An Unexpected Intimacy

We were moving, and I didn’t want to leave.  We left, and I didn’t want to move. We’d arrived - and all I wanted was to go back.  

I am not a Buddhist, but I am familiar enough with Buddhism to recognize one of its principal precepts: that everything is subject to change and that suffering and discontentment are the result of attachment to circumstances and things which, by their nature, are impermanent. 

Indeed.

All throughout this journey of packing and storing, moving and arriving and ultimately, unpacking…there was a single item I professed to care about. One thing that, if damaged or lost, I would somehow feel as though a piece of me was also broken and dispossessed.  And maybe, because of this move I was so reluctant to make, I already felt a little damaged, a little broken….a little lost.

The truth is, I was attached to a thing - a painting.  A huge piece of artwork that I’d carried with me throughout Kathmandu during an amazing trip to Nepal and Tibet back in 2002.  Every centimeter of the fragile canvas was covered in superbly detailed (often in miniscule scale) color including delicate gold filigree. It was an oversized scroll — a "thangka" lovingly and painstakingly stroked by two Tibetan monks, depicting a life cycle…an extraordinary expression of the birth and rebirth of the Buddha. The irony hit me only after my encounter with the woman at the frame shop.  

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So as was bound to happen, this one thing I valued, this one thing to which I’d allowed myself to become attached - this was the one thing that was damaged in the move.  The glass within the frame, shattered and broken.  

Metaphorically speaking, I could relate.  

Realistically speaking, I was irate.

I tore up the driveway on the day of the Big Move, right after I got the call informing me that a very large item, a piece of artwork, had been damaged in transit.  I jumped out of the car and raced inside the house, pushing my way past the movers as they continued unloading our stuff (which is how I regarded the rest of our belongings….just….stuff), arriving in time to see a third party snapping photos of my beloved “thangka” lying on the floor of the basement, shards of glass everywhere.  

Suddenly everything was quiet…and in the silence of that room in the middle of a house in the center of the States, my mind raced back to those monks in the Thamel District of Kathmandhu…how we’d talked to them and carefully chosen this piece, how we’d conscientiously avoided transacting in Tibet because the occupying Chinese strangulate everything there from commerce to artistic expression. How that painting had once threatened a visiting priest, how I’d been misjudged for establishing its domain on our living room wall…how for me, it represented one of the last major trips I’d taken in my many journeys fueled by curiosity and an open mind craving new experiences and a desire to connect with people the world over.

Seeing some stranger hovering over it as it lay prone on the floor…my reaction wasn’t limited to just the visceral; I had an immediate physical sensation similar to that of a body blow. I fell to my knees and passed my hands over the painting…just how damaged was it?  Could it be fixed?  

It could be fixed.  

Several weeks later, I was single-handedly and single-mindedly dragging the painting through the house, out the garage (sliding it on top of some leftover cardboard from a remnant box), and gingerly and of course ever so carefully, hoisting it into the back of the CRV.  I covered it with a blanket and drove at an obnoxiously slow pace all the way down the street to the nearest frame shop which luckily, was only 3 miles away. 

When I got to the parking lot of the frame shop, I was all business.  Trying to wrangle that thing out of the back of the car was out of the question; I knew I’d need the assistance of at least one employee just to maneuver it out of my vehicle and into the store.  With that in mind, I decided to first park the car and then advise the store personnel that I needed help.  As I walked through the parking lot, a Lexus pulled up right next to me, forcing me to stop in my tracks.  Irritated, I looked down into the window of the car and saw an elderly woman in the passenger side. She was of tiny stature, her long grey hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in an Indian sari.  For a second I forgot where I was as I reached out to open the car door and offer the woman my hand.  She turned to the younger female driving the car (her daughter?) and said something to her, then turned back to the car door which I’d since opened - as though I was a chauffeur waiting for my client to emerge from a stretch limo.

“Would you like some help?”, I asked her.  She smiled and said thank you, yes she would like help out of the car.  Her enunciation was soft but clear, “Please….yes.  Help me.”

