Dirty Secrets: Snow and Caffeine

So...the snow is melting and the skies are blue and inexplicably I am a little bit sad. This terrible winter we had was almost like a living thing...an adversary. And for so long it won and kept on winning. Now it's in retreat and there is something sad about a routed enemy. Oh well! I will get over it I'm sure..and apart from my two and a half readers I am not letting in anyone else into this dirty little secret. I am waiting for all the snow to be gone and then I will embark on the great Concord Literary Tour. I plan to do one day (or two) going to Walden Pond, the Alcott House and other locations literary in my new home. So...stay tuned.

As those who move from Europe, especially somewhat chi-chi Switzerland know we love our Nespresso machines. So I have one and I love it. I make my renverses, take in the aroma, close my eyes and for a moment am transported back to Geneva. While I was in Geneva, when I was homesick I'd spend time at Starbucks. It was almost like being in a little enclave of the US..and there was free Wifi. Great to hang out, write, meet up with others, etc. But here's my secret....I *hate* Starbucks coffee. To me it tastes burnt, like the beans were over-roasted. Oh well! Waah! Now, that I am back in the US I went to Starbucks a few times because....yes it reminded me of being in Geneva. I am weird, I know...but do you think Starbucks is a wormhole, a conduit between countries and worlds.

However, I usually drink fizzy water there or sometimes a light coffee frapp. But now, back in the North-East, especially in the great state of Massachusetts, I have succumbed to our own special coffee addiction. Yes, Dunkin Donuts folks. Down and dirty, coffee (and they put in the milk and sugar for you if you're not a black drinker). I still have my Nespresso but every couple of days I have to stop by and pick up a "medium hot, milk and sugar." And I *love* it.



There you have it: Geneva and Bawston living side by side within me. These are my dirty secrets.....or at least some of them.

Of straws and twigs

I think I haven't blogged much lately: (a)I got lazy and was able to condense my thoughts into Facebook soundbytes and (b)I like blogs that are accompanied by photographs and I haven't transferred any to my computer lately because of sheer laziness...okay so both points are really the same, but like, yeah, whatever!

But I have aspirations to be a writer and isn't the purpose of being one to be able to communicate without illustrations and pretty pictures. For heaven's sake, I want to be a 'big-people's' writer as I used to refer to books without pictures when I was a kid. And if there is one thing big-people's writers don't need it's pictures. Yes, I am of the time when graphic novels were known by another name...comic books! Zing! And, if you're a graphic novel afficianado....yes, yes I know they're artistic visions or whatever. They're still comic books to me.

So today I lost my clothes drier and some other stuff. Well, not lost, but strangers came to my house, paid me a pittance and took away my things. Yes, I know I advertized for them to do so but it feels wrong.

This move feels a bit of a bereavement or a divorce or something. The washer sits forlornly disconnected from its water and electricity supply, wires dangling amputated, missing its constant companion. Soon the washer too will go to someone else's house and wash their clothes. Ewww!

Okay, it's not like I'm a freak (ok I am but not *that* kind of freak) attached to inanimate, electronic devices that beep and flash lights. It's that these things are my straws and twigs. You know the kind that birds gather to build their nests. As they say in Hindi, tinka, tinka lekar ghar banaya, and now it is being scattered. You've seen those birds search for the exact right length of twig, how they test the springiness or rigidity of a twig, discarding most, selecting a few, padding it with softness to make a home. And so did I. And so did we all, in our own ways, with our own likes and dislikes and styles.

Sure, most important are the living beings in my house and soon we will have another house and this one will become just a memory, but it is elemental, this hurt of seeing my bits of straw and twigs blowing away. It's not easy, this dismantling of a home. No one said it was easy but I don't remember it being quite this hard either.

....so this was my first moving post and I did it without any pictures.

Of Winds and Poets and Me

I have a confession. I wasn't always in love with Lord Byron. There was a time, brief though it was, when another poet ruled my heart and still comes a close second to Byron. Initially, there was something repulsive about Byron, what with his debauchery, his lusty affairs...the incest. All the things that would later make him fascinating were a bit much for a child. Okay, maybe I was still fascinating but in an icky way. I needed to be a little older (13? 14?) to swoon for Byron's dark moodiness.

