Travelogue 883 – December 29
The Letters in Love
Being ill has forced me to recover a feeling for idleness. Rest is a good thing on its own merit. That’s a revelation. Even when you’re all slept out, lying idle is a good thing. Staring out the window, and indulging only the emptiest of thoughts becomes something positive. What a revelation.
I think I’ve rarely in life been as busy as I was this last fall season. It picked up in September, and it never really let up. I had something to do at all times. Every day, there was somewhere to be, multiple somewheres. That kind of hustle can be exhilarating. It informs a sense of purpose. Ultimately, though, being busy doesn’t invest the busywork with significance. You can be busy with trivia, and frankly most of us are. Society values motion over substance. It’s something like staring at the phone on the Metro – even if it’s Solitaire – instead of staring out the window. The phone apparatus itself invests its owner with seriousness.
But I was beginning to resent the motion. It doesn’t pay off. In a society that values motion, there’s no one left to notice what you’re doing. They will surely notice if you stop, but no one has time to check on your motion. Who polices the Solitaire players on the Metro? Those people should at minimum be shopping. Or they should be advancing the progress of some new trend.
I’ve had time to attend to the things that the girls love. They have a passion for puzzles and for drawing. Little Ren in particular is mad about puzzles. She’s solving puzzles well beyond her age level. Baby is the artist. She loves drawing and painting, an interest she probably picked up from her mother, who has been dedicating herself to water colours lately.
And Baby started reading! One evening she took a sudden interest. It had clicked in her understanding that letters added up to words. She looked down at her T-shirt, where one word was emblazoned in big letters. She read the letters as she saw them, looking down: E-V-O-L. The next day, she wrote her first word, EVOL. We cheered her on. Mama gave her new words to puzzle through, a list of three-letter words, vowels in the middle. And Baby was thrilled. It’s amazing how things start. I wish I could remember the first word I read.
Sunday, December 29, 2019
Monday, December 23, 2019
Travelogue 882 – December 23
Winter Hero
I was hero for a day. We have been laid up all weekend, the whole family, with a horrible flu. The house was a mess; we were a mess. We were out of medicine and out of tissues. The situation could not have been more dire.
The world outside seemed menacing. It was solstice time. The days were short. Light was in short supply. Even at two o’clock, the was sun having a hard time penetrating the clouds. And, yet, even in that debile light, I knew there would be people in the streets, making their rounds. They were likely to be smiling, these people. They were likely to be in a Christmas spirit. They were going to be healthy and cheerful.
There was nothing to be done. I stood. My aching limbs would make dressing slow, but I had to push through the pain. My family depended on me. In the tradition of proud fathers through the centuries, men who have braved all that nature and humanity might hurl against them in order that their families may survive, I braced myself for the elements, and I set out for the store. It would be an epic trial, my steps slow and feeble, the weight of the backpack on my shoulders crushing. The light was dim, the rain gentle but persistent, the temperatures fiendishly mild. In short, everything was stacked against me.
So anyway, I made it. I won’t brag. The mission was accomplished. No one celebrated me along the final stretch toward home. I had no cheers. Even my family took my offerings in stride. To the girls, these were no presents. Medicines were more inconveniences. Baby was too wiped out to shower me with gratitude. She just stared at me from underneath her blankets. It made me sad again to see her in such a state.
The truth is, I may not have suffered for my family the way I should have. There were moments I enjoyed being out of the house. The walk was almost pleasant, once I’d accepted the slow pace and once my body had warmed up to the unaccustomed movement. Indeed, the store was crowded and loud; and, indeed, the people were offensively healthy and high-spirited. But I slipped through their nets of peppiness with minimal injury. I paid and packed my bag and was on my way home through the drizzling rain before they’d known it. The quiet courtyard of my building was a welcome salve to the aggravations of a season. I paused only a moment, but peace is potent in small doses.
Winter Hero
I was hero for a day. We have been laid up all weekend, the whole family, with a horrible flu. The house was a mess; we were a mess. We were out of medicine and out of tissues. The situation could not have been more dire.
The world outside seemed menacing. It was solstice time. The days were short. Light was in short supply. Even at two o’clock, the was sun having a hard time penetrating the clouds. And, yet, even in that debile light, I knew there would be people in the streets, making their rounds. They were likely to be smiling, these people. They were likely to be in a Christmas spirit. They were going to be healthy and cheerful.
There was nothing to be done. I stood. My aching limbs would make dressing slow, but I had to push through the pain. My family depended on me. In the tradition of proud fathers through the centuries, men who have braved all that nature and humanity might hurl against them in order that their families may survive, I braced myself for the elements, and I set out for the store. It would be an epic trial, my steps slow and feeble, the weight of the backpack on my shoulders crushing. The light was dim, the rain gentle but persistent, the temperatures fiendishly mild. In short, everything was stacked against me.
