Meet the Local: Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Meet the Local is a series designed to uncover the differences (and similarities) in how we think and live in different parts of the world.  Over the upcoming months, I’ll ask locals from places all over the world the same set of getting-to-know-you questions.  This week, meet Neno, who was born in Sarajevo and has lived there ever since, including four years spent largely underground during the siege.

What do you like about the place you live?

I like, first of all, the people.  The people and the size of the city.  Sarajevo is a quite good city to live because it’s quite a small city---it’s only 400,000 people---so you know everyone.  It’s like one big family.  And also the history, the culture.  But mainly the people.  The people are very friendly in this city, so you can always count on someone helping you in the city.  I like that feeling.

 What don’t you like so much?

I don’t like politics in the city, and the politicians.  It’s affecting the every day life---we could have better public transport, we could have more investments, we could improve many things in this city.  But unfortunately we have a lot of bureaucracy.  We have three governments, and three presidents.  It’s a small country---only four million people---so to make one decision when you have three presidents. . . it’s quite impossible.  Nothing gets done.

What do you normally eat for breakfast?

I drink tea, or sometimes coffee.  Then scrambled eggs, with cheese.  No pies!  Because people think we are eating the pies for the breakfast.  The pies are more for the lunch or for the dinner.  People think we are eating pies every day, but it’s very, very heavy on your stomach.  It’s more like a fast food things.  I eat pies only maybe two times in a week.

What do you do for a living?  How important is your job to your sense of self?

I’m a student of political sciences and diplomacy and international relations, getting my masters.  I lead walking tours when I have free time from my studies.  I think I will stay in tourism.  I’m studying political sciences, so people always think I will be involved in political life but I think I like history, I like the political philosophy, but I don’t see myself in a political life.  I want to send a message from this city, this country.  I think we have more to offer than just the recent history.  That’s the reason I started doing walking tours.  Unfortunately, this country still has a reputation as a war torn country.  When you say Bosnia, the first image people have is the war in Bosnia, Sarajevo under siege, but I truly believe this country is a country with a long and rich history, friendly people---I think we have a lot to offer.

My job is very important to my sense of self.  It’s very difficult life in this country.  You know, I’m 27 years old and I’m still living with my parents.  But in some ways, I have freedom because I earn all of my money.  So for my self-confidence, it’s very important that I also earn something.  Most people live with their parents till they are married, because they are close with their family, but also because of the economy.  It’s a very high unemployment rate---43% at the moment.  So unfortunately people can’t afford to have their own flat.  And also Sarajevo is a very small city, so even if I rented a flat, I would go every day to my mother’s to eat something.  So at the moment, I think it’s better to stay with my family.

What do you do for fun?

I like to hike, when it’s sunny weather, in the [1984 Sarajevo Winter] Olympic mountains.  I also like photography---I like to walk around and take photos.  I like to bicycle---there’s one part of the city that has bicycle infrastructure, so I go there and I bicycle.  I also like bowling, so I go there with my friends for bowling very often.  I also like to read, and to travel.

How often do you see your family?  Tell me what you did the last time you saw them.

I live with my family.  We are very close, because I was here during the siege so we were always together then.  The sense of community in this country is very strong.  The people are close to each other; the neighbors are close to each other.  The siege made us closer, because we survived together the most horrible moments. I think the siege of the city affected people in a positive but also negative way.  I think that people in this country appreciate small things more.  Maybe like some other countries or the younger generations in this country, one small thing is nothing.  For example, I like to eat everything.  I’m not choosy, but I have a niece, and she was born after the war.  And we all have a Sunday lunch together and she is so picky---I don’t like that, I don’t like that---and I get so frustrated, like, you need to eat everything, because you don’t know the feeling of when you have nothing to eat at all.  I appreciate the food.  I try to enjoy small things.  But also the war had negative effects---like, I never celebrate New Year’s Eve on open squares.  I don’t like fireworks.  Whenever I hear fireworks, I get flashbacks, because it’s the same sound as the shells exploding.

What’s your biggest dream for your life?

To travel around the world.  Now, I’ve traveled almost all of Europe, except the UK and Ireland.  Personally, I think that’s the best spent money.  When you learn about other cultures, you start to appreciate more about your own culture, and your own life.  But after traveling, to again always return to this country.  No place like home, no place like home.  I experienced the worst things in this country, so why not stay?  I think this country deserves a better future with smart and educated people.  We will not have a bright future if all the smart and educated people leave the country.  So we need to stay, and we need to fight for the changes.

 If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?  Why?

I like Spain and Portugal.  The people are very similar to us here---they’re also very friendly, very open.  They also have not very good economy, like this country, but they’re like, let’s enjoy life!  Things will improve!  I can imagine myself living in Lisbon for one or two years, but like I told you, I then want to come back to Sarajevo.

What are you most proud of?

I’m proud of my family.  I’m proud of my mother, my father.  Because I think they directed me in a good way, they raised me to be a good guy.  My mother for me is like a big hero because I was with her during all of the wartime.  She was also working every single day, walking back and forth through the snipers, because she needed to do something, to occupy her mind, to not be in a basement all the time.  She was working not to lose her mind, and a little bit to keep her job position. She was working for free.  Sometimes she got paid in cigarettes.

How happy would you say you are?  Why?

I am very happy because I have a good family.  I have my mother, my father, my sister, my niece.  It’s a very small family, but we are very close to each other.  That’s my biggest happiness.  Also, I’m happy because I live in Sarajevo.

To read the answers of a local Londoner, click here to meet Carleen.

Farewell Manhattan

by Amy Ferguson I’ve lived on the island of Manhattan for eight and a half years. It still amazes me that it’s been that long. You see I was an unlikely New Yorker. When I was younger and I visited here I didn’t have that magical New York City movie moment that so many people have. The moment when the light changes and everything moves in slow motion and you get this epiphany, this “I have to live here” feeling in your bones. That never happened for me. Instead, I reluctantly moved here for a depressingly low paying internship when I was 25. My plan was to stick around for a couple of years, have a quintessential New York experience and then get the hell out. But that’s not what happened. No, somehow when I wasn’t looking this place became my home.

In a few weeks I’ll be leaving Manhattan and moving to Brooklyn. I know it doesn’t sound like much of a move, only about five miles away, and I’m certainly not the first person to make it. But it marks the end of an era for me, the end of my time as a Manhattanite.

The island of Manhattan is relatively small when you think about it. But so much has happened to me in those 23.7 square miles that no matter where I find myself, I find memories. Around every corner, tucked in every neighborhood are places that mean something. Places where things happened to me.

The tiny studio I rented on Carmine with the awkward floor plan and the closet in the kitchen. Or the garden apartment on West 85th with the exposed brick and the to-die-for backyard. The way West 11th Street looked blanketed in white during my first New York snowstorm. The view of Midtown from the Reservoir, still my favorite place to go for a run, where I huffed and puffed through my first ever mile. The cozy candlelit restaurant on Greenwhich Ave where a relationship began. A shady park bench at the corner of Sixth and Bleecker where another one ended.

Everywhere I look I see little snippets of my past. Moments captured. Because in Manhattan your life doesn’t happen here or there, it kind of just happens everywhere.  This entire island was my home.