I grasped her arm and gently pulled her up and out of the car.  We walked slowly toward the store entrance.  It was cold and drizzly that day, and I was wearing jeans, jacket, and closed-toe shoes.  By contrast, my elderly companion was wearing only the lightweight, gauzy material of her not-very-weatherproof sari.  I pulled her closer and leaned into her, propelling us both through the doorway and into the dry protection of the store.  Once inside, I attempted to direct her to a bench and asked her if she’d like to take a seat while she waited for her daughter.  She smiled and shook her head, pointing to the carts.  She wanted a cart.  We walked over to the carts and I pulled one out for her.  Knowing her daughter was parking the car and would be catching up momentarily, I asked my impromptu companion if she’d be alright to wait for a second or two, and she smiled at me, nodding in the affirmative….yes, she’d be alright.  And as she turned to thank me, she paused for what was almost an imperceptible second before taking my hand and squeezing it gently. Holding it for an equally imperceptible second more, she then did something so remarkable and unexpected, I smile now just to think of it again — she raised my hand to her mouth and kissed it, saying “Thank you…thank you”.  

So then, there I was, recently arrived in the Breadbasket of America (at a Michael’s Craft Store no less), heavy of heart, bearing the burden of that shattered painting, my broken “attachment” — an attachment as much circumstantial as material…and I was just kind of momentarily stunned. Stunned out of my funk, in fact. The only thing that came to me was to say “thank you” back to her as I turned away, leaving her to watch me, both of us smiling.  And I realized I felt…excited.  Happy.  Almost joyous.  Like a burst of adrenalin to the soul.

I thought about this strange connection - this genuine touch between two people…a kind of unexpected intimacy not normally associated with an encounter between two unknowns - though no less authentic for the lack of acquaintance. I thought about that fleeting touch - how it was so brief and so…light.  It was unusual, yes — but it didn’t feel awkward. It felt…sweet. Poignant, even.  It made my day, and I would say, it even made the damaged painting all the more worth the while.  I’d gone from feeling upset about the need to repair it, to feeling especially fortunate - for the same exact reason.

As silly as it may sound, something changed for me that day, it really did. Something inside.  I felt the tides shifting toward the positive.  When I walked out of the shop, the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds.

I smiled all the way home.

Ma Rencontre Parisienne

How many of us are familiar with the hustle and bustle personifying the arrival area at any given airport outside our country? The cacophony of a foreign language broadcasting over a loudspeaker as people push by; the urgency and the emotions and the confusion and the orchestra of dissonant sights and smells…This melody tends to play itself out at any airport, true enough - yet Paris really brings it all together in a passionate crescendo. It might be a cliché as far as feelings go, but disembarking from a transatlantic flight into the Roissy CDG airport is one of the most exhilarating sensations in the world – like you’re getting swept up into a love affair beyond your control - as though there’s a beautiful, magical, unexpected "je ne se quai" around the corner just waiting to be discovered.

The problem after the first blush of this warm embrace is that first of all, it doesn’t last for very long; and secondly, if you’re like me, then you might just find yourself stumbling out of Charles de Gaulle’s arms and into the impersonal and ever intimidating confusion know as the Parisian metro. What an awakening.

What a reality check!

I remember arriving at 9:00 am in the morning, knowing I'd be leaving for Tel Aviv the following day. I'd been to Paris before, and oui, I did all the checklist things that first time visitors to Paris do. But this time, I had just a little over 24 hours in the City of Lights and there were only two things I planned on doing during my layover: 1. have a coffee at the Café de Flore and people-watch; and 2. check out the little Picasso museum in the artist’s former house in the Le Marais district.

After collecting my luggage, I decided to save some money by skipping a taxi and braving the metro into the city. I don’t have a good sense of direction and I’m not a good listener – but mon dieu! I was in Paris (isn’t that good enough just by itself?) and I figured I had plenty of time (24 hours in fact) to get lost and eventually find my way to the hotel where I was supposed to be staying, pas probleme.

And get lost is precisely what I did.