But my first dead poetic crush was someone close to Byron, their lives intertwined. Yes, Shelley. I know, I know. He was a bit icky (open marriage anyone?) too but he did have that delicious renegade quality, the romance of the exile, the tangled life...and all by the time he was 26 when he drowned. Most tragic!

A few weeks ago the Bise was whipping around Geneva, pushing me from the back as I walked, tangling my hair into a bird's nest around me. And it started me thinking of all things wind-related.

How the wind becomes part of our literary selves? How we ascribe certain attributes to the winds we experience.

In my childhood in India, there was the loo (no...not a toilet). The loo is a hot, dry wind that blows during the height of summer in the Indo-Gangetic Plains. Rather than doubling my efforts, here is how I describe the loo in my novel The Burden of Foreknowledge (2007).

"When the loo blows, it brings with it the heat of the desert and its gritty sand, driving people indoors for refuge. I go out to feed our cows and it slithers up my nostrils until I choke. I gasp for breath trying to suck in the thin, super-heated air. It is as if a fiery serpent is trying to make its home inside me.

Just as I think I cannot bear it any more, I stumble back inside. The wind haunts us for days, whistling and whining like an angry, vengeful ghost. If I venture outside I wind a wet cloth around my head...."

But it was also the loo that made watermelons and melons ripen to perfect sweetness, as the dryness sucked out the excess water and concentrated the sugars. It makes Indian mangoes into the almost mythical fruit that they are.

In Switzerland, I encoutered the Bise, French for "a light kiss." Let me tell you, there is nothing light about it. It should be French for a "kick in the ass." It is fierce, is generally dry and attacks us from northern climes. The only upside is that it is accompanies blue, clear skies. It creates beautiful days but, as the loo can kill a human being through almost instant dehydration (within hours, even minutes), the Bise acts on the nervous system. How I don't know. It sounds pleasant but I need to research it some more.

Victor Hugo wrote a poem, Le Bise about it.
"Le bise le bruit d'un geant qui soupire;
La fenetre palpite et la port respire;
Le vent d'hiver glapit sous les tuile des toits;
Le feu fait a mon atre une pale dorure;

Le trou de ma serrure
Me souffle sur les doigts."

(Bad translation but here goes:
The Bise is a brutish giant who sighs
The window flutters and the harbor breathes
The winter wind yelps under the roof tiles
The fire has been guilding my atre (??) blade.

Through the hole of the lock
I feel the wind's breath on my fingers)



That's me 'enjoying' a windy evening by the lake. Freezing! Note the hair whipping around, the scrunched eyes, and the frantic waves on our usually calm lake.

We are also lucky(?) in Switzerland to sometimes be treated to the Mistral, arguably the wind with the most beautiful name. Isn't it a lovely name for a girl? The Mistral too is strong, cold and usually dry and passes through the Rhone valleys. It can cause Mediterranean storms. In the Provencal Christmas crib there is usually always a shepherd who holds his hat, his cloak billowing around him because of the Mistral. Sadly, but appropriately, a French missile has been named Mistral.

Interesting isn't it, that we are rarely moved by gentle breezes. Winds are elemental. They create weather systems and born because of them. They have well-worn paths and we can trace the seasons through the winds that are part of our lives.

And, why was it, when I lived in the land of the hot loo, when we looked forward to winter for relief from summer, that the one poem I loved was about a wind. Yes, for it was his lovely Ode to the West Wing that made me fall in love with Shelley. It's a little bit dark, even macabre, it's fanciful, it talks about the power of the wind, its twin roles as destroyer and preserver, and touches on the circle of seasons and that of life. It leaves the reader with hope. Here it is:

Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1803-1882)

I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Guilt Money

In front of the WTO building.

He was waiting on the median, waiting for the cars to stop.

The Porsches, the Mercedes', a Bentley, a Rolls, and others.

Leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes fixed downwards he limped from car to car.

Some windows never came down, others waved him away.

A quick hand emerged from some, dropped a coin or two in his cupped palm.

Guilt money is what I gave him.
A few francs into his hand.

Merci, he said..

His eyes skittered away from mine.

And I saw the barely formed peach fuzz on his chin, by his side-burns.

I've seen beggars all my life and, yes, sometimes they all tend to blend in.