So I bid you farewell, dear Manhattan. I’ll miss you. But Brooklyn measures in at whopping 81.8 square miles and like any good New Yorker I’m always craving more space.

Snow Fall(ing)

I can count the number of times I’ve seen snow on two gloved hands. It happens in Portland maybe once a year. When it does---or might and, usually, doesn’t---it’s the talk of the town. Schoolteachers make announcements to their classrooms and snow becomes the only topic of polite chatter in the grocery store checkout. “Looks like it’s going to snow, huh?” The day before its arrival we all watch the sky, every one of us an amateur meteorologist. The cloud cover holds the moisture, but too much won’t let in the cold.

Snow isn’t a unique kind of weather in Oregon. It’s just the rarest form of rain. On the way to “snow” are “the in-betweens,” softer circles of slush hitting the windshields on cars headed home. As kids, we’d sit at the windows, hoping against hope for a snow day. “Will it stick?” The flakes fell and dissolved on contact.

The real snow only ever came at night. Eerie golden spotlights lit the bare tree branches, the snowflakes swirling around streetlamps like gnats in the summer. The mornings were nothing short of magic, but it all melted by noon.

My first snow in New England was something different altogether. I was walking to the bus in mid-November when the sky was blue and a few stubborn leaves still clung to the elm trees. Out of nowhere came the tiniest flurries, the flakes not so much falling as suspended. All around me they were appearing and disappearing, like dust shook out from a rug.

The snow was unlike anything I’d ever seen---unexpected but completely certain. It felt like something was only beginning. It felt like falling in love.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

Hi Sibyl, I was at brunch the other morning with some friends and my husband and our 4-year old daughter. When we got up to leave the restaurant, there was a woman seated at a table with her friends who had no hair, eyebrows, or eyelashes. My daughter proceeded to laugh (I don't think in a mocking way---just surprised), and yell "Look, Mom! She's not real! She's not real!"

My solution was to hurriedly pick her up and carry her out of the restaurant (as she was making a beeline towards this woman's table--perhaps a better verb than "pick her up" would be "tackle her"), explaining that the woman was real and that she just looks different and pointing and laughing like that can be really hurtful. I was also mortified, and didn't know whether to address the woman and apologize or just pretend like my daughter was talking about something else or to just abandon her at the restaurant and pretend like she wasn't mine.

I know I could have handled it better, but I don't know how. What's your advice for these types of situations that are definitely teaching moments, but where the teaching happens at the potential embarrassment of someone else?

Thanks!

Abashed Mommy

Dear Abashed Mommy,

First of all, I understand your reaction and love that you still want to do even better.  Let’s break down why you were so mortified.  The honesty of children can be adorable, but not when it is public, culturally inappropriate, and has an implied power imbalance, like the situation you wrote in about.  But you know what?  It’s not just kids that say seemingly-ignorant things to perfect strangers—adults do this all the time, too, so it is great that you are the kind of person trying to navigate such situations with consciousness.

My family is multicultural, and not a week goes by that some nice, well-meaning person, usually from the race that holds the most power and privilege in our society, says some stupid racist bullshit to one of us.  They are not racists, but, speaking from their own ignorance, social awkwardness, and unconscious internalized racism, my husband is jokingly called a token minority, I am assumed to be the nanny, and our child is considered "exotic" for having brown skin and a big blonde afro.

It is exhausting to hold all these projections, and though I usually find a way to forgive the perpetrator of these (and many more) awkward statements, I really wish someone would, in the moment, acknowledge that they said something messed up and that they still have some work to do on themselves.  But then I think, how could they, if it has never been modeled for them?  They are like little children who have never been taught to handle faux pas in a graceful way.

I think we can change this, starting with our own children.  In the situation you wrote in about, you and your daughter, who assumedly have all your hair, are in a position of privilege in regards to the woman with alopecia.  You have the expected, preferred amount of hair on your body, she does not, and it's not because of a fashion statement.

Therefore, it could have been a powerful statement to your daughter, and to the woman without hair, if you had been able to manage your own shame in the moment and, in front of everyone, say to your girl, "Honey, I know you are surprised to see someone that looks differently from you.  You didn't mean anything by it, but that woman is a person, just like you, and calling her ‘not real’ could have hurt her feelings.  Now that I know that you have never seen a person like her before, I’ll teach you all about it when we get home.”

Then you take your cues from the other woman.  Is she pointedly ignoring this conversation?  Then just smile apologetically at her and leave, as it’s clear she doesn’t want to interact.  However, if she is paying attention to what you’re saying to your daughter, address her, “I’m sorry if we surprised you in the middle of your brunch.  My daughter is still learning about people who look differently from her, and I’m doing my best to teach her.  Enjoy your meal!”  Then go on your way to answer the myriad questions your daughter is bound to have outside the woman’s earshot.

I know that this approach seems like it will be awkward.  However, it’s already awkward, for all of you, so you may as well name that, and approach it head-on.  Through doing this, you’ll be showing your daughter that mistakes happen, and it’s best to stay calm about them but admit them, apologizing but then moving on.  She can then use this experience whenever she makes a well-meaning but still offensive social faux pas, in any arena.

Which is going to happen.  There is no way to avoid, sometimes, putting our foot in our mouths, in ways that offend due to differences in ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, politics, age, size, or health.  That is part of being human in a diverse society.  However, if we can start recognizing power and privilege in even the most innocuous environments—like Sunday brunch—and doing so publicly, perhaps our kids will grow up in a more self-aware society, seeking to make changes that start within.

Love,

Sibyl

Submit your own quandary to Sibyl here. 

Lessons from a Big Box Hotel...

Dearest Clara,

On this recent trip to Mexico, our last few days were spent in what I tend to call "big box hotels".  Big, behemoth structures on the beach that cater to hundreds---if not thousands---of sun-seekers at a time.  Some people love them, but I typically don't.  It's just not my style.  I prefer something quieter, something less engineered to be a not-quite-right replica of home.  But after one time in Tunisia where, after a desert adventure that nearly went awry, I paid the ludicrous day entry fee for the luxury of a clean shower and an afternoon spent next to a beautiful pool with a lemonade, I realized that I needed to change my approach to these hotels.  They are still not my favorites that I seek out, but life will bring you to them in some form or other.  Maybe you have a wedding to attend, maybe you have points to use up, or maybe there is a family vacation.  Or maybe you find yourself far away from home, and like in Tunisia, it happens to be the best place to cure homesickness.  In any case, here are a few things I keep in mind to make sure I have just as good a time:

• Manage your expectations: Big box hotels are not quaint, and often times, but not always, they are not particularly personal.  Don't look for those qualities here as you won't find them.  You can likely guess well what will or won't be there, and what might or might not happen from a service or food or entertainment perspective.  Manage your expectations accordingly---pleasant surprise is always a better feeling than unprepared disappointment.
• Play to the hotel's strengths: While a larger size might prevent the hotel from doing certain things, it does enable them to do other things well.  Maybe they organize activities of some sort, maybe they have a grocery store on the property. . . Any big hotel has some things that they are good at---seek those things out and make them a priority for your time.
• Make a smaller world for yourself on the big property: Carve out a small corner for yourself where you can find one.  You'll find that no matter the size of a hotel, there is always a terrace or a part of the garden or the library corner that largely goes unnoticed by all the countless other patrons.  Make those spaces of calm your own.
• Claim your chair early: If there is one thing larger hotels do well, it's usually the beach and pool scene.  But everybody knows that.  It's worth getting up a little bit earlier to stake your claim on the best chairs with the gorgeous views and a bit of fruit or coffee.  Enjoy the cooler morning view or breeze on your chair, and as things get crowded stake your claim while you leave to have a late breakfast.  If you have breakfast first, you will always have second tier beach seating.
• Pack books: Several of them---when the world outside with all the people and hustle and bustle becomes too much, you can create your own world in the pages you choose to bring.  I like to bring books that are particular to the destination---while a big box hotel doesn't lend itself to leaving the property easily, you can still continue to learn about it through books.
• Find ways to eat off the property: A break in routine is always a good thing, especially when hotels are bigger or more generic.  Your taste buds and waistline will thank you.
• When in doubt, look out at the ocean: Big box hotels are often amongst other big box hotels and the sight can be overwhelming.  So many stories, so many people, and it makes you wonder how different it all must have looked when the coastline was bare.  When all this development feels too much, just look out in front of you rather than the world behind you.  The ocean and the horizon will always give you a sense of infinite possibility.

All my love,

Mom

Meet the Local: London

Meet the Local is a new series, designed to uncover the differences (and similarities) in how we think and live in different parts of the world.  In the next few months, I'll be traveling to Zagreb, Sarajevo, Spain, Portugal, Ghana, Morocco, and Scandinavia.  In each place, I'll interview someone who lives locally (although they may have originally come from somewhere else, as you'll see in today's post; I find that to discount people who have immigrated is to deny a core part of a city's makeup, especially in places like London).  I'll ask the same set of questions everywhere.  This week, meet Carleen Macdermid, from London, England:

What do you like about the place you live?

First of all, I love that it’s London, because I’m Australian---I moved here about eleven years ago.  I love how central it is.  I walk everywhere nowadays. I almost never get in the Tube.  It’s a 40 minute walk home, but I’ll still walk, because you see so much more of London.  I’m right by the river.  I’m in the middle of everything.  I love it.

What don’t you like so much?

It’s made me harder as a person. Australians are notoriously chilled out and easy going.  I’ve not become more English because to an Australian it’s very important not to be English but I’ve definitely become a Londoner.  I’m hard.  People get in the way in the Tube.  I’m always in a hurry.  When I first moved here, I would see celebrities all the time and now I just see idiots that are in my way and I don’t like that about myself.

What do you normally eat for breakfast?

I almost never eat breakfast.  I’m terrible at it.  I’m fully aware that it’s the most important meal of the day but I so enjoy my sleep that breakfast gets sacrificed every morning and has done since I was about fourteen.

What do you do for a living?  How important is your career to your sense of self?

I currently don’t really do anything, because I’m in the process of being made redundant.  I did get kids into apprenticeships for four years, and I was a teacher for seven years, and now I’m on the cusp, so if anyone thinks I’ll be useful to them, they’re welcome to contact me.

I worked really hard over the last six months to get that balance back.  For a long time there, my work was absolutely everything, it took all my free time, it took all my focus, and I kind of think if you’re working with young people, that’s important. Now, I like the fact that my focus is more on myself.  A better social life, a better work/life balance.

What do you do for fun?

I was a drama teacher for years, and for a long time I didn’t do any of that at all.  Now, I do improv, I rehearse with groups, and I’m just in the process of trying to write, to attempt for the very first time, stand up comedy.

How often do you see your family?  Tell me what you did the last time you saw them.

I see them very rarely---they’re on the other side of the globe, so the last time I saw them was three and a half years ago, and I helped them pack up and move out of the house I was raised in and move to the other side of the country.  My sister and my niece get here in two weeks, and it’ll be the first time they’ve ever visited me over here.  After that, I’ll be redundant, so I’m going to pop home to see mum and dad, and it will be the first time in three and a half years.

What’s your biggest dream for your life?

To find something that really satisfies me.  I’ve always had jobs that I’ve enjoyed elements of, I liked working with young people, but I’ve never really had anything in my life where I’ve kinda sat there and gone: yeah, I do that, and I’m really happy about it and really proud of it.  So I’m determined to track that down, be it in my work or be it in something creative.  It’s out there, and I’m gonna find it before I get too old.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?  Why?

I would invent a magical place that was similar to London and had the lifestyle and the get up and go but had my parents a lot closer than 24 hours away by airplane, and had some of the warmth of Australia without turning into the awful, shabby parts of Spain where people go and conglomerate and do awful things.

What are you most proud of?

I am most proud of the fact that my job has always contributed to young people.  I spent my entire career in education and training and I can point to literally hundreds and thousands of kids that I’ve helped.  I’ve got young people now who are teachers like I was, and other young people that have really good professions because they did apprenticeships with me, and I’ll always have that to be proud of.

How happy would you say you are?  Why?

I’m gonna go with 85%.  Even at my most unhappy, I never manage to drop below about 65 or 70%, I’m just naturally an upbeat person, but I like the fact that I’m starting to do more for me for the first time in a long time.

Talk to Me

I know that plenty of people talk to their mothers, at best, once a week, or even---and I start to stutter here---every few weeks. Now, I’m not passing any judgments, but this just did not fly with my mom. I remember her informing me years ago, as I was going through, shall we say, an “independent phase,” that she had talked to her mom every single day as an adult.  I thought of this often, on those week nights after a late dinner with my husband, when all I wanted to do was zone out to an awful episode of Gossip Girl. There were nights when Chuck Bass won out, but most nights I picked up the phone for a quick call. I woke her often, as she snoozed on the couch, my dad watching one of his endless sporting events or crime scene shows beside her. Sometimes our calls were brief---literally a hi and a bye---but on other nights, we talked and laughed until my husband's eye-rolling became impossible to ignore. I told her what I had made for dinner that night, we talked about my upcoming trips home to Rochester repeatedly, she asked about my husband and friends. There was not much we didn’t cover during those calls. The last time I talked to my mom was on February 13, 2012. It was late, and I remember the fleeting thought: I’ll just call her tomorrow. I’m so glad I didn’t listen to myself. I told her about the lamb chops I was making for Valentine’s Day dinner the following night, and I asked if she and my dad had any special plans. I distinctly remember her laugh in response.

I sat in the hospital just days after that phone call, while my mom lay in a coma next to me, incredulous that I couldn’t talk to her about it all. And last week, as we marked the 1 year anniversary of my mom’s death, I kept returning to the impossibility of not talking to her in a year. I think sometimes of those nights I didn’t call her, of the times I was too busy, or too tired, or just didn’t prioritize it, and wish for a do-over. I know exactly what I would say.

I would tell her, first and foremost, about the babies. I would update her on my nephew, about how he makes us laugh, about how naughty he can be, about how---even though he still sucks his thumb and takes his blanket everywhere---he’s no longer a baby. I would tell her that he points to the picture of her in his room, knowing that it’s Mimi. I would tell her about my niece, who is the spitting image of my mom at that age; about how beautiful she is, but how touch and go those first few months were for my sister and brother-in-law, what with a colicky newborn and an active 2 year-old. I would laugh, telling my mom that despite our best efforts to help my sister and her brood, we don’t come close to filling her shoes. I would tell her that “Mimi’s pool” is still Rachael’s favorite, and about all the new babies who have joined our family---extended or otherwise---in the last year.