I found myself smack in the middle of Le Marais, throngs of people pushing past me and my bag behind me. I must have had that stray look on my face - I know I was trying to get my bearings and figure out what my next move was going to be - when I heard this voice above the din, "Are you lost? Do you speak English? Are you American?!" I craned my neck to see beyond the crowd, and there, a few people deep, I saw her – a woman, probably in her mid 50s, wearing a beige trench coat, holding a bag with a lamp sticking out of it (a great eccentric touch), and smiling sympathetically at me. The most natural thing to do was to smile back.

She pushed against the flow of pedestrian traffic to reach me. "Where do you want to go?" she asked me. I told her I was looking for a hotel on the left bank and had no idea where I was. She shook her head, "No no no....you are far from there. Why did you get off at this exit? Come. I'll show you." She insisted on walking with me down the block, across the bridge and all the way through the next neighborhood to my hotel. I can still recall what a gorgeous walk it was - it reminded me of a Georges Seurat painting come to life: the sun was brilliant, children were lined up for a field trip as we crossed over one of the bridges, some old men were puffing away on their cigarettes and arguing politics, the Seine river was shimmering serenely below - and the whole time, my new friend was chattering away "look at this", do you see that"....

We couldn't pass by a shop without her pointing out how lovely the presentation of the white asparagus or approving the fruit and vegetable arrangements; pausing to smell the flowers in the flower market; chattering about the Bastille which was only just down the road; sharing an appreciation of specific architectural styles and window treatments; talking about her brother who lived in an apartment on the Left Bank, etc and etc....she was a treasure trove of information – a true character, and I was getting a real authentic grass roots tour of the surrounding Parisian neighborhoods. I couldn't believe my luck in that she had all this time to shepherd me around - and that she spoke English so fluently.

And what a conversant companion she was - turns out she had lived in New York City for ten years, working at the Berlitz language school there. She was well traveled, well educated, loved Americans and especially New York, and had a great time telling me some funny stories about her life there a few years back. Seemed we had lots to talk about....it was even a bit odd - like finding an old friend I hadn't seen in years.....I suspected she might be kind of lonely, missing her life in New York and eager for some fresh conversation. Sometimes such moments with strangers provide that window.

Eventually we arrived to the hotel which she insisted checking out on my behalf. She didn't care much for my choice of accommodations (I was budget traveling for sure), but agreed it would be acceptable for one night. She was just getting ready to leave me when she asked if I needed anything while she was there, as she could easily help me and it would be a pleasure. I thought about it and realized that in fact, I did need to buy a hairdryer (I know how weird that sounds. But I didn't want to tote along a ginormous converter apparatus...it just seemed easier to purchase a hair dryer locally). So I told her I was going to lay down for a while, then go out and find a store that sells small appliances. She seemed delighted by this and told me to drop my bags off in my room – and provided I still had the energy - she would take me to the discount store nearby where I could get my hairdryer without paying an arm and a leg.

So off we went, like two girlfriends spending a day shopping....I got my hairdryer, dropped it back off to my hotel, and by then, my new "friend" Christine had already decided (well, something tells me she might have decided this from the moment she first saw this lost American) to forget about whatever it was she had to do that day, and stick around with me IF I didn't mind the company. We were getting along great and I still wanted my coffee and people-watching fix at the Café de Flore, so I told her my plan and invited her to join me. She was delighted. Next thing you know, we're sitting around outside, sipping our coffees and making all kinds of anthropological studies of French people, Parisians in general, Americans, and the list goes on. We covered a lot of ground during the time we had a few coffees there. She was such a funny and engaging companion...

When we were finished with our coffees, I was prepared to say "adieu" and move along my way. I still wanted to see that Picasso house, and even though the formerly sunny weather had transitioned to clouds and it had actually begun to rain, the thought of going back to my tiny hotel room wasn't very appealing - and I still had the day ahead of me. So I thanked Christine for her time and her company (what else do you do in such situations?) and I sensed she was reluctant to say goodbye, but such encounters are really no more than interludes - they already come imbued with an air of...temporary. 

We said our goodbyes. 

