Fathers and daughters

There is a hole in my heart. A hole I want filled but possibly this is an un-fulfill-able wish. It gets bigger as December 25 approaches. No doctor can fix the problem.

I hear that If you don't get what you want, often it means you didn't want it badly enough. In light of my wish I wanted to test this theory. A new Google invention, the Time Reverser reverses and freezes time at the point where one wants time to stop and then it goes forward once again, per one's instruction. I felt that I had hit the jackpot. I became convinced that this would be the tool that would close the hole in my heart. So, on Black Friday, I went and got myself this new gadget from a store nearby. It is a convoluted contraption of bright plastic possibly created by a 3-D printer. Once I got it, I couldn't wait to open it and use it and see if it did close the hole in my heart.

As soon as I returned to my silent home, quietly, I opened the box, took out the Time Reverser and the manual and assembled the various parts and voila, there it was an imposing structure that beckoned me to make my wish come true. The manual instructed that only one pivotal event could be reversed and that if I made a mistake and tried the wrong event, and retried, things could go haywire and time could begin to speed forward at a pace that would be hard to keep up with and this would naturally hasten my own end. Heeding this dire warning, I got a piece of paper from the waste basket and got a pencil with an eraser and began jotting down the reverse path I wanted to take to get to that all-important pivotal event. It was a no-brainer.  A decision made in August 2010 would be this precise point I would reverse time to because this was when, out of the blue, I began to look at possible vacation spots to consider for the fall. Ultimately, this decision made the future course of events to spiral out of control and create the hole in my heart.

Barcelona in fall felt irresistible. The vacation was a cruise that left from this jewel of a city and took us to Italy and Greece with stopovers in Monaco and then on our way back at Majorca.  Things just came together.  This was when I discovered Waytostay.com the international agency that booked elegant short stay apartments for travelers. I booked our trip and was really excited about it. Our long time friends Raj and Suma were to spend a few days with my husband and me in Barcelona and together the four of us were to go on short trips to the nearby Montserrat and other places locally before Raj and Suma returned to the US. I was to leave on this vacation on October 20.

Soon after all was in place, my father who had a few health issues like having to go for dialysis three times a week, suddenly took ill and had to be admitted to emergency. Ultimately, he returned home feeling healthier than ever and once again was his own energizer bunny self. I breathed a sigh of relief. Things were hopping along all right but within weeks, once again, my dad had to be taken to emergency and once again he returned home feeling good and looking like new. However, this time, I realized that I could not leave for Europe without finding a substitute for me while I was away. The best arrangement seemed to be to drive my parents to Boston where they would stay with a close family friend for ten days. I made the necessary calls and all logistics were taken care of, including identifying a place for dialysis. I felt better now. This is when my father proposed that he'd go to India instead. He did some quick research and found inexpensive air tickets and booked his tickets to leave for India on October 16. I felt nervous about this as I was afraid that in India he might not get the kind of medical attention he would in the U.S. So I made him promise that as soon as I returned from Europe I'd bring him and my mother back to the US. Now I felt better and after seeing my parents off on the 16th, per schedule I left for Barcelona on the 20th. After an exhilarating trip, when I returned I phoned my father and asked him when I could bring him back. He said that he'd like to wait till March as by then the weather would be warmer in New York. This made sense though I was still concerned about his health. For now, I phoned him. He sounded happy though dealing with my mother who has been in depression since early 2006 was not easy on him. There was nothing I could do about this and so I advised him to just stay focused on his health. Indeed, he was enjoying the warm weather, the proximity to his extended family, and the freedom of movement which was restricted in New York because of my constant supervision.

This tranquility was shattered on December 24. His birthday was December 25 and here I was in New York planning a celebration at my home as a relative was visiting whose birthday was also on the 25th. On Friday, December 24, my aunt called and said that I should go to India immediately as my father was  on a ventilator. I had spoken to him on the 23rd and yes, he did say that his potassium had shot up to 8.1.  He had eaten the wrong kinds of food offered to him by relatives who did not take his diet restrictions seriously. He just went along as he was that sort of a person.

I reached India on the 26th early morning and dad had died two hours after I had boarded the plane at 11:30 p.m. at JFK on the 24th night, already the 25th in India. The moment he completed 81 years on this earth he took his last breath.

I crank back Google's Time Reverser to August 2010 and guess whom I saw last night. It was no other than my energizer bunny dad with his signature broad smile that in no time filled up the hole in my heart. Indeed, if you really want something you just have to try real hard.  

Ciao!

Calendars, Timetables

A timetable is too binding for me. This is probably so for all free-spirited people. My psyche has a built-in clock and it needs no winding or battery and possibly it runs on solar power. My memory is excellent and I can remember my schedule, which is what a timetable keeps in an organized manner, with accuracy at all times. So, even the seductiveness of the modern gadgets escapes me. I never understood the need to scribble down every single detail of my known future activities on a calendar or an organizer to use a modern term. I’m more interested in the unknowable part of my future.

Having said I am not overly organized, I also envy people who are organized to a fault. Oh, how much envied those who even timed their babies’ birth to sync with the calendar. Let me explain. I have friends who wanted their kids to be born before the year ended, and labor was induced to make this happen if the baby took its own sweet time to be born. Often the reason behind this was, the kid to make the school cut-off date, which in most places is the last day of the year. Maybe if I too was diligent about recording everything on a calendar I too could have timed my children’s birth. I still managed to enroll my January and February born kids into a higher grade after they were tested and were certified as being ready though they had to go to a private K as the public schools are strict with respect to the Kindergarten.

For sure, one date I know that will be impossible to mark on a calendar is the date I will take my last breath on this earth. I don’t mean to sound morbid but a great deal of reality is morbid. Here is one proof. 

An acquaintance of mine is obsessive about recording everything on her wall calendar. I don’t know where else she duplicates these entries. From a distance her calendar looks ant-infested. I haven’t paid close attention as to what the entries are but I cannot imagine her calendar could be filled with important activities every single day of the week. She wasn’t even working anymore. Her profession used to be podiatry. She was my son’s classmate’s/possibly his soul mate’s mother. The fist time I met her was at my son’s and her daughter’s undergraduate college. We met but there was no instant connection and though a bit “fobbish,” she certainly came across as a nice person. Her daughter Shefa was a valedictorian while my son cruised along.

The next time I met Jawahara is the day I heard that Shefa had died in an accident in South America during her spring break. I heard this on April 1. My first reaction was, is someone playing April Fool’s on Jawahara and her family. Alas, this turned out to be not true.  As soon as I heard the news I rushed to Jawahara’s house as if she was my flesh and blood. I knew my son was close to her and him being out of town that day, I felt it my moral obligation to be near her. I had never seen a home plunged in such darkness. The lights shone bright but sorrow spoke the same language in every home regardless of the religion or customs practiced in that home. I had no words to console Jawahara, a fellow mother indescribably grief-stricken. Though she moaned like a slaughtered animal, I don’t think the reality of it all had yet struck her.  It’s not unusual for someone to not accept a loved one’s death until one sees the corpse. Even then you look for signs of life. I did when I saw my late father’s body laid out in an Ice box in the living room in my aunt’s house in India. The body was being preserved till I arrived from the US and then within a couple of hours it was carried to the crematorium.

Jawahara too wasn’t going to be convinced of her beautiful daughter’s tragic and untimely demise until the body was delivered to her.

After a few days, the family held an informal memorial for Shefa at her home before a more formal one at a church on a later date. This is when I noticed the calendar on the wall filled with activities, appointments, events and so on. This is when it struck me that that calendar could not have foreseen the day Shefa was to be snatched away from her loved ones or did it but just kept it a secret considering what a horrible event it was going to be?

At the informal memorial, as I sat in the living room, a yearly calendar was being passed around.  I was told it had been created by Shefa as a gift to her parents. Every page of the calendar contained a picture of the angelic-looking Shefa surrounded by members of her extended family on her last trip in December to India. March 31 smiled back at her ominously from  the page across.

Good Girls and Bad Girls: Wanderlust

“Good girls go to heaven and bad girls everywhere” are part of the lyrics from the hit song “Wanderlust” by the Band The Weekend. I guess I get to go everywhere. I am really a gypsy at heart. So heaven can wait.

Though I’d love to visit every nook and corner of the world, yet when I step into an aircraft I turn into a chicken. I have no doubt that traveling by plane is the most unnatural way to go from one place to another. Cooped up in a small space like a caged animal and subject to the most foul smells and loud talking and most inconsiderate fellow passengers whose heads are practically in your lap when they lean back the seats in front of you is not my definition of fun. I’d rather lean back in my own chair on my deck and read Emily Dickinson’s, “There is no frigate like a book!” and be carried away by my imagination to every far away land there is. For good measure from time to time I’d glance at the Grand Canal twenty yards from my property and imagine it to be the Nile or the Danube or any other famous body of water that corresponds with the cuisine on hand.