I would fill 3 days of conversation, telling her about the meaningless details of my life that no one but she ever really cared about.  About the new car my husband and I bought this past summer---and how I sat at the dealership with tears in my eyes as we traded in our old model, realizing once again that I couldn’t share my news with her; about the bed frame I’ve had my eye on at Pottery Barn and the new rug that looked great online, but sheds incessantly; about the movies I’ve seen and the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy; about new recipes I’ve tried and plants I’ve killed.

I would complain about every little annoyance from the past year. I would wait for her to tell me to shut up, and then complain some more.

I would tell her about the recent stresses of my job---a new manager and lots of travel---but how I really, really like what I do. I would also tell her of my husband’s new job, how his hard work has finally started to pay off. I know how proud she would be of us both.

I would tell her that I’m experimenting with acupuncture and a gluten-free diet, all the while expecting an immediate, gut-busting laugh and an exclamation of, “Are you nuts?!”

I would tell her that she was right about most things, but especially about how much we would miss her when she was gone.

And, finally, I would reassure her, that despite the heartache and the tears, that we were all ok. I would tell her that this is going to be the year of more laughs than tears, of my sister’s wedding, and maybe, even, more babies.

I don't quite know what I believe when it comes to life and death, but I suppose she might already know all of this. We're taking her with us on our new adventures, after all. But, my god, how I miss our talks.

XXVII. Provence

The director of the ACCP program is a bird-thin woman in her late 40s named Helen. (Hélène, she’ll tell you.) She moved from California to Aix twenty years ago and seems to think that this makes her French---she speaks with an exaggerated accent and prances around the school gardens with younger men in tight jeans and leather jackets, showing them off to the students in a see-I-told-you-I’m-still-desirable kind of way. We stare at her from the tables under the trees during breaks and gossip about how absurd and scripted she is, bonding over our shared dislike of her.

Even though my initial inclination is to dislike her, I haven’t had any one-on-one interactions with her until about a month into my stay in Aix. My friends who feel comfortable and welcome in their homestays urge me to talk to Helen about the problems I’m having living with Agnès, so I have a meeting with her one morning before classes start to explain the situation and see what options there are for me.

Helen tells me that it is my own fault. Olivia, she says in French, you have une certaine rigidité où il devrait être du douceur. A certain rigidity where there should be sweetness.

I am silent for the next five minutes as she continues talking. I nod when she wants me to nod, and I stand up to leave without saying a word when Helen indicates the meeting is over. I have to get to my next class on French culture, which Helen is teaching that day.

We talk a lot about cultural barriers in class, the different situations that Americans might find impolite or weird but in France are perfectly normal. Today, Helen chalks up all our perceived French rudeness to cultural differences---what we see as rudeness is just their way of being direct and honest. I raise my hand and add in my own exemption to Helen’s rule.

Sometimes, I say, looking her right in the eye, people are just assholes.

Of Road Trips and Adulthood

From the passenger's side, I feed my handsome driver PB&J in bite-sized pieces as we sail along at 70 miles-per-hour from Atlanta to Baltimore. For my own part, I am a nervous and inexperienced highway driver. I am slightly more useful as a navigator and even more so as a DJ. We are on our way to the wedding of friends, and by the time you read this, we'll be on our way back from the whirlwind weekend. The excitement of these impending nuptials finally dawns on me when we get on the road, so I spend the first bit of the drive giving my companion a rundown of the schedule of festivities and the many people he will meet. He is a captive audience.

I run through the list of college classmates and friends from Boston and then brush off the rest with a wave of my hand. "Those are all the people our age. I can't tell you much about the grown-ups."

I am caught off-guard by the absurdity of my statement and add the caveat that perhaps we technically qualify as grown-ups too.

In one of Joy the Baker's recent posts, she lists off some of the commonly perceived barometers of adulthood: getting married, having kids, doing your own taxes. Of course, as she explains, none of these are particularly useful or accurate benchmarks of adulthood. They are significant milestones, certainly, if they happen to occur in one's life, but they don't have much to do with the definition of "grown-up."

I'm not sure there's a definition, really, or a destination we're trying to reach. As we count off the last few exits before our stop, I figure this whole marriage thing and the being-grown-up thing has a lot more to do with the journey than with the arrival. This may seem obvious, but it's not necessarily what I had expected. I used to imagine adulthood as a very serious state of being, in which you feel like you have some level of control over your life and then work really hard to maintain it.

Thankfully, this stage of life that I looked forward to for so long is a lot more fun, if also much more chaotic and unpredictable, than I ever let myself imagine. It is a series of small rituals and choreographies, punctuated occasionally by surprises, for better or worse. Some things are hard, but also funny. Some things are just hard, and the rest is just funny.

It helps to have a kind companion to cry and to laugh with as we sail along. I'm more grateful each day to be on this road together.

Wasting Away Again in Judgey-Mama-Ville

Dear Sibyl, As a new mom, I find myself HATING 'mom-talk.' I find it awkward listening to my friends tell me the new developmental leap their kid has taken.   How do I respond if my kid has already been doing that (for months)? I hate how it makes me feel.  If I disengage and reply with "That's great," I feel sad I didn't take that moment to brag about my own kid. BUT if I engage and be truthful about what my kid is doing, does that start an unintentional "let-me-one-up-you" war? I don't want to prove anything---I don't want to put that pressure on me or my little man who is just happy banging stuff around and laughing about it.  

I hate mothers who are scared of germs---who won't let their kid play in a public park.  I hate mothers who won't let their kid sit in dirt or GRASS (for crying out loud who cares if a dog peed there once a million years ago. . . and yes. . . I heard that come from a lady once).  I hate them because they tell these things to me AS MY KID IS PLAYING IN DIRT. . . AS MY KID SITS HAPPILY IN THE SHOPPING CART WITH NO CLOTH PROTECTION.  What do I say to them?  (You are neurotic?)   

Is there a polite way to disengage from this?  I'm not into the 'mom-shop' talk.  I don't mind talking about motherhood but I hate when it turns into what people’s kids are doing and when they did it and just you wait. . . and oh I would NEVER let him do that. . . you let them eat what?  From the whole foods salad bar???  GERMS!!!!  I especially hate when they talk to me as if I have no idea what is coming next.  I find it patronizing.  

For the love of all things---how do I deal with them?

Trapped in Momville

Dear Trapped,

You’ve got to take it all less personally.  Let me explain, because believe me, I know what you mean---I’ve been there.  And it never goes away.  Parenting brings out a level of anxiety and neurosis in certain people that even that mom who is armed with antibacterial hand gel just to let their kid use the swing has never known before. That does not mean you need to get caught up in it, or identify yourself with that woman in any way.

New moms are trying to define themselves in their new role, and some women do that by getting very particular about everything child-related.  These moms are unsure of how to be a parent, so they equate it with Getting It Right, and then work hard to shore up their definition of “right” by forcing you to feel their anxiety and agree with them about this worldview.  You have to fight not to be sucked in to the crazy-making conversational dance about what food you introduced first to your baby and what that means about you as a person.

And that probably means you feel alienated, and lonely.  Which is an uncomfortable space to be in, but a normal way to feel.  What you've got to let go of is the hatred.

