Only saw three flute bands on our trip. Poor us.

Virtual postcard

In case you are not getting a real postcard from me from our trip (hint: most of you), here is a virtual one (photo compliments of the Library of Congress), likely more interesting than anything I would jot out to you in a tired vacation haze anyway (read: if you do get a postcard, please remember it is the thought not the content that counts). 

Interestingly, this early 20th century photo of Ayasofya (Hagia Sofia in English) is labeled the "Mosque of St. Sophia." This strikes me as a clever way for the probably Western person who labeled it to remind everyone that this mosque used to be a basilica, but I could be wrong. St. Sophia is actually an abbreviation of the Latin version, Sancta Sophia, of the original Greek name (meaning Holy Wisdom). So the name still worked when it became a mosque. 

Most of the church/mosque combo buildings that I have seen are in Spain, churches built on Moorish foundations after the Reconquista. These buildings (such as the Mezquita in Córdoba) always left me feeling vaguely sad and, the good condition of Moorish forms notwithstanding, like something important had been lost in a probably violent way. Its antipode in Istanbul, Ayasofya, on the other hand, left me with no such feeling – a testament to my Western/Christian guilt, I suppose. 

Not long after this picture was taken, Ayasofya was converted into a museum. I suppose one of the reasons for this was to uncover many of the Byzantine mosaics from the basilica. The most famous of these is the Deesis (a mosaic of Christ which for some reason I had always thought was Justinian - ??). Uncovering them is apparently tricky work, sometimes requiring them to destroy paintings that were added when it became a mosque. (Some variant of the robbing Peter to pay Paul joke seems appropriate here but I can't think of one that isn't possibly offensive, so insert one of your own (that doesn't offend you).) There may be a huge mosaic remaining under the dome, but uncovering it would involve more destruction. Certainly there were and are many delicate decisions to be made.

Small grace, I suppose, that such terrible conflicts leave in their wake such diverse and fascinating cultural artifacts. To me, there is nothing more interesting than discovering signs of some extinct or dying culture hiding out under or even integrated into the dominant one; some of the most troubled places are the most interesting. But all this really doesn't make it less sad that in the end, one side usually loses almost everything. 

Missing you all more than ever! 

Last week we saw some very old ladies collecting dandelions in a field and I haven't thought about dandelions the same way ever since. 

How about orange aliens?

The orange we paid 3 CHF for this weekend turned out to be worth its absurd cost: hiding inside was a kiwi-sized sub-fruit reminiscent of an orange cauliflower! We were of course horrified and delighted by this mysterious embryonic mass.

While fully aware how alien seed pods sent to Earth can become body snatchers, we were still overcome with the same insatiable scientific curiosity that has been the tragic downfall of many an unwitting protagonist who encounters extraterrestrial life (with the obvious exception of Elliott - little lucky Elliott).

The alien brain, as it so obviously seems to be, has a tough cerebral covering which stretches around the tender juicy interior like a shower cap. Strong white fibers connect it to the round cellular mass inside.

It seems to have a brain stem.

Whether this young brain will develop into a dwarf tabletop alien or will remain in its nascent state as a sort of computer processor for a greater race of fruit is anyone's guess. But let me just say I will be watching my husband and my cat very carefully in the coming weeks.

Enthusiasm limited

Oh yeah, I've got a blog. I sometimes forget this, especially after long breaks away. In this case, I've been mentally away for about two weeks now, addressing a wicked chest cold. And I do mean wicked. Until yesterday, my days consisted almost exclusively of tissue, soup, podcasts, orange juice, staring into space, and blankets. 

In an effort to avoid the doctor, I recently visited the pharmacist. This is an event for a do-it-yourself kind of healthcare-taker such as myself. (Tell me, what American is not?) I was wary of asking for help but sick enough that I felt I must in order to avoid a worse fate. So, clutching my credit card, I crudely described my symptoms (polite phlegm-related vocabulary comes late in the game) to the nice lady in the professional white coat. 

My skepticism was really not allayed by her opening suggestion of a suppository for my sore throat. Even in my stupor I made sure to decline that one. I folded on the nasal spray, however; her enthusiasm was just too much (but not unwarranted, I later learned). As she made a stack of boxes just for me, I felt a bit like I had my own personal, homeopathically-aware shopper. This would have been fun if it weren't expensive and, well, just not fun. Spending nearly $50 at the pharmacy may fill your cabinet with drugs, but it doesn't get you any sympathy. Enthusiasm strictly limited to pharmaceutical products. (But I got better anyway.)

The cosmic event sorting machine must be broken. Why otherwise would I spot a 24-hour dog wash station, catch a fancy woman checking herself out in a window, exchange a joke with the ticket inspector on the bus, and observe an old man walk by several paintings hanging in a store window, then make an abrupt stop in front of the young female nude, all in the same day? My insides got tired from all the smiling.