As I walked along the street leading to the Picasso museum (back on the other bank), I took my time browsing in some of the art shops along the way until eventually I reached the house. I started walking around and had gone downstairs to the lower floor to look at some things when I suddenly heard "Michele! Michele!" (my name echoed through the hallway)...I was shocked - because I recognized the voice - it sounded like Christine!! Was my imagination playing tricks on me from being jet-lagged or did I actually hear my own name being called out a moment ago?? If Christine and I had already said our goodbyes over an hour ago, how/what in the world was she doing stalking me at this museum now?! 

I didn't really know what to think.

I turned toward the voice which was coming from upstairs and met Christine half way down the stairway. Would you believe she had an UMBRELLA with her? She had come to give me an umbrella - afraid that I'd be walking back (and it was a fairly long walk) to my hotel in the rain!

I felt so shocked. I couldn't believe she had performed this lovely act of kindness for a stranger. She pushed the umbrella to me, and then, we proceeded to walk around the museum together - arm in arm - two new best friends leisurely strolling a museum on a rainy afternoon, chatting and whiling away the waning hours. And boy did she have the most amazing, funny - and very sharp - critiques about Picasso (not surprising), and we evaluated and compared notes on his works and also gossiped about his love life. By the end of that afternoon, I was sorry that I'd be getting on a plane the next morning to leave. If there had been a way, I would have changed my flight for the following day – but I couldn't do that.

So, we finally did say goodbye (for real), after strolling through the museum and talking some more....and again, I couldn't shake off this weird feeling - like I'd met up with an old friend or someone I'd known previously but hadn't seen in years. I felt sad to have just met her and then to leave her, just like that. 

We exchanged addresses and promised to write.

And write we did, for about a year. Nothing too frequent (she wasn't on email and who likes to write long-hand these days?) but enough to stay in touch, and always letters of substance. As someone my senior, she had lots of advice (sometimes requested, mostly offered) and things to say about Life in general. She was certainly French down to the core.

Eventually we fell out of touch...

And then, 9/11 happened.

The Christmas immediately after 9/11, I sent Christine a card. I wondered how she felt about that event, and whether anyone she knew had been hurt or killed (you know that old theory about six degrees of separation). A month or so went by and then I finally got a letter from her. She had actually been in NYC when 9/11 occurred. As an even greater matter of coincidence, she’d been visiting friends just a few blocks down in the Tribeca area. It was the first time she'd been back to the City in about ten years. She was as devastated as anyone.

We fell out of contact again after that, but I still have her address and sometimes find myself thinking about sending her a letter. I wonder what she’s doing…if she’s well, what she’s up to…if she remembers me like I remember her.

Until the next time I return to Paris, this is how I'll always remember my last visit to such a magical city: as a unique, intense, unusual, and joyfully personal encounter with a lovely if not somewhat mysterious Parisian woman named Christine.

J'adore Paris com ça!

Miami's Shadow Village

During a recent trip to Miami, I found myself taking a stroll down memory lane. I used to live in Miami from the mid 80s to early 90s, which was more or less when Miami was emerging from its “Smugglers Blues” haze and experiencing a major renaissance (the latter which was in part, related to the economic boost enjoyed as a side effect of the drug subculture there – but I digress.) Today, I have mixed feelings about Miami – mostly all positive – but some less than.

The story I’m about to share highlights the “less than” aspect, for various reasons. Am I glad to have had the opportunity to live in a boom town like Miami - especially during its metamorphosis stage into the hyperbole that marks it today? You bet I am. But these days, I’m much happier being a visitor there.

And so the story begins...

Toward the late 80s, I decided to move into an apartment called Plaza Venetia in downtown Miami. Plaza Venetia is located next to the Port of Miami on Biscayne Bay, across the street from the Miami Herald. Back then, only ballsy people (or homeless) lived in this part of downtown…but it was up and coming and quirky and eccentric, and these characteristics appealed to me. That, and the fact that it was just across the bridge from the South Beach Marina, a place where I could often be found on a Saturday morning, having just rolled out of bed and barely skidding onto the docks in time to catch the last scuba boat leaving for the open waters and a two tank dive.