When I became a mother, I was shocked at the level of discourse of the mothers I encountered on the playground, at playdates, and just out in the world.  The level of competitiveness was striking---moms even found ways to put down my child's early verbosity ("She's going to have quite a mouth on her when she's 13!") and would urge their kids to draw like my child was ("Hunter, draw a circle!  You can do it, see hers?  Just like that."), looking over at me to prove my kid was nothing special, after all.  I was saddened that all they wanted to discuss was diaper changes and when to wean, while I had read three books and watched several documentaries that week that I was eager to discuss, but my attempts to shift the conversation fell on deaf ears.

From observing this pack mentality over several months, I realized a few things: I was going to find "my people", eventually, but these folks were not it.  Therefore, I separated the moms I knew into two categories, "co-workers", and "friends".  The co-workers were the moms I always saw on the playground but knew I was never really going to connect with, the ones obsessed with germs and growth charts.  I delegated them in my mind to the annoying co-workers I once had in the professional setting---I talked to them when I needed to, stayed emotionally detached from them, and, if anything, found compassion for their exquisitely neurotic states.  If they pissed me off too much to have compassion for them, I moved on to just pity their children.

The ones I found to be friends with were always slightly off.  The moms who would plunk down on the park bench and say, "I almost dropped the kid off at the Fire Station last night.  This latte is the only thing keeping me from doing it now."  The ones who talked about their sex life, or lack there of, the ones who cracked wry jokes at their family’s expense, yet still daily inspired me with their devotion to their kids.  Also, I found that I could often relate more to the nannies, who were invested but just removed enough from the children to have more of a sense of humor about all of it, and more likely to invite me out for a drink after my husband got home.

You are going to find your people.  You will know, when you walk into their house and their homes are not neat as a pin with family portraits hanging everywhere and cookies baking in the oven, but rather, their home looks lived in.  You will know, when they ask you how you are, and they really mean you, not how well your child slept last night.  And they are going to make this wild world of parenting so much more fun.

So, the way you deal with the new moms that are driving you nuts with the comparison-based mom talk is you don't hang out with them.  You take out a magazine at the park when a mom you don't know is hovering over their kid and yours, and smiling crazily at you like, "Aren't you going to follow your kid around?!"

You decline the playdates to the houses where the moms have disinfected the bottoms of all their shoes, even though they never wear shoes indoors.  You do this even if that means you are lonely sometimes, and just end up hanging out with your own kid.  This will force you to go find the parents you can actually relate to.

You go find your people, and you try, really hard, not to talk shit about those other moms.  They are fighting a terrible battle that they will never win, the battle to protect their kid from struggle, and from life.  Leave them to it.  Be your own kind of mother.  Go play.

Love,

Sibyl

Submit your own quandary to Sibyl here. 

Lessons from Tulum...

Dearest Clara, I mentioned last week that one of my regrets, if you can call it that, is that we discovered Mexico so late in life, despite it being so close.  And a big reason for that was our trip to Tulum last year.  In fact, we enjoyed it so much that we made a point of going back again this year when we attended a wedding, even though it wasn't exactly on the way.  This little town, which no doubt has changed over the years, for us ended up being such a perfect hamlet, where the biggest decision of the day is whether you should have dinner on the beach side or the jungle side.

Here's what I've taken away from our two visits to this little unexpected paradise:

• Nothing worthwhile actually requires electricity after ten o'clock in the evening: Because this town is officially off the grid, many places have eco-standards and run on generators, which means that many places don't necessarily have ready electricity after ten or so.  With the exception of some evenings where that fan would really be a nice to have, I found that I don't really miss electricity after that hour anyway.  Anything worth doing at that hour should be taking place in the dark or by candlelight anyway.
• No swimming after dark: A midnight dip in seems like it would be a good idea---I've certainly thought so before. . . But during this most recent visit, a girl waded out into the dark ocean and accidentally stepped on a stingray, leaving her with a ferocious gash.  Some creatures are not meant to be disrupted at night, and dark waves should be best enjoyed from the shore.
• The best ingredients don't need to have much more added to them: Tulum is the home of simple, beachside jungle fare, a happy mix between Mexican cooking with tinges of Italian inspirations.  And when you're working with fresh seafood and fresh fruits and herbs, much more just isn't needed.  When you're lucky enough to be surrounded by fresh food, take advantage and appreciate it for what it is.
• When you turn everything off, turning it back on might scare you: Because of the off the grid nature of this area, we've found it's one of the few places we can shut everything off. . . phones. . . internet. . . TV. . . the constant barrage of news from the world. . . it takes a little while to get used to being without those things.  And then, at some point, you realize that you didn't need all of constant exposure to everything as much as you thought you did.  Turning it all back on will scare you---give yourself an extra day in the calm once you get home.
• Some things are worth going back for: The first time we came to Tulum, I spotted a beautiful leather necklace in a shop. I didn't buy it, thinking that it might be one of those items that seems like a good idea in the place where you buy it, but doesn't quite fit your daily life at home.  And I regretted not buying it ever since we returned from the first trip.  On this second trip, I made us drive a bit out of the way to the same shop, scared that the necklace would be long gone.  It was. . . but they had another similar one, even better I would say.  So in this instance, I was lucky.  Try not to leave a lot of unfinished business if something is important to you, but if you missed something the first time, make an effort to go back.  It might not turn out the way you expected, but it will still be worth it.

All my love,

Mom

Searching for Dragons

A few Saturdays ago, I was sorting through a box of greeting cards when I came across a Bon Voyage note given to me by my two best friends a few days before I hopped a jet plane for Bangladesh. Inside, beside the typed hallmark message, was a hand written note and two signatures. ‘I hope you find your dragons’ it said.  In the back of my head I had only an inkling of remembrance.  Dragons.  Why were we talking about dragons?  I searched the encyclopedia of my life, otherwise known as my gmail inbox, and found what I was looking for.  A list of quotes I considered adding to our new address/just-moved-to-the-other-side-of-the-globe card.  On the list, among the profound and the spiritual was this quote:

“Always remember, it’s simply not an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.” Sarah Ban Breathnach.

So of course the question I’ve been asking myself is this: Did I find my dragons?  While I did have a couple of close encounters with lizards, I don’t think that’s what my past self meant when she said she was looking for dragons.  A dragon is a story to tell, something confronted, overcome, or experienced for the first time. It’s a quest of self discovery.  It might seem scary or insurmountable if you look at it from afar, but once you’re there, it’s a grand adventure.

I’m proud to say I found many dragons during my year in Bangladesh, and each taught me a lesson.  All the good dragons do.  I came back more confident in myself; more sure of who I am as a person, more aware of my flaws and my strengths.  I am more unapologetically me than I have been at any other point in my life.  And that feels awesome.

Maybe it was the quiet or the new environment.  Maybe it was the writing. I can’t identify the how or the why, which is a little bothersome.  I would like to be able to map the changes, to see the shift on paper.  Where did it occur, when did it start, what was the trigger?  The daughter of a scientist, I like things to fit into boxes and graphs. I want to look back and point to a moment so I can say, ‘See that day, that’s when it began to change.’ Everything would feel more real if I could break it down into cause and effect.

But I can’t.  I know how I was before Bangladesh. I know how I was in Bangladesh. And I know how I am now, after Bangladesh, but how one affected the next I have no hypothesis.

