Sri Lankan diary. Part 1

 

mouse proofing the food

  Lots of advance planning built the anticipation for this special vacation. Jaquetta had the idea of a cousin’s reunion years in advance and, after one false start, announced the celebration of her 80th birthday. She bought tickets for everyone to the Cadell hotel in Sri Lanka. Her birthday falls on the 15th of January meaning the dates of the gathering centered on the children's Christmas school holidays. Thomasina joined Caroline and Dominic who flew from London to Rome to join us for the flight to Colombo. Kuwait Airlines was chosen on price. We booked well in advance, but they rescheduled us twice [I think] which fouled up our other bookings a little bit and reinforced our worries about the reputation of the airline. But that was a minor inconvenience. On the day before their flight from London, someone stole Caroline's bag from the car, luckily missing her passport but getting most of her carefully packed clothing and some of her money.

Isolde to Rome

   After a frantic shopping spree, the three of them flew to Rome where Caroline and Dominic would spend the night in a hotel and Thomasina billeted with her friends Bookie and Izzy at home in Rome. We decided to send Isolde down to Rome by train by herself to join the young girls on the 15th of December. Alex and I spent our last night at home, taking the train down in the morning to meet everyone at the airport. We pre-purchased excellent tickets, but the train came to a dead stop half way there and we found ourselves biting our nails during a 45 minute delay.

  Together we managed the confusion of Roma Termini train station, the airport shuttle, airport check-in and security; excitement and nervousness growing with every minute. Finally, in the air, we all settled down to an easy flight of four hours to Kuwait City soothed with meals and snacks and entertainment very unlike the bare-bones treatment we are used to flying back and forth to London on RyanAir.

in Colombo

   Kuwait City airport gets pretty rough reviews on the internet but I found it just fine. I prefer smaller airports with their shorter walkways and more intimate settings. We did have to pass through a security line but is was short and quick compared to western airports. Although we stuck out as obvious western tourists with our shabby backpacks, drab clothing, and clannish ways, we attracted nothing but polite smiles and courteous behavior. After a remarkably long shuttle out to our next plane we took off again into dark skies. Kuwait is nothing but hot, flat desert. Nothing lives out there except oil wells. It’s entirely featureless. Kuwait City is the only population center and it’s reported to be the hottest city in the world. During the first Gulf War, retreating Iraqi forces set fire to the oil fields causing terrible damage. Huge lakes of oil leaked out onto the flat sand where it partially burned. The remaining tar dried in the sun creating massive acreage of nothing but blacktop. I caught a glimpse of this on the approach, but take-off showed only the glimmering city in clear, desert darkness.

fruit stop on the way to Dambulla

   We landed in Colombo, Sri Lanka,  and emerged into the thick humidity and lovely yellow light of early morning. We had decided earlier to hire a van to take us inland and away from the big city immediately. This was a big push after a long day especially since the roads proved more chaotic than anticipated. The cheery driver, Alan, prepared us, saying that we must share the road with tuk-tuks, bicycles, pedestrians, cows and dogs but that he would do his best. And so he did, rocketing us around with great thrusts, bold passing maneuvers, and emergency brakings serving as constant entertainment. Seatbelts not even mentioned. Alex, who gets seasick on a boogie board, didn’t bat an eye passing around a variety of mashed up food from the bottom of her handbag. To my soft, over-indulged, American sensibilities I thought to myself the towns we passed through looked pretty desperate and I expected our well-reviewed destination to be much more attractive. Despite it all, and all the wild and strange sights, we eventually fell into a silent, dozy state until, two hours later, being suddenly delivered to the most ramshackle, run-down, pathetic ruin of a one-road downtown in the third world. Caroline had booked our first guest house, Tanaya Treats, based on the glowing reviews of Booking.Com (which I can't find any longer). The driver threaded his way through an easily missed gap in the tacky sheet metal, broken wood, and greasy windows of what served as “store fronts” for mysterious enterprises. We eased into a palm-treed construction zone. The boss was overly excited to greet us

