Dressed to kill (yourself that is)

It’s hot. I know this because this afternoon when I brought laundry to the roof of my apartment building and clipped each item onto the line, upon reaching the end, the first two items were already, completely bone dry. I think it was 102 today. And to all you people whining about the heat in New York and Boston, we’ve haven’t exactly the AC coverage that you enjoy. Your woeful Facebook posts win you no pity from me.

Considering the heat, it does surprise me when I pass women in the street dressed head to toe. Now, I may have stated previously that the general dress of Tunisian women ranges from Lindsay Lohan to various manifestations of an Orko from He-Man look. I kid not, better still is the fact that Lindsay and Orko can often be seen walking together arm-in-arm. Daily there’s mom walking down street in a failed-attempt-at-stylish leopard print dress that covers neck to ankle, holding daughter’s hand who is wearing skinny jeans and a Zara t-shirt that could only have been painted on. Mom and daughter are giggling and find their outfits totally unremarkable.

I concede that wearing shorts and a tank top really isn’t the smartest option with this blazing sun. There are plenty of examples of so-dressed, idiot tourists who come to Tunisia for a beach holiday, throw caution to the wind leaving the sunscreen at home, and therefore spend the final days of their trip idling in Tunis’s souks with exposed shoulders all a-blister. Ick. Even if the sun does not burn you to a lovely shade of lobster, it will beat down on your poor little epidermis, so it actually feels nicer to wear nice light, loose-fitting cotton. This I learned in Niger, where it was actually hot (140 degrees often and I actually saw it hit 155). Women and men wear the same clothing-concept: huge pieces of thin, thin cotton, draped loosely, and only once, about you to let optimal air flow and prevent sun from crisping your skin. No insane layers, no exposed skin. They are geniuses; this is what one wears in oppressive heat.

As the temperatures climb in Tunis women respond by removing their winter coats, or maybe they wear a shrug over a long-sleeved shirt, but it’s the men who look really ridiculous. Every day I see men in their 40s and 50s walking around in athletic shorts (thigh high ones!), tank tops, and flimsy plastic flip-flops. I think they believe that this constitutes being dressed. One could wash a car, sit on lawn furniture a la "Dad on Father’s Day" card, or God forbid, work out in such attire. It is beyond me how anyone could find it acceptable to walk into a bank, eat in a restaurant, or sit in your dentist’s office so dressed. Unless you are seven. The rest of you are simply flaunting the fact that it’s socially acceptable for men to look stupid.

Of the many couples sporting a look that says “Orko is escorted by Larry Bird circa 1983,” I saw my favorite today. This afternoon I passed a couple walking hand-in-hand down Rue de Marseille, being flirty. She was wearing a light turquoise, sparkly head scarf, one of the tight ones that covers the neck up to the chin, then she had on the ubiquitous white long sleeve t-shirt under a long, to the ankle sun dress (turquoise, hot pink and white): very Muslim chic. He was wearing basketball warm-up pants, the kind that swish when you walk like the pants are trying to get you to “be the net, feel the net.” He pairs these dashing pants with a tight, white tank top, which nicely highlights his skinny frame, and is cut so as to reveal both, both his nipples. We can’t see her neck, but we can see the gentleman’s nipples. Lovely.

However, in a rare moment of magnanimity on my part, I immediately recalled a couple I saw this January in Boston. It was a dark and snowy evening, a balmy 17 degrees, as I passed Gypsy Bar and noticed a couple waiting in line. She was wearing a black mini-skirt, and had really long, gorgeous, very naked legs. Her naturally long legs clearly were lacking 3 inches, so she was perched on pencil-thin silver heels. The top was sparkly and nicely displayed unnaturally high breasts, likely due to some really expensive gravity-defying bra. She had a coat on, but obviously it being well above zero degrees she needed to have it unbuttoned. He was in the every-man going out in Boston look: completely average-looking but probably really expensive jeans and some Brooks Brothers type button down shirt. As I pass them, my ankles tighten, they look up at me pleadingly, “Oh please don’t ever do that to us in this snow! “Oh darlings, you know mommy loves you too much! You keep running nicely and I’ll keep wearing comfortable shoes that make me look ten years older than I am.” Two little ankle voices squeal “yeah.”