All I know is that I most certainly found Dragons.

XXVI. Paris

I saw the movie Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain just before my first ever trip to France when I was 16 years old. Amélie, the gamine of all gamines, is a kind of whimsical fairy, changing for the better the lives of her unsuspecting neighbors in her hilltop Parisian neighborhood. She works as a waitress at a café called Les Deux Moulins, and I am intent on finding it as my family wanders the streets of Montmartre during our weeklong stay in Paris.

Onscreen, Les Deux Moulins looks like a riot of color and polished steel countertops. The reality of the café, like most things in France, doesn’t measure up to my imagination — the place is old and shabby and smells like stale tobacco and sour drinks. Excepting the faded Amélie poster on the wall behind the bar, you never would have known the movie was filmed here. We have one drink to cool off from the hot July air and leave quickly.

Years after that first trip, I’ve decided to give the café a second chance and am once again seeking out Les Deux Moulins, this time by myself. On this early spring morning the neighborhood is mostly empty, only a few people wandering the small alleys before any of the cafés have opened. As I study my map, hoping to recognize street names, a group of men amble by, reeking of booze and probably still drunk from the night before. Even as I avoid their stares and try my hardest to fade into the wall behind me, I can tell they’re intent on getting my attention.

Why do you look so serious? barks their unshaven ringleader to me in French. You didn’t get laid last night?

The group guffaws with laughter. I turn wordlessly and walk quickly away, stuffing the map into my bag without folding it and ignoring their calls after me. When I calm down enough I sit on a bench and take the map out again, only to find a deep crease in the eighteenth arrondissement.

Lessons from a Hacienda

Dearest Clara,

Traveling to Mexico has been one of my most wonderful discoveries since returning back to the US.  After going for the first time last year, I can’t believe that it’s taken me so long into my adult life to discover the richness of this country that’s but a couple of hours flight away.

This year, we went beyond just the beach and the coast to head into the interior jungle and stayed at a Hacienda as a home base, while we explored throughout.  Initially, I had been worried that maybe it wouldn’t be as exciting as the beach, but so quickly, we realized we could have easily stretched out our days into weeks.  The peace of the overall experience is something I will always remember, and the grounds had just enough touch of the mystical that explains so much literature from this part of the world.

In just a few days, I also learned at the Hacienda:

• Always check your shoes before putting them on: While I didn’t actually see any, this is tarantula country.  And scorpions.  And all sorts of critters.  Whenever you’re in terrain you don’t know, it’s good habit to check the insides of your shoes, or anything else you can’t see the interior of.  Just in case.
• And remember that you’re in their jungle, not that they are in your shoes: Our temptation will always be to expect that a hotel or home or our life should have prevented an animal or critter from being in our space.  But in a jungle. . . or other nature environment, that’s not always possible.  And should it be? They were there first and you came to see, not the other way around.
• High ceilings keep you cooler: This makes perfect sense from a scientific principle but I never really thought about the practical application of this.  When we checked in, the head of hotel specifically pointed out that we received a room with one of the highest ceilings---heat rises and there’s better chance for air circulation.  So when in hot climates, seek out the spaces with high ceilings---you’ll need less external intervention to be comfortable.
• People aren’t just part of the landscape: I read this in the hotel’s guide to how to think about when it was appropriate to take a photograph.   Whenever you visit a place, there are people that live there. . . they’re not like statues or landmarks, and they might have different reactions to you taking pictures of them.  Don’t assume that people, regardless of how fascinating or different they might seem to you, are just part of the passing scenery.  When in doubt, always ask permission.   Not everyone will say yes, and it’s okay to respect that.
• Everything re-invents itself over time: The hacienda that we stayed at originally started as a cattle ranch, then a sisal farm, then it fell into disrepair. . . Now it is one of the country’s best hotels and regularly welcomes heads of state.  Where we start is not always where we end up, and where we end up is an evolution.  If we want to stay relevant, it’s our job to figure out where we want to go and who we want to be next.

All my love,

Mom

The homes that inspire nostalgia

We first met when I was on the cusp of nomadism and she was on her return voyage. I was about to embark on my first true field work in conflict management. I did not know it then, but that year would hold memories of Egypt, Uganda, Colombia, and Guatemala. Her journey stretched from Liberia to Indonesia and Boston to the Hague. We both swam in the pool of conflict management professionals, spoke with our hands, loved every baked good we met, and shared a passion for wander and wonder. In many ways, she inspired my own path with her courage, whimsy, curiosity, and attachment to service and to making impact. Meeting her kindled my faith in humanity---and sparked my consequent overuse of the term.

We are now sitting at her dining table in Washington, DC, five years later. She and her loved one built the bench atop which I am perched, and everything else in the house too. Even if she hadn't given me her house number, I would have picked it out among its companions. It is the most colorful house in the street. Everything in it is a colorful product of love too, carved with care out of wood, nailed together, splashed with the hues that matched their personalities. "We built the bed in which you are sleeping," she says smiling. People dream better in home-made beds. They ought to.

She is a different kind of adult than I am, I think to myself. A whole other league of adulthood, the kind that comes with one's own photographs hanging from her walls (in frames, I should clarify, since my own amateur photos hang frameless and in disorder). I scratch her cat's belly, as we talk about the conversations we used to have when we first met. We are still connected by those same threads, by conflict management and service, by a wanderlust for Iceland and the Bolivian salt flats alike. We joke about our loved ones' addiction to cycling, we revisit talks about neuroses that field work in some of the world's most active conflict zones could not mitigate. Peeking into her life makes me nostalgic for permanence and leaves me longing to caress wooden surfaces with an appreciation for the art that transforms them.

I used to live here too once, but the girl I was when I lived in Washington is different from the girl who returned to it now. It was the before era: before field work, before I knew that a lot of my life would unfold on the road or in conflict zones, before I grew attached to cameras and stories, before I had discovered much of what I now consider my life's work---in many senses, before I experienced what I now consider my life's many blessings. When I left Washington, I left with excitement, not out of frustration with its admittedly elevated sense of self-importance, but out of a craving to leap to the next phase of life and the novelty it had in store. And much as my memories of Washington were full of light and merriment, I did not consider it the kind of home that would inspire nostalgia.

Teetering in heels outside the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, I recognize bits of the self I was then: I was an obsessive list-maker, and I still am. I was the kind of girl who could write down thirteen to-do items, and cross them all. Part of me still enjoys ticking the boxes, literally and allegorically. In other senses, I have shed layers of skin since I left Washington. I have embraced uncertainty and developed a new comfort for it. I have appreciated vulnerability; in brave moments, I have deliberately put myself in vulnerable places with an understanding of their merits. I have marveled, marveled ferociously, demanded marveling. I have made more room. I have not carved furniture, but I have carved out space for loving, dreaming, and marveling.