the drivers left hand is on a stalk which controls the horn
which he plays constantly

and someone brought out a tray of drinks. The place was thinly populated by slow moving construction workers using crude hand tools somewhat ineffectively. There was no one else staying, but despite that, our room wasn’t ready and we were obliged to stand our sweaty, tired children in the “lobby” amongst the heavy pile of luggage. Then up two flights to a deck in the palm trees and a confusing choice of bedrooms. Dominic and the girls got the one with the bigger bathroom. Caroline and Alex took the other room. Both bathrooms filled with girls bathing and cooling and primping before everyone fell asleep leaving me to stretch out on a wooden luggage rack. Luckily I could find way to my luggage rack with a light I remembered to bring. A policy of hot, utter darkness was quickly enforced since no screens or mosquito nets could be found and we enjoyed our rooms for two days in groping darkness.

at the feet of the Buddha

  Months ago we planned the afternoon's outing to the ancient cave temple there in Dambulla thus fulfilling the demands of our guide book. The guide book neglected to mention how hot, sweaty, dirty and smelly we sensitive westerners would find this center of commercial agriculture. No sidewalks, just a narrow track beaten along between unpleasant concrete boundaries and suicidal traffic. We trudged along for a kilometre or two until the modern, outrageously gaudy golden Buddha appeared. Somehow we dodged the thousands of rupees in entrance fees and, skirting the collosal Buddha, we began our exhausting pilgrimage up to the top of a small rock mountain, dodging persistent peddlars and more pleasant monkeys.

  Over the course of the next few weeks, we would grow accustomed to the shocking appearance of everything and warm to the people. Once past all the flim-flam and face to face with the icons, I began to theorize that this calm and content religion helped encourage similar characteristics in the society. The Buddha statues wear Mona Lisa smiles and the greetings we would meet on the street would mirror this. I  tended to guard my girls, my rucksack, my wallet, and passport like an Italian in Naples; but at no time did I ever feel at risk, even when pressed hard in public buses or markets. Leaving a bus once after paying a fare, a man tapped me and handed back a credit card that had fallen out of my wallet. Always helpful. Never stern or confrontational.

 Alex and Caroline are experienced Asian travelers, visiting both Viet Nam and India and more. Following their leadership, we drank only bottled water and rarely, local beer (which cost a lot, being frowned on by true Buddhists). That evening the girls and I followed Alex and Caroline who followed their noses into a dirty doorway. There stood a sweaty guy creating a deafening racket with two cleavers against a steel grill. This “kottu” we eventually chewed on and I guessed it was a chopped up mix of cabbage, flour tortillas and chili. I brought from Italy our standard illness: a combination of feverish headache and mild tummy ache. Neither the long travel not the curried tortilla flour helped my troubles. Neither did napping on wooden slats. In fact none of this enlightened deprivation was doing much for me and I wasn't unhappy to get out of Dambulla the next day and head for a cycle around the vast ruins of Pollonaruwa.

  Wikipedia describes the world heritage site of the Kingdom of Pollonaruwa as the second most ancient of Sri Lanka’s kingdoms dating from 10-something AD. It’s a city spread over what feels like square miles of flatish thin jungle with the odd rock, ruin, and temple sticking up. A couple varieties of monkeys run the place along with a collection of birds. It’s so big that tour busses take loads of people from site to site but the most fun is to rent a bicycle and roam around. Among the attractions is an enormous man-made lake that is still serves to irrigate the local rice paddies. One may cycle the length of the lake to view a special sculpture and this we did, getting caught in a torential monsoon-style downpour. Experienced cyclists among us ducked for cover, but others soldiered on enjoying the cooling rain, spitting the party in two. We particularly enjoyed the museum [during the rain] which demonstrated the incorporation of hinduism into the older buddhist temples. There pranced Vishnu, Ganesh etc. around the outer shines while the sublime Buddha sat in quite contemplation within the center of whatever temple we were gazing at. The day remains a highlight of the vacation.

