anymore.”

I asked my friend, “and, then?”

My friend paused and thought for a minute.  And my friend said, “There is no end.  There are only new beginnings.”

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