I hadn't been planning to mention this, but it turns out I am still very perplexed by it, so I will. The this I am talking about is the fact that most all of the people of African descent here in Lugano seem to sit at the back of the bus. The first time I noticed it about a year ago, fresh off the boat from America, I blushed and looked fervently out the window for the rest of the ride.

It turns out this was not a freak occurrence – it's just the way of the bus here – so I have had ample opportunity to observe, ponder, and adjust to it in the last year. I have managed to tame my easily excitable superego, but I still can't help a faint sense of outrage.  It's pretty much a useless feeling, though; as far as I can tell, there's really no one to direct it at. (And believe me, I have surveilled bus interactions carefully, looking – hoping – expecting – some sort of transgression, but no dice. These Swiss hold their cards, close, man. Saying they keep to themselves might be an understatement. I couldn't even catch a dirty look.) It seems to be a self-imposed segregation. 

But why? Why? There doesn't seem to be an obvious explanation (e.g., they are all friends, the other doors were broken, etc.). Are there metaphysical forces acting on the seating arrangements? Is it somehow engrained into the subconscious of the bus? Is there subliminal social pressure? Feelings of powerlessness? Social awkwardness? Has nothing from the Rosa Parks story resonated here? Or am I just imposing my story on the place? 

Okay, so, as per the usual, I have no conclusions about this cultural matter, only more questions and some odd reflections about myself and my own weird milieu. I do have a feeling, however, based on a several conversations about the "dangerous" neighborhood in which we live, that I am not off-base in suspecting something. I just don't know what exactly to suspect. Thankfully I am just a visitor and not the culture police so I can leave it at that. 

Day 5: Alone with the Elf-Gnome

friend or foe?

Day 2: American celebrity

Three people have "recognized" me since I arrived in the US. A British guy in the airport was convinced I flew out of Bristol with him ("You have a twin!"); some dude in a flannel shirt honked and waved at me enthusiastically from his car; and a woman at the mall approached me excitedly, "Do I know you? Hi!" [Exchange of questioning looks.] "Wait... No, I guess I don't." I told her about the other two people. "Well, I guess you just have that look!" Generic, I guess is what she meant.

Man, I am still not used to cutting being socially acceptable. Today in line, keeping a comfortable but not surely not ambiguous amount of space behind the person at the register, I turned my head to read a sign. When I turned back seconds later, I was being cut in on. So amazing to be able to do this with no shame – no doubt the same kind of person comfortable using the word imbecile.

Strange goings-on

After finishing my laundry yesterday, I dutifully cleaned the laundry room. As instructed, to the best of my abilities. It's now clean enough to give birth in. My id wanted me to be at least slightly rebellious but was eventually overruled by my superego: the curse of being a good girl. Anyway, as I polished and wiped and imagined all the snappy things I could say in the face of more critique, my irritation morphed into anger but eventually became pity. It really must be endlessly frustrating to find no one is able to meet your standards unless you persecute them.

Still, on the way up the stairs I felt the urge to learn the name of my Swiss nemesis. I had an obscure hope that knowing her name would somehow help me recognize her around the building, which would allow me to punish her with some special combination of mad face and cold shoulder in the future. I felt sneaky and silly creeping up to her buzzer to read the name, but extra precaution seemed necessary. She was just the type to frequently utilize a peephole. 

Another kind of trouble, it seems, had already found my nemesis. The door was banged up and broken. It appeared to have been forced open at some point. A residue of police tape spanned the doorway. POLIZIA POLIZIA POLIZIA. I crept out of peephole range and down the stairs.

I spend the rest of the evening having all the thoughts and hypotheses you are having right now. What can it all mean? Where are you, Encyclopedia Brown, when I need you most?

Dirty American

Dirty is always relative; it depends on your system. My family, for example, thinks I am ridiculous in maintaining one sponge for the dishes and another for the counter. I, in turn, and despite not having read any hygiene news in my support, find it equally ridiculous to put counter dirt near my dishes like that. But still I eat at their houses.

Our upstairs neighbor, on the other hand, though perhaps it is more appropriate to say on the other planet (or maybe just country), has her own special set of cleaning standards which she has irritatingly chosen not to keep to her idiosyncratic self. She has, apparently, been complaining to the building manager about our (my) inept cleaning of the laundry room for a while now. I was quite surprised to finally hear this this week, having been schooled on the finer details of cleaning the laundry room once soon after moving in, and having never really recovered from the blow to my pride that this represented, and thus having kept rather tidy ever since

The rules that this woman thinks I should keep made make my eyeballs ache. The dials must be turned in the same direction (up). The lint trap must be washed out. The soap drawer must be cleaned, of course, but should be taken out entirely and washed thoroughly. Inside should be checked for drips. (Apparently she puts her face up to the hole to check for fabric softener residue.) The rubber part on the dryer door must be inspected for lint. And these are in addition to the already crazy house rules. All doors and drawers should be cleaned thoroughly and left open, but only slightly. The floors around the machines should be mopped. The sink and the top of the machines should be polished. Oh, and our assigned laundry period is Wednesday afternoon. No other laundering without special permission.

