thefutureisred

What Were You Doing This Time Last Year?

I just got a message from one of my favorite writers/bloggers/travelers @umarket saying that the last year has felt like a decade. I completely agree! 

Perhaps that's the nature of travel. When you move around so much, each day feels like a week feels so very long.

Not in a bad way, it's just that travel forces you to be acutely aware of each moment. You have to think about where you will eat, where you will sleep and often even something as simple as buying a new pair of shoes takes time and thought in a way it simply doesn't when you're home.

The drastic change only adds to this time-lengthening effect.

Last year this time, we had just arrived in Buenos Aires and had the good luck to meet a family from New Jersey who were living the month in an apartment right down the street from us. They have twins, and Lila and their two girls played every day.

We spent New Year's eve with them and another friend Jo at an extremely touristy restaurant near the Recoleta cemetary. I thought the evening would be overpriced with mediocre food. Turns out, it was one of the more memorable New Year's of my life.

Don David wine flowed freely (was included in the 100 peso price per person of the meal). Our three children were not the only ones out for the evening either. All the other tourists -- from Brazil, England, Holland, Chile, France and more -- brought their little ones out for the evening, and they all danced happily until 3am.

Since then, we moved to Salta, and attended Burning Man. Lila turned five and started school. We started an education project. I became editor of Matador Life. Noah began designing an art exhibit for next year's Burning Man, We rented a house and began developing our new-expat life in Argentina. So many new things. It's no wonder last January 1 feels miles and miles away.

And now, right this very second, I'm in the process of packing to go to Israel. It'll be my first visit there in almost 20 years, since I lived there in high school. I was religious then and attended an all girls seminary in an extremely ultra-orthodox neighborhood in Jerusalem. Should be interesting!

Now I want to know about you. I talk about myself all the time here. What about you?

What were you doing last year on this day? And what do you hope to be doing in a year from now?

Wishing you all a happy new year, filled with love, luck and promise. Thank you to family and friends for being such amazing support. Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to read this blog of mine. I've loved getting to know you through comments, Twitter and otherwise.

Happy 2010 to all from the whole Futureisred family!

Why Thanksgiving Can Never Be Just A Day Of Thanks

This morning I woke to see a post from Seth Godin saying that this is "the only holiday that really matters.” Thanksgiving. Are you freakin' kidding me?

Now, in no way do I intend to“call anyone out” for sending wishes of thankfulness. It is a lovely sentiment and should always be applauded. Still that post stuck in my throat like that little pointy bone in a chicken.

Thanksgiving has always been a day of ambivalence for me.

I love the big family meal where everyone brings something to the table. We all help out setting and cleaning up. I love watching Lila play with her friends, and the very tastes of turkey and cranberry, stuffing and my specialty chocolate pecan pie remind me of this time we spend together. 

Am I to be completely honest, if I could suddenly zip back to Atlanta right now to be with the whole ganza mishpacha, I would do it without a second thought. Thanksgiving holds a special place for many expats, because it tends to be a very American holiday.

It’s also my favorite time of the year. Crisp but not too cold to keep you from going outside. The leaves on the ground impart a unique scent to the entire city of Atlanta and everything is quiet on the streets as people sit down for dinner.

On the other hand and a hand that shouldn't -- although too often is -- ignored.

Thanksgiving is a day of mourning for many. It’s the yearly reminder of blankets with smallpox, families murdered, entire peoples marched sick and dying for thousands of miles, stolen land and lost hope.

For this reason, I couldn’t bring myself to post Thanksgiving recipes to mark the day on the Matador Life, and why we chose to post an article on Native American Thanksgiving traditions instead. Definitely check out the wonderful article Candice Walsh, the fabulous associate editor and angry redhead wrote.

Noah and I chatted about it over coffee this morning. He, as always, has a unique view of things, often stated so wryly and succinctly it is difficult to hear. In short, he sees the second view of Thanksgiving as “post colonial guilt.” As expected, I bristle strongly at the suggestion.

“The Indians lost,” he says. “If they had won, we wouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. We wouldn’t use their images as mascots for sports teams. Thanksgiving is a victory holiday. That is at base what we are celebrating, and history is littered with this kind of mangled crap.” 

South America. Australia. Canada. New Zealand. Name a country where you won’t find someone with a similar history. It's inescapable.

But to celebrate with a feast? It's something I simply can't reconcile.

Should reparations be made?