But sometimes, one of them unwittingly reaches out and breaks through the curtain that separates us in this land of plenty, of more than plenty.

Does the money go on drink? Drugs? To a crime boss?

Or does it buy something to eat? A brief respite from the hardness of the tarmac underfoot? Some softness in a life where other options have been discarded?

We can never know this.

Do guilt money givers deserve to know this?

Do I need to know what my guilt money buys for the temporarily visible?

In the side-view mirror I watch his body twist and sway as he makes his slow way down the line of cars behind me.

And I think again of the smooth peach-fuzz. He was somebody's baby once, not so long ago?

Held. Loved. Fed.

What happened?

Picking Flowers in Geneva

Just a couple of miles from my house is a field of flowers. I drive past at least a few times a week. What does that sign say?



Perhaps I need to take a closer look? Ah yes, it says, one franc per flower. Note the handy little box (attached to the pole) into which I'll need to leave the cash.



I think I'll get some. Where to begin?



There, we have them. Hmmm...time to do the math and count the blooms. Aaah! Nothing like fresh flowers.

Still Life on the Street

Okay, so it was technically not a still life. It was more of a mural really but let's not get caught up in the details. As you might (or might not have) noticed I took a blogging vacation, or a vacation from blogging, and now I'm back, sort of, kind of. Still in a funk but I think I'm emerging. And so there I was on Rue du Rhone, near Confederation and there he sat as the world went around him and by him. Unperturbed and focused, still within the hubbub.



The artist, sitting on the sidewalk, transforming it. On a hot day when the asphalt was burning to the touch, shimmering in the sun, he sat in a verdant meadow full of wildflowers and placid cows and weird woodland creatures. Spectators stood on the sides of the taped off sidewalk-canvas. A tram went by, then two. Shoppers passed him by, shoppers from everywhere. Loose-jawed American accents mingled with languages others didn't understand. Arabic, Tamil, Hindi, French, Italian, and German simmered together under the sun.



And the artist never looked up, even when someone dropped coins, plink by plink, into his metal bowl. Not even when the soft rustle of paper bills joined the coins. He painstakingly painted a white flower, then added some more blades of grass, added a spray of pink flowers to a tree.



The world goes on as it does. The one who creates...does.

Puppy Love

It was one of those times I wish I had the presence of mind to take pictures. This is what happened.

It was a few days before the start of Fete de Geneve. We were walking by the lake, somewhere near the weirdly named Baby Plage and the boat rental place. We see this guy hurrying past some swans, swinging his little dog (a Jack Russell terrier type) up past the snapping beaks. Then he cradled the dog on his chest, the leash hanging free.

He ran to the end of a little dock, taking off his shoes and clutching them in his other hand. We saw a little motorboat approaching. He got ready. The dog's tail was wagging so much it was a blur.

The boat stopped. The guy jumped on to the front of the boat (okay, I don't know my boat turns, but it's the part that looks like a car's hood). The fiberglass was slippery. He skidded. And...plop....the little dog dropped into the water. We started towards the dock.

In the next second the guy dove in, fully clothed, with the backpack on his back, dropping his shoes.

In the meantime the dog managed to get close enough to the boat for the couple in the boat to haul him abroad. Shaking himself vigorously the dog jumped towards the back of the boat where his owner (or was he the guy's owner? Who knows?) was trying to get on the boat. He kept barking and whining until the guy flopped on board, then licked his face a million times.

I think the guy never found his shoes, his clothes were soaked and his backpack was dripping wet. But nothing mattered to either of them. The couple in the boat were laughing loudly as they finally sped away.

Feel free to say Awwwwwwwww! If that was not love I don't know what it is.

I See Wonderful Things

Last week I went to the Bodmer Museum. It's not a very well-known museum, nor is it very large. You can go through the whole place, at a fairly leisurely rate, in about two hours. But, oh, what a place. Not many people visit this little Geneva gem.

This was my second visit, and this time too I felt like Howard Carter peering into that small opening in Egypt. I too feel like saying simply, almost childishly, "I see wonderful things." For I know that I will forever think of that marvellous mansion with its magnificient view of Lac Leman, only to be transported into the wonderful things housed within it.

