Who was that nice man?

Life. It defies any assumptions I might make about it. Have you noticed that? For example, you think the person approaching on the jam-packed sidewalk will go right, so you go right to avoid a collision…but they don’t, they go left while you’re going right, resulting in a near bump, a look in their eyes, a laugh and a buoyant, intimate, connected moment.

These moments offer themselves more frequently than we realize. I think they happen all the time.

I think…

…we ignore them because they’re little and don’t believe they deserve our attention.

…we let them go because we can’t control any situation with another person, and it’s too intimidating to think about what might happen if we tried to connect.

…we tell ourselves we don’t have time to find out why that stranger is standing in our path, our ready partner in an unrehearsed pas de deux of unknowns.

During the two weeks that I’ve been back from Africa, I’ve stood in lots of lines, called numerous customer service lines, returned merchandise and relied on strangers for help. In most cases, these individuals just had to do the job they were being paid to do. But you know how it is…some do those jobs well and others…well…they’re disasters. Each time, I faced a stranger. And each time, I got to choose what sort of stranger I would be to them: aloof, angry, cheerful, forgiving, understanding, demanding, ugly, exasperated, special, humble, light, or…you fill in the blank.

Today I experienced the power of choosing how I greet strangers…And what a day! I left the apartment at 6:15 to drive to JFK and pick up my big old 28 kilo suitcase, which Nathalie and Paul had shipped from Senegal. At 60 + pounds, this bag would not have added anything to my four-country tour of Europe before I returned to New York. I drove over the 59^th Street Bridge as the sky was turning pink, cruised through Corona Park as the sun backlit the trees with golden light. And at 7:15, I was at Delta’s Air Terminal in Cargo Area B. I was first in line talking with Teresa. She processed my waybill and then asked if I knew how to get to Customs, which is the second step of the three step cargo-release process. She pulled out a map with lots of intersections, lights, cryptic marks and one very large note that US Custom is five miles from the Delta facility where I was standing.

I was dismayed and it must have showed. The guy in line behind me stepped into our conversation and offered: “I’m driving to Customs, just follow me.” He not only led the way, but waited in the parking lot, waited while Officer Harris questioned me about what I did in Senegal, investigated me through Google, asked me to translate the inventory of my suitcase, which Nathalie had written in French…and then with a big beautiful smile, dismissed me into the custody of my escort Ronald and a “thank you for being a good American.” Ronald whisked me along the back roads to Delta Air Cargo, waving and shouting “good luck” as he drove away. He’d just given over a half hour of his finite life to help me out…no reward except a smile.

Teresa processed my paperwork, chatted with me about Kansas and New York and Christmas and crowds. She escorted me to the freight area, turned me over to another of her friendly, charming colleagues with whom I shared the next half-hour and stories about getting fired, secret shoppers, federal Customs regulations that will get you a $10,000 fine and six years in prison, and other interesting stuff. Then that big f’n wheelie bag appeared on a forklift. I threw it in the trunk and drove back to New York…no traffic problems, no tickets, no hassles and parked right in front of my own building. This is a lost but significant reference for those of you who have never lived or driven or tried to park an auto on a New York street…NOBODY EVER GETS A SPOT IN FRONT OF THEIR VERY OWN BUILDING AT 10:30 AM!!!

Am I assigning too much importance to these random acts of kindness? Maybe. Except that they all happened to me…and at a certain point, I wonder if repetition diminishes the likelihood that they are random. The simpler message might be that something wonderful could happen when we are trying to avoid a collision with that stranger facing us on the sidewalk. Go ahead and give ‘em a bump. See what happens.

Seeing is not believing

What a joy to wander around in New York! Yesterday, I walked through Union Square en route to a coffee date with a friend. Amazing! Absolutely amazing to see the shapes and sizes and colors and genders and varieties of people there are in this city.

