Sylvia's Journal

We had dinner last night at Omar’s house. Omar and his family fled Afghanistan in the early 90s. Dad brought out the photo albums – one thing that I love about Afghan families and that they seem to love to do – showing the family picture albums. I wondered later how he was able to flee with these pictures that show mostly men in uniform, many of whom are not alive anymore, victims of one kind of violence or another. He was close to one of the presidents who was killed. He was lucky I suppose, or smart, or well connected or all of the above.

I got to practice my Dari which had rusted a bit but I could still understand mom who spoke only haltingly Dutch. The sons, both lawyers were fluent, without even the southern Holland accent I had expected. They also speak Dari, the language of home but admitted they cannot write or read their father’s tongue. Their mother tongue is Pashto but it is not the language of home.

The house was decorated in a way I had not expected; stark modern in white and red. Even the carpet was white – no trace of the Afghan origin of this family. I had brought some Afghan treasures, destmals (checkered cloths) for the sons, an embroidered purse for mom and for dad a Nooristani carved wooden box. Now the stark lines and color scheme is a bit messed up. I should have brought a carpet although later I understood that mom prefers the plain white rug.

The unafghan-ness of this family’s living space may have something to do with their last memories of their homeland. Exiting a place full of violence cannot be without consequences; being Dutch may be better. That is certainly true for the next generation: the oldest is a doctor, there are two lawyers and a nurse. One wonders what would have happened had they stayed.

We were treated to a wonderful Afghan meal that was complete except for the traditional bread. I didn’t think Afghans could survive without their naan but apparently they can. My brother and nephew had come along. The latter held out his empty plate several times to the great delight of our hostess. He overdid it a bit, he later told me, but he surely honored the cook.

Over the last two days I have spent some time at the university, introduced as the sister of the prof. There is even a hallway named after my brother the professor, a real street sign that says ‘Vriesendorplaan.’ Underneath it, in small letters, just as at real street signs with names of famous people their claim to fame – professor in law from this date to that date. Actually as of January 2012 he will be a part time professor and working the other time with a law firm. Just as presidents, professors are forever.

I met many students who are second generation immigrants, the ones whose fathers came to work in the mines and factories because we didn’t have enough Dutch people to do that. These young people were born and bred in Holland, are at least bilingual if not tri-lingual or quadri-lingual. They are bridges between two entirely different worlds. We talked much about mental models – it has great relevance both to their future professions and their family live. Many have illiterate grandparents who live in far flung rural areas back in Turkey and Morocco – who don’t understand why their granddaughter is going to study for a semester in the US and what/where is America anyways?

I could have spent many hours listening to their stories. Most surprising was that they look at the US as a success story when it comes to immigration, and to Europe as a failure. I believe it is simply a matter of time – for Europe the kind of immigration that the US has known for over a hundred years is still only a generation or two old.

Axel later told me I travelled on the most travelled day of the American year, the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Somehow I didn’t think that many people travelled between Europe and the US at thanksgiving time with a logic that is probably too European: Americans wouldn’t want to go travel to a place without this most sacred of American holidays, and why would people who don’t have this tradition go in the other direction? Of course I was only thinking about the Boston-Amsterdam flight and not about the other 100s of domestic Delta flights. We could have known.

While standing in line I met a colleague who was on her way to Southern Africa and Tanzania. She was accompanied as far as officialdom let them, by her 2 year old daughter and husband. I remembered those days, with Tessa crying hard until I was out of sight and then later calling home and that she had entirely forgotten the unpleasantness of parting, and maybe even me.

Every seat in the plane was filled, including B-class, so no chance in the world that I might have been pushed forward. That too triggered a memory of those days when I had a friend checking in on the Boston side and on the Amsterdam side, both employees of Northwest. It worked most of the time.

In Amsterdam I discovered that my phone was locked and wouldn’t let me use my Dutch simcard. I hope that my interactions with a nice T-Mobile lady will produce the coveted unlocking code. In the meantime people have to call me in the US, even though I am here, and I am piling more charges on top of the Japan charges. T-Mobile did good by me when I bought a smart phone. I could have known.

I am preparing for my trip to Holland this evening while listening to the Bunwinkies’ first record. We had most of the band sitting at our Thanksgiving table. We returned from Western Massachusetts with the record – a real vinyl affair that we can actually play because we are one of these people who never got rid of our record player. The record sleeve is the result of a collective design efforts and includes all sorts of things from Jim and Sita’s house (spirograph pictures, the patchwork kitchen curtain, the wooden table, cardboard cutout letters, etc.). The music is wonderful and gets better each time I listen to it. It’s happy music – what better accompaniment to packing?