And now that I am back, this time for a career trip with fellow graduate students interested in conflict management, I am marveling at a home that inspired more nostalgia than I thought it could. In between career panels and site visits, I duck into my old neighborhood bookstore. I used to stop there every single day on my walk home from work, even if nothing in the shelves had changed. The bookstore was a ritual I kept, a nostalgia-inspiring ritual that planted the seeds of marveling. Between a lunch and an informational interview, I pop into Teaism, wanting bubble tea. I giggle when I remember that they call it 'pearl tea' here. My memory had edged this lexicon out. Taryn and I sit side-by-side at Hello Cupcake, devouring cream cheese frosting. Dan and I have breakfast at Busboys and Poets. Halle and I share an almond croissant and cappuccinos at Dolcezza, which was not there when I last was. Some of the women by my side have been constant presences, on email and in teahouses, at a distance or side-by-side. Some of them are new to this memory, having sprung from shared field experiences, correspondences, school orientations, or serendipity.

This marriage of the worlds feels less foreign than I had anticipated. I practiced nostalgic eating, nostalgic bookstore browsing, nostalgic walking, nostalgic subway riding. Life was not Instagrammed when I had left Washington; all of it looked less romantic. It was not yet possible, as Cheri Lucas would say, to "enhance the mundane", "to disguise the mediocre." Surprise nostalgia is a privilege because it is as though a former home springs from the depth of your memories to claim its place in your life, to demand to be remembered lovingly. Or, at the very least, to be remembered---which, in my life, is by definition a loving act.

XXV. Bretagne

When you have a week off from school and the whole country to explore, one of my favorite things about France is that you only have to be 21 years old to rent a car. Leah and I take a train from Aix to Paris to Brest, a coastal city in the northwest corner, and get a Fiat Panda, a little red thing that reminds me of a lunchbox. Then we take off for our three-day road trip tracing the coastline. I drive and Leah is in charge of choosing the music and, arguably more important, navigation, reading the free map for tourists we picked up at the rental center. It shows more illustrations of Breton boys and sheep than highway names, but we’ve found our way so far.

When it gets too dark to see the countryside, we stop in small towns with names like Crozon and Le Fret and find a place to stay, usually a small bed and breakfast. Leah and I spend most of the nights out drinking cider in pubs and watching soccer games with the locals until we’re too tired or too tipsy to keep our eyes open. We subsist on little more than apples, crepes, and Haribo gummies. It’s a glorious Breton adventure.

One day at lunchtime we stop at a supermarket along a road outside of the town of Bénodet, our destination for the evening. Typical for France but incomprehensible for Americans, the supermarket is closed for lunch from noon to two. The Panda has a manual transmission, so the waiting time is spent teaching Leah how to drive stick shift.

We take slow turns around the empty parking lot, lurching slightly every time Leah changes gears. The supermarket employees stand outside the store’s entrance, taking slow drags from their cigarettes and curiously watching our progress as we make figure eights around the light poles. We are laughing so hard that we forget our hunger.

By the time we can get into the supermarket, Leah has made it successfully into third gear, zooming back and forth across the concrete. Still, I drive the rest of the way to Bénodet. Those French roundabouts are hard to maneuver.

Does Being an Adult Totally Suck?

Dear Sibyl, I finally feel like a real grown-up and I find it horribly disappointing. I can't imagine a better husband, my two-year-old daughter is awesome, and I love my work. Unfortunately, there's a big but. I was prepared to have a big, important career and I don't think that's possible as a mother of a small child (without being independently wealthy).

My parents told me I could be anything I wanted to be and my husband regularly says he's waiting for me to strike it big, so he can retire. Unfortunately, my career options are high in intellectual, social, and personal rewards, but not so much in financial rewards. My husband isn't going to be retiring on my salary anytime soon, which means his job needs to be the priority.

The part that really gets me is that I will never fully realize my potential career. If there are two working parents, one parent always has to be the one who will figure it out if the babysitter is sick. One parent has to make sure there is food in the fridge and favorite pajamas are washed in time for bed. One parent has to sign on as parent #1 (at least to provide the kind of support that I envision providing to my child). Maybe there is a system where both parents share all child-related responsibilities, but I'm not sure I can imagine it. After all, one of the major tenets of management in a professional context is maintaining individual responsibility: if everyone is responsible no one is.

Most big, important careers demand to be the priority. And I think the realization that made me a grown-up is that you don't get to have two priorities at once in life. I want my child, and eventually children, to be my first priority, but I also want to know what I could have done with my professional life had I been able to give it my all.

Sincerely, Two Paths, One Life

Dear Two Paths, One Life,

Are you sitting down?  Okay, because I’m about to deliver a series of blows that may hurt at first, but hopefully will settle in as the best kind of truth.

First of all, no wonder you are disappointed in adulthood, since you are completely missing the point.  The goal of life is not to be a big, important person who is responsible for everyone and amasses wealth for retirement.  I totally understand why you believe this, as this is our culture’s greatest falsehood, one we shout and whisper and slip into the food we serve.

But, Honey.  Oh, Honey, no.

The choice is not between being a mother and being a big shot.  It’s about being a person of substance, no matter what tasks you find yourself doing.

First of all, we need to address your sign off name.  There are three lives you are talking about here, and three paths, but you have submerged them all into one life---yours.  Of course there's no space to spread your wings!  You have both your husband and your child on your back, and you're stumbling around blindly.

A better metaphor for what should be going on is: One root, three vines.  Your husband and yourself formed the roots of your family tree when you bonded yourselves to one another.  Your lives climb like an ivy plant, branching off in some places, intertwining and holding one another up in others.  Your daughter's is an offshoot, that right now gets all of its nourishment from the roots of your marriage.  However, she'll branch off on her own more and more, and eventually she'll start her own vine, on some other wall.  The way things are now, both of their branches are choking yours, and no one can grow.

I think the problem is that you need to redefine success.  What is “making it” as an adult?  Is it a life of growth, or one you read about in the newspapers?  Because the people making headlines, especially ones with big, important careers, are always falling from grace, in big, important ways.  Just this month: Jesse Jackson Jr., Oscar Pistorius, THE POPE.

You don’t need a big, important career to be a happy adult, you need to be a big, important you.  Be the biggest star of your life.  Be the most important person in your child's life.

Do you want to make something happen?  Then follow your passion and do it!  But if you just want to feel important, then I don't think you will find that kind of validation in a high-paying, high stakes job.  That kind of validation only comes from within.

I want you to let this dream of being this powerful figure die so you can see what rises from the ashes.  I want what rises to be you.

In order to do this, you cannot use management tenets to run your family---your family should be be run on love, and love means everyone pitches in.  So, let go of some of the responsibility for being “Parent #1”, and let your husband plan back-up childcare for once.  And tell him to stop putting pressure on you to strike it big so he never has to work again!  What the hell?

So, perhaps you are not going to be on the cover of TIME magazine.  But, I doubt very seriously that that is because you are devoting your energy towards being a mother, instead.  I believe that you can still have what you want---have a feeling of being a successful adult who makes waves in the world, while still showing up for your children---but it is going to require a worldview shift.

Being an adult means we get to weave together the life we actually want, which, yes, is really difficult, but has the potential to create something totally unique and beautiful.

You are not missing out on fully realizing your potential career, if you are fully realizing your potential self.  You will need to give up the goals of prestige and leisure and take up the goal of love, but I promise you, it’s a better investment.

Love, Sibyl

Submit your own quandary to Sibyl here.

Lessons from South Africa...

Dearest Clara,

Sometimes when you travel you’ll feel that you have gone just about as far as you can go before circling back around again on the other side of the globe.  My recent trip to South Africa was exactly like that---16 hours on the way there, 18 hours on the way back.  Between the many hours and changes of time, and days that turn to nights and then back to days again, you end up wondering where you really are anyway.  And this time around it was such a blur---so many hours seem even more when you end up on the ground for only four days.