I tell myself—perhaps I delude myself with the belief--that I am alert and awake to life, that I notice people and places and things around me. I can get chills from a beautiful rose, backlit by autumn sunlit. I can tear up when I see a great sunrise or sunset. I don’t think I’m special or different in these reactions. Observation is what drives creativity. But I always marvel at some writers’ abilities to capture the visual aspects of a situation or a person.

So there I was, casually draped over the railing that defines the northern edge of Union Square’s southern plaza. It’s a gathering spot for all sorts…skateboarders, war protesters, musicians, jugglers, vendors of art and CDs, panhandlers, stoners. My favorite yesterday was a guy with a sign that said “Free Face Sitting! Try it!” [By the way, I was tempted.]

I’m watching this milling mass of young humanity, and it is mostly 20-somethings. They have energy and enthusiasm and exuberance about everything…even the stoned ones looked excited to be on Union Square on a beautiful autumn day.

So where’s this going? I’m looking and looking and looking at people. Here comes a guy, dark haired, well built, handsome and my first thought was: “He’s a cute one.” My second thought was: Oh…too bad…he’s cross-eyed.” The good news: He wasn’t. It was just my perception: His eyes were set so deeply in his head and were so close together that it created a false impression.

What’s the point? If I were a writer, I might be able to create a story about false perceptions around that moment of realizing the guy wasn’t cross-eyed. I’m not going to write a story. But I will try to remember that what I see is not necessarily the truth. So certainly what I think…and I am a great one for over thinking things…should be suspect.

And we can all be relieved--me especially--that the cute, tall, dark guy continues to be cute, tall, dark and has no special challenges. At least none that I could see.

There's no place like it.

Sigh.

I am home. I slept in my very own bed last night. I drank coffee from my very own mug this morning.

Returning from JFK via the 59th Street Bridge, the lump in my throat reached unmanageable proportions as I gazed on that unbelievably beautiful New York skyline. Once in my apartment, I stood at my living room window, looking out on 69th Street. The tree that was white with blossoms when I left is now tinged yellow as autumn descends.

My tenant left everything in near perfect condition: No surprises, which is the best way to come home. I had dinner with a dear friend last night. The food was delicious but her company was divine, complete with intense listening, immediate identification and deep intention.

I’m very, very happy to be back.

36 and Counting

A day spent traveling. I can’t say it’s my favorite thing any longer. Leaving Tom's comfy apartment for Amsterdam Schipol at 11:30 am yesterday, I arrived at my destination in Wimbledon at 7:30 pm…9 hours with the time change. And the flight was only 90 minutes. Lots of waiting…and lots of public transport: bus, train, underground, cab.

But I’m here and it is so worth it. Daniel Batt, a philanthropist and entrepreneur here in London invited me to spend a few days here and meet some potential supporters for the Hospital of Hope. We had a delightful dinner with his mother Heidi. Our warm and embracing conversation ranged from gay issues to family issues to health issues. It was wonderful to be with them...a lovely continuation of the friendships in Amsterdam and Basel.

This morning I woke to sunshine and 100 acres of parks and grounds here at Cannizaro House. After my hearty English breakfast, I wandered around, up and down through the woods that are changing colors, over the lawn where I can imagine there have been celebrations of all types and into the gardens that are either completely English in their formality or wild in a tangled brambly sort of way.

It was a wild, tangled, brambly sort of day in London too…had a very successful meeting with a tech entrepreneur who is interested in supporting the hospital’s mobile clinic services. Introduced Daniel to my colleague Ken who is with Lenovo and one of the brightest, funniest guys in this hemisphere, and then we went to “Sister Act,” the musical based on the Whoopi Goldberg film. It’s closing at the end of the month after a very successful two year run…my hard-hearted self almost cried…something about finding community and one’s true self: it’s the universal, archetypal story of self-discovery through the love and acceptance of others. Magical.

London is turning out to be an amazing experience, just like all the rest. And Daniel is a very generous, very attentive and very kind host. Remarkable. And loving.

