Change In Plans

Greetings from Cape Town.

Zola was invited to his first “boy-girl” birthday party last Friday.  More accurately, it was a “girl-boy” party, since the birthday girl and five of her girlfriends invited Zola and two other boys.  It was meant to be a sleepover, but India and I were not exactly comfortable with that idea.

India dropped Zola off at Lily’s seventh-floor apartment at 3pm.  He insisted that he wanted to be picked up in an hour.  When Zola walked into the apartment, the 11-year-old girls started snapping pictures of him with their cell phones, causing him to blush uncontrollably.  India wanted to say hello to Lily’s father, but was told he was “out,” and would be back “soon.”

Around 4:30, I came to get Zola on my way home.  I stood outside the apartment door and heard delighted shrieks and giggles coming from inside.  When I went in, all of the kids seemed very excited: flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, breathing a little heavily.  Zola said that they had been playing tag.  He begged to stay for another hour.

At 6pm, I came back, sharing an elevator ride with a pizza-delivery man.  When the door opened on the seventh floor, Zola ran past me, being chased by one of the girls from the party.  Laughter and shouting echoed up and down the hall.  When I told Zola it was time to go, he got very upset and ran away from me.  “Please can I stay Dad?  Please, please, please???”  I agreed that we would pick him up after dinner.

The doorman in the lobby laughed at me, when I came out of the elevator alone.  “Still the boy does not want to come?” he asked, rhetorically.

Finally, on my third trip back, I insisted that Zola come home.  The kids were all sort of cuddled together around the TV, watching a romantic comedy.  I also met the Dad, who was lying in his room playing video games.  He told me he had “let the kids kind of do their own thing.”  I was glad he was there, and he seemed comfortable that nothing too racy was going on.

In the car on the way home, Zola seemed very pleased with himself.  Under duress, he admitted that there had been games of “Spin the Bottle” and “Truth or Dare,” but there had only been hugging.  No kissing, no three minutes in a closet.  He later said that a couple of times the “dare” was to kiss someone on the hand.

I think the party was almost entirely innocent, but all of the kids may be having feelings that they don’t understand, and can’t explain.  It certainly was exciting to be chasing each other all around the show.

In the few days after the party, Zola started acting very moody and distant.  This is completely uncharacteristic for him: he has been the shaggy, happy dog of kids since he was a baby. 

Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, he and I had a chance to really talk.  There was nothing in particular bothering him, and there was nothing more to tell us about the party (as far as I know!).  We exhausted pretty much every possible topic that might be bothering him.  Finally he said, “Dad, I think it’s just puberty.”

Uh oh!  He’s 10.  I don’t think we are ready for this at all.

Greetings from Cairo!

I left the Beaverkill yesterday afternoon, gone to Egypt for two days of meetings.  Aside from extreme heat, these two places have practically nothing in common.

This evening, about an hour before sunset, I go out to run a nine-kilometer loop that I like.  It is about 95 degrees Fahrenheit.  The dust and the exhaust hang in the air like a gauzy veil, thick enough to taste.

My hotel is on the east bank of the Nile.  I start by heading north along the river, and crossing over on an old railroad bridge.  A few couples court chastely on the relatively private pedestrian walkway: young men in tight t-shirts and young women in burqas.  

On the west bank of the river, the Giza District, the stairs from the bridge drop me on a  busy road that I have to cross immediately.  There are no pedestrian crossings or traffic lights or road lanes. The cars come at me in a slow, but continuous, multi-lane stream. I skip across and hope for the best.  Not sure how you would do this with kids.

Rather than running the direct route, southwest along the river,I duck into an old, medina-like part of the city called Berbera. i think it is very old. Narrow dirt streets and gray cement storefronts. Men playing dominoes and smoking sheesha water pipes outside of small shops, where meat is grilling over charcoal.  Sharing the streets with donkey carts, mopeds and soccer-playing kids.  It seems poor, but not desperately so.  Every minute or so I am glad to catch a glimpse of the river a few blocks away, down a cross street.  It would be easy to get completely lost in the darkening streets, with rows of identical, sand-colored apartment buildings above them.