But these are not treasures made up of gold and jewels. These are the treasures of mankind, of humanity, of that which is the best of us, whether it be science, art, literature or the leaps of imagination that typify human progress. Bodmer (it helps to be born a multi-millionaire if you too decide to do this) had a dream, to collect together the creativity and wealth born out of the human mind, the collective human consciousness. So he did. He collected amazing things. And after his death, his foundation (the Fondation Bodmer) continues to keep his dream alive, to keep his quest an ongoing one.

This is just a glimpse of what you can see if you visit this museum: Two scrolls of the Egyptian Books of the Dead, a Gutenberg Bible (one of only fourteen or so in the world), the Book of Judas from the Dead Sea Scrolls, hand-written music sheets by Wagner and Mozart, hand-written manuscripts by James Joyce and Wordsworth, a giant scroll (many feet long) from the court of Queen Elizabeth I itemizing the New Years gifts received by her court. There are innumberable first editions (Balzac, Wordsworth, Joseph Heller, Joyce, Proust, Dante, etc. etc.). There are hand-written notebooks and books (with margin notes) by Isaac Newton and Einstein.

I saw some people taking pictures but I am not sure they were allowed. Still, my resolve was tested, when I came across one particular first edition. So they have the Books of the Dead, or the Kalpa Sutra, or a Botticelli painting of Dante. They pale in comparision to my George....aaah, yes Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. So I broke all my museum going rules. But, hey unlike others I used no flash, and damn it, the picture's not that great. Here it is.




Next time you're in Geneva, you must visit this wonderful little museum. You might not sigh over Byron but I promise you will leave at once humbled and hopeful about the future of humanity.

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place OR Finding Byron in Cologny Part II

She walks in Beauty

by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

"She Walks in Beauty" is my favorite Byron poem. Okay, it's my favorite poem. Almost unconsciously I memorized the first verse. And I dare anyone to find as exact, beautiful and luminous a phrase such as this:

"And all that's best of light and dark
Meet in her aspect and her eyes..."

Ah, for that I can even forgive the fact that the love of his life (as much as he could love I suppose) was his own half-sister August Leigh, with whom he had a daughter, Allegra.

On a bright day late last week I answered Byron's call and found myself driving to Chemin de Ruth in Cologny. Here is the approach to number 9, the Villa Diodati.



Even Byron was not immune to Geneva's beauty, or perhaps he drew upon it for inspiration. Here are some snowcaps seen from the little meadow by the villa, where I am sure he walked and conjured up some of his most beautiful verses.



I love this informative board that tells us about Byron and the villa. Byron was indeed a "28 years old poet."



Did Byron's fingers graze the name of the villa carved by the gate? Perhaps...but my self-portrait skills leave much to be desired since I cut off the name. Oh well!



Here is a shot of the villa complex. How much time did Byron spend looking out from the windows facing the lake, writing and entertaining people like Shelley (another crush of mine), Mary Shelley and feminisit Mary Wollencraft? After all, it was on a dark and rainy summer evening that Byron challenged his guests to come up with a scary a story as possible. And Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was conceived, to be completed a mere one year later.




The owners of the villa have kindly allowed for this marker to be placed on the side of the house.



But alas they were not kind enough to open up the villa for Byron lovers and gawkers to pass through. The gates I am sad to report are tightly closed against the hoi- polloi such as me and you.



But Byron is no one's property and he cannot be closed off and captured. He belongs to the world of literature and imagination. He belongs to those of us who worship words, those of us who long to peel back the layers of emotions, of relationships, of the world entire to unveil the violently beating alive heart that is at the core of it all.



And like millions of others I do "...vainly love thee still."

Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,
And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.

Why wert thou so dear? OR Looking for Byron in Cologny Part I

Now I love me some John or Clive or yes, that *yawn* no-brainer crush George.







But there will always be a part for me that will forever be in love with that other George. George Gordon that is. That's Lord Byron to you. All that brooding angst, that lust for life (among other things), those oh-so interesting friends who died too young, that renegade rebellious spirit, those forbidden passions, and yes, even that club foot. All of that and talent too, how could anyone resist? I was a goner even as a ten year old when I read my first Byron poem, and then when I read about him. Ohhhh Byron *sighs deeply*



When We Two Parted

by Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever the years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder, thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk, chill on my brow,
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me...
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well..
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

So I journeyed to Chillon and walked around the lake and tried to see this city he loved through his eyes. But how could I live in Geneva and not visit the house at which he stayed? It took me a while to find it but find it I did.