Yesterday we met our friend, Sita’s classmate and the principal of the school we visited in Sikkim. He is studying at Harvard and comes up to Beverly in the weekends. We were able to snag him for a walk on Singing Beach and talk about schools, facilitation of meetings and graphics. There is much networking to do after that visit, in both directions.

It was like a spring day with little moths flying around as if it was time to come out of hiding; little did they know. Axel said if this was spring we knew warm weather was something we would get more of. But now it was just a little respite from more cold and colder weather. We enjoyed it anyways.

After our beach walk we walked into town for a coffee and a visit to the Stock Exchange, a second hand store with the best stuff in town. Although we touched nearly everything in the store, and walked around with stuff as if we were going to buy it, in the end we put everything back, showing great restraint. We need to get rid of stuff, not get more. We are very proud of ourselves.

The trip to Holland is about to start, with various contingents getting on planes over the next few days until we all meet up in Groningen on Thursday evening for our overnight on old clipper ship moored somewhere in one of Groningen’s canals.

In the meantime I enjoy still being ‘fifty-ish.’

I recently listened to a show about the “Alzheimer tsunami” that public health specialist claim will hit the babyboom bubble in the coming years. Now, every time I forget or misplace something I remind our girls that this may be the beginning and they better start saving so they can take care of us.

We got up very early this morning to show up at Tessa’s at 7 AM for breakfast, a fast break before heading out to western Massachusetts where we had turkey duty. The size of the turkey required that we show up long before noon so that our Thanksgiving dinner would be served before midnight. A 16 pound turkey requires much cooking time.

Although we had made lists of what to bring, and I followed the list carefully in the morning when we were packing up, I didn’t follow it carefully enough. We also realized later that we had forgotten to put things on the list. Throughout the 3 hour drive west we kept discovering things we had forgotten, including the turkey baking pan and the white wine. Critical parts of our dinner.

Frantic calls around got a baking pan delivered by a friend and another brought a whole box of wine, a careful selection that included our missing whites. It helps when one of the dinner guests works in a wine store.

In the end everything worked out and we had a most spectacular thanksgiving dinner. We remembered the things we are thankful for but also the things we are not thankful for (mosquitoes, dead leaves, bad people, car trouble). Axel did his usual toast but forgot to read from the Tasha Tudor book of graces a relic from his childhood that he brought along. Still everything was full of grace, our hosts, the table setting, the food and even the cats.

Except me because I ate too much pie and whipped cream. Axel kindly took me out for a walk around the house in the dark to help with the digestion. Watching the stars in the crispy winter night sky was a good distraction.

There were few people in the office today, mostly those who had to get a work plan done in time, a work plan I didn’t have to construct but in which my name appeared for interesting pieces of work. The reward for hanging in there is interesting work with people I like to work with.

A few more people now know about my predicament of the last few months and there is some incredulity. We are a big place and much is not visible to others. I am a squeaky wheel now and think I am being heard. Maybe after this someone else’s transition from the field is going to be easier.

We have all received our Thanksgiving cooking assignments from master chef Jim. For this reason I hastened home. Axel and I are responsible for the turkey basting, the wine, the mashed potatoes and at least one dish that is not a variant on brown/yellow/orange. We are pushing the limits and are doing not only the green beans with toasted almonds and ginger routine but also a new dish with Brussels sprouts in a Thai dressing that I picked up from the radio yesterday. It is a bit of a trust fall.

My specialty, pumpkin pie, I cooked for internal consumption when I got home. Four other pies were already claimed by others with whom we will share the Thanksgiving meal at Sita and Jim’s house.

We met up with Tessa and Steve at Al’s café in Manchester. The place is closing on January 1. I had never been there so I got in under the wire. The cafe is really a bar that has long since stopped serving food after the stove broke down. The interior is unadulterated 50s with nicotine stains of 60 years on the paneled walls, several TV screens with games going on, wobbly booth furniture without the booth, sticky vinyl and the only visible bathroom for guys only.

It is not really my kind of place but I get the nostalgia thing. It is the place where Axel took our daughters to when they turned 21 – a manly kind of initiation into the world of authorized drinking.

According to one of the locals some rich people in town banded together and bought the place, just to get rid of the Budweiser sign in the window. The café will become a restaurant, a wine and tapas bar to be precise. Some people think it will be more fitting than a Budweiser place; others think something will be lost. Having never been there I had no opinion. Now I know something will indeed be lost. I didn’t mind the sign.

Back home we celebrated Oona’s first puppy birthday – she is a big dog and doesn’t look like a one year old until you ask her to do things that require serious mental processing. Unlike her older sister Chicha, Oona had no idea about how to unwrap a birthday present and quickly lost interest, letting Chicha complete the job.