So who is the more ridiculous couple? Mr. and Ms. Tunis, enjoying a stroll in the 101 heat while she sports 25 pounds of clothes and his nipples enjoy the breeze? Or Mr. and Ms. Boston-Clubbers, waiting in line as she is about to loose those nice legs to frostbite?

I will award each couple an honorable mention for adhering to the globally accepted rule that she must outdress him by a ratio of 6:1. However they both lose. Rather the men win because despite looking lame, they are dressed for the damn weather they are standing in. And the women lose because they are idiots. Blah, blah, I know: both women are responding to male-dominated social definitions of female beauty and control and manipulation of such beauty. In one context male pride depends on other men seeing his girlfriend’s long, sexy legs, thereby earning him “man-points” for how jealous other men are of him. While Mr. Nipple earns his man-points by showing off the prettily wrapped present parading down the street with him, and other men get to be jealous that only he gets to unwrap said present. (Although this couple could not have been over 23, and there’s no way a guy dressed like that has the money to get married in Tunisia, which really leaves him with only one package to play with).

Forget these tools, I blame the women. Lick your finger, hold it up in the air and guess what the temperature might be. Then try, try to think of what would make you not miserable in such weather. Ladies, all of you, can we please dress for ourselves? Can we consider the raging monsoon outdoors, the hazards of skin cancer, or the health and longevity of our ankles? Or can we at least, as Van Morrison chides, dress up for each other?

Briefly and In Honor of the World Cup

Since the FIFA World Cup matches began in South Africa, I have had a very difficult time deciding who to cheer for. I’ve had the chance to meet people from lots and lots of soccer-obsessed places this year. And as I support professional teams based solely on who I know would be pleased with the outcome, this has been a challenging FIFA finals season.

Just a few weeks ago, I walked by a huge Vive Algérie sign a few blocks from my apartment. Therefore I was kind of happy that I was not in Tunis when the U.S. team beat Algeria. Despite the fact that I have met three (3!) exceedingly interesting, cool, attractive Uruguayans this year, I, like most people on planet earth (saving the Uruguayans), really wanted Ghana to win. There’s something fantastic about Swedes, South Koreans, Swiss, and Americans and all cheering for Ghana. At the wedding in Mazan we had a missing groomsman due to Brazil’s win the Friday before the ceremony. (He did make the actual wedding!) I watched cars careen down the tiny streets of Geneva with bodies hanging out of the windows whipping German flags about and honking. Saw all Africans living in Switzerland at a bar on the corner of Rachida’s block! And I overheard an awesome conversation on the train from Domodossola to Geneva between two young guys in their twenties discussing the world cup in French, as it was their only language in common. Conversation went something like: Where are you from? Italy, you? Perú, it’s in South America. To the Italy guy’s credit, he was all “oh yes, that’s right, South America. Are you from Lima?” And the guy from Peru was actually surprised the Italian knew where Lima was. Wow, whose bad geography is the Peruvian judging people on? Please not the Americans. (Oh, am realizing that he was the third Peruvian I met this year too!). Animated conversation about the World Cup ensued and the boys exchanged Facebook profiles at the end.

I watched the final match between the Netherlands and Spain at the Italian cultural center with a bunch of Spanish, some Italians and plenty of Tunisian men eager to provide young European women with a variety of ways to celebrate after the game. Thoughtful, really. Pleasant, festive atmosphere was complete with international camaraderie as Italians and Tunisian were also quite enthused about Spain. Yet we also got to enjoy some silly manifestations of nationalism run amok, as after the game there were Madrileños running about Tunis dressed in the Spanish flag, screaming Iniesta!