For Mary Shelley fans, this is where Frankenstein was born. Like all good, ghoulish tales, the monster of Dr. Frankenstein came to life on a dark and stormy summer night when Byron challenged his friends to a contest. The rest is literary history. But much as I love the Shelley's, let's go back to Byron.

The Villa Diodati--where he stayed when visiting--is in Cologny, an exclusive, if-you-need-to-ask-the-price-you-so- can't-afford-to-live-here part of Geneva. It is on Chemin de Ruth 9 in Cologny, and yesterday I just could not resist Byron's call.

And I will blog about it in the next post. How's that for a cliff-hanger, huh?

May we help you?

Ok, I am not for overly sweet and sentimental posts (or at least I don't think I am), and I usually don't like the nicer things in life...to write about that is. Mainly because I like living in the bog of eternal darkness and wallow in the pit of muck and despair.

But today, this morning, something sweet happened. And I gotta write about it.

Let me take you back to a while ago when we hired some guys to put together a bunch of bookshelves for us (yes, they were Ikea and yes, I am a lazy, unmechanically evolved dolt...what you gotta say about that? Huh?)...anyway. So, these gentlemen put together the shelves and an odd table or two but left the folded cartons on the patio.

It's sad but I couldn't figure out how to dispose of them here. I mean, in the U.S., we had a separate garbage bin for this stuff, put it outside the house on the designated day and it disappeared. Ok, so maybe it headed for the nearest landfill and I'll rot in hell...but I digress.

Then I realized that I could take it to the dump and recycling place at the edge of our little vilalge, right where I put the plastic and pet, and glass and paper, adn that there was a place for cartons as well. Yipppeee!

So off I went, with these folded cartons in the trunk of my car. I got there, flipped the trunk and sighed...these things were going to take a few trips to break down further and stuff them into the impossibly small containers. Oh damn!

Then these two young men appeared...boys really...14, maybe 15. We exchanged bon jours (can I say how it thrills me to see young people here say the equivalent of good morning or good day rather than grunting a laconic hi...but I digress again)...then they asked me something in rapid French and I responded in not so rapid...ok, totally halting French that I didn't understand them.

May we help you?

Whaaat?

OMG, these two boys made the trips from the trunk to the bins and did a meticulous job disposing off the cartons for me. They also laughed needlessly like teeangers seem to do, and one of them walked into a metal divider thingie...and yowled in his barely broken voice.

They were awkward and sweet and so adorable. And, yes...damnit they were so sweet.

Michael and Joel, you are wonderful young men, and a credit to your parents, your village and your country. I was glad to shake your hand and say thanks. You were a great start to my day. Thanks!

A very short play...questions and ruminations on a beautiful day

Date and time: Last Sunday, around 3 PM

Location: Somewhere in Pacquis, lost and looking for the Rue de Alpes parking structure.

The scene: Trying to read a street name while Naina takes the opportunity to pee against a building. Lovely!

Old man with funny cap (Omfc): "something something madame?" (my best French translation. all I can tell is that it's a question)

Me (blank, hunted look on face): "Uh...uh...um...ne parlez-pa *damn is that it?* Francais."

Omfc: "You spik the English?"

Me: Yes (maybe he knows where the damn parking is)

Omfc: *gestures to Naina*..."don't you want a..nother chien?"

Me: "Another dog?"

Omfc:" Yes, dog, dog. You want another dog?"

Me: "Uhmmmm....non monsieur, merci...but no thanks."

Omfc: "Ok..ok...I am love you." *he blows a kiss*

I have two questions:

(1) What the heck did he mean? Did he want to give me another dog? why? Did he want to breed Naina? Weird!

(2) Why do crazy old men like me? I mean, really...they do. Do I give off a ratty shawl-collar sweater infested with butterscotch candies vibe? A few years ago a venerable Afghan gentleman in Chicago talked to us on the street and then insisted on kissing my cheek (till then he was kind of sweet), which he did in a slightly creepy way...more neck than cheek ya know?

Anyway I found the place I had parked my car helped by two fluent English speakers...Filipina prostitutes. I figured they live in the area...if anyone knows where the parking structure is they would. They did, they pointed it out, were friendly and really nice and when I got my car and passed by them, I waved and called out thank you.