So anyway, I made it. I won’t brag. The mission was accomplished. No one celebrated me along the final stretch toward home. I had no cheers. Even my family took my offerings in stride. To the girls, these were no presents. Medicines were more inconveniences. Baby was too wiped out to shower me with gratitude. She just stared at me from underneath her blankets. It made me sad again to see her in such a state.
The truth is, I may not have suffered for my family the way I should have. There were moments I enjoyed being out of the house. The walk was almost pleasant, once I’d accepted the slow pace and once my body had warmed up to the unaccustomed movement. Indeed, the store was crowded and loud; and, indeed, the people were offensively healthy and high-spirited. But I slipped through their nets of peppiness with minimal injury. I paid and packed my bag and was on my way home through the drizzling rain before they’d known it. The quiet courtyard of my building was a welcome salve to the aggravations of a season. I paused only a moment, but peace is potent in small doses.
Monday, December 16, 2019
Travelogue 881 – December 16
Take Solace, Republic
After watching the quiet and melancholy fall of Labour in England’s election, I confess to a certain pride in the vitality of the opposition in the U.S. I admire Bernie’s dogged persistence and consistency. I appreciate Mayor Pete’s earnestness. I’m fond of ‘Sloppy Joe’ the way many Americans are, guiltily but sincerely. And who could help but admire the powerhouse that is Elizabeth Warren?
I read an article recently that drew the tired parallel between the U.S. today and Rome in its early imperial era. The author wasn’t claiming it was a new idea but directed the analysis away from the emperors and toward the failing legislative bodies. The failure of the Roman Senate was the story of weak and self-interested old men. And therein lies the author’s caution.
The sad visages of Moscow Mitch and Lindsey Graham drifted through my mind as I read, but to say the two eras are the same is to miss one huge difference. The Trump story features a host of strong and charismatic women rising in opposition, and, by the way, being rather effective. They have provided not only critique but alternatives, whether in substance or style. The story of Trump is also the story of Pelosi and Warren and AOC.
There are men in there fighting the good fight, too, guys like Schiff and Nadler. What is refreshing is that they don’t seem threatened by Pelosi’s leadership. They aren’t stealing any scenes. They do their job.
It’s a refreshing change. To deny the good news here is to make an effort to look the other way. I don’t think that’s unfair to say. It’s the kind of mentality that constructs insults for Greta Thunberg. It takes an effort to be that cynical.
As tiresome as the drums of the left can be, the reactions in our times to Obama, Hillary, and Greta make it pretty clear how deep the biases and hatred run, and how ugly they are. To put it another way, the violence of the bigots gives them away. The right doth protest too much. Their pathology alone ought to convince those on the fence, those who may be intimidated by the forceful rhetoric about racism or sexism. Take a breath; comfort yourself that people like Trump will have money and power behind them for a long time to come; and take a quiet look around.
Rational and positive opposition is a good thing. Be concerned when your screaming succeeds, and yours is the only voice in the room. That’s when the ghost of Caligula comes a-calling.
Take Solace, Republic
After watching the quiet and melancholy fall of Labour in England’s election, I confess to a certain pride in the vitality of the opposition in the U.S. I admire Bernie’s dogged persistence and consistency. I appreciate Mayor Pete’s earnestness. I’m fond of ‘Sloppy Joe’ the way many Americans are, guiltily but sincerely. And who could help but admire the powerhouse that is Elizabeth Warren?
I read an article recently that drew the tired parallel between the U.S. today and Rome in its early imperial era. The author wasn’t claiming it was a new idea but directed the analysis away from the emperors and toward the failing legislative bodies. The failure of the Roman Senate was the story of weak and self-interested old men. And therein lies the author’s caution.
The sad visages of Moscow Mitch and Lindsey Graham drifted through my mind as I read, but to say the two eras are the same is to miss one huge difference. The Trump story features a host of strong and charismatic women rising in opposition, and, by the way, being rather effective. They have provided not only critique but alternatives, whether in substance or style. The story of Trump is also the story of Pelosi and Warren and AOC.
There are men in there fighting the good fight, too, guys like Schiff and Nadler. What is refreshing is that they don’t seem threatened by Pelosi’s leadership. They aren’t stealing any scenes. They do their job.
It’s a refreshing change. To deny the good news here is to make an effort to look the other way. I don’t think that’s unfair to say. It’s the kind of mentality that constructs insults for Greta Thunberg. It takes an effort to be that cynical.
As tiresome as the drums of the left can be, the reactions in our times to Obama, Hillary, and Greta make it pretty clear how deep the biases and hatred run, and how ugly they are. To put it another way, the violence of the bigots gives them away. The right doth protest too much. Their pathology alone ought to convince those on the fence, those who may be intimidated by the forceful rhetoric about racism or sexism. Take a breath; comfort yourself that people like Trump will have money and power behind them for a long time to come; and take a quiet look around.