On lazy Sunday afternoons, it was fun to hang out on my apartment balcony and watch the cruise ships leave for their Caribbean island destinations…I lived on the 10th floor and at night, I loved to open up the sliding glass doors (which took the place of the entire east wall, and provided the floor to ceiling view across the bay toward South Beach) and hear the shrimp boats trolling for their catch at 2:00am. Since I spent a good 50% of my time traveling for my job, this was a relaxing, peaceful sort of paradise to which I was lucky to return every other week.

It was exciting to be in the midst of all the action and to feel a city’s re-birth taking place – but nearby my building there was a busy under/overpass to get onto the main highway. Every morning I would pass the area to get onto the highway to drive 45 minutes to West Miami where my office was located; the same under/overpass I had to take when I returned from the Miami International Airport on my way back from a business trip. One day – literally while I was on one such trip - I returned home and saw a strange sight: some cardboard boxes - BIG boxes, under the pass. I studied this for a minute or so and realized that people seemed to be living in these boxes - or at least using them as some kind of temporary shelter. It was a bizarre sight but I figured this was some new group of better organized homeless people and just like they arrived, they'd be gone.

But each trip when I returned, there were more of these "shadow people" living under the overpass....it was, in a word: surreal. I would even say that at one point, it was actually morphing into a little “village”. I’d lived in Caracas once as a kid (where this phenomenon is standard) - but I NEVER imagined witnessing such a thing in a “1st world”, metropolitan city - certainly not within a mile of my apartment – the one whose name sounded so fancy you’d think it belonged on Park Avenue in New York City or something. Soon I was seeing things like discarded furniture - old couches, chairs; and soon thereafter, the cardboard boxes had turned into corrugated tin structures - real makeshift shelters or little “barrio” type homes...

People were living there, no doubt about it. The funny (or frustrating) thing is that I never had a lot of time to contemplate this strange sort of “underworld” situation that was forming, because the entrance and exit for the highway were just yards away and I was always either coming or going, and like most people who live in a big city, I was of course, always in a rush to get somewhere.

Naturally I kept my car doors locked when passing this "shadow village", though nobody ever charged at my car or tried to cause trouble or even beg for money...nothing like that. The inhabitants of this “shadow village” usually stayed inside the confines of a chain link fence (which seemed purposeless) and basically kept to themselves. I couldn't figure out what it was they did all day or even how they ate, though I eventually saw where they went to the bathroom…because one day I noticed some portable urinal stalls - they'd either stolen them from somewhere or maybe the city officials agreed to put a temporary bandage on this weird hemorrhage – I’m not sure. But again, just to reiterate that it was the kind of spectacle that you'd associate with a third world country, not a city undergoing a major revival.

One day, I decided to call one of the shopkeepers downtown and ask if he knew what was going on with this "shadow village". I literally just looked in the phone book, knowing the streets and addresses since it was more or less my neighborhood, and selected a shop. The owner answered, and I introduced myself as someone who lived nearby and noticed this phenomenon and was curious to know what was the story. He told me that the people were all homeless, majority from the Caribbean, some were undoubtedly illegal (this, back when the notion of “illegal aliens” wasn't all that big a deal. Definitely pre 9/11) and that the whole thing was "bad for business!" He said the city was looking into "doing something about the problem" and he hoped it would be gone soon.

A few weeks after that, I was coming home one night around 9:00pm. Just as I was getting off the exit and passing the "shadow village", my car broke down – right there, in front of these guys. Of course, night time is when they were usually sitting on their "couches" outside, having a smoke or whatever it was they did (there never seemed to be any police around). I tried not to panic. I knew the longer I just sat there, the more attention I would draw from the captive audience, and just as I was trying to figure out my move, a middle-aged black man came up to the window on my side and knocked on it. I assumed he was one of the West Indian “majority” as described by that shop proprietor I’d called a few weeks back; he looked to be somewhere in his mid 40s. I took a gamble and rolled my window down half way. The man had a soft voice, a gentle voice - and he was very quick to ask if he could help. I knew it could be a scam or a way to possibly make trouble for me, but I also knew I didn't have much of a choice. I didn't get a bad vibe from him, so I opened the door and showed him how the car had just "died" on the spot. He tinkered around for a minute before advising that he couldn't fix it - but he recognized what the problem was. He offered to push my car down the rest of the street and around the corner to a nearby gas station (which was closed, but I knew there was a pay phone there where I could make a call for a ride, since even I knew that to walk the rest of the way to my apartment might end up with a rape or mugging and I didn't want to mess with my good luck up to that point).