I AMsterdam

Amsterdam…Barcelona…Basel…London…New York…what makes a city great? A city with history and architecture that reflects the history is important. Walk-ability is critical to my enjoyment. Public transport is also very important. Culture, food, climate…these contribute so much to the experience. But in the final analysis, what has come to mean so much is not what I am looking at but who it is I am talking to.

Basel, my first stop after Dakar, was such a generous experience: staying with Angelo and Stefan, meeting the board of directors of the hospital, spending an evening with our web programmer and her family, enjoying working dinners with friends from the LGBT community with whom I was helping organize a conference…dining on Angelo’s fantastic Sicilian cooking.

And now Amsterdam, where I’ve had the gift of Tom’s hospitality in his cozy apartment overlooking the city, walking the canals of this friendly city, surprising David—along with 22 other friends—for his 50^th birthday celebration at Huzze Frankendael, an estate that has been converted to a conference center with fantastic food and public gardens. It was quite a spectacular location for a surprise…And he was surprised as he turned from greeting his Amsterdam-based friends and found Angelo and Stefan from Basel, Mike (his former Oklahoma University college roommate) who lives in Atlanta, Linda who flew in from Valencia, Spain, and me. He cried. We laughed. We talked and ate and drank until midnight.

This afternoon I rendezvoused briefly with David and Michael, Angelo and Stefan before I took myself to a Netherlands Philharmonic concert at the Concertgebouw. Friendship coupled with Mahler…two compelling, driving, powerful forces. The combination left me completely satisfied and ready for the next leg of this trip. Off to London tomorrow for fundraising on behalf of the hospital. On Thursday, I’m returning to New York and those 20-year friendships…I can hardly wait.

Next Stop

I've had six spectacular days in Basel. Today, Angelo, Stefan and I depart for a weekend in Amsterdam. We’re helping David celebrate his 50^th birthday. SURPRISE!!!

The time here in Basel has been exceptional in so many ways: stunningly beautiful autumn days…the light that spills in at an angle and gives everything a back-lit glow. Trees along the Rhine are beginning to turn, which has made it tempting to sit in the apartment and stare out at the river for hour after hour. I’ve joined gatherings for discussions of social change that always end with big plates of Angelo’s superb Sicilian cuisine. I’ve wandered the historic streets with stops in museums, coffee shops, confiseries, patisseries. I’ve met for dinner with new friends from the Hospital of Hope for conversations enlivened by our common vision. It’s been wonderful to be here… an essential reintroduction to life as it is lived in developed cultures. Two years ago, I knew only one person—so very slightly—in Basel. Today I have a growing community of friends and colleagues, people I have grown to love and trust.

But I am anticipating with great joy the renewal of friendships in Amsterdam. The Dutch are uniquely…well, Dutch…and I’ve not experienced their definitive pragmatism and “yes, we can” approach to life since June. I’m looking forward to celebrating with David…He's simply one of my favoritest people in the world. Boy from Oklahoma and girl from Kansas meet in Amsterdam and have a life-long love affair. We’ve worked hard, laughed hard, fought and throughout have valued each other. I am so fortunate to have an opportunity to be with him for the joyous occasion of his half-century...the beginning of the most amazing decade of life.

This time between Dakar and New York, Seal and Starbucks, Hospital of Hope and GLSEN is critical. I want to return…yes, I am eager to be home on 69^th Street…but I want to retain some the fundamental shifts that living in Senegal involuntarily introduced into my life or that I chose to practice voluntarily. It is never too late to change….and now I know we can.

Based in Basel

I arrived in Basel exhausted by the 24 hours of travel from Dakar, an overnight flight followed by six hours of waiting for my train to Basel, followed by a seven-hour train ride from Brussels. But the immediately joy of Angelo and Stefan’s welcome erased all fatigue…or maybe it was Angelo’s fantastic Sicilian-style dinner. Whatever the source of the renewal, it was delightful. We stayed up talking until 1 a.m.