You know you live in a small town when...

you tell the cab drive your street and he guesses the building number.

Enter the American optimist

I'm the kind of person that roots for the underdog, so I don't necessarily enjoy the fact that I was born in a country that, at least for the moment, happens to be a major world power whose biggest export is a weird entertainment culture that, apart from being poorly representative, subsumes almost everything it touches. If I had to pick a country that fit my personality better I would pick somewhere much less flashy, someplace smaller, a bit more buttoned up and happy to have a discussion until the wee hours of the morning. But, alas, we do not pick our country of origin. And, sadly, we cannot change its history or cover up its sins or bury it under a big ton of rocks. We are stuck with it.

I feel particularly stuck with it because we are some of a few lonely representatives of this nation around here. I hope I'm not belaboring this fact in my writings here. I don't really mean to sound dramatic. But the US is a big country to represent and there is a wild amount of misinformation floating about. It is an exhausting job.

You see, for every misconception we correct, there is some other ugly fact that we can neither conceal nor deny. Just recently: Of course someone without insurance with get emergency care at the hospital. And oh yeah, millions of people have no coverage at all. Of course there are still some native Americans left in the US. Err... let me tell you about the first Thanksgiving! And although I used to try to deny the "so many more Americans must be obese" conclusion, I've been defeated on that one. Too many people come back from visits to the US saying this. How 'bout them free refills?

Also, no one seems to know or appreciate the really great things about our rapidly aging nation. Like how many kinds of potatoes there are. Or that we have trees that are wider than a car, even the big old American kind. How you can get edible Chinese food almost anywhere. That the sky can seem even huger if you can get alone enough. That you can find a hundred languages and a jillion small businesses in a city block. How it's so diverse assumptions are useless. And so huge you could never begin to summarize it in one paragraph.

There's no explaining these things, really. And maybe I just need them to be great so they can act for me as a mental counterweight to the heavy bundle of cultural and political crimes America as a community has committed. In any case, pessimistic people usually like to stick with the dark version of the story. I cannot blame them. It's much easier to stick to a tidy narrative than to acknowledge you may have severely misjudged the complexity and diversity of a country everyone knows everything about.

A potent dose of Swissness

No comment

A Swiss worker near the San Gottardo tunnel....

Parle vous l'inglese bitte?

On the sidewalk a few weeks ago, we came across an older Swiss German gentleman peering through a fence. "Look," he instructed, pointing at two flowers facing each other, straining toward the ray of light falling between them, "never say anything is impossible!" Once convinced we were sufficiently impressed, he walked away jauntily, leaving us to contemplate whether he was a crazy street man or just a hippy professor type without anyone to talk with or tell him to comb his beard.

A short while later we joined him at the bus stop where he was happy to rejoin us in conversation, switching to English when our lack of fluency was exposed. Mostly we talked about all the languages he can speak and where he learned them: French from the beautiful first girlfriend still ingrained in his memory ("Let me tell you, the first woman for a man is the same as the first man is for a woman"), English in school (apparently Swiss Germans learn English while Swiss Italians learn French), and Italian here in Lugano ("But I tell you, some of my friends here can't even ask for a coffee in Italian!").

Lugano bus culture requires passengers to self-segregate by age (and maybe also race but don't quote me on that yet), so when the bus came we got on at the back and left him to chat it up with the old ladies at the front. And what better way to impress the ladies than with a thrilling display of lingual and cultural literacy? Be still my heart.

Conflict resolution, crow style

Since there aren't any squirrels here for me to pick on, I hereby turn my attention to the second most horrible park animal: crows. There were a bunch of them in the park yesterday glaring at passersby from the trees, looking mean and up to no good. Like anyone who has seen "The Birds," I picked up my pace.

But I stopped my hasty getaway to watch what happened next. I am not making this up. A big shiny crow swooped in and knocked another backward off his branch onto the ground, where he pinned him, foot to chest. His victim flailed around while the rest of the gathered around to watch. (You can imagine all the horrid "cawing" from above.) This continued on for a good two minutes until his wings got tired, at which point it became boring for the bully bird, who let go. They all flew off together in an agitated huff.  

Not very refined behavior for the harbingers of death. Okay, but as I think of it, pecking people's eyes out and eating carrion are not very refined activities either, so maybe it's entirely appropriate. In any case, it's just further proof of what we all know: crows are mean.