tourists on bus

   Another night overlooking the construction zone and another night listening to clattering “kottu” and we were packed and standing by in the street the next morning, waiting for a bus with six empty seats. Off to Kandy we were, and a first look at the mountainous region of central SriLanka. And a lovely sight it is, but not from public bus windows. The hot, crowded, sweaty buses with the ridiculous frayed curtains flapping in the open windows and the persistent back beat of popular music playing loudly over the roar of the mechanics. What an impact on the senses! And who knows where we get off? No idea. The seats are for women, children and elderly which describes pretty much everyone on the buses. The young men all own either tuk-tuks [which can earn you money] or motor scooters or small motor cycles. I was pleased to see Isolde and Thomasina engaging locals in conversaton on the buses and I didn’t pay much attention to the old grannies who warned us of all the letcherous males. Nobody really smelled bad [except me] and I quickly got used to the crowding. A two hour bus ride might cost 150 rupees per person [.75 pence, sterling]. Several bus lines serve the need. The oldest and most primitive are the ”government” buses, identified by their boxy, red look and noisy mechanics. Seats are thin as well as narrow. They are obliged to stop often and seem to stop wherever the passengers wish, often just slowing to allow someone to hop on or off. Blue buses are run by private companies and are often busily decorated, sometimes sporting loud sound systems. There are lots of buses, they are cheap, and they are all packed and heavily used; smelly, smoky, noisy and uncomfortable, their popularity testifies to how effective public transportation can be. We used them all the time and, despite being squeezed longer and more tightly than ever before, I grew oddly fond of them, as long as I had my earplugs. Of course, I had neglected to use the internet connection at the last “hotel” to get the phone number or address of our next bed and breakfast. This one was my responsibility and I had reserved it from Italy using AirBnB. Ameelia Guest House sat on top of a mountain looking away from the city of Kandy into the mountain ranges. It was a few minutes from town by tuk-tuk but where we got off the bus and how we contacted the host became a growing concern the closer we got to the town. By dumb luck, Alex sat next to young Australians who had a mobile internet connection. We followed them off the bus, lost in a new, crowded city. Using their phone, we called our new host and got meeting instructions. There we were, standing in the shade of the central clock tower in the middle of a busy roundabout, anchored by our luggage, providing the local traffic with a new novelty. Out of the blur, an out stretched hand, a smiling face approached, gathered us up and got us on another bus to a couple of tuk tuks and in a few minutes we were out of the city, standing on his veranda under a mango tree, enjoying a huge view.

My Fall In London

 

  When a ten day return ticket to London turns into three months of home improvements, what is that called? A working vacation? What do you call it when you leave your family to live alone in an abandoned flat in a strange city for three months? Homeless? What do you call someone who chooses to live in an empty city flat with no phone, radio, internet, TV, or friends and family. A Recluse?

  The longer version of this rant has been lost in a rush of wrong button taps but, to make a long story short, I returned to hearth and home [and family] after three months with a remarkably changed point of view. Unlike the last 15 years, the long list of tasks, responsibilities, and impossible missions all had relevance somewhere far away. When I returned, I felt light, and free; able to stand up straight. Normally, I'm bent double by the burden of expected labor. Not to mention accomplished labor. In london it was especially serious since I was deprived of my support team, tools, car, and beloved internet. At least I could speak the language. [aside Theoretically: The cheerful greeting in London today is a strongly accented version of "Are you alright?" Alarmed, I fought the reaction to pat myself down, checking before replying "Bene! Tu?" It's a foreign land wherever I set down these days and I fear the damage is beginning to show. If they ask if I'm alright I think to myself that what's wrong has begun to manifest itself]

   On the twelfth of July our London tenants of five years wrote to tell us that they were moving on. My

initial reaction was to do what we usually did: dust off the old advertisement, raise the rent and reel in some new tenants. We could do all this by email. The unfinished business in Italy made me think that I couldn't possibly stop and go off to london. I put up all the regular arguments: "what about the plumbing? what about the kids science homework? how's Isolde going to get to the bus? who's going to supply the winter firewood? In fact, who's going to start the fires? and what about the car tires? And the bicycles?" etc. It was a desperate argument. Time had taken its toll on the London flat and not being there to see it, we had no real idea of how it looked. We had paid for repairs and addressed any complaints from the tenants during their time there, but nine months ago a fire raged in the apartment above, taking away the roof. Our beloved London flat was soaked by the fire department. The tenants had run for the exits at the moment the lease expired. Who could blame them?