In the end, and most importantly, Paul was right, and as my friend Peter said, in pulpo veritas! (As he seems to have all the answers, can someone ask the octopus what to do about the Gulf of Mexico?) Silly clothing and silly chanting aside, go World Cup, and people who like soccer, and people who cheer for guys that live on other side of the world from you.

The Psychology of Moving

I am a serial mover. I have moved twelve times since I moved away from home at the age of 18. Let me clarify that I define moving as the packing up of all possessions, the permanent removal of one’s self from what was home for a time, and the transporting of life and all its accoutrements to a new place of residence. Moving, really moving. In this number of twelve, I am not including going back to Minnesota between university years to spend summers working at coffee shops, painting schools and nanny-ing awesome kids. Nor am I counting the move to Vermont for the summer of 2008. The green mountains surrounding Middlebury were a very temporary home indeed, but it was the perfect escape from my life at the moment. And for that, I’ll always be grateful for the memories of days spent in the library, of evenings swimming in the state of the art pool and running in those silent hills. No, for moving, I’m counting the times when the place I slept became home, my taxes arrived in the mailbox, the walls were decorated with my pictures, and I cooked dinner while listening to On Point and looked forward to drinking my coffee curled up with a book on Saturday mornings.

When I first moved to Boston in 1997, I walked off the airplane with two suitcases, neither of which had wheels. I traveled about the city on public transit to arrive at the first of three separate places which would become home on Bay State Road. Then there was the apartment on Commonwealth Ave, where we had the break-in and I lost my grandma’s jewelry. In Brookline, I lived on avenues University Road, Clark Road, Alton Place and Beacon Street. In Southie, I spent two years spent living along the legendary St. Patty’s day parade route, just a block or two from the housing projects and the Patrick Gavin School. And finally there was Roxbury, on Cedar Park, with a backyard garden to die for, the nicest landlord I’ve had and great roommates.

As for my non-Bostonian living, I've been in Tunisia six months now. And I am reflecting on how easily we can adapt to new environments. Living here is not difficult in the least. The food is good, the people are open and friendly, the weather is great, hot but it’s no oppressive sub-Saharan heat. I can ignore irritating men and their comments reflecting a state of continual weakness and frustration. I love walking in the souks, and above all I love the vegetable and fruit markets. And the view of the sea. When I lived in Niger, I also felt comfortable, which is a little shocking as it is not a comfortable place to live. The food is extremely different, the climate one of the harshest on earth. Yet, just as I finally do in Tunis, I began to identify things as mine: my bread guy, my pagne-seller, my tailor (who painted J-Crew in red paint over the door of his shop). There was my lizard who crawled onto the metal frame at the foot of my bed each night to do his little push-ups and eat mosquitoes as they tried desperately to find holes in my mosquito netting. Each night, as the temperature dipped to a crisp 98 degrees, he would poke his pointy, little head (very little, he could not have been more than 2 inches long) over the rim of the frame and reach one little tiny lizard hand up and hoist himself up to lie parallel along the bar. And the lizard's routine became mine. I waited to fall asleep until I saw him. Thanked him for eating the mosquitoes and worried a bit that if he ate a malarial mosquito would he, my little lizard, get malaria. So quickly had I developed affection for this little creature that I was quite upset on the terrible day when roommate stepped on and killed him. I carried its little corpse outside and buried it in the sand. Woefully I announced to my teacher the next morning that "Djama ay danfana wii" (Djama killed my lizard.) She found this hilarious and laughed until she was crying. I managed to laugh too, but I am very in touch with my inner five-year old who was very upset that she was laughing. Poor little lizard, he was like a guardian angel to me, protecting me from scary African diseases, sitting at the edge of my bed and wishing me sweet, malaria-free dreams!