Rational and positive opposition is a good thing. Be concerned when your screaming succeeds, and yours is the only voice in the room. That’s when the ghost of Caligula comes a-calling.
Thursday, December 05, 2019
Travelogue 880 – December 5
Sint-Niklaas
Santa is a more elusive character than his Dutch counterpart, Sinterklaas. Santa may show up occasionally at shopping malls to meet the children, but those appearances are random and serve little real purpose in his mission, except perhaps to gather gift ideas. Would a wise old man compile his lists this late?
When it comes to Santa’s central mission of delivering toys from the North Pole, he works in secrecy. He circles the globe in one night, eluding all surveillance, and then he disappears into the first light of Christmas Day. Kids never spot him breaking into their houses. He’s forgotten once the gifts are open.
Sinterklaas, in contrast, lives a much more ordinary life, befitting the pragmatic character of the Dutch. We need not imagine him as an ascetic dug into arctic seclusion. Sinterklaas lives in Spain, a more commodious place for a workshop, I’d say. He doesn’t constrain himself to one night. He enters Holland weeks ahead of the holidays, and he arrives in the light of day. He doesn’t sneak around, but arrives by boat, and then joins a parade through town.
The parade in Amsterdam is usually in mid-November. For the next few weeks, children watch for gifts of candy left in their shoes, and then, on the 5th of December, Sinterklaas leaves his presents at families’ homes.
The timing is aggressive for transplants. We’re used to having all December to shop for Christmas. We struggle, especially given the timing of Little Ren’s birthday, just days after Sinterklaas. We don’t have the option to ignore the Dutch holiday anymore, since Baby started school. She comes home with lots of chatter about Sinterklaas and queries after her presents.
In fact, today, Baby came home from school, to tell us she had seen Sinterklaas himself. It turns out the teachers had taken their kids out to the pier in Delfshaven to see Sinterklaas arrive by boat. The school posted a video of the event for parents, the scene a mob of children cheering the approach of a small boat with a waving Santa figure. The suit is similar, all red and white, but in truth Sinterklaas is more fit than Santa. His beard is longer, looking more old-time prophet than jolly elf. But there he is, recognizable as the type, Father Christmas.
Baby was suitably awed. She is now the authority on Sinterklaas, even correcting me on the name. “Papa, his name is Sint-Niklaas!” The stage is set. Now we arrange the gifts for discovery this evening. Sinterklaas has come! Excuse me, Sint-Niklaas.
Sint-Niklaas
Santa is a more elusive character than his Dutch counterpart, Sinterklaas. Santa may show up occasionally at shopping malls to meet the children, but those appearances are random and serve little real purpose in his mission, except perhaps to gather gift ideas. Would a wise old man compile his lists this late?
When it comes to Santa’s central mission of delivering toys from the North Pole, he works in secrecy. He circles the globe in one night, eluding all surveillance, and then he disappears into the first light of Christmas Day. Kids never spot him breaking into their houses. He’s forgotten once the gifts are open.
Sinterklaas, in contrast, lives a much more ordinary life, befitting the pragmatic character of the Dutch. We need not imagine him as an ascetic dug into arctic seclusion. Sinterklaas lives in Spain, a more commodious place for a workshop, I’d say. He doesn’t constrain himself to one night. He enters Holland weeks ahead of the holidays, and he arrives in the light of day. He doesn’t sneak around, but arrives by boat, and then joins a parade through town.
The parade in Amsterdam is usually in mid-November. For the next few weeks, children watch for gifts of candy left in their shoes, and then, on the 5th of December, Sinterklaas leaves his presents at families’ homes.
The timing is aggressive for transplants. We’re used to having all December to shop for Christmas. We struggle, especially given the timing of Little Ren’s birthday, just days after Sinterklaas. We don’t have the option to ignore the Dutch holiday anymore, since Baby started school. She comes home with lots of chatter about Sinterklaas and queries after her presents.
In fact, today, Baby came home from school, to tell us she had seen Sinterklaas himself. It turns out the teachers had taken their kids out to the pier in Delfshaven to see Sinterklaas arrive by boat. The school posted a video of the event for parents, the scene a mob of children cheering the approach of a small boat with a waving Santa figure. The suit is similar, all red and white, but in truth Sinterklaas is more fit than Santa. His beard is longer, looking more old-time prophet than jolly elf. But there he is, recognizable as the type, Father Christmas.
Baby was suitably awed. She is now the authority on Sinterklaas, even correcting me on the name. “Papa, his name is Sint-Niklaas!” The stage is set. Now we arrange the gifts for discovery this evening. Sinterklaas has come! Excuse me, Sint-Niklaas.
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