   Who you gonna call? Me. Mighty Mouse is on his way. I flew into London on the eighteenth of August. By blind luck, I was able to stay at a friend’s house half an hour away for the first week. Plenty of time, I thought, to set everything straight. I bought a ten day ticket just in case.

   My first impression of our beloved London apartment was not a good one. For the past ten years or so what little money spilled over from the rent of our apartment we poured into our Italian derelict. It was like a siphon. The forces of physics sucked money out of areas of abundance to areas of want. Until we reached an equilibrium. In other words, our beloved London flat slowly became a derelict just like our Italian house. Only worse because I hadn't been there to fix the door hinges and Alex wasn't there to cook without oil. It slowly turned into a revolting tenement. The ground floor flat has a nice little private garden in the back and a narrow entrance garden. We’ve always considered these outdoor spaces precious and fun to care for. Plants and flowers thrive in the abundant English rainfall. Now, walking down the lane, I could spot our flat from some distance. The front "hedge" was so profound, it forced one to move over on the sidewalk. I had to duck to one side to find the door. It also protected burglars who had earlier breached the front windows and made off with lots of Apple computers belonging to the tenants. But even this didn't encourage them to pick up the hedge clipper. Inside, my owner’s

pride was spoiled by damaged plaster, peeling wallpaper, broken light switches, grimy walls and doors, filthy floors: everything either soiled with layers of oily cake, or broken, or worse. The kitchen clearly served three independent couples who obviously shared neither sugar nor cleaning. I found a pair of scanty pink underpants behind the cooker. The back garden had overgrown the outbuilding, covered an abandoned bicycle and Weber grill, obscured the overflowing drains, crowded a small table and chairs, and left a tiny patch to perch a folding clothes dryer. The quote from professionals to clear this microscopic urban garden was 800 pounds sterling!

   The fight with the insurance company over the fire damage had begun in Italy long before I left. They asked for quotes. We asked for quotes. The contractors asked for access. The tenants asked for repairs. The contractors couldn't get in. The tenants couldn't quit work [or play]. The insurance company low-balled. The contractors drifted away. Meanwhile the flat upstairs was fully renovated, the roof rebuilt, and the flat sold! Then the tenants finally announced they'd had enough. Bye-bye. The siphon dried up. Mighty Mouse is on his way. In London the insurance fight continued. I wasn't allowed to touch anything because the damage was the evidence. One week wait turned into two. Two turned into three, but I had plenty to do.

  First thing: the garden. Bushes, hedges, trees. Swinging a chainsaw made quick work of it but, dam! Dam London! A mountain of prunings can't just become a romantic bonfire. Garden waste must be bagged in bin liners. It's got to be reduced to toothpicks and crammed into plastic bags. Hundreds of them. But each house is only allowed five per week. For me that meant about 30 weeks, not counting the time required to reduce my trees to Toothpicks. And no heavy wood allowed. I had a problem. Solution: distribute my bin liners of prunings up and down the street in the middle of the night before the morning collection, and friends in London came to the rescue taking the sawn wood for their fireplace.