A restful night, a late rise, a wonderful breakfast of bread and jam and coffee, followed by a long stroll with Stefan on a bright, warm, autumnal Sunday…this was a perfect day that got even better as friends arrived late in the day for conversation and work. Yes, work! We undertook the planning for a business conference that will occur next June in Rome during EuroPride. After three hours of work, we enjoyed another Angelo-inspired Italian feast and and then retired.

Now, I’m sitting and looking out the window at the beautiful Rhine River, thinking about this rich fabric of friendship that connects me to friends in so many parts of the world.

Au revoir...

I’m in Brussels. At the train station. It’s Saturday, 2 Oct at 7:45 a.m. I’m waiting for my train to Basel. It’s too early to wander the street, so I’m here in the station drinking coffee and catching up on my feelings, my accumulated response to the last six months.

The 48 hours since Thursday morning at this time have been intense. There were many things to be completed prior to my departure from Dakar, including a wonderful bon voyage dinner party on Thursday evening. Paul and I went to the market in morning and stocked up on fresh fish, which he grilled, avocadoes and tomatoes, lovely little new potatoes and very special ice cream from Gusto Galcier down the street. We were a small but noisy crowd: Rachel and Emily, my friends who teach at the International School Dakar, my friend Anne who teaches French at the cultural institute in Dakar, and Philippe and Aisha who we met through our Hospital of Hope work. I was overjoyed to see my friends mix and blend and like each other. The food was fantastic, and the evening ended with Paul sharing his music, which was a rare pleasure for all of us.

And then it was Thursday, d –day…that’s d for departure. The day was very busy with last minute errands, and of course, underlying activity was a powerful desire to avoid the inevitable emotion of the inevitable parting. The mood at lunch was somber…As eloquently as I could – between the sniffles and the laughs--I thanked them all for the incredible comfort and care they had given me. And I was surprised by the affection and sadness communicated by Aita and Suzette in their smiles, their tears and their embraces. Ba’s beautiful brown eyes overflowed…he was sorry to see me go but happy as well. He understands separation from loved ones. Today he is going home to his family, his first vacation with them this year, and he understands the deep loneliness of finding “home” with people who are not yours.

But nothing prepared me for leaving Seal and Nathalie and Paul. From the moment Seal woke on Friday, he wanted to hang out with me. Nathalie thinks he was sensing a change…throughout the day, he came to find me, just to hang out…play trucks, splash in the pool, kick the tennis ball…just stuff that’s fun. He held my finger all the way to the airport and when Nathalie told him that I was leaving, he repeated it and seemed to understand. But leaving is an abstract idea that doesn’t make must sense until the separation is evident. At the airport, we had group hugs, professions of love, group hugs, thank yous, group hugs. Seal was ok, ok, ok, and then, he wasn’t. As I pulled away and walked toward the terminal, he let loose with a heart-wrenching “Fanie! Fanie!” and started shedding big old tears.

This was the part of the "days in Dakar" that I couldn’t have anticipated…the growing relationship between Seal and me. Today is his 2^nd birthday. There’s a new vehicle--a gift from me. I hope he likes it. He should. He loves anything with two, four or even 18 wheels. Maybe he’ll connect Fanie with his new “communitie,” which is the generic name for brightly colored community bus that are common throughout Africa. Maybe he won’t.

But there’s absolutely no question about my connection to Seal. He just might be the most life-changing of all the experiences I've ever had.

A Little Bit Sad

It’s Thursday morning. I am 36 hours from departure, and my heart is in my throat. I just heard Seal and Paul go downstairs for a bottle…that would be a bottle of milk, not a bottle of booze. Seal in the morning is adorable…fresh and ready to face the day, a little slow in warming up to anyone who isn’t Mama or Papa or Ba, but always, he is eager and curious and engaged with the world.