But four days is still plenty of time to make observations, and in South Africa, you can make a lot.  Of all the places I go to for work, South Africa is by far and away my favorite.  Maybe precisely because it is so far.  I'm hoping that one day soon I get to come back all of this way, perhaps even one day with you, to stay in this beautiful country for a bit longer, so that I can really get to know this part of the world that I otherwise have so little exposure to.  In the meantime, I've taken these things home with me:

• Always stop for a sundowner: the first time I really saw this was during my first trip to South Africa when I went on safari (all by myself no less!) No matter where we were driving, when the hour for sunset came, the South Africans were always insistent that we pull over the car, stop what we were doing and have a drink.  This trip, when I was mostly at the hotel and meetings, it was no different.  I was alone again, but seemingly everyday, people were having a moment of their own, usually over a glass. I don't know if it is meant to celebrate a day passed, or whether it is intended perhaps as a moment of gratefulness.  But I've come to love this small acknowledgement of another day that we have been lucky enough to have.
• Anyone can talk about the weather: When you're in a place that's different, and other potential topics plucked from the news or the social fabric might be perceived as unwelcome when broached by an outsider, you can never fail with the weather.  In Johannesburg, it rained every late afternoon when I was there, right around the same time.  A conversation about that day's rain, how it compared to the previous days, whether it would rain again tomorrow always seemed to fill any conversational void I had, no matter the person or their relation to me.  When in doubt, bring up the weather.
• Galleries somewhere else can inspire you: I didn't have much time to do anything other than my work on this trip, but I was lucky to have a few well-known galleries as I was out and about town in meetings.  The great thing about galleries is that they don't take long to see, and they're free. So while I didn't have the time to be a full-on tourist on my trip, I did make time to squeeze in twenty minutes here, half an hour there to pop into galleries.  You can learn a tremendous amount about art from a place, the topics its driven by, the way media of art differs just by taking a few minutes to look.  And chances are, you'll leave inspired to see things differently.
• Every city has a quiet corner: Any city that you don't know, Johannesburg included, can grow to be overwhelming when you don't know your way around.  It's true everywhere.  Sometimes cities give us the opportunity to blend in seamlessly, almost as if no one sees us.  But sometimes cities draw attention to us---in my mind, I can sometimes see a myriad of red arrows pointing at me, screaming to others that I don't belong and I don't know where I'm going.  But any city has a quiet spot---it might be a garden, it might be a coffee shop.  If ever you feel like you don't belong, just find your quiet spot, and recompose.  And every city always looks quiet from up above---if you can't find anywhere else, just go to the highest spot you can find.  You'll always find quiet there.
• Together is better: I had so many people say this to me on trips I've made to South Africa.  In a country that is still working through so many differences that history has left them, when people tell me that despite everything, "together is better", then it serves as a good reminder to me to make sure that I apply that principle in my own life.

All my love,

Mom

Ps  - And in case you might be wondering...no, that's not a real hippo.  It's a hippo I saw at a gallery!

xxiv. provence

I come home from classes to find Agnès fuming in my room. According to her, it’s been at least several years since I washed my sheets or swept my floor, two things I insisted upon doing myself. But since these bits of housework are in my space and not hers, she can’t control them. This woman needs more hobbies.

It’s fine for Jérôme to act like this, but you? A woman? She’s yelling at me now. How do you expect to get a husband like this? How will you cook for him? How will you clean for him?

The more her voice rises, my face turns stony and emotionless. I say nothing as I lace up my running shoes and shut the door to the apartment behind me. I race through the night streets for a long time, wanting to run out my anger before I go back. I don’t want to say anything that could get me in trouble with ACCP, something like, you have wasted your entire life, Agnès, and never again feel like you can comment on mine.

A Beautiful Life

Dear Sibyl, What do you think is the best and most gracious way to keep social life simple? I get a lot of requests to do things both for fun and on the professional level (i.e. sit on a committee or board) and I also want to have a good amount of unscheduled time, because I know that is what works for me, to keep me sane. But what is a good way to do this in a world that encourages frantic activity?

Sincerely, Lil’ Miss Popular

Dear Ms. Popular,

The most frequent answer to the question "How are you these days?" is "Busy!"  What if people answered this question a bit more accurately and said, "I have a lot of tasks to complete all the time, but inwardly I feel a little disconnected."  Because that is the true definition of a busy life.

Time is social capital.  First of all, I'd like to commend you for taking the time to consider your social commitments and seek to knit something together that supports you individually as well as helps you feel a part of a greater community.

Much of our lives are made up of the people we spend it with.  Some of that we don't have a whole lot of choice about: the co-worker that is hired after you and talks your ear off about their skydiving obsession, the fellow dog owner who tries to get you involved in puppy politics at the dog park, the neighbor with the backfiring van who will never move out.

So, when you have a rare hour of free time, you want to be sure you are investing it in something or someone who will add depth and continuity to your life, rather than feeling like you are flitting around from one commitment to the next, always playing catch-up with each person.

Personally, I often find myself falling head over heels for a person or an organization, and throwing myself into that friendship or activity with great fervor, only to find out a year down the line that they were not who I thought they were, or that I've outgrown them.  If I stopped doing this, however, my life would remain stagnant, and I would eventually feel isolated from my own lack of willingness to risk and put my whole self into my relationships and endeavors.

Carl Jung had the idea that we are drawn to people who have something that we need, and can help us realize those parts of ourselves.  Over time, we are meant to start doing those things on our own, and when we do, we may find that what we were meant to learn from that person, and what we had to share with them, has made the relationship redundant.

Does that mean you need to stop calling your best friend from elementary school, who have little in common with now but love seeing, for the tether she gives you to the past?  No, but I would suggest saving visits with her for special times: her birthday, when the band whose songbook the two of you have memorized comes to town, or a holiday you love spending with her.

This may free you (and your old friend) up to do some new things.  When you do, consider, "How is this going to help me grow as person?  What is it about this activity or friend that I am particularly drawn to?  Is that something I really want more of in my life?"

For instance, you may be excited about a certain couple because they have great parties that look cool on Instagram and give you blog fodder.  If that is really your only connection to them, I suggest giving them a very slim slice of your life, perhaps accepting only every third invitation.  However, if you have a friend who is exceptionally kind to your child, and who could teach you how to make terrariums, and remembers to ask after your sick cat, see if she can meet you for coffee tomorrow.

I have to say I am quite taken with your idea of preserving unscheduled time.  Perhaps you can block that out in your calendar, and write "Reserved for Spontaneity" in the square.  Then, when you are asked to fill that time with volunteer work or a baby shower, just say, "I cannot.  I have an engagement with my mind."  Then everyone will think you are weird and won't invite you places anymore anyway and you'll have lots of free time!

I am being a little silly there, but honestly, you have the right to curate your own life.  Consider your calendar like an art exhibit, and choose the pieces that inspire you the most and that you want to look at all the time to hang on the walls of your days.

Feel free to create something beautiful with your community and your time, even if this means turning down some invitations.  Choose beauty, however sparse that may be for you, over busy-ness.

Love, Sibyl

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