   I'm swipe-typing from a mobile gadget. Functioning well beyond my sell-by date. I'm doing it from a pub in London. And if you're a beer drinker, well, it doesn't get any better. But pretty soon I've got to go back to the flat on Wix's Lane, dig my sleeping bag out of the closet and find a clear space to lie down. With the tenants gone, I move in and can stay on the job 24-7. You might think three months in London in a "free" flat would be a dream get-a-way. No kids, no wife(!), nothing to do but prowl around and get acquainted with this remarkable city. But that would be the fantasy of a young, single man in a foreign port. Sitting in a noisy pub, alone, at a ripe old age, surrounded by people one third my age with full spectrum hearing isn't pleasant. I can’t understand a word they are saying. And a flat with no phone, no TV, no radio, no Wi-Fi, no life, no love, along with the responsibility for the family's biggest investment ignored for ten years, no! It's horrible. London is crowded. London is reluctant to tear down old (historic?!) buildings and build sensible roads. OK, fine! Old buildings are charming. There's a good mass transit system. Bikes rule, and driving a car is seriously discouraged. But what's left is too many old buildings and no way to get in and fix them. Add to that a gigantic international financial services industry with tons of employees, and all the people that are needed to support them: the restaurant's, mechanics, doctors, lawyers, psychiatrists, etc, and everybody fighting for a medieval housing inventory. You've got a London-sized problem. It's a seller's market. The rent a property owner can charge is... outrageous. criminal. Oh! There's some new housing all right. There's a new

tower on the south bank full of flats that cost a million a piece. It's been built with money from overseas as pure speculation. At night three quarters of it is dark. Uninhabited. For the investors their money is safer in an empty, million pound flat than any bank account. The condition of the properties that people like you and I might rent can be equally outrageous. The rent-paying public has been pummelled into accepting the shabby chic of cramp and damp. The disparity between rich and poor is greater than anywhere else in the civilized world. In the area around Oxford Circus life expectancy is near 90. Half an hour to the east, life expectancy drops by 25 years. And we've pummelled our tenants. Brutally. Luckily Clapham Common has always been considered desirable, but Wix’s Lane has limited parking, the street is only wide enough for one car to pass although it is a two way street. The living room of the flat is now called a bedroom because living rooms in London are now for the upper one percent. Many living rooms have been cut into two bedrooms and many apartments have been cut into two flats. A bedroom in Clapham will cost between 500 and 800 pounds sterling per month in a shared flat. Ours is still one apartment but what used to be one living room, one bedroom and a nursery is now three double bedrooms. London is crowded and expensive.

  The insurance company fight took longer than the garden clean-up so I started a kitchen clean-up and renovation. This led to IKEA, my idea of hell to which I am irresistibly drawn. Kind of like Donald Trump turned into a retail store. And that led to a deadline when my new kitchen would be delivered. The insurance company finally agreed to more money but their contractors refused to take the job. Guess who was left to deal with the mold, the blocked drains, the shorting electrics, and the ceilings caving in? Not to mention the problem of finding a builder, plasterer, plumber, and electrician who might not be wintering in the Caribbean. Without word of mouth you've got no hope, because as the owners prey on the tenants, the workers prey on the owners. Builders and tradesmen circle London like killer whales. None of them live in London. They live outside the city perimeter and sweep in on steep, "call-out" charges, not to mention parking fees. From Italy I had found a successful Irish builder by word of mouth and I felt smug. I felt that I had cracked the syndicate, but the quote after our interview left me reeling. His electrician’s quote alone gobbled up our entire insurance award. Thinking a quick trip to the pub was my only comfort, I bumped into some young guys wearing electrical tool belts tramping in and out of a neighbor’s house. After work, they came around; and after some careful testing with real instruments (unlike my Irish builder’s electrician) they gave me the bad news with a grave face. It was 20% of the original quote and I had found my electricians. And through them I found Adrian who they played football with every Thursday.

  So we introduced Adrian into the story. The side of his van says "Adrian Construction.
Word of Mouth" Adrian is Romanian. And so are his workers. They work for half the cost of a Brit. Cash. Adrian was willing to put off a much more wealthy client for a few days. Adrian wanted the work, he had the guys to do it. And he could do it for less. A lot less. Adrian Construction left me with new ceilings, plaster and paint as well as taking away an entire truck load of tenant rubbish and kitchen demolition.

  That left me with the job of re-plumbing the kitchen, installing the cabinets, cooker, fridge, dishwasher and sink, cleaning up the whole mess, and finding new tenants.