For a while she teased her older sister with her new toy but lost interest. That toy was quickly dismantled when we were not supervising (the toy instructions, we discovered later, said that the toy was to be used under supervision only). Nevertheless Tessa will probably write an angry letter to the manufacturer, complaining about deceptive advertising. She likes those kinds of battles.

I am now presented with a new dilemma at work that has to do with gambling – gambling on being employed one way or another. I don’t think anyone can help me sort this out. I said yes to four weeks in southern Africa during the month of February…not a bad month to be in the southern hemisphere. Some people will say I shouldn’t have said yes because I am supposed to lead a team to win a proposal at that time. But who knows if it will come through when it is expected. Anything can fall through. So if I say yes to everyone, something should stick – but it will make others angry. Everything continuous to be rather tenuous.

With these dark thoughts I left work early as there wasn’t anything meaningful I could do. I arrive dback on the North Shore too early for my haircut so I stopped at the mall, looking for something I wasn’t looking for.

It is the only time before Christmas I will be there. It was utterly depressing to walk around the mall. The only good thing was that it was too early for the Christmas frenzy. Green and red colored ads were already up, mega discount posters tried to lure me into shops, Christmas music was spouting out of hidden loudspeakers and even Santa was already sitting pretty, ready for pictures in a snow covered North Pole hut.

In the food court it was quiet, too late for lunch and too early for dinner. The regulars were there. I could tell from the way they made the rounds of the fast food chains around the court and were being greeted by the staff. Dedicated caregivers were there with their charges, people who couldn’t hold their head still, or their hands, or both; people in bodies too old for their minds. I kept walking, as if I was simply exercising, slowly.

I did succumb to the attraction of food court fare: salt and fat and sugar – and as soon as I had ingested my fried chicken nuggets with honey mustard sauce I regretted my choice.

I left hoping that the haircut would bring me out of my depressed state – a wash, a rinse, a head massage. But my hairdresser rattled on about things I didn’t understand. Everyone talks about Thanksgiving and I try to force myself to be thankful in between bouts of anger and self-pity.

The only thing that made me feel better today was making contact again with the owner of the clipper ship whose email I had lost and watching a documentary about van Gogh told by himself. And then there was of course the haircut which removed a bit of the weight.

Sunday morning I biked to Quaker meeting in weather that was spring like. There were flowers on the azalea bush, the rose bush and on the ground cover in our garden. Everything should be in hibernation now but the odd weather pattern has thrown things off course and all the flowers are confused.

Sometimes our meeting for worship is entirely silent, sometimes it is not. Two people spoke this time. A few of their utterances stuck with me all day.

One was about the a Sufi epic poem, the Conference of the Birds. I tried to imagine its Persian name, majlis-e-parandaha perhaps? This book has been around in various forms for centuries and is now re-issued and richly illustrated by Peter Sis. I promptly ordered two copies. I think I know who to give these books to.

The other utterance I have lifted out of its context which makes it even more haunting: “[…]the beyond that is inside us…” I kept meditating on that sentence, adding context…the beyond as in ‘unthinkable, unimaginable both positive (spiritual, divine) and the negative (cruelty, evil). Then there is the ‘beyond’ as in the cosmos – the stuff that everything including us is made of.

Thinking of myself as having some ‘beyond’ particles in my cells stretched me, gave me some perspective and shriveled up my own puny needs into something the size of a cherry pit. I’ve got to remember this when I start to feel whiny.

When I biked back everyone and their brother seemed to be raking leaves, piling them by the side of the road and stuffing them into large paper bags. We are lucky to live by the see. Our land is slowly crumbling away with each storm. So we push garden debris over the side to counter the forces of nature that nibble away at our land.

The warm temperature made it an outdoor day. Axel had a few chores listed and I took the ones that didn’t require heavy lifting. The last storm door has been installed, the flower boxes and lawn chairs put away, the rack for the firewood on the porch filled with logs and anything superfluous that we found along the way was announced as ‘Offer’ on the Freecycle website. We made a few people happy. they picked up a TV, a computer monitor, wireless headphones (a gift from American Express), a school back pack, a trap for squirrels (they won) and a recliner chair. We feel a little lighter now.

This evening Sita came over and brought people who do the same kind of work we do and believe in such outrageous things as ‘the wisdom is in the group.’ We had talked a few months ago on Skype when I was still in Kabul, they in Stowe and Sita in her Easthampton home.

Tonight we finally met over a wicked awesome lentil/sweet potato stew Axel had prepared and talked about the things we do to get people to solve their problems together – something that is akin to my own personal mission (helping people have productive conversations). That is how I found out a group on the west coast is busy transposing Alexander’s pattern language to groups. I spent much time thinking about that earlier this century and found little traction. I gave our guests my paper from 7 years ago hoping it will lead to exciting new contacts and more traction.