These days, even before you leave home for any distant land, you can, thanks to Google Earth, virtually be there. So why must I subject myself to the indignities and inconveniences that travel entails? Millions of people do, however. The answer seems to be that virtual presence is not the same as the real deal. How does one smell the flora of a place on the computer or the television screen? How does one dip one’s toes in the river Amazon or hold an adorable sloth against one’s chest or nuzzle a dolphin’s bottle nose if one doesn't seek them out physically?

If one wants the direct experience of a place one needs to be standing on the native soil and breathing in the same air the natives do. There is really no substitute to savoring a place in person all your senses sated by the direct contact with every facet of the place. A book can be a frigate only up to a point. Sorry, Emily. Then again, you were a recluse. Or were you just too busy penning those timeless poems to be wasting your time traveling. Anyway, at least in my case, my boarding an actual frigate leads to material often worth a whole book. Not to mention the photos and videos these days to share with the entire world.

Would the modern world’s mobility and technological inventions have changed Emily’s perspective? And what a different take her contemporary Mark twain had on travel? “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts,” he declared. Often, I feel amused at the sight of people in public places where life in its many faceted splendor is happening right before their eyes yet they are lost in their books, or in today’s world more likely their smart phones or laptops. 

These days, before you leave for a place you can check it out as if you are already there and then when you return you revisit it as many times as you want in so many ways without leaving your home. How wonderful is that?

In March of 2012, I began my plans to visit Europe that May. Paris was to be our last stop. Because particularly in Paris it’s hard to find a place of your liking to stay easily, Paris is where I booked my apartment first, for three nights and four days using Waytostay.com. As the other pieces of my trip fell into place, I realized I needed a place to stay one more night at the beginning of my stay in Paris. The place I had booked was occupied that previous night. I was willing to book another place for that one night but wanted it close to my apartment. I used Google Earth and bingo, I found a room with a private bath at Le Montclaire Hostel across from my Waytostay.com apartment. I was thrilled. But this convenience of being close to my apartment came with more adventure than I had bargained for. My sleep was compromised to put it mildly. But the experience of hostel night life in middle age was still something to write home about. So was the unlimited breakfast buffet with fresh coffee and fresh orange juice and ooh lala, fresh croissant and a variety of jams in a quaint den-like basement setting and surrounded by youngsters from around the world lusting to wander in all ways possible.

Anyway, what’s travel without some adventure? When you plan a vacation all on your own with no travel agent to hold your hand, believe you me, you have more than your share of adventure. Sometimes enough to last a lifetime. You really need a gypsy’s un-moored DNA to withstand surprise-filled travel. 

Indeed, heaven can wait. I do plan to wander more once I get over my fear of flying. Until then I will curl up with Emily’s poems and call my own little Grand Canal across from my home the Grand Canal of Venice as I wolf down my spiced-up pasta.

 ###

In the blink of an eye losing your wallet

At the promo price of $2.79/gallon, I buy more milk than I expected and so need one more bag. Once I am at the cash register, I transfer my stuff from the shopping cart to the counter, and handing over my credit card to the cashier, with her permission, I step out to grab a third bag from my car trunk. I am back in a jiffy making my way around a blond, slightly wobbly woman in a pastel (lavender was it?) pantsuit in the doorway, which, annoyingly, a few stacks of baskets that stand sentry at the entrance and a fruit stand on one side of the passageway itself have narrowed. I make a mental note of telling the cashier to widen the passageway by moving the baskets elsewhere. Something about the youngish looking middle-aged woman at the doorway, too, dressed to impress in her vintage clothing, makes an impression on my mind. For some reason, she doesn’t come across as a real shopper as she seems only to be studying the $1.99/pound cherries on the fruit stand.

Once I reach the register, I realize that my double-flapped, leather, checkbook-sized wallet I had held in my hand after handing over my credit card to the cashier is missing. Frantically, I look for it in the vicinity, run back to the trunk, check there and return dejected. Next, feeling stupid for not putting away my wallet in my pocket book, and thinking will I ever learn? I roll the cart out of the store, rest it against a lamp-post on the sidewalk, return to the car, and check the trunk again. Just then, my mind darts back to the wobbly woman at the doorway. Brushing past her, I might have dropped my wallet in the passageway and she might have picked it up. I leap toward the sidewalk. A few yards away weighed down to one side by a tote bag there she is, waddling away. “Miss,” I cry.

The woman stops and turns around as if a police command has been issued. Held up at above head level something black in an open position dangles from her left hand. Voila, it is my wallet! Lowering her hand and extending it and heading toward me, in a flustered voice, she says, “Uh, I was just about to figure out whom to return it to.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” I say and rush toward her and as I take the open wallet back, I notice my paper money gone. I have no qualms about instantly accusing the woman of stealing it. She protests, which is when, I notice a walking stick in her hand. Is she disabled? I wonder. Normally, a fighter in the face of perceived injustice, I also pick my battles. This was definitely a battle to be overlooked.

Looking ghostly (suddenly, she looks bleached head to toe; do I l strike her as a monster?), she drags, “You have your cards . . ..” 

Feeling guilty for calling, possibly, a disabled person a thief, yet not letting go completely yet, I persist, “You did take my cash, didn’t you? . . . Twenty three dollars.”

She protests again but I halt when she says, “I was at the store to find out if they take EBT cards.”

My heart sinks. Having seen at many stores, “EBT accepted here” I figure EBT is some kind of a welfare card. Still, like a woman possessed, I ask, “You took my money, didn’t you? . . . But, I guess you need that money.” Cheeky words, while still kind, substitute for any other possible action against her. I am a Scorpio and thus known for my stings. By now, I am by my car. I don’t care for the money anymore but I still wish the woman had admitted her guilt. Under the circumstances, stealing seems excusable but not lying. I am owed at least honesty from her. Being robbed, and then to be lied about it, feels like injury and insult in one punch.

All I hear is, “Do I look like someone who would do that?”

I yell back, “None of us look like who we really are.”

Before I get into my car, I stick my head into the store and ask, “What’s an EBT card?” The cashier tries explaining and says,

“Yes,” when I interject “It’s something the government gives out, right?”

Though it was ultimately my fault, I still feel lousy losing the money and calculate the number of gallons of milk I could have bought or any number of other things with it. Charity too enters my mind. The poetic justice in someone truly needy receiving manna from heaven does not escape me either.  However, for all this noble sentiment, this would be the last time I hold my wallet in my hand once its business being there is over.

###

The 1/10th Second

The gash on the philtrum was the last straw. The cut was the result of a typically quick, jerky turn I made a moment earlier to avoid locking eyes with the un-announced visitor at the front door on this peaceful Sunday afternoon.

Splat! Next, a shooting pain. Reflexively my hand reached for the philtrum, that narrow gutter between the lip and the nose, the spot that hit the wall corner in the hallway as I turned around to hide from the stranger. I felt something wet perched precariously on my upper lip. It was blood. My left cheekbone area too throbbed. I felt stupid. I ran to the bathroom mirror and checked the cut and the reddened cheekbone area. The cut was bleeding still. I asked my husband to get me an ice pack. My usual impatience wondered why he was taking so long. Unlike me, he never did anything in a hurry. Often, I had wondered if I did things fast to make up for his slowness. Not that my speed has ever got me anywhere faster, that is, if at all I make it to my destination. Because of my tendency to speed, on any occasion, though, the two of us might begin our walk or stroll together, within the next few minutes, I am usually, a, few steps ahead of him and the distance only increases. 

I don’t know at what point in my life I began to skip, hop and jump. I also used to speak too fast. Then at some point, I noticed that important people took their time in delivering their thoughts. So I too began to speak more deliberately but with respect to movements, whether I walked or just used my hands, I tended to move faster than I really had to, my mind feeling stressed out as well. My hands may be focused on the present activity but my mind had already traveled mile a minute to the next several tasks at hand. My poor hand trying to keep up with my lunatic mind would invariably drop the object in its possession, or spill something, or tear, or crack or break. You name it and I’d have done it at least once. Sometimes I would step on my own toes. When it comes to eating, though, I am very slow.