I had spent the Sunday afternoon parking my car and then walking around the lake. The weather was amazingly gorgeous and everyone but everyone was out and about. Dogs, babies, young lovers, old lovers, families...and me...and Naina, of course. I felt almost like a Genevoise, relaxing at the lake on a beautiful day, when the water sparkles, and the sky a blinding blue studded with meringue-like clouds. Aaaah!

Village People

I always feel like I live in Geneva, even though we live in a village, from where the French border is a 10 minute walk and from where Mont Blanc looms tall on clear days. And we cannot see the lake.

So yesterday, I had to drop off the car at the dealership (some computer bug sends me alarming messages like hydraulic suspension failure, 4-wheel drive failure, etc.) so i was waiting at the bus stop.


And this older gentleman wanted to know if he could get to Jussy on the the 31 bus. He was from Bangladesh, accompanying his wife on a UN trip, and while she was at work he was being a tourist. Someone told him that he should take this bus to see the countryside.

Okay, so there is a donkey and some goats at one end of our village, cows that graze almost under my window and pigs somewhere close by....I had never come to terms wiht the the fact I live in the countryside, part of the rural side. I am a village person.

Weird

Addicted to....poulet roti

Every thursday, outside this little boulangerie near our house, a red and white-striped cart pulls up. A plump, golden chicken, roasted to perfection (well as perfect as plastic can be) sits on the roof, drumsticks pointing skywards. I saw this strange contraption for weeks and then I finally gave in and bought myself a roti poulet on an evening when I hadn't had time to cook.

Oh...My....God....it's delicious and I am totally hooked. So much so that I now have a Grand Delice Poulet (the name of the cart) card, with stamps on it. Once I have ten stamps I get a free chicken. Mmmmmmm....it's tender, moist, succulent, fragrant with some mystery herbs. I am not a big chicken person but this is to die for.

Just had to share.

Naina and the Dancing Hijabis

**This post might (will) be offensive to ultra-religious and hijabi types but I am PMSing and I just want to be mean and offensive today. So there**


Last week we went to the Fetes de Geneve, basically a giant fair along the lake in Geneva. They had a ferris wheel, other strange rides and more importantly lots and lots of yummy food stalls at the not-so-usual for Geneva bank-breaking prices. Interestingly most of the stalls were Indian. Samosas here I come. There were also wicked looking cocktails (sadly I was still on antibiotics and cortisone so I had to abstain) and cotton candy and churros.


Oh yes, when I say we went to the fair I include my dog, Naina. She was excited, sniffing at the ground, the air, trying to figure out what all the excitement was about.


We were about 30 feet away from this ninja...errrr....hijabi woman. Did I mention most of the fair attendees were the Arabs who descend on Geneva in the summer? She had her index fingers up in the air and was sort of jerking around rather rythmically.


I was thinking, cool the woman is dancing. A bit strange to be doing a bhangraesque dance while in full religious regalia but she's happy, she's at the fair...so whatever. Then she comes closer and starts shaking a finger in my face, "no...no...no....dog...no...no."


What the fuck? My dog, on a short leash (maybe a two-foot leash, while she was really about 30 feet away) was happily sniffing some other dog's pee on the ground (charming, yes, but that's my dog) nowhere close to this woman. If you're afraid of dogs why come closer to one to admonish its owner?


I said, "My dog has no interest in you," and she gave me a dirty look. Okay, so I think it was a dirty look since all I could see were her eyes and I really need to see someone's entire face to interpret expressions.


We continued walking. And I realized either I was the modern equivalent of Moses or people were just jumping back on either side when we passed. I am not exaggerating. Mothers would pull their kids back, husbands would bark out something to their wives and they would just fall back. Yes, the good religious folk were fleeing the polluting presence of my dog. You do have to wash yourself seven times if you are touched by a dog. I love touching my dog. She feels great, silky and fluffy and warm. I am perennially unclean I guess.


Then this 7 or 8 year old brat runs forward with an inflatable baseball bat (I wonder if his religious parents knew the bat had pot leaves all over it) and behaves like he is going to swat her on the head with it. I looked at him and said in my sternest, mean voice, "I don't think so," and he slunk away.