I have never heard my name spoken so much in one evening. We went to a theatre production in Gloucester entitled ‘Sylvia.’ Having the same name as the play got us in at a 25% discount. I don’t think I have ever received a discount for being Sylvia.

The play is about a man, a dog by the name of Sylvia and a jealous wife. The man loves his dog and his wife. In the end he chooses for his wife but then the wife changes her mind and the three live more or less happily ever after.

The dog, portrayed by an actress, behaved uncannily like Tessa and Steve’s dog Oona. If I hadn’t know Oona the actress speaking dog thoughts would not have been half as funny. Her behaviors were right on, the barking (“hey, hey”), the eyes that say “I love you the most of all,” the dumb stare into space, the reaction to cats, the crotch sniffing, the slobbering, all of it. From the program I learned that the dog actress played her first role as a dog 40 years ago, presumably as a little girl. She’s gotten very good at it.

I spent a good part of the day looking for the email confirming our berths on a clipper ship tied up in one of Groningen’s canals as a hotel. It is really infuriating when you think you have everything organized, put in the right folders and then discover you had not. This may well mean that the exotic clipper ship adventure I had planned will not take place because I can’t figure out how to contact the owner. The website where I found this lodging has it now greyed out – the listing has disappeared, just as my emails about it. Mysterious and very annoying.

Tessa told her that she is re-establishing human domination in her household, over the dogs that is. We are dog sitting tonight and Tessa gave us a little mini training on how to deal with the dogs in a way that makes it clear who is the boss. Things had slacked off a bit and the dogs were thinking that they were in control. They are finding out they are not.

And we, poor grandparents, are worried about doing the wrong thing – being too emotional, confusing the beasts about their place in the universe. I wonder whether the same thing happens with grandchildren.

I completed four days of training in a software package that lets you model various public health intervention scenarios. It is a complicated thing, this modeling, and it requires good data. For our practicum I chose to work on Afghanistan but the files were full of 99.9 or 0.00 values, code for missing data. I sat down with a colleague to try to fill in those cells about coverage of child and maternal health interventions t and realized how little we really know about what actually happens in Afghanistan, in its far flung corners especially.

I am starting a new physical therapy regimen, picking up where I left off with the same therapists and working on the same issues – the crash is not entirely behind us and maybe never will. We have yellow rubber bands all over the house, clamped between doors and their frames. Axel is also working out.

It has happened two times in my life and yesterday was the third: walking to where you thought you parked your car and then not finding it. The previous two times was in Lebanon, a long time ago, and in both cases the car was stolen. But yesterday was in Cambridge and I had parked on a street cleaning day and the car was towed away. The fine and towing cost were over a hundred dollars, plus the nuisance. This was a rather downlifting experience – but richly compensated by more uplifting developments that preceded and followed it.

We spent the beginning of the weekend thinking long and hard about the coming year and came to the conclusion that we will hang around with me travelling a lot and Axel preparing himself to get the right credentials and experience for whatever will show up on the horizon next fall – likely another overseas assignment as a year of much travel will probably create some wear and tear and a desire to settle in one place for a while without losing income.

With the agony of what’s next put on the back burner we enjoyed a wonderful weekend. On Saturday we gained an entire new family that is marrying into Sita’s inlaws family. It was one of these unexpected joys of meeting people that one wished one had known all one’s life. We came together to celebrate the engagement of Jim’s brother, a graduation, a birthday and the marvel of a two month old baby. Only Sita was missing, on one of her jaunts in Europe.

Sunday we visited our grand dogs. We went for a very long walk in Gloucester’s Dogtown after a lunch served by Tessa in her doll house. I am practicing long walks in preparation for our trip to Holland, and (re)breaking in my hiking boots. It’s blister time.

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I brought Tessa some of the sheets of Japanese paper from the Tokyo Papierium (Ito-ya) – something her artist eye can appreciate. It is not clear what to do with them other than taking them out of their envelope and admiring them from time to time.

Yesterday I visited the rotator cuff doc to find out what’s up with all the trouble I am having with my right shoulder. His verdict was pretty obvious – too much heavy lifting. After two years of no lifting (women in Afghanistan don’t lift), the work around the house since I returned has irritated my shoulder. One of the four tendons that hold things in place hasn’t been functional since 2007. My right shoulder is effectively running on three cylinders – something that will not ever get better. So now I have a doctor’s note against any further heavy lifting. Axel, with his own rotator cuff issues, is having physical therapy like crazy so there is at least one of us who can lift stuff up. We are a sorry pair.

The final uplift of the last few days – entirely erasing the unpleasantness of having one’s car towed – was dinner at Pia’s where we celebrated everything that is to be celebrated in great company, great food and wine. Axel drove me home, this being my second trip in and out of Cambridge that day.