Another person who always was in the express lane was my late maternal uncle Neelu. A bright and successful man, once, he stepped on my right eye while, as a seven-year-old, I slept on a futon on the floor in his bedroom. It was the middle of the night, pitch dark, and suddenly I felt a heel grind into my eye socket. So being a close relative of this literally cross-eyed uncoordinated man, I assumed that I had inherited his genes and so that was that. This tendency on my part to drop, spill, crack, break, and so on also made me over caution others. I constantly issue warnings: Be careful. Don’t leave the cup on the edge. Don’t walk around bare feet even inside the house. Many more such dictums constantly emanate from my lips. The best one is, don’t hold the knife pointing out unless you plan to stab someone. Of course, this last one is sane advice and there are people who hold the knife the wrong way. Common sense really is not so common.

Anyway, that Sunday, it was a peaceful afternoon. I had just finished listening to the selected shorts on NPR. Sunday afternoons is often guilt free for me, especially if I have caught up on most of my New York Times reading and the house is clean. I felt like napping a bit and just as my head hit the pillow, I heard my malfunctioning doorbell let out a feeble ring and instantly, I jumped out of bed thinking it was possibly John, our next door neighbor who sometimes shows up at the door unannounced. As I reached the top of the staircase that led down to the door, through the glass transom above it, I saw a young African-American man I didn’t recognize. So, before this stranger could spot me I tried to make a beeline for my bedroom. However, when I swung around, what met my face was the metal reinforced wall corner.

Just as I began to feel alone in this world for not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time like most of the world could, out of the blue, I came across a report on TV. According to research, by slowing down by just 1/10^th of a second, one could avoid many accidents, and that, one/third of the population was klutzy like I.

Now I use an extra 1/10^th second to complete every movement of mine and not surprisingly all my parts are intact.

###

Support

The class assignment in the Thursday group to be completed in 10 minutes:

Support brings to my mind scaffolding. I don’t like the word support. Support evokes a state of helplessness, a needy state. I don’t ever want to be in such a state yet without the mostly unasked support I got in life, I won’t be where I am. Between getting support and giving I’d rather give. My husband reminds me that we are all interdependent and this is the way it was meant to be. I guess so, and it’s true. Without the wind a bird cannot fly for all the freedom she exhibits.

As a first born I think I have been there for the family more than I might have been had I not been a first born. My husband too is a first born. Maybe, having played a supportive role most of my life I find it hard to be in a state when I am the needy one. Switching gears, I seek the support of my accompanists and that of the audience without which my art may wither out. Without the support of my Monday group I wouldn’t have probably submitted my piece to the Modern Love section of The Sunday Times. I guess, no woman can be an island unto herself. Even if she is, here too the land is supporting her.

Withholding of support intrigues me. There are those who wait for which way the wind blows before they decide to add their support. They have the means but wait on the sidelines because on their own they cannot decide on the merit of a cause.  

The opposite of support is sabotaging. Even friends can be saboteurs. Remember the expression, “with friends like this who needs enemies?”

Ciao!

Ro.

"I have a limit"

Like many things in life, quite serendipitously and thanks to my friend Grace Luis of Long Beach, NY, I recently joined a writers' group that meets every Monday and the first Thursday every month at the Long Beach Library. This turned out to be an experience I wish had graced me earlier. But nothing happens to before its time. Anyway, from now on, I will post some of the stuff I write for the group. Here they come:

For my first Thursday assignment the prompt was, "I have a limit."

Once I read somewhere that until you try the impossible you don’t know what’s possible. In that case, I must be trying the impossible often, especially when it comes to my family, because I have many breakdowns, a clear indicator that I have reached my limit. I have also read that breakdowns lead to breakthroughs and necessity is the mother of invention.  One must constantly push the envelope. In other words, reaching one’s limit may be actually a positive occurrence and how does one really know one’s limit until one is face to face with it? And then the bigger challenge is how to overcome the limit? Or can they even be overcome?

True that I might be aware of my limit with respect to mountaineering skills, or, my running abilities, or even my level of tolerance for “nonsense.” Yet, only by pushing ourselves do we also push the limit we might erroneously set for ourselves. Yet, stepping outside one’s comfort zone is hard but walking away from a challenge is also no less hard. Oh, all these eternal dilemmas one has to deal with. To push or not to push!

In some cultures, being a female is a limitation, being a minority is, the corporate glass ceiling is, the biggest kahuna of them all, death is a limitation but if we are focused on the limitations, the world would come to a standstill. It’s those who push the limits who move the world forward. Even conclusions which seem rock solid at one time and thus seemingly end further exploration turn out to be outdated once these foregone conclusions are challenged and new discoveries are made.  This is when a flat world becomes round.

All don’ts, cant’s and all other ‘nts  are someone or yourself putting a limit on you. Don’t question authority is my favorite. Ha! Limits are often imposed on us because this is one way the self-centered remove competition. But the worst limitation is the one we put upon ourselves. We do this because of the fear of failure or laziness or some kind of previous bad experience. The once bit, twice shy factor.

My conclusion is that the only real limit we have is the limit we put on ourselves and the limit imposed by death, of course. In some belief systems even death is not a limitation.  As long as you have unfulfilled desires and urges to conquer the limits you perceive, you will come back to this earth to see all your dreams through.

Are limits ever good, though? Yes, they are. This is why we secure a crib with rails and have a brake in our vehicles to quote just a couple of examples. Overeating and boring conversation must have a limit.   But overall, “I have a limit” is a crippling thought and we must try all we can to reach our full potential which must be our last frontier. No other barrier should be. Being at the top of our game must be the goal we need to set for ourselves and this goal actually delimits all our limitations. The peak of the mountain top must be the only limit we must accept. That is the only true limit. Where else can one go after reaching the summit? The sky? Oh, yes, of course the sky is the limit.

Ciao!

Ro.

Drug Bust

March 6, my mother's birthday, 2013 started out as a chilly, but blindingly sunny, down coat day but by afternoon, ended up being a one layer deal. Such is the character of the fickle-minded lady called weather. My post-Sandy, repair and restore whatever you can mind-set had propelled me toward getting all the pent-up work around the house, in addition to the post-sandy work, also done, This was the reason for getting a room that had been neglected for a long time painted and spiffed up. One of the improvements to be made was getting a new carpet. The carpet installers were to come on the 7th. I knew that they would need a vacuum cleaner to vacuum the floor before re-carpeting it and then for vacuuming the new carpet. The self-propelling mechanism on my Hoover Upright was on the fritz and now it needed to be repaired urgently.

After some extensive research, I decided that it was worth getting the Hoover fixed rather than replacing it. I identified and called the authorized V&J repair shop in Rosedale and made an appointment for the 6^th morning. When I left for the shop with my vacuum I wore my down jacket and ski gloves to fight the freezing temperature outside. After I entrusting my sick vacuum with the owner Joe, when I came out of the store and walked toward my car I noticed a car with a handful of male passengers pull up on the wrong side of the road and a couple of men hop out. Instead of facing south on a south-bound lane, the car faced north. I was puzzled. Next thing, as I approached the street corner just a few steps away, I was face to face with a young, mustachioed, slightly built, African-American male and I heard the command "Hands up" from behind me. The man I was face-to-face with looked stunned. His hands going up, his saucer-eyed gaze was directed at the men behind me. I thought that this was some gang warfare and I was going to see bullets fly any second now, and I was going to get hit by one or more and that would be the end of me. My next thought was I must run for cover.  But which way do I run? Back toward the vacuum repair store or across the street and into another store? Where?  When might the bullets start flying? And from which direction will they come?

Just then, my eyes darted toward the cars parked close by on the side street. Almost grazing the guy in the corner who, eyebrows raised, stood speechless, I sprinted across and ducked behind a car even as the exchange between this young man and those who accosted him continued. But within a split second all was over. Gingerly, I raised my head from behind the car just enough to be able to get a grip on the latest situation. Things seemed to be under control.  Surrounded by those from the car on the wrong side of the road, the hunted down man looked trapped like a caged animal. Now I straightened up and tried gauging what my next move must be. Just then, pointing at me, one of the men from the car yelled, "Hey, you lady," even as his companion added, "she has nothing to do with him." Then he waved me away.

Heart pounding, as I resumed my stride toward my car, I saw the black guy being handcuffed by the plain clothes men who I presume were cops. Later that afternoon, when I returned to V&J, I shared this incident with the owner Joe. He responded that the corner was a favorite spot for drug peddlers. Other than that the area was supposedly safe. His store had been there for thirty years and there had never been any incident. I thanked my own lucky stars, collected my Hoover and returned home with the sunroof fully open and my down jacket on the passenger seat.

Ciao!

Brazil

Photos to be posted when time permits.