I got out and helped push the car too and we easily made it to the gas station, where the guy then waited for me to make my call. When I finished with the phone, I turned to thank him and fished around in my purse for something to repay his kindness. He waved my hand away and resolutely stated that he would continue to wait with me since it would be "dangerous" for a girl like me to be all alone in the middle of downtown at night. So we waited and while we waited, I asked him how it was that he was living under the bridge...why? How did he get there? Did he have a wife – a family? What happened to cause him to end up living in this “shadow village” under the overpass in downtown Miami?

He told me his story, and it was so straightforward that it was chilling: he’d simply lost his job....that is, he’d lost his job, hit a patch of bad luck where he wasn't getting hired, couldn’t pay the bills and ultimately, lost his house in foreclosure. He and his family had nowhere to go, but heard that Miami was a place to find work. He was still looking for work when I met him (the terrible catch-22 being that nobody will hire you if you don't have a domicile or residence).

I must have asked a million questions during those twenty minutes we sat on the curb in front of that darkened gas station in the middle of downtown Miami....I learned that my rescuer was just your “average joe”; that is, he wasn’t an illegal alien from the islands - he was a regular guy from South Carolina – and he had two little boys and a wife. They were all with him, living under that bridge overpass. We continued to talk until my ride arrived (an ex-boyfriend who had to drive all the way from Southwest Miami, a good 25 minutes from where I lived - and he was freaking out when he saw me sitting on the curb in that very questionable area, next to this guy - just a real unusual sight to behold - unless you're talking about maybe a pimp and his prostitute. This was after all, downtown Miami).

Right before getting into my ride’s car, I checked my purse again and pulled out what I had, which was $40. I had to insist that my rescuer please accept it as a token of my gratitude. My ex, seeing how well the man had watched over me, also insisted on giving the man whatever was in his wallet. It was an awkward moment but one of those times when you just could not take “no” for an answer. It was terrible, knowing all the man had left was his pride - but we also knew he needed the money. (Well, in this type of situation what he needed was more than money, obviously – he needed contacts and a job. Things that I couldn’t provide him at that time.) In the end he accepted the money with quiet dignity, acknowledging that it would be helpful, and my ex and I wished him a positive turn of fortune as we left, feeling both happy - but mostly sad - at the humanity.

After this incident, I usually made it a point to look for my transitory "friend" whenever I was getting on or off the exit, but I never did see him again (it was hard anyways to recognize faces in such a sea of people....there really were a lot of people living there - a true "village" of people who for all tragic purposes, really didn't exist...) Then a few weeks later, I returned from one of my trips and would you believe - the "shadow village" was gone. All gone - no evidence it ever even existed.

A few years later, I moved away from Miami and ironically, found myself on a business trip there one day. I was staying at the InterContinental Hotel and when I walked through the lobby, I recognized one of the doormen as a former doorman working at my apartment building back when I lived there. He recognized me too. We greeted each other like two old friends and caught up on local gossip before I finally asked him if he ever remembered that “shadow village”. He paused for a moment and squinted, trying to think back to those times….no, he didn’t remember any “shadow village”. Where was this place? I explained to him in great detail about those few months when a whole village of people seemed to take up residence under the overpass, but he couldn’t seem to recall that.

Ultimately, I never knew anything more about this “shadow village”; never heard anyone talk about it; never even read about it in the papers or saw any coverage on the news. It almost seemed as though I'd imagined it all.

But - I’d had that encounter with my "friend" from South Carolina that one night when my car broke down...and I remembered about it again on this recent visit to Miami, and I insisted to drive by that area. I couldn't recognize it.

Indeed, it feels like it didn't exist at all.