  So we introduce "Brexit" into the story. British exit from the EU. Meaning, for most UK citizens, a way to avoid a flood of people who don't look English, speak English all that well, or behave in an English manner. Theory holds that these non-English are costing the country loads in medical and education entitlements while stealing all the jobs, but a careful look demonstrates that it's the English themselves who are gaming the social services while the industrious immigrants are eager to work and are doing it for less. The large majority hold permits, live frugally and pay taxes. They don't want to get in trouble. It's the prevailing refrain all over the west but I'll refrain from a descent into statistics, politics and economics.

 Once the many formalities are untangled and Britain leaves the European Union, Adrian and his guys may have to go.

  And so may I. And the citizens will have it all back and be great again. And most of them won’t be able to pay for it and the wealth and life expectancy disparities will widen.

  But it's a nice place to visit. Now that my rant is over and I can look back with some pride at our little London flat; I can reflect on my many walks around the London streets at night.  I celebrated my birthday with fish and chips. I helped Thomasina get started in an English grammar school. I visited Alex's mother often, met Caroline's guy Jamie, saw Ramsgate, got to celebrate Scarlett’s birthday with a drink at the Ritz [thanks Jamie!]. I got to watch London dress itself first in Halloween gore, then Guy Fawlks explosions and finally Christmas lights. I watched the skateboard artists on Clapham Common, pantomime under the Eye, and anti-war protestors under Nelson’s column. Thomasina and I were swept along by the Zombie March. And Pat Sonnino and Dick Wayman took me out to dinner. And I returned to Italy and my family after three months to a warm reception.

london christmas story

   Sore feet come as a shock. Walking, hiking, climbing, pedalling is what I do. Or have done.
   I value the act of self propulsion. It began out of love for my grandfather who himself walked Scotland as a boy and matured following the exploits of the golden age of British mountaineering. Heights don't bother me, they terrify me; but they excite me to go higher. I've cycled beyond the point of guts ache and diarrhoea. Passing landscapes are my addictive video.
    London is for walkers. And lately cyclists. On the real estate website Zoopla you can find a three bedroom flat south of the Tower Bridge for 3.5 million. Sterling. A major selling feature is it's half mile distance from the nearest tube station. That's a mile of walking every day. If you can't pony up 3.5m you will be walking more. Or maybe just cycling the whole way to your job in the bureaucracy. Probably in the rain. If you can't get on your feet you'll be selected out pretty quickly. Shoes sell well in London. Always have.
   Alex comes from London and for the past 10 years or so it's back to London we go. For many years we had the good fortune of a house-sitting assignment every time London friends of ours travelled to America. But our friends have aged, don't travel any more, and we haven't been to London for three years. But opportunities opened up, cheap tickets came available and at the last minute we dropped
everything, stuffed bags, left Giles in charge, said goodbye to Ciucio [the dog] and flew to London. Out of the sunshine, into the fog.
    Surprisingly London was warmer than Italy and not foggy at all. In fact, the Perugia airport was so socked in, our flight was delayed, the plane couldn't land, and they bussed us down to Rome for a flight some 4 hours later than our intended. We straggled into our digs in the dark, apologizing to Wiss and Caroline who we had intended to see for lunch.
   And so began ten days or so of marching. Walking in London is fun. You need a map. And you need an Oyster card. The Oyster card is a plastic card read by every bus and subway. You put money on the card and it can take you anywhere. Anywhere except where you are going. To get to your doorstep you have to walk. With your groceries or your luggage. Yes, there are lots of taxis, but they are for the one tenth of one percent, or at least those who pretend to be. Once you've figured out the basics, you are set for some of the best walking east of the Cascade range. History, art, architecture, street culture, fashion, theater, huge parks, public events, any kind of shopping, music, cool cars, lots of bikes, food, rain, and tons of people from all over the world. And most people you bump into respond to english and decent manners. It's all neat and tidy presenting a well repaired and scrubbed look, even the old stuff. Completely different from Rome where even the new stuff is broken. I suppose if you've just ridden home from work, in the rain, and there's no beer in the fridge; another splendid walk in all this wonder might not be so inspiring. I'm not saying living in London is fun, just walking. And I also suppose most of you have already visited London and know all this.
   But to get back to the point, all this walking gave me sore feet. I never imagined I would suffer from sore feet. I admire nice hiking boots. I buy fairly expensive insoles. I love my knitted wool socks. Some have said it's a fetish. And perhaps that's all the more reason this is such a trauma for me. I didn't even notice it for the first few days. I did notice I was falling off the pace at times. Alex sets a mean pace. And the effort to keep up did require effort along with a certain discomfort; but I was mainly careful with my metal hip splint, the result of a bike crash fifteen years ago. A little ache in the feet?  I'll change shoes when I get home. With four days to go I took the kids to Oxford street to see the post-Christmas shopping buzz. Luckily it was a lot of stop and go walking, but my feet were now becoming the main problem. The next night we walked to the Old Vic for the Lorax show and I was trying to hide my limp. The next day we toured St. Paul's and in the evening a stroll down Victoria Street to the Thames new year fireworks. I didn't want to go. The next day offered a pre-dawn luggage drag to the airport bus followed by a classic airport panic and a run to the gate. Finally, after landing, Alex and I walked four kilometers to our car parked at a nearby wharehouse.
   I've self-diagnosed a mild form of idiopathic pes cavus, which is a high arch of the foot that does not fully touch the ground when standing. I always thought it was healthy, the sign of a natural-born walker. But no. The joints of the tarso-metatarsal bones of the arch tend to buckle upwards, pinching and eroding the cartilage between the bones. Prognosis: not so hot. Treatment: asprin and suck it up as long as you can, then screw the bones together and lose your balance.
   I swear, ageing is the same for everyone. Every tick of the clock is another nail. Happy new year.