Sandy stopped by on October 29 and on the 26^th we had booked a ten-day trip to Brazil with Travelers Gone Wild (TWG). We were supposed to leave on November 25^th.  Well, the idea of cancelling it didn’t occur to us till the 9^th of November. Surrounded by uncertainty and mayhem, going away on a vacation seemed like the most ridiculous thing to do. On the other hand, some said that this this was the best time to take a break and recharge. Anyway, canceling the trip sounded like an expensive proposition. Just as I was contemplating what to do, I learned from my friends Janette and Bernie who also had been affected by Sandy as much as we had been, that they were going on a trip to Barcelona. This gave me courage to take my trip, too.  Also, on the 11^th our power was restored. Now, a small amount of optimism returned though we were still without heat or hot water. It occurred to me that the only item that had worked without fail during our entire ordeal was our cuckoo clock (referenced in one of my earlier posts) keeping up with the passage of time its tick-tocks intact. In light of Thanksgiving being on the 22^nd I felt that the oil company would make special efforts. So we did not cancel our trip to Brazil. On the 18^th, heat and hot water were restored. Thanksgiving was very special like a few other times before. In 2009, it was my father’s return from the ER after being accidentally discovered fighting for breath in his bedroom at 1 a.m. a few days earlier.  Eventually, he did pass away on December 25 on his 82^nd birthday. The cause was sudden cardiac arrest.

On the 25^th we flew out of JFK to Manaus, Brazil with a connection in Miami. We reached Manaus the same night. It was about a ten hour flight factoring in the two hour time difference. Manaus is ahead. AA did not provide our requested vegetarian meals for us as they don’t accommodate special meals on this flight. We came to know this a day before we left. So we had packed something.  At Miami Airport I was able to speak to a flight attendant who assured me some salad. He did manage to give us two pieces of lettuce, some shredded carrot and a piece of tomato and cucumber. He also managed to “steal” some goat cheese from first class.

We landed late at night in Manaus. It felt like any small airport in India. The smells and sights were similar too. The heat and humidity were palpable. I had changed into cotton clothing on the plane just before we landed in Miami right in my seat. Being a petite person I can pull off such tricks. There was only one Manaus Immigration Window open at the airport and he probably was a rookie. Though the line was short it seemed to take forever for it to move. We made friends with a young passenger traveling from Mexico. He was a frequent traveler to Brazil. Through the glass partition, seeing his luggage had been tampered with and taped up, he grumbled. Avoiding the leak in the ceiling and skirting around the small puddle on the floor we approached the window. By now, we could see our luggage on the nearby conveyor belt being taken off it by an airport employee. Once we were cleared by the immigration official, we collected our luggage and right outside was our driver displaying my full name on a placard. Luis introduced himself, took over our luggage cart, took us to the car and then drove us to our hotel.

It was November 25^th but the central square on the way was already decked up for Christmas. Brazil being a Catholic country the religious fervor was in greater display. The roads were quiet and bare. But there was no mistaking that we were in a tropical country. Palm trees and the famous acai trees lined the roads and so did large leafed tropical plants. For a second it felt like we were in paradise. What a stark contrast to the ordeal we had gone though in New York just a few weeks earlier the effect of which would still be there when we returned. But now was not the time to think about New York.  I was so glad that we didn’t cancel our trip.

"Tropical Manaus" was an expansive hotel and our large room with dark wood paneling had a view of the hotel’s garden. It was the dry season and so everything looked dry and brittle. Just a few months earlier I had read Ann Patchett’s, “State of Wonder” set in the Amazon. At that point, I had never imagined that one day, like its main characters, I too would be traversing the streets of Manaus. Since our focus was the river boat ride we did not get to go into town to check out the various places of interest like the famous opera house, etc. mentioned in the book. However, after a sumptuous buffet breakfast that included a variety of fruits, wraps, caramelized plantain (try not to binge) and acai goo which I could enjoy only with some caramelized plantain, and amazing Brazilian coffee at the hotel’s restaurant overlooking the adjacent shopping arcade, we did manage to visit the small intimately set zoo opened in 1976 on the hotel’s grounds. The cheerful guide, a biologist by training, who spoke only Portuguese but had a translator, was a font of information on the various animals and the plants and trees there. http://www.tropicalmanaus.com.br/sports-leisure-activities/index.cfm. An animal lover, I loved the experience. I even won a colorful macaw feather by correctly identifying one of the two species that coati, a native to Brazil, belonged to. Known for its intelligence, it was a cross between a racco0n and the panda. No way, one could have guessed its panda lineage. It must be the red variety panda. Later, we spotted the coatis several times in the Iguazu National Park. Signs all over the park warned visitors about them and advised you to hide your food. They are real cute and have no fear of humans.

We left the hotel by the Clipper boat at 2:30 on Monday the 26^th. A small canoe collected us at the beach and took us to the boat idling a few yards away. Earlier, while booking our trip, try as we did, we could not get a cabin in the higher-end Premium boat. It had been booked by a group of 32 Germans who we ran into while sailing down the river. Our smaller boat held only sixteen people and in some ways smaller was better. The one major thing missing on our boat was hot water. Then again, the temperature was in the 80s, and who needed a hot shower? In fact, I enjoyed the cold shower immensely. A rarity for me! Our boat was home to us along with a couple from Iowa, a couple from Wales, another couple from England, a father-son duo from Russia, an older couple from Argentina, an Indian female physician from Wales and her businessman brother from Bombay, India for the next two days. It was an amazing trip. In the early evening, when the sun was still shining,  we witnessed the “meeting of the rivers”(the dark Rio Negro and the silty Rio Amazon), an amazing sight to behold because the two rivers next to each other with no barrier whatsoever flowed side by side without really merging thus defying all laws of physics. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meeting_of_Waters.

The same night we communed with the nocturnal animals and birds and reptiles by foraging into the forest in the canoe escorted by our guide Luis a Peruvian married to a Brazilian and settled in Manaus. He seemed obsessive about finding those reclusive animals and showing them off to us. He did manage to catch a baby caiman and bring it around. I hated this exercise. I snuck my face behind B’s back when the creature was brought close to my face. I don’t love animals that much. Actually, I find the lizard family quite repulsive.

Eventually, when we returned to the boat, a hearty meal cooked by the kitchen staff—two women and two men—awaited us. It was amazingly delicious. In fact, the first thing we tasted was an amazing soup with lots of vegetable soon after our embarkation in the afternoon. On the middle deck, which is where the small bar lined with a shelf of books, mostly Portuguese, was and where we took our meals, hung a long half-ripe banana bunch and we could help ourselves to it as much as we wanted. This to me represented the abundance of the Amazon and reminded me of south India as well.

We retired for the night and this was my first time in a bunk bed other than when I had traveled on train. Next morning, we went back to the forest, again in the canoe, to observe the daytime activity of the animals and the birds. A pair of binoculars lent by Luis came in handy. A blanket of egrets and vultures and a few cormorants and other birds cut across the canal accompanied by a cacophony of bird song. Ann was keen on finding a sloth that morning and our guide was going to leave no tree alone. He eventually found one, cut down the branch where the sloth was hanging upside down peacefully and brought the poor animal down for us to hold and behold. Ann who had accompanied him to the bank was ecstatic and all teeth. She was probably in her 20’s or early 30’s and so one had to indulge her. She and her husband was actually, a delightful couple.

The kohl-eyed sloth looked petrified though with a long-drawn fake smile on its face and was eventually returned to his habitat. The colorful homes lining the banks were on stilts way on top of the hilly terrain and sported interesting architecture with wrap around porches. The windows had no doors. Our guide pointed out the water mark on those homes left by the rising river during the wet season that runs from January through June.

Later that morning, some passengers went fishing for piranhas. I skipped it. In the evening, we climbed a steep hillside and went to a sleepy little village on the bank where life seemed to have stood still. A few barefoot, cherubic looking children greeted us with a ready smile and our guide who seemed to know them greeted them back. We stood under a canopy of mango and acai and white gourd and guava trees. The view of the river was breathtaking. The first thing the guide mentioned was the high child mortality rate in the village. As proof, momentarily, a cemetery sporting plastic flowers and small dirt mounds came into view. As we walked on, a few simple dwellings on stilts with cutout windows with their inhabitants spilling out onto the outside lined the high plain. Children were being cuddled, toothless grandmothers displayed indifference to us and a parrot was being displayed on a stick by a young female resident. People took turns getting photographed with the parrot. Ann bought a painting by one of the homeowners. It was a village scene. The two jumping fish in it in the foreground were over sized. The owner took the painting off its frame and rolled it up and gave it to Ann who was all teeth again. A real sweet gal! If I could have taken back home her and her husband as souvenir I would have.