Exiting the labyrinth, I run west along the Little Nile for a way, next to a row of big, ramshackle houseboats bobbing in the water.  One morning a few months ago, on this same run, I saw the American University crew team rowing along this stretch of river.  This evening, I only see a few tiny feral kittens, dirty and thin, and probably not long for this world.  Cars rush past me as I balance on the narrow sidewalk, hoping I don’t trip and sprawl into traffic.

Crossing the Little Nile again, I am on Zamalek, a big island in the middle of the river.  I sort of know where I am, and run due east toward the main channel of the Nile.  I run past an outdoor weight-lifting center, and a few dusty restaurants with seating next to the water.  Zamalek is a rich part of Cairo, and there are many trees (with dusty leaves). and few cars.  I turn right (south) near the river, and run through a neighborhood filled with private schools and embassies. 

All of the policemen in Cairo have switched into white uniforms for the summer.  It reminds me of Fleet Week in New York.  Outside the embassies, mustachioed policemen in white wave their old, wooden-stock AK-47s around lazily as they talk with their fellow guards.  Everyone seems hot and a little lethargic.  Many of the street-side parking spaces are being used as informal outdoor repair shops.

The guards outside the Iranian Embassy wear all-black uniforms, with patches reading “Special Forces” on their arms.  They have better machine guns too.  One black-clad guard has taken his boots off, and is kneeling on a mat, praying in what must be the direction of Mecca.  His automatic weapon is laid at the top of the mat - closest to Mecca, I guess - and one of the other guards stands watch while he prays.  He has huge holes in the heels and toes of his socks, which make him seem a little more friendly somehow.

I pass more embassies and the few boutique shops, and make a sharp left near a giant tree which is exploding with cheerful birdsong. I am running south along the river again, and then up onto the six-lane bridge that takes me back to the east bank of the Nile.  The bridge is jammed with cars, but has wide sidewalks and a cool breeze.  I stop to admire the Nile, most storied of rivers. Although it flows through the city with speed and power, the river is only about 200 meters wide: . I’m not sure what I expected the cradle of human civilization to look like, but I did expect it to be bigger. The sun is just setting now behind me: a fiery, dust-enhanced ball.

At the end of the bridge, I go down the rickety metal stairs, turn left and run north.  The road along the river is the scariest and most chaotic in Cairo.  There is a wide sidewalk between the road and the river for part of the way, but for several hundred meters, pedestrians (including me) share space with oncoming traffic.  Usually the traffic is not moving very fast.  I convince myself that if worse comes to worst, I can jump up and hang from the top of the plywood wall next to the road, like an ice- hockey ref avoiding a puck along the boards.  A few times, I nearly leap for it, but the cars miss me, sometimes with headlights flashing in aggravation. The diesel exhaust is choking.

Finally, I am across the busy road from the hotel.  Crossing is like playing the old video game, Frogger.  Cairenes just glare at oncoming traffic and march forward, but I am nowhere near that brave.  Instead, I have five minutes to cool down on the far sidewalk, before a break in traffic allows me to make a dash for the middle, then for the far side.

It’s dusk, and the temperature has dropped to about 85 degrees.  On my third visit, Cairo is growing on me.

When I sat down to write this post about being in the U.S., I thought it would be about divorce, disease, and death. 

Three sets of friends are separating and/or divorcing: it is painful to contemplate and painful to watch.  Another friend is battling cancer.  He seems upbeat and engaged in his rich life and wonderful family, but it is nonetheless scary and uncertain. 

Most sadly, a young friend from the Catskills was killed in a skiing accident in New Zealand two weeks a go.  She had been a camp counselor for both of our kids, and was a lovely, strong, confident, inspiring young woman.  There is no way to understand or put any kind of positive spin on her death.  At Zola’s insistence, he and I went to the funeral in New York yesterday.  It was excruciatingly sad.

Amidst all of these bad things, India and I have been trying to focus on all that is good and positive in our lives.  We have been appreciating the simple, but miraculous, joy of watching Zola immerse himself in play dates and sleepovers with his camp buddies.  Tallulah and I spent the morning catching fish and frogs in the little pond on our property.  We have organized dinners, and long runs, and bicycle rides, and rugby games.  Relishing the sweet and fragile transience of this part of our lives.  We are healthy and happy, and surrounded by people we love.

There is no positive spin on the divorce, disease, and death.  But we are appreciating this time together, and appreciating life’s rich pageant.