If he had even touched her I would have hit him. I was getting really pissed off about this. No one says you have to love my dog or even pet it or whatever, but quit behaving like idiots. All dogs are not itching to attack you, especially one that has its nose to the ground sniffing or trying to look pathetic so that I'll give her a churro (I did).


Geneva is an incredibly dog-friendly city so when we stepped into a weird parody of a country western bar tent, the waitress immediately brought water for her. She got tons of petting including from this very cute and very energetic two-year old.


This kid kept running to Naina, petting her (roughly) on her head, poking at her paws, her eyes, pulling her tail and sticking a finger up her nose. She was very sweet and very into the dog but Naina, who usually cannot get enough of being touched, retreated under the table, looking at me reproachfully each time this girl touched her somewhere she didn't want to be touched. Still, she did nothing. Just moved her paw or her face away while I tried to teach the kid to be gentle. Eventually, she would just pat her face and her head very sweetly and semi-gently.


Usually when I am out walking I keep Naina really close to my side, walking at my heel so that she doesn't bother people. I know some people are afraid of dogs so I try to be a good citizen.


Now as stepped into little Arabia again, even though I still kept her close to my side I wished that some some hair or something of hers would get on to some of the people jumping back from her. Okay, so I might have held her just a little bit more out there than I usually do. I was getting sick of this strange dog paranoia.


The said dog however was having a grand time. An old man knelt down and hugged her and a little girl petted her belly. Naina was in doggie heaven.


Then I saw a woman wearing a headscarf, looking at her eyes. Her eyes get a lot of attention..since one is blue and the other brown. I braced myself for another negative reaction, some jumping out of the way, abject terror.


Instead this woman rushed over to Naina and hugged her tightly (which she tolerates but does not like) and petted her. Then she called her son who was on some spinning ride and brought him over so he could pet her as well. We managed to communicate despite her broken English and my total lack of Arabic.


She said Naina reminded her of her dog at home. That her dogs too had eyes like Naina. She wanted to know nothing about me but everything about my dog. How old was she? What did her name mean? etc. etc.


We spent about 10 minutes talking about the dog. "Bye, bye Naina," she screamed out as we left. I smiled.


I had confronted a stereotype and it was slightly altered but to be honest hijabis still make me uncomfortable and the Arab invasion of Geneva strikes me as odd. They love what Geneva has to offer. But they still don't want most of it in their own countries. Why?

Perhaps as a (semi) Muslim woman I am even more sensitive to this whole head scarf/hijab thing. I don't remember hearing any of these debates when I was a child but suddenly it's a big thing. When did it become such a symbol of identity.

As a child I was told proudly that no woman in three generations of my family had observed purdah. It was seen as a step forward. And now there are young women choosing to wear hijab as a right. To some they are asserting their rights as Muslim women. To me they are regressing and setting women back.

I am not sure I understand this at all. This need to set yourself apart when there is no need to. Dress modestly. Be religious. Pray five times and definitely avoid my dog. But why make yourself into a spectacle? Why attract more attention when the stated purpose of the hijab is to attract less?

I am liberal, unabashedly so and feminist, unreservedly so. And I find religiosity and religious people rather frightening. I believe they have the right to believe and do what they want to do but I can't understand it. Or want to understand it. And I have the right to find them frightening and strange.

Interestingly, it is liberals who support the right to wear the hijab. And so uneasily I find myself on the side of a more conservative viewpoint. I believe (and I am sure many will disagree) that wearing the hijab is injurious to women...and men.

It pre-supposes that women are just their bodies and their hair and by controlling these two, society is made safer. It pre-supposes that men are lustful animals unable to control themselves. And it pre-supposes that women have to curtail their personal freedom and bear the responsibility for men's inability to control themselves.

I have a solution.

Instead of women wearing hijabs, why don't men wear blindfolds? I'll even throw in the white canes for free.

And then Naina and I can go to the fair without dancing hijabis and bratty kids.

Okay, is she not the cutest dog ever?

My niece took this picture while Naina took a quick break from running about madly in the backyard while she plotted her next evil move.

I can't believe she is 6. She looks like an overgrown puppy and people are constantly surprised that she is not just 9 or 10 months old. We need to figure out the youth serum she's using.

So...Naina in the Backyard for your viewing and awwwwwing pleasure.