 

We discovered lemon grass in a garden and crushing it between our fingers and smelling it and swooning over its sooting fragrance, we walked through the village. Youngsters in uniforms were returning from school, men in their early 20’s roared by in their motor bikes and little girls and boys ran along flashing a smile at us. We came upon a little store that sold beer. It was not that hot anymore except for that first night experience at Manaus airport and the first day’s heat spell on the boat, which actually cooled down after a downpour, still a chilled beer was welcomed by many.  Soon we came upon a vocational school, a nice building where several students were sitting on the parapet wall and chatting away. Our guide informed us of the efforts by Brazil’s earlier socialist president Lula da Silva to bring electricity and education to these isolated villages. The school ran three shifts. It was designed also to accommodate older children who worked during the day.
 

When we returned to the boat, freshened up and went up to the top deck to relax, it was pitch dark, all was still and across the Amazon the village we had visited earlier displayed electric lights but was soon plunged into darkness. An errant motor boat flitted by. An old romantic tune graced my lips and I extended my arm to B. Everything seemed perfect with the world, at least mine.

The next morning we went out in the canoe to see the pink dolphins, a specialty of the area. The sunrise was spectacular and the fishermen beneath made it a National Geographic moment. B captured the scene in several shots in his camera. The pink dolphins put on a show as well. Then we left for a trip into the jungle to experience the Amazon’s verdant grounds. I had been duly impressed by the Red Woods in Muir Woods in California nonetheless, this experience in the wild was no less important. Luis explained to us the various trees lingering more in front of the giant sandbox trees. The shallow cutout-like pit in the tree trunk could have served as shelter. Luis once again pointed out the high water marks from the Amazon’s last flooding, and the previous ones. It was raining and though I had a raincoat on, I was wearing open sandals, a dumb move. Then again, Luis wore only a pair of flip flops. I picked up a tree branch and used it as a prop while walking. In fact, at one point, I felt something very sharp like a piece of broken glass, pierce my skin under my big toe. I had no idea what it was but managed to walk in such a way I didn’t feel the pain. Later, once I was back in the boat, I realized that what was causing my misery was two pieces of thorn. Ann lent me a safety pin and B a meticulous person gently removed the thorn. I felt grateful like the lion in Androcles and the Lion. 

Once we returned to the boat we embarked on our return journey to Manaus. That afternoon at 3:30 p.m. was our flight to Rio de Janeiro. It was a six-hour journey. Rio was one hour ahead of Manaus. It was past ten when we got to our hotel Augusto’s Rio Copa, two blocks from the famous Copacabana Beach. The first night our room was on the street side though on the 12^th floor. Upon my request, the next three nights were on the back side of the hotel. The view was that of the mountain and an office building and some apartments not as interesting as the front side but during travel particularly, a good night’s sleep is extremely important.  After experiencing a sleepless night in Athens many years ago in a first floor hotel room across from the parliament, I had decided that street side was never a good idea no matter how high the floor. The first night at Rio Copa I had no choice. Luckily, I still managed to have a good night’s sleep.

The next day, after a delayed start, we went by bus to Petropolis “the imperial city” about 40 miles from Rio. It was a day trip and it was picture perfect day http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petr%C3%B3polis. We were told that till the previous day it was pouring in Rio. On the way to Petropolis, in a little souvenir shop across from a car dealer and an industrial patch lined with some rural repair shops,we had the most delicious hot chocolate, the dark cocoa used being rich and  pure. Later, in the imperial museum, which used to be a palace at one time, we had to wear a pair of clumsy, over sized slippers which allowed you to only shuffle. This was very annoying and so I decided to take them off after a point.  

The royal jewelry collection in the museum was stunning but the fact that some of the heavy gold jewelry on display was worn by the slaves to model them sounded a bit perverse. At one time, Brazil was home to the largest slave population and was the last nation in the western world to abolish slavery. Petropolis was a grand mountain town with some beautiful Norman-French architecture as seen on Palácio Quitandinha the second largest hotel in Brazil and home to the famous Alcantara Cathedral  http://gobrazil.about.com/od/braziliancities/ss/petropoliscathedral.htm. That night we walked over (I needed a sweat shirt as it was a bit nippy a total contrast to the 29 degree centigrade temperature during the day) to the Copacabana beach and had dinner accompanied by cold beer at a kiosk on the beach. Toward the end of our leisurely stroll back home, as we stopped and photographed the a few night scenes of Rio, including stacks of coconuts outside a kiosk,and the full moon in the sky, I spotted a churro vendor and had the most amazing hot caramel filled churro. I can still taste it in my mouth

.

Next day was the tour of the old Rio--to which we returned the next day on our own by the Metro and walked around--and of the Sugar Loaf Mountain and Christ the Redeemer where the crowd was crushing. The return trip by the cog rail from here was at the end of one of the longest waits for me ever. The scenery was breathtaking and the shopping was seductive. I found some exquisite quartz pieces at the Amsterdam Sauer, a must see place. Buy a piece or two if you can afford them (actually, the prices are quite fair).  At their Ipanema location, there is a gem museum with a gemologist for a guide as well as a faux mining shaft. I did fall in love with a macaw made of jasper but it was too heavy for me to carry back and forth in my carryon between Rio and Iguazu. So, I decided to look for one like that in the Iguazu showroom but the pieces there lacked refinement. Eventually, I bought a smaller size macaw made of crystal quartz in Iguazu at a mercantile shop just before we caught our flight back to Rio on December 4.

At Sugar Loaf, a photographer's dream perch, dressed in white from head to toe, Pat from Australia wanted pictures of her taken in various cute poses as if her pictures were being sent to a military camp in a far away place to cheer up the soldiers. Oval-faced, she was attractive, friendly and probably in her 40's. She felt compelled to explain her various Claudette Colbert poses. They were to make her boyfriend feel jealous and realize how stupid he was to skip this trip.

After we returned to our hotel room, we freshened up and walked over through a tunnel flanked by mountains to the Rio sul mall close to our hotel and had dinner at a nice restaurant. The mall had several restaurants and was a real lively place. A large beautifully decorated Christmas tree was on display and a car parked beneath it was being raffled away. Fake life sized elephants and lions and monkeys dotted the Christmas scene. After dinner, we took a cab to the Samba show in town. It was entertaining though a bit overloaded with Carnivale costumes and bare buttocks.

On December 1, our last full day in Rio, for lack of enough tourists, our half day tour of the old city was canceled. So, we went on our own on the Metro and walked around the old town and also returned to Mahatma Gandhi Park displaying a large, full length statue of Gandhi in walking posture with stick in hand, which the tour guide had pointed out to us from the bus on the previous day. It was a hot day, and the caramel ice cream we had at a local McDonald’s was a welcome relief.  We also chanced upon a tented open air market where vendors sold their wares. Like in most places of the world, the colonial architecture was a show stopper. Later that night, we went back to the Rio sul Mall along with Barbara and Frank, a lively older couple from Nottingham, England. It was a pleasant dinner particularly for Barbara whose idea of eating in a mall was fare from a food court whose atmosphere she detested. The sit down dinner waited on by courteous waiters was a nice surprise to her. We didn’t linger much in the mall but returned to the hotel but not before seeking out the churro vendor. I died and went to heaven once again. This was Barbara and Frank’s first experience with churro. My first had been about 20 years ago in San Diego. Next morning, we sat together at breakfast like we had done the previous day and reminisced about our trip and shared our plans after leaving Rio. We were headed to Iguazu and Barbara and Frank were headed to a friend’s cottage a few miles northwest on the coast for a week of R&R and then back to England.

Around 8:30 a.m. the car arranged by TGW took us to Rio International for our flight to Iguazu. As we approached the city, the pilot pointed out the Falls (one of the world’s seven natural wonders) to us which looked unremarkable from that height. A pleasant young and well-spoken Luis (no idea why we met three Luises on our trip) picked us up from the airport and deposited at the Recanto Park Hotel our home for the next two nights. Though a beautiful hotel in a tropical setting just off the main street, I still felt it was a bit off the beaten track, meaning there was nothing within walking distance. Even to get a simple meal we had to take a cab to the mall about five kilometers away. The following two mornings we were at the hotel, we did have a sumptuous breakfast fit for royals. Soon after we checked in, it poured but soon turned sunny. We spent the afternoon in the hotel swimming pool (I bought a swim suit that doubles up as an evening wear over a pair of trousers) and the outdoor bar under a tent enjoying some beer, and some ice cream. I nearly drowned in the 5 foot swimming pool. From then on, I decided to enjoy the expansive double Jacuzzi in our bathroom and forget about the pool which was B's first pick.