savor this presidency, a private, political editorial

   During the years I've spent here in Italy, I've enjoyed moments I thought I would never forget. Beautiful views. The children at play. A sunrise. Birds singing. Alex laughing. I swore to myself "I will remember this moment, I'll photograph it in my brain and call it back for comfort in later years." Yet when I sit still and force myself to conjure up these memories, I can't. Place names, directions, phone numbers, people's names, favorite bicycles, math conversions, history lessons, all these less meaningful things: no problem. But those mental "photographs" I swore I would remember: forget it. I can barely picture Isolde when she was ten. Alex looks the same to me now as she did 18 years ago. Thomasina as a baby I recall only with the help of digital Google Photos. The photographs are what I remember, not the actual moments.

   Perhaps because of this, I experience an underlying pang of sadness in every lovely moment that my lucky life conjures up. I know that time will take the memory away. That is a sad thing. At this time of dark early winter in particular, every sunrise, every falling leaf is only a dot of peace and pleasure soon to be replaced by who knows what. Probably more darkness and more cold.

   Yesterday I read a simple article written by a former Vietnamese refugee who is now working in the Whitehouse. And it brought me to tears. I felt the extended hand of kindness from Obama himself. And I thought the world will never see another leader as sensitive and thoughtful as this one. Despite the mandate that brought him to office, the promise to extract ourselves from the mideast and its quagmire of petty infighting, the promise to staunch the utter waste and divert our resources to improve education and extend opportunity, the desire to free the political system from undemocratic influence, and despite the personality and intelligence of the man, where are we now near the end of his term? Are my fond memories of this period going to be replaced by photographs, criticisms, youtube clips, goals not met, promises unfulfilled, and hard won achievements quickly erased?

   My story, his story. History, whether it be personal, private, public or cultural will be what our faulty memories sift out. What we want to believe and what we think has happened, reinforced by the odd sound bite or digital photo. Will I be able to recall the feelings of hope and potential, of respect for the stranger, of confidence in the random genius awaiting opportunity? I spent my life deeply distrustful of our presidents, and likely spend the rest of it in the same way. But for a brief but enormous moment.

    Savor this presidency.