If so, how? And who? So many of the people living in the US are immigrants – including myself – and have no direct responsibility for what happened aside for our choice to live in a country that now offers greater freedom and opportunity than the countries we left.

I also wonder if we had it to do all over again today, with the knowledge we now have, would we do the same thing again?

The more I write, the more I realize I have no answers, only questions. With that, I leave you with my final one. How can we celebrate all the good we have without remembering what was lost in order to pave the way?

Photos courtesy of Jonathan Hamner's Flickrstream

So What're You Doing For Valentine's Day?

Image by Swamibu

A quick post to pass along a great gift idea for Valentine's Day...

I love these projects that both embody the act of both giving and receiving at the same time. You write a poem for a loved one; it is published. Others can donate to download your written works and all proceeds go to help others.

The LOVE ebook: Love Creations and Real Support For Those Hit By the Recession! A project put together by @writingroads.

Hmmm... a win, win, win situation.

How Many Jews Does It Take To Make A Christmas Party?

Tomorrow night, there's a Couchsurfing Christmas dinner. Argentinians are with their families and don't seem to be around so much these days, but there are a lot of us others floating about.

Originally, I offered our place for the dinner, but when it seemed like more than 20 people were coming, the venue was switched to elsewhere. Now it's at Dan's place, and I'm doing what I can to help him organize.

Now it looks like it could be upwards of 50 people. This should be a lot of fun.

For me, this Christmas dinner is about meeting new people and spending time with other travelers who are away from home on a day they would normally be with family and friends. It's not just about the particular holiday.

But what about Lila? How does she see all of this?

I know I'm Jewish and it has always been such a part of my identity that I don't think twice about it. I know at least a few of my family members are worried that Lila will not be brought up properly Jewish. And if they want her to be Orthodox, then no, she will not be properly Jewish. I do, though, want her to know that she is Jewish, know the holidays, learn Hebrew, and have some idea of Jewish History.

I also want her to be able to go to a Christmas party, wish someone an Eid Mubarak or experience a Hindu wedding and not feel like she's doing something wrong. In fact, I hope she would want to know about other people's traditions, holidays and enjoy the celebration.

A few months ago, though, Lila got very upset when we told her she's Jewish.

"No," she shouted. "I'm not Jewish. Not Jewish." She stomped her feet and left I shocked. "What was that?" we asked ourselves. The first thought that we never wanted our families to hear her say these things, because they would most certainly blame it on us. That was fall out I did not need.

But I don't think either of us are anti-Jewish nor do i believe we have passed that message onto Lila.  It did make me wonder who in her life portrayed "jewish" as something bad. Then again, with a child of four years old, you never know how connections come together in their growing brains.

So how to deal with this Judaism issue? I don't want her to think I'm upset with her for not seeming to want to be Jewish. Because, really, I'm not even sure what it means to her to be Jewish. Then add to this, the constant travel? It's not easy. It's a priority to meet families with children because I want to make sure Lila doesn't spend all her time with adults, entertaining herself. But we rarely meet other Jewish families.

Much of our Judaism comes when we spend time with family and close friends. We light Chanuka candles with the cousins. Last Rosh Hashana we spent with Ken in Buffalo. Succot was with Ken, Rachel and finally my parents in Atlanta. We spend shabbat with friends in NY, with my parents, with Noah's sisters. And we do as much as we can on our own. I do have to admit, though, what we do on our own is a bare minimum, particularly when finding housing or transportation to the next city is on our minds.

This year, on the first night of Chanuka, we tried going to the Chabad chanuka lighting. When we arrived, we found nothing but an enormous chanukiya with the shamash and one light already lit. And crickets chirping.

So yesterday, when Lila asked me "When will Christmas be here," I started to worry about this again, because she hasn't asked a word about Chanuka.

What will we do?

We'll still go to this Christmas dinner, because it's important to have community wherever you are. But to make a point for Lila, we bought the makings of our own chanukiyah and will bring it along and light it, so we can all celebrate together, all of us, all the holidays. Everyone is welcome.

In the Grand Tradition of Spiderpig, Spirited Away and Roald Dahl

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

 

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

 

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

 

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

 

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

 

The woman behind the counter asked me a question.  Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

 

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

 

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

 

“Oh. Where is that?”

 

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

 

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

 

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

 

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

 

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

 

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

 

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

 

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

 

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

 

The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.

 

(ps. We plan to go back for another turn on the ride. This time, Lila’s taking pictures.)