Madrid too became mine, but in a far more anonymous way. A foreigner in a city with lots of foreigners, I was typical and uninteresting. Well, except when I was running in the streets with Jonielle training for the marathon. Oh, that made us a bit of a spectacle! And it’s fun to be a spectacle. I developed a kinship to the Metro, to Rioja, to returning home at 4 a.m. and to my French and Moroccan friends. Tunis is a fantastic middle ground between the false-familiarity of Europe and the time-travel of West Africa. There are a lot of tourists here, but they can’t say anything in Derja. So I look like them, but by opening my mouth can set myself apart, into the far nicer category of temporary resident who is studying, who appreciates the language and culture for more than cheap goods in the market that come from China anyhow.

I am pleased knowing that I can adapt to almost any environment; can live in temperatures hovering at 140 degrees, can learn to eat just about anything and could care less about the damn water pressure. So long as I have a place to sleep, food to eat, drinkable water, and pleasant ways to occupy my time, I can adjust. Despite my ease at adapting, my own personal psychology of moving is troubling. I fit everywhere and nowhere. I love Boston, but I’m not of Boston. I am very much Minnesotan, but I rarely feel that I belong there. This sensation of out-of-place-ness is an old one for me. I remember feeling very clearly and painfully as I was about to leave the hospital when I was ten that I didn't want to stay in the hospital (sad as I was to see the IV drip of morphine go), but I didn't want to go home either. I felt out of place, felt that I really belonged nowhere at the moment. I’ve never resolved that dilemma, and the limbo continues.

When I first lived in Southie, I spent my initial weeks dreaming of caves, and being trapped and suffocating, the walls were falling in on me. These nightmares reflected my desire to be back in Brookline, which was comfortable and familiar. I belonged in Southie (or so my name would suggest) and I didn’t. My house was a reflection of the new Boston, with a mix of white, black and Indian Americans roommates. We belonged insofar as our multi-ethnic house sat at the edge of black Dorchester and white Southie. But we didn’t, we, the college-educated young people, were nestled awkwardly in the old, working-class Boston. It was a fascinating experiment, but there was a clear understanding of the non-permanence of our living situation.

Coolidge Corner is my favorite neighborhood in Boston. There I could step outside my front door and go the Brookline Booksmith, see an independent film, eat great Indian food, and buy fairly-traded jewelry from everywhere. Roxbury was a bit of a shock, as my house was so far from the T, yet for the first time I had a real back yard and a garden. The breezes that would blow into the kitchen brought an incredible smell of flowers whose names I cannot be bothered to learn. But it was so residential, too residential. And therefore I didn’t really feel at home. Roxbury was too calm, but Brookline was too rich. So while I can live anywhere, no place feels completely like home. There's the fact that I've never really left Minnesota, kind of like all the Irish writers who physically left Ireland and never, ever left psychologically. Not unlike them, my moving is always characterized by a state of hesitance. I've never bought housing, always rented, always wanting and needing to be ready to leave if I have to.

I woke this past Monday surprised to find myself back in my apartment in Tunis, where I’ve lived since February. After my two week vacation in Europe it was so amusing to see Tunis as the normal, as the mundane life I’ve been living. I went about doing errands and found it nice to walk through the markets, saw my vendors again, and they asked me where I had been. I renewed a new month at my gym. Weinik kunti? Where were you? And welcome back! I guess I can now count living in Tunis as move number thirteen. With a backpack and a suitcase I arrived in February, and I took classes, visited cities, saw the south, saw the north, met lots of Italians and a few Tunisians. Returned back to my apartment tired after a breathless vacation, and settled back into a routine. So it’s home. But not for long.

In August 2009, almost, almost a year ago, I moved out of Boston. Not knowing if it would be permanent. I very half-assedly, haphazardly packed up my life and its accoutrements. Now I need to find a place for that life. It may involve the moving of all my current orphaned things from Boston to MN. That will be onerous, as it would consist in moving twelve years of books, wine glasses, and beautiful things from the beautiful places I’ve lived, things that I cannot part with. Now where do all these things belong? Where does their owner belong?!

