Travelogue 1096 – 23 July
The Butcher

I had a session with Dirk the Butcher yesterday. He was so enthusiastic, he found extra pain to inflict. One cavity was not enough. He found a series of them in my front teeth, and he was reluctant to let me up from his chair. “I have so much time left in our appointment. Why don’t we take care of it?” I submitted reluctantly. The truth is, I have found some appreciation for the Butcher, his ham-handed Dutchness, his sad blue eyes, his rough grace. There’s no disputing his efficiency as a dentist. He attacks with a sure hand, and the results are solid. The pain was intense after the session, but it passed quickly. I looked into the mirror and saw a cleaner smile.

I wondered what sort of psychology lurked in the long narrow skull of the Butcher. Who does this job for so long? People fear you; they tremble as they sit in your chair. You have short, emotional encounters with people, during which they cannot speak. They walk out in a daze of pain and violation. The meetings are physically intimate but formal and impersonal. I can’t imagine there’s much variety in the work.

Out in the world, people must shudder when a dentist shares with them his or her profession. It’s a bit like being an undertaker. Dirk the Butcher looks the part, somewhat underworldly, tall and pale, back a bit hunched with age and work, his eyes pale and watery and staring, his smile unsettling. He’s ageing. His arms are so scrawny, I don’t know whence the strength he exhibits when he pries open my jaw. “Relax, relax” he says curtly, as he jams one more instrument into my mouth. It’s his version of reassurance, which must, in the offices of the Butcher, be delivered in the imperative.

Travelogue 1095 – 17 July

Kundera

A favourite author passed away last week. I want to write something about Milan Kundera, and yet I find it challenging. He was a favourite in my youth; he’s someone I’ve taken for granted since then. He informs me from that distance in time, as do a set of authors who affected me powerfully back then, people as varied as Durrell and Dostoevsky, Kerouac and Eliot.

I felt I had a special right to him, I suppose, being of Czech heritage. He was one of the giants of his generation, the last Samizdat generation, the Chapter 77 generation (though he didn’t sign), the generation that also produced Havel and the writers of the new Czech constitution. Ironically, though he was possibly the most famous Czech artist at the time, he was shunned by the others for having left Czechia. I defended him. He had become an ‘international’ author, writing in French in his later years. Born to be an expat, I felt instant sympathy for his position.

The themes of ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ are a young person’s themes, which is a reason it’s remained in my past. There are novels that I have brought along with me as I aged, and novels I didn’t. This is one of the latter, like, say, “On the Road”. Dostoevsky survived into my late 30s, but still fell away. Still, something of Kundera’s novel stayed with me, something of its moral courage and its frankness. I was delighted by its philosophical frame, its unembarrassed discourse on the significance of life and what was significant about living. He seemed refreshingly free of the self-conscious jadedness I was used to, and far from devaluing what he said, his ‘naivete’ was pulled off with clarity, wit and sophistication.

It was a special time. The present times have become so dark, these dire 2020s become so much more like the 1930s than the Roaring 20s, so serious, so portentous, that I think we have grown to distrust the preceding decades. They plotted against us. Everything that seemed cheery was a wink among conspirators. Politics and climate and globalism and the tech revolution were all poisoned, and done so deliberately. But it was a special time. I was in Slovakia in the early 90s. I would never have known that certain emotions were actually possible if I hadn’t been there. Labelling them as optimism or hope would only make me a target for trolling in the Bitter 20s. I’ll keep my counsel. But I regret sometimes how Eastern Europe became so overshadowed by Ethiopia in my own story. I haven’t often had the opportunity to contemplate and appreciate the former. Thinking of Kundera brings something back.

Travelogue 1094 – 12 July

Restart, Please

This is how our summer started. Thursday was the girls’ last day at school. Baby Jos celebrated with stunts off the group swing in the playground out front. She fell badly and broke her arm. We spent the afternoon at the hospital getting x-rays, a cast, and unwelcome doses of Dutch bedside manner, which sound to the uninitiated like the grim voice of Dread. They made her cry.

The next morning, we had to bring her in for an operation. I was emotional. She had to be put under general anaesthetic. It’s the second time already Baby Jos has had to be put under. I find it too hard to take. Menna stayed with Baby Jos, and I was put in charge of her little sister. Little Ren and I explored the hospital. We had snacks in the café. We bought balloons. When it was time, we raced up to her room. Baby Jos was groggy but already cheerful. Good!

That was Friday, my last day of work during this school year. I had been scheduled to meet with my supervisor for my appraisal, on literally the last possible day. We postponed until the fall. I was able to make my second meeting of the day, late in the afternoon. This meeting was a mentor session with a literary agent. I had scheduled the meeting weeks earlier, thinking I would be in a great headspace, summer started and my writing in full swing. Instead, I was drained and distracted. I hadn’t scheduled one of these meetings in a long time because I had undertaken a major edit of the book. Not so humbly, I expected a glowing word or two. Not so humbly, she trashed it. I left the call more than schooled and defeated.

Saturday was a hot one; the temperatures stifled all thought. Sunday was busy with kids’ activities for the girls, a birthday party and a final ballet class. I spent the day worrying about Baby Jos.

Monday started with an email from my employer announcing that my supervisor was leaving. What happened? I thought. Was it me? Now I’ll start the year with an appraisal from a stranger, looking over the notes from an odd year, a year full of medical issues and tumult.

Later in the morning, I had a dental appointment scheduled. I had been unhappy with this dentist, but I only had a few cavities to fill. What could go wrong? The dentist quickly answered that unfortunate question, throwing up her hands halfway through the filling operation and saying she would go no further. She treated me like a recalcitrant school child, crossing her arms, and crying that the operation was too difficult. She would stuff in a temporary filling and refer me to her colleague Dirk, whom I call “The Butcher”. I will see him Friday.

Tuesday morning, I woke feeling odd. Still, I hefted Baby Jos on the bike to run some errands. Feeling light-headed, I stopped for coffee and snacks. The dizziness only increased. I rushed home, sweating for fear of losing my balance while carrying my delicate little girl on the back with a cast on her arm. Back at home, I popped the thermometer in my mouth: 39.5˚C. The rest of the day, I tossed and turned in bed, fighting nausea and fevers.

Okay, so, have I cleaned the cosmic slate? Shall a fresh morning dawn when the songbirds greet me, dropping laurels leaves in my hair, leading my family along a garden path to the beach? My faith in the Great Season is faltering.