The next day Luis, who was training to be a corporate helicopter pilot one day, showed up bright and early at 8 a.m. and we were in Argentina within an hour (on our final day we saw the Falls from the Brazilian side). The Iguazu National Park opened at 9 a.m. and we were two of the first wave of tourists. Luis got our entrance tickets for us and we took a rail to get to the entrance to the falls (a collection 275 separate falls, the Devil’s Throat being the tallest and the largest). This is where we saw quite a few coatis helping themselves to food crumbs on the ground only they could detect. Later, we spotted them at the restaurant, too. We crossed several little bridges to get close to the falls, which you see only you are absolutely close. Once you are there, the experience is so awesome I actually got emotional. The gurgling devil’s throat would love to gobble up you if you’d allow it to. http://www.world-of-waterfalls.com/latin-america-iguazu-falls-which-side-is-better.html. We experienced the falls from different levels and from different angles. Eventually, a tour boat took us as close to one of the falls as was allowed to be literally thrashed by a million buckets of water. The falls, the result of a volcano in the area, apparently, have been around for the last 120 million years! It was amazing to see people who have had heart surgeries walk over the bridges walking stick in hand to get a glimpse of the falls from various points. One of the highlights of the walkways was the presence of multitude butterflies of all patterns and hues who land all over you.

That night we had a buffet dinner again fit for royalty in the large glassed-in dining room the stars in the sky peering in. Even as vegetarians we had plenty of choices. One thing about Brazil is no matter what, one had to buy water. No water fountains to be found anywhere. This bothered me a lot. Just to get even, earlier, I opened my mouth when we were thrashed by the water from the falls. Then I checked with the boatman if the water was okay to drink. He said, no. Well, too bad.

Next morning was our second and final trip back to the falls, this time to enjoy it from the Brazilian side. We were very early and so could avoid the crushing crowds. There was a large group of Koreans and we were advised by Luis to stay in front of them while trekking. This was good advice. It was a noisy bunch. Once again, the falls were a near-spiritual experience.

It was close to noon and our flight to Rio was at 3:30. We decided to swing by the bird park http://gobrazil.about.com/gi/o.htm?zi=1/XJ&zTi=1&sdn=gobrazil&cdn=travel&tm=37&f=11&su=p284.13.342.ip_&tt=3&bt=1&bts=1&zu=http%3A//www.parquedasaves.com.br/v2/index.htm and this was probably the highlight of my trip. It is a must see place. It took us about an hour plus to go through the park in a leisurely way. We could have spent more time but the park closed between one and 2:30. After the park visit, we swung by the mercantile shop to pick out that one single quartz macaw from among thousands of them. Here, Luis who was of German and Italian descent introduced us to his Japanese sister-in-law who worked in the jewelry department. I am the kind of person I make everybody my family instantly, especially strangers, and with respect to Luis with whom we had spent two plus days, I felt sad parting company at the airport. He said that when he got his helicopter pilot license, he would fly me over the falls. Yeah right, I thought.  He was a goal-oriented, warm guy with a girlfriend whom he intended to marry after he was set in his career. He was probably in his late 20’s, early 30’s.

We spent nearly five hours at the Rio airport. Our flight back to JFK was quite late at night. Airports can be interesting places. We had some pizza. Actually, only the top. The crust was like cardboard.

Next morning around 6 a.m., all bundled up to brave the drop in temperature we were back at JFK. Welcome back to reality. Our first stop after returning home was the laundromat. Thanks to Sandy, we could not replace our ruined washer and dryer till mid-January. Anyway, life is what we make of it. You can be indifferent to its surprises and carry on as if it is a permanent box of chocolates.  

Ciao!

Sandy

Halloween comes early!

October 29, 2012 the U.S. east coast experienced a near-Apocalypse by the name of Hurricane Sandy. She was so fierce she was renamed superstorm, frenkenstorm, storm of the century and so on. On December 31, 2012 this was my New Year Greeting:

Dear Friends and Family, 

As we ring out the old and ring in the new, my family and I wish you and yours a wonderful new year!

Year 2012 was filled with many "first-ever's" for us. For instance, one very unladylike lady named Sandy showed up unannounced at our door step on Monday, October 29 night and swept everything off its feet on our ground floor and on her way out helped herself to both our cars in the drive way. She also left us in the dark for two weeks, and shivering in subzero temperatures for another week. But nothing like adversity to build character--everyone's, including the haves' who chose to help out the have not's--and force us to be at our creative peak. A big “thanks” to both our friends and strangers alike who were there for us during our dark days. Each act of kindness is something I will probably never be able to repay. May your 2013 be as wonderful as 2012 if not more.

Even while enjoying the ducks and the swans in the Grand Canal a mere 30 yards from my home, I am still dealing with the self-important Sandy's unexpected handiwork. So my blogging, even about Sandy (sorry, Sandy), and other such frivolous activities are on hold for now. 

Carpe Diem!

This kind of sums up Sandy’s visit and I could leave it at that but then again, how those affected managed under dire circumstances must be recorded and mine is just one more story told in the first person.

We knew Sandy was on her way but having never experienced anything more than strong winds and a loss of a couple of shingles on the house and a couple of trees in the three decades that we have lived in our house, we had no idea what anything stronger in terms of nature’s unpredictable behavior would be like. Having experienced Irene from August of 2011, this time round I did keep less items in our fridges (one large, and two small) and freezer. In some ways, this was a smart move. On the other hand, during the days when nothing was open in town because almost all businesses had been destroyed, even some frozen meals could have come in handy. Some angelic friends, who had not been hit by Sandy and had opened up their homes and refrigerators to us, would have stored some of our food. I could have even shared my food with them. Anyway, this was the least of our problems.

In some ways, I am such an optimist that around 8 p.m. October 29 when the downstairs lost power, instead of thinking I’d lose power upstairs as well, I imagined that my downstairs would have light back shortly. In reality what happened was a green glow accompanied a menacing hum enveloped the outside even as my smart phone in my vest pocket warned us to get out of the house. I thought that the green lights belonged to the Martians who were on their way to earth or there were helicopters above head ready to rescue us. In reality, what happened was we lost power upstairs as well. Now there was nothing more to do but to ignore the warning and simply watch the street turn into a river the water being supplied by the Grand Canal a hundred feet from our home. Now the smart phone warned us not to leave the house. The monstrous winds whipped up the water and the ripples shimmering under the street lights were a beauty to behold. Strangely at no point did we feel fear. Everything seemed like such a passing phenomenon. It’s been nine weeks now, and the neighborhood, the city, the state, the region are all still reeling from Sandy’s aftermath. 

Even as we watched from our darkened bay window the river flowing in front of our house and saw our two cars slowly submerging (never knew that water would rise high enough to enter the cars nor what happened when such a thing happened) we were still not fully aware of the impact it was going to have on our possessions. As we commented about oh, how we had seen stronger winds, and how this time we were more prepared because we had bought sand bags to block our garage door and the sliding door downstairs and had enough batteries if we ran out of them, and enough candles, and how  if the past was any indication (after Irene we were without power for two and a half days, the longest ever we were without electricity) the power still would be restored within a few days, and were prepared to ride it out with an upbeat attitude, we noticed our neighbor across, Larry’s car make some acrobatic moves like turning itself around and changing positions in his driveway. Soon we saw two cars leave, one an SUV, pull out of the driveway and wade through the water away from the canal. I became concerned that Larry was possibly showing poor judgment. My first thought was he and the family could get electrocuted by downed electrical wires. I wondered if they were headed to a relative’s home at the moment less vulnerable to Sandy.

While this was the scene from our living room upstairs, the scene downstairs unbeknownst to us was changing rapidly. The large den was turning into a mini swimming pool. To this day, I cannot figure out why it didn’t occur to us that we were losing our possessions quite rapidly. The only thing that I thought of saving when the water was still ankle deep was the modem which was on the floor. I ran downstairs and placed it a higher level. Later, it turned out that the modem had already been damaged. Ultimately, the water rose to about two feet which we detected the next day from the water mark. After a certain point all we could do was go to go to bed and the next morning when we woke up miraculously like the parting of the Red Sea, the water in the house had receded completely.

Assessing the damage:

October 30, a.m.

In the large den, almost all objects had shifted except for the two very large display and storage units and the large sofa set. Even the heavy solid wood round designer table with a “leaf” was on its side and the round protective glass was missing having floated away.