I’ve decided that this fall, I will try to belong in MN. I am looking forward to the experience of living, and this time I plan on really living, in MN. It will never be my Boston, and I will not insult either with unfair comparisons. This time, I will not skip along on the thin upper layers of Minnesota, as I have done since the day I left in August 1997, that moment when I let my Minnesota life freeze, remain of a time that no longer exists. Each summer, each Christmas, I’ve gone back to visit a still-life version of the something I once lived. My life a frozen replica surrounded by that which continued to expand and grow. When I left Eileen was thirteen. She’s twenty-five. Rosemary was forty-six, this October she turns sixty. That a lot of life to revive.

No more, I will try to live in my new, old home state as I’ve lived in Tunis, making genuine efforts at meeting people, finding kindred spirits, exploring places I don’t know. I will try to wandering around with interest and curiosity, will chat with the people who work and live in areas I don't know. I am really looking forward to this experiment.

But, I know myself well, and I have a feeling that fourteen is not the final number.

Generosity and a Wedding in Provence

Last week I had the good fortune of attending my friend Heather's wedding in Southern France. She first told me of the wedding plans while I was visiting her in London last November, as I was en route from one place to another. When I stayed with her and Michael again in January, on my way to Tunisia, I decided then that come hell or high water (in form of dwindling teacher-salary reserves!) I was going to attend this wedding. Because, in fairness, I would be closer than nearly all other guests, Tunis being only a little one-hour hop over the Mediterranean. But also because I wanted to. Because I was really happy for Heather. Because she and Mike had hosted me twice. Because there in that apartment I saw evidence of a life well-lived together, a life that celebrates pleasures great and small: travel books on the coffee table, pictures draw by nieces and nephews on the fridge, Parisian teas and chocolates on the countertops, more wine in the fridge than food, and lots of good scotch! Who would not want to celebrate such a pair?

However, in my life as a former high school teacher turned aimless traveler, this is not exactly the sort of thing that fits into my budget. Never will I be able to afford a week of foie gras, caviar, champagne, and restaurants with three Michelin stars. Knowing that this week would damage the savings, I purchased my wedding outfit at the second hand market in Tunis for under $25 dollars and I arrived in France ready and willing to “throw the house out the window,” as the Mexicans do for quinceañera parties. I was not going to worry about the cost, and focus instead on having a fabulous time. And have a fabulous time I did, and spend much money, I did not.

Heather invited me to join her family in a farm house that her parents were renting for the week before the wedding. So I joined them. I flew from Tunis to Marseille, and took a train from Marseille to Avignon. Heather and Michael picked me up at the station, so I didn't have to take a cab. Then I spent five days visiting towns and markets of Provence, having rosé with every lunch, and playing with Heather’s rambunctious nieces and nephew. We ran into and out of, and back into the pool. Then kicked plastic soccer balls up into the air, squealed with glee and did it again, and again. What is it about children and their inability to be bored by repetition? Amazing, tiring, never dull. I slept in a white bed, with fluffy white, 8 million-count cotton sheets and a pillow that makes one think of clouds, all in a white room, decorated with small hints of things minty-colored, and a window looking out onto the riotous green of the trees in the yard.

Every meal was delicious, and I was treated at every turn. The dinner on Thursday night, before the actual wedding festivities began may have been my favorite. It was a Provence style barbecue. Meat was cooked on a grill, there were cheeses and breads and salads made of all delicious things grown in the ground, warmed and ripened by the actual sun. The spread was magnificent, not simply because of the food, but the company and the ambiance. Relatives and friends, many people connecting different parts of Heather and Michael’s lives came together and found all sorts of things to laugh about. You know the scene, everyone does. Imagine a long wooden table, covered with cloth printed with flowers of Provence surrounded by chairs of wrought iron. The table is outside, on a patio, half under the trellis dripping with leaves and flowers. The sun has set, leaving orange-ish, warm light, and all is blurred at the edges thanks to the endless bottles of rosé and Côte du Rhone. Talk is lively, and buzzes about, conversations from one end of the table to the other rise softly, float above the guests, become intertwined and fall back into the mouths of the speakers, content with full bellies and good company. This scene is in a thousand movies, all taking place in Provence, Tuscany, or some such idealized location. I don’t care how over-done or how repeated ad nauseam, it really is as lovely as it sounds.