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

 

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

 

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

 

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

 

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

 

The woman behind the counter asked me a question.  Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

 

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

 

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

 

“Oh. Where is that?”

 

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

 

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

 

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

 

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

 

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

 

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

 

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

 

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

 

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

 

The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.

The Politics of Poop

This afternoon I was reading a friend's blog. I swear, this time I was not procrastinating. I wanted to see which of two possible jobs she chose, and I didn't check IMDB once. She was talking about the daycare she just found for her son Ben. The woman running it had lots of questions and suggestions, mostly about poop. Only every other day! That's not good. Not good at all. How often does he poop? What are you doing to get him to poop more often? Are you regular?

When I read this story, I had to smile. It reminded me of Grandma Ruth.

Suddenly, I was whisked back to Pesach 1996. Not the first time I met her, but the first time I visited her home in Florida. Boca del Mar, I think it was. The one with the swimming pool and a longer walk to schul. You had to walk past a little lake on the way there. Noah and I went there often for night walks and such. (AJRBL) We both ended up with bug bites all over from those walks.

Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Charles lived in quite a few houses in their time. Four or five of them in Boca Raton. I knew only the last two of those. The memories of those places run together alot. Where did we ride bikes through the neighborhood. Where did we walk Dylan for three hours when he had diarrhea. Where was that huge fight. The one that started about the pillow, not about the dog. I try to differentiate by remembering which had the pool and which did they remove all the carpet and turn the pantry by the garage into another bathroom.

This one was the house by the pool: We were all sitting at their rounded wood kitchen table. It had big clawed feet with tall spindle-backed wood chairs around it. Overheard hung the Tiffany lampshade that followed them to all their various kitchens. This particular night, Grandma made latkes. Grandpa Charles, as always, prepared. Chopped onions, peeled and grated the potatoes, as Grandma Ruth sat on a wooden stool supervising. "Chop those finer. Rinse those in water. Now add eggs, flour."

Grandpa swears he doesn't know how to cook. He needs her direction.

At the table, Grandma, as always, sat forward on her knees. I think it gave her a better view of things. From there, she saw what and how much everyone ate, commenting if you were a good eater or didn't eat enough. Or she would watch the serving plates as they emptied. From time to time, her always manicured hands would reach out and pick a choice morsel from one of the plates then pop it into her mouth.

As we finished, she pushed back her plate and spoke with the most satisfied sigh. "Ah, latkes. I love them. I remember once time I ate so many I was compacted for a week.Grandpa had to take me to the hospital to get cleaned out."

One thing with Grandma Ruth. No subject was off limits. She asked when you were getting married, when you'd be having kids, when would another one be on the way. "Just promise me you'll have a child before I'm dead," she once pleaded with me. "Grandma," I told her. "You're just going to have to stay alive."

She was alive long enough to meet Lila. By that point, though, Grandma and Grandpa had already moved to Atlanta and were no where near as autonomous as they had been in Florida. There were no more frantic trips to Sawgrass Mills to look for a green wedding dress to walk down the aisle at my friend Gaelle's wedding. "Leigh, you look like a green angel in that dress." No long drives to Miami just to take me to lunch at a particular and very fancy kosher Chinese place. It was wonderful, Grandma and Grandpa.

That was the same also my first visit with them. Noah's flight left the day before mine, and the rest of the family were long gone on their return drive to Maryland. I was horribly nervous to be all alone with the formidble Grandma Ruth. She could really be a hardass when she wanted. But those days alone with the two of them cemented my relationship with them as one that was loving, caring and good.

There was a memorial in Atlanta soon after she passed away. What impressed me so much about it was the pure honesty when talking about her. She was not turned into a saint. Yes, she could be loud, mean, caring, pushy, loving, generous, bigger-than-life, honest, soft, nosy and did I say pushy? No one needed to pretend she was anything but what she was and every word of her came true and unvarnished.  Each story made us laugh and then in turn we cried.

Now, that big table sits in Jason's kitchen in Colorado. I picture him and his wife sitting there with their ten month old baby. The chairs backs are breaking, in spite of Grandpa Charles ingenious fixes over the years, and the stools remain with the rest of our things in storage in Atlanta. I'd like to keep them in the kitchen the very next time we have one.

I truly miss her. I do.

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Download VTS_27_1.wmv
This was taken in Atlanta at Aunt Jane's house-up-on-the-hill. I think Lila was 18 months old.