The first thing we did was try to start the cars. No luck. So first we had to contact our dealers. There was no phone nor was there any signal on the cell phone though the battery operated palm-sized transistor radio blared away the extent of the damage in the hardest hit neighborhoods. We decided to go looking for a hot spot. In the parking lot of the shopping center down the block, a military SUV was idling with three coast guards sporting rifles which made you feel like you were at war. They had no cell phones on them. So they could not help us out. So we walked further but as the traffic lights did not work did not want to risk our lives trying to cross the street to get to the other side where there is a Star Bucks which normally has Wi-Fi. The word “normal” had removed itself from our vocabulary for the next several days.  Everything was in ruins. The parked cars in the shopping lot deceptively looked parked. Indeed, they were parked but not by shoppers but the previous day by home owners who had thought that the parking lot was on higher ground and so their cars would be safe from Sandy. They were not. The parking lot was basically a grave yard for the cars that I came to know later as “totaled” the term used by the insurance companies. A quarter million cars in the region had been totaled.

Sandy’s impact was quite random. A friend who lives one block from Atlantic Ocean on Shore Road experienced zero damage to his cars or house yet those who live miles away were affected. While the ocean itself might have behaved the side canals and the bay had behaved badly. Most were caught unaware. Even the authorities were so focused on life that they never advised people on what else could go wrong. Indeed, possessions are just stuff but still a bit more preparedeness might have saved a lot of people a lot of heartache.

As we approached the Alhambra Apartment complex drive way, I waved to an elderly couple in a car. They ignored me but right behind them was an SUV with a prematurely balding young man. He lowered his window and I asked him if he could take us to Rockville Center, the next town which is where he was going. There was power in Rockville Center, an incorporated village unlike my town which was not and thus was at the mercy of the Long Island Power Authority that services nearly a million homes on the island. More than half of its customer base had lost power and in our case, we got power back after 14 days. So did most others whom I knew about.

Anyway, just at the border of Oceanside and Rockville Center I detected signal on my cell phone. First thing I did was to contact my car dealer. Even the dealer had been affected. So I phoned AAA. Barry (it turned out he was my older son’s classmate in elementary school and had even come to my home as a kid) used my phone to phone his grandparents and left a message. His phone didn’t have enough charge. Later, he dropped us back at the 7-Eleven about half-a-mile from home. B wanted hot coffee. Only when we were inside the store was it clear that there was no hot coffee. We walked back home taking in the mayhem and the changed landscape. A decorative resin rabbit seemingly had floated away. It had landed at a street corner. I picked it up and brought it home. I didn’t think its owner would miss it.

Once we returned home, we began to assess the damage once again. Nothing “looked” damaged but everything had been. Apparently, once sea water touches anything, particularly wood, one simply had to discard everything. I was shocked when I heard that even the walls had to come down. I just could not imagine my six-year-old custom-made my pride and joy wall book cases getting discarded. Later, much to my relief, I learned that only four feet from the floor had to be pulled down and rebuilt. This still meant all the wood paneling in the den. By now (losing my dad two years ago might have done it), I had become quite mature about loss. What bothered me more was the nightmare of rebuilding and all the related decision making.  In fact, the rebuilding (not quite a nightmare as I feared nonetheless still stressful and time consuming) began on the 24^th and hopefully will be done soon. Hope another Sandy or anything similar never shows up ever again. This may just be wishful thinking as experts are predicting worse climatic conditions. Oh, the thrill of living close to danger!

Anyway, on the 30^th the neighborhood looked like a war zone and the people, like zombies, walking around in a daze not quite fully aware yet of what had just hit them. An “apocalyptic” disaster like this leaves its imprint for many years to come. So there was no real rush to take it all in yet. In fact, it was the recovery that would illustrate the true extent of the loss.  In fact, writing this blog after nearly three months is making it even more incredulous. In the immediate aftermath, one is focused on yes, the immediate concerns. On the 30^th, the immediate concerns were: How to get mobile again, where to eat, how to deal with no power, no phone, no heat, no hot water all while the outside temperature hovered around in the upper 30’s and less at night and the body had not become accustomed to cool temperatures yet. On the 30^th the first priority was to start salvaging what we could and dumping what we couldn’t and hold on to stuff that possibly could be salvaged or somehow had to be. Some in the neighborhood were siphoning off the gas from their damaged vehicles into canisters to be sued in their new ones whenever they got them. I too was tempted to do this what with our cars with full tanks of gas. B the man of great wisdom that I am married to voted me down saying sea water in the gas would have made it unusable. 

It was so ironic that engulfed in so much loss, we were still trying to save every bit we could and wherever we could, not that this would have made a bit of difference in anyway in terms of any gain. Some of the furniture dumped at the curb were in such good condition yet not advisable to use any of them. The first things I got my hands on were our wedding and other albums from way back and our love letters and my college and university diplomas and transcripts and my dissertation (it was a relief that a copy exists at the Library of Congress).  I just found out that I have to pay about $50 for a bound copy. Not bad.

The list of damaged items I sent to the insurance company about a month ago (the adjuster himself had come in only on November 19 and I was away between November 25-December 5. The originally assigned adjuster had got sick and left New York for good) contained nearly 120 items starting with my large L-shaped Queen sleeper sofa-set to my computer to several other valuable objects. The AAA mechanic tried starting our cars and declared them total. The next focus for us was to find rentals.

On the 30^th we managed with food we had in the fridge.

October 31,

My first project for the day was to reach our insurance companies. An organized man, my husband gave me the policy numbers, etc. and I stepped out searching for signal on my cell phone. Later, it turned out that my husband’s simple phone had better signals than my smart phone. This is usually the trouble with sophisticated gadgetry. They are high-maintenance. Miraculously, I was able to connect with my insurance companies. I informed the reps at the other end that my phone signal was intermittent and so would they please speed up the process. They did their best, were very sympathetic and helped out in an appropriate manner. Armed with claim numbers, triumphantly, I returned home. A bit later, we decided to go look for a place to charge our phones and look into car rentals. The rental place in our town had been flooded and was closed. My first instinct was to drop in on my friend Perry at my Chase Bank and also charge my pone there. When lady luck seems to have turned back on you is when you feel the need for companionship of friends the most.  I was shocked to see that the branch itself had been victim to Sandy as well as to looting. The ATM had been ripped of its place and was lying on the floor wrapped in mangled cords and wires. In a state of disbelief, my husband and I moved on.

Around the corner, a lone hair salon was open and I stepped in looking for a wall outlet. A woman clearly dressed for success wearing boots and carrying a broom in hand informed me that Park Avenue in Rockville Center (RVC) had power on. We decided to walk nearly three miles to RVC. Along the way, we witnessed many interesting sights and took in several interesting stories. One lithe woman in her 40’s probably from Vermont Avenue began pouring her heart out. Nobody was a stranger after Sandy. We were all one big family trying to be there for each other in whatever shape, size or form. Her house nowhere near water had been flooded very badly. She was heartbroken. A neighbor two houses away had been lucky. She lamented that she had bought a model house and who knew what shoddy material the developer had used? Most houses on that block were at least thirty years old!  

As we walked along Long Beach Road, here and there at the bus stops were one or two people waiting for the bus. I didn’t think any buses were plying most of them coming from Long Beach, which was probably completely destroyed by Sandy.  

We headed toward our friend Talatis’ home in RVC. During Irene they had opened up their home to us. As we approached their house, a snugly and stylishly dressed heavy set tall woman walking her dog said something in a thick accent which I couldn’t quite hear clearly. When asked if she was from that neighborhood she smugly answered, “No, I am from Russia.” I couldn’t believe my ears. No wonder her fur-lined winter boots were so perfect for the weather that day. Then with a snicker she added, “This is America!” as her white poodle strained at the leash. Skirting downed wires, B and I moved on and came upon a massive, uprooted tree arched across the street like a straddling giant. To me a frequent traveler, it was a Kodak moment. My husband posed before the arch and I clicked my cell phone. Soon, another family strolling by did the same thing the kids’ fingers forming rabbit years above the other kids’ heads. Our friend was not home. Later, when we did meet up with them during our long hiatus seeking the warmth of their home and their help (we washed our clothes in their house a couple of times and partook a few delicious meals), we learned that Daksha’s asthma flared up due to the extreme cold of the house and so they had vacated the house. Apparently, their window pane had shattered.

Next, we passed by a dentist’s house everything intact. I don’t think he had power though. Lucky for his patients or maybe not so lucky! Since the church where I sing was on the way, I decided to peer into it. It was ghostly. I prayed that things got back to normal soon. It’s close to three months and yes, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I also swung by the pastor’s house in the back of the church. It didn’t look like anybody was there as the driveway was vacant and I was too bashful to knock on the door. Later I heard that he and his wife were indeed home. Oh, how helpful they were once I approached them a few days later.