From the heavenly country house, we moved into the heavenly Château Mazan where wedding events were took place from Friday to Sunday. The couple exchanged vows at a vineyard, Château Unang. We had wine before and during the ceremony, a most refined custom that everyone should copy at every future wedding I attend! I recited the Irish Blessing, which begins with the road rising to meet you, as everyone knows, and ends with “May pure be the joys that surround you,/ May true be the hearts that love you.” Thoroughly blessed, we returned to Château Mazan for champagne, ridiculous appetizers parading about looking prettier than anything a person should eat, followed by dancing and countless courses of one beautiful dish to the next.

Sunday morning and brunch was another blur of foods decadent and delectable. Slowly guests began leaving for train stations, for airports, for a final visit to a town unexplored. The château emptied of all people save me. Really, just me. Heather and Michael left to take final group to the train station and I had the cold water of the pool under the hot sun and fuchsia colored flowers all to myself. So I sat at the edge of the pool and observed the jarring contrast from the night before. No noise, no music blasting past 3 a.m. So void of people, it's like you could see the holes of left by those I had only just been talking to, a Christine-shaped hole here, a Manisha and Vineet shaped hole there, and wee holes in the shape of whirling dervishes where Nico and Arianne twirled about on the dance floor. I sat there a long while, dangling my legs in the water, and thinking of why specifically it was such a nice wedding. In such an elegant environment, it could have seemed stuffy, it never did. It could have been arrogant or showy, yet wasn’t. The couple, their parents and sisters, exuded happiness and a desire that we share in that joy. Share we did. Friends dropped work, used up vacation days, battled inevitable French transit worker strike, flew across oceans and seas, in order to join in the celebration. Generosity flowed more recklessly and freely than the wine, which is really saying something.

I have had the deep and profound fortune of knowing many generous people in my life. There is nothing, nothing like a generous person. From the reckless abandon of my sister Eileen, who would empty her bank account for a friend. To Patrick's uncanny ability to give perfect gifts, generous gifts, always things you didn't ask for but love more than anything you've ever bought for yourself. Shannon's generosity in the form of bottomless empathy for others. To Rosie, well, what can one say of a life time spent teaching, of being hostess and of opening her home to anyone in need of a place to stay? Generosity incarnate. So I consider myself an expert in judging generosity. And anyone can give things or money away. That's not generous. For giving to be generous it's measured in hows and whys. Concerning how, there must be no grand-standing, no waiting until the bill arrived and being dramatic. Simply, I'm treating you. Thanks for being here with us. The why must be out of love, of gratitude and of desire to share in another person’s joy.

On many occasions the groom treated me, not because he is able to, but because he clearly wanted to. Because he was saying thanks for celebrating the wedding with them, thanks for being there for Heather. Every time he treated, he gave me the impression that it was I doing him the favor. Michael, I always thought you were lucky to be with Heather. Who is dear to me for the many, many conversations we had in our kitchen in Southie, over coffee in our pjs with light streaming in the windows and onto out bare feet. These were usually about our families. You can understand a lot about a person when you hear her talk about her mom and sister, her fathers. Heather is a person of depth and beauty. So clearly, you are lucky to have my lovely friend as a partner. And Heather, you, dear, are too a very lucky person indeed. I can think of nothing more priceless in a partner than true generosity. It’s clear that you both love life, love eating, love wine, love travel, and new challenges and experiences. But more importantly you love sharing these passions with all the great people in your lives.

It’s quite appropriate that one of the readings at the ceremony was an excerpt from Hugo’s les Miserables. “You can give without loving, but you can never love without giving. The great acts of love are done by those who are habitually performing small acts of kindness.” I would clarify that yes, you can give without loving, but you cannot give generously without loving. Generosity without love is impossible. Only loving spirits are generous and know the true meaning of giving. Congratulations and happy marriage!