Ultimately, we made it to a nail salon on Park Avenue between Lincoln Avenue and Merrick Road and the staff was incredibly friendly though the chemicals in the place got to me. One of them gladly offered me an outlet and I plugged in my phone. I also googled the address for a car rental place and as I stepped out to inform my husband about it standing outside Giftology a small boutique, a woman from the store overhearing my conversation volunteered her power outlet. I said I didn’t need an outlet now but needed to know where 602 Sunrise Highway was. She said it was not walking distance and insisted that she take my husband there. He took up the offer and left with her. I decided to shop. I learned from the person at the register that Kerry the Samaritan owned the store and yet another quaint looking house across the street which also was a shop.

RVC has an old world charm with lots of elegant homes and Kerry’s second store reflected this Victorian elegance. I felt compelled to reciprocate her Samaritan gesture by buying something in the store. I did find a purple wrap-like, loose, button-less cashmere- look-alike acrylic sweater with baggy sleeves. I loved it, though, normally, I won’t pay that price for that item. But these were not normal times.

B returned after registering with the car rental company. There were 250 people ahead of him. Kerry said that I didn’t really have to buy anything in her store. I said that I was buying because I liked the item. She insisted that she drop us back. We felt grateful beyond words. Here was a stranger who went out of her  way while a day or two later a so called close friend whose life had not in any way been altered by Sandy and lived ten minutes from my home asked me to get to her place if I could and stay with her if I wanted to. She knew I had no transportation.  Like God, some friends work in mysterious ways. Another friend advised me not to judge her harshly because she probably offered what she could. Indeed, not all of us are 100% thoughtful at all times. We took up Kerry’s offer after enjoying a hot meal in days at a corner falafel place. RVC was alive and well eager to help out its neighbors from Oceanside.

Judy, a dear friend had emailed saying all was well with them. I felt relieved plus happy that she could help me out. I contacted her and informed her of our dire straits. She immediately offered me her second car which she said was not being used. I felt lucky and touched beyond words. Her husband Len came to pick us up and I used the opportunity to transport stuff from my fridge and freezer to hers. The couple opened up their home to us and then on I had a second home. I took a hot shower, cooked some dishes (one for them as well) and returned home in Judy’s loaner car feeling grateful for the things that were somewhat in place. Soon, B also got a second car from a different rental place in Lynbrook this time. The next question was gas. Judy a very thoughtful person had filled her car to the brim while the rental car had so little that for fear of running out of this measly supply even standing on those mile long lines at the gas station would have been impossible.

A new routine began for us. From time to time the radio will be turned on to keep up with the latest news most of which was grim. Sounded like New Jersey’s shore line was the worst hit with the whole shore line and whole towns getting wiped out. There were deaths in the tri-state area. Close to a quarter million cars were totaled and hundreds of thousands had lost power. On Long Island, 90 % of LIPA customers. Wall Street was flooded. Over all it was a doomsday scenario. The new routine brought the family closer in every way. Normally, we are rarely together but now we shared the same space and voices floated across in the dark like gossamer.  Not one single harsh word was exchanged. There was a sense of wonderment at how this could have happened. The very philosophic older child declared that there was a sound metaphysical reason for Sandy’s visit. The universe was trying to tell us to slow down. This did make sense. Suddenly, our individual self’s craving to be alone and wanting to keep our thoughts private yielded to sharing each other’s space. Nobody was judging anyone. There were more important things at hand to do. With no television or internet and mainly no heat or power or phone the only thing to do was to retire for the night early and get under the cold sheets. Having a warm body next to you never meant so much than now.

One day, while waiting at the RVC station (our line had been suspended indefinitely) for B’s train to arrive wanting to save gas, I turned off the car engine, and waited for an hour as snow fell outside in sheets cutting of all visibility from inside the car. That night, my toes stung so bad that I couldn’t finish my dinner. I covered them with my alpaca shawl bought in Chile in 2007 never knowing what dire need it was going to address. No other fabric could provide the heat needed to unfreeze my toes, not even down.   

As my husband began to dump stuff I tried to hand on to all I could: rare books, photos, brief cases, more books, mementos given by a loved one when alive, many of my published and unpublished writing from way back, flyers of my performances, lyrics of many of my favorite songs which thankfully can be found on the Net, my college diplomas, transcripts, gift wrapping paper even as my husband advised me to dump things like old brief cases from my Wall Street days stuffed with many bitter sweet memories but had been waterlogged now. Eventually, I did save the photos and the diplomas and transcripts. The clothes drying rack came in very handy.

When it rains it pours. Many, non-Sandy related things went wrong, too. Possibly they were indirectly related. Suddenly, a hot water pipe began to leak. While shutting off the valve in the boiler room to stop water flow in the pipes, the workmen possibly put too much pressure. The main valve began to leak. This is when my experience as a child in India watching my father deal with such situations came in handy. So did the bucket. Luckily it was a slow leak and I called Abraham the plumber, my long time contact who showed up almost instantly though it was late at night. Anyway, the next day, he fixed the leaking hot water pipe but he could not stop the valve from leaking. For this we needed to contact the water company, which my thoughtful husband did the first thing next morning. Almost immediately, they sent a plumber but he could pout only a temporary fix because the water line outside the house had to be accessed first, which only the water company had access to. I had never seen such insanity before. We had to pursue them relentlessly because of mostly incompetence. The will to help was there mostly though a couple of staff members wanted to pass the buck. Anyway, eventually, after the burly water company men showed up in a burly truck, they misidentified the location of the valve outside the house, dug up the concrete at the end  of our drive way, left a gaping hole there and finally dug up the right spot a few feet away and marked the spot. Before they left, they closed up the incorrectly dug hole promising to do a more professional job eventually. To cut a long story short, as if Sandy was not giving us a heartburn, the unexpected water leaks and the subsequent shoddy work of the water company and poor communication between them and their plumbing company, a third party vendor, added to the agony of those dark days. Anyway, ultimately all ended well except for the fact, the shabbily patched up hole is still waiting to be repaired properly.

Talking of freak things, one night as I was folding the clothes drying rack the flesh between my thumb and the pointing finger got caught in it in such a way that I almost lost the pinched part. It was a miracle that I pried my skin out without any major damage to it. The bruise stayed on for a couple of days.

Now, the reconstruction of the downstairs is going on and the never ending shopping for all the replacements is driving me nuts.  I thought I was done with the last tile selection in my life when a few years back I did what I thought was my last home improvement. It is déjà vu all over again. By next week, I should have my lost space back. Many of the furniture I may never replace. Plan to go back to the ways of my ancestors: simple living. It does feel lighter both literally and figuratively. This may be just wishful thinking, however, considering how much we have come to depend on so called modern conveniences, a misnomer in my opinion.

What made Sandy’s visit and her handiwork tolerable were the number of angels who showed up at every corner during the dark days. First on the list was Barry who gave us, a couple of strangers, a ride to a hot spot so we could make urgent phone calls. Next came the Korean salon girl who let me charge my phone in her salon; Kerry of Giftology who insisted she give us a ride so we didn’t have to walk back the three miles we had already covered once getting to RVC; my friends Judy and Len who loaned me her car with a full tank of gas no questions asked, opened up her hearth and heart no questions asked, Byron my gym friend and my friend Nancy’s sweet husband who happenchance was behind me in the gas line, and gave me a ride home with four canisters containing ten gallons of gas in his car; upon his wife’s urging, Bernie who showed up to check on me and helped me pour the gas from the canister into our rental that had very little gas, and then of course Pastor Jeff and his wife who literally adopted me as a family member. Even Samaritans whom I din’t know from Adam had left the most delicious stuffed shells marked meatless on the cover with extra sauce on the side that the pastor had me help myself to in the church fridge. Oh, how about the Korean store owner in Manhattan who “discovered” a single gas stove in the backroom which came in handy from November 3 for us for hot tea every morning and heating up our dinners and even some light cooking. Some might call it camp life and yes, why not? On the 10th, a student's parents Shankar and Pushpa brought us room heaters and a generator. I truly felt that all these kind gestures were due to nothing less than Amazing Grace. No way could I have done so much good karma. 

During the dark days my birthday (November 4) and the presidential election (November 6) came and went. People showed up in droves to vote. Polling stations had been merged yet voting took place in an orderly way though I found ballots of those who came from the “outside” to vote were just lying around in piles on top of tables. When I pointed this out, one poll worker secured them.

Today completes three months after Sandy and the Congress just approved the 50 ½ billion dollar aid package. Now, hopefully, the insurance money will show up. The repair work is over except the fact that some of the work that was done hastily needs to be improved and the nightmare starts all over again. It’s a pity when workers cut corners thinking they can get away with it. This kind of workmanship really gives me heartburn. Waiting for happy days to return!

Ciao!