Although time is passing rapidly, we’ve not been graced with a hassle-free life week. The brakes went out on the car and the week has been packed with meetings, so we’ve been transiting by taxi, which is a life-threatening experience in itself. The generator has continued to break down, producing an enormous headache for Paul, who really wants his family to be comfortably living with the modern conveniences of the 21^st century with refrigeration and television and a mixing board for his studio. And air conditioning!

I’ve wanted these last few days to be easy, effortless, memorable. They will be memorable because they were just like all the other days…the days came and went, with good news and bad, with laughter and with tears, with demands and relaxation, with greeting new friends and with letting old friends go, with sure knowledge that this part of my life is ending but faith that another part is beginning.

Oh my…when I wrote those words, I felt my heat slam against my chest.

So I’m going to take a page from the experience of living here with Seal. Today I have the sure faith and absolute confidence that my life is perfect. There is enough of everything, exactly the right amount of time for everything I do, everyone I know, every place I am. I will have what I have.

Dervish

The last two days have either been a whirling dervish or a whirlwind. A dervish is a Sufi dancer who spins to achieve a meditative state of ecstasy. A whirlwind is an atmospheric disturbance. In Kansas, it could be a tornado; off the coast of Senegal, it could be a waterspout…As we are not achieving anything close to a meditative state of ecstasy right now, I’d have to opt for describing the last few days as whirlwind-ish.

On Sunday we had a bon voyage lunch at Mami and Papi’s. They didn’t know it was bon voyage until I produced a “gateau.” Since coming to Dakar, wonderful French cakes from the Graine D’Or patisserie have become a part of Sunday at Mami and Papi’s. For many Swiss and French people, actually for many people regardless of national origins, chocolate has a unique way of transforming any occasion from the mundane to the special. For Mami, a gateau from Graine D’Or is the nearest thing to ecstasy I’ve ever witnessed. So we ate cake and “au revoir-ed”. And that was Sunday.

On Monday, our mission was to figure out how to get my second bag to New York without having to schlep it from Dakar to Brussels to Basel to Amsterdam to London to New York JFK. And to do it for less than $600. Off we went to the cargo area of Yoff Dakar to explore the options. We not only discovered South African Airways Cargo…a bargain at $300…but we witnessed what happens in cargo areas. In short, they do not—as you always suspected--treat your cargo with kid gloves. And that’s why boxes shippe cargo often look like they were dropped from a 10-story building.

En route back to the house, we lost the brakes on the car…gone…cruising along at 40 kph on a heavily trafficked road, and suddenly, no brakes! Fast thinking and great driving got us home safely. The whole time I was thinking “who needs or wants this kind of drama?” And that was Monday.

Today we had the first of four hospital meetings today and tomorrow. [Why not cram as much as possible in before I leave?] Philippe Barry, who runs an organization that focuses on corporate social responsibility, has met with us previously. At this morning’s meeting, he concurred with our decision to go mobile and introduced us to yet another executive at the Ministry of Health who is looking for projects to support. Nathalie will be meeting with her in two weeks to further explore the possibilities of a public-private partnership whereby the clinic will provide preventive health education, based on the theory that keeping Senegal healthy is good for the economy. Philippe has joined our board of advisors and is helping us find other Senegalese influencers who are interested in improving health care delivery. Later this afternoon, we have a Hospital of Hope board meeting. Although I’m just an observer, it’s nice to be included because I’ve been emailing Olga, Brigitte and Guenther for the past six months. Next week in Basel, I’ll get to meet them. They’re a dedicated group of Novartis executives who really want the Hospital to succeed and are working to make it happen.

And that will be Tuesday. After which, there will only be three days until I depart. I’m focusing on staying engaged and involved…riding to school this morning with Seal, because he wanted my company…it was absolutely the high point of a very rich day.

Good and Simple

Around 6 pm I decided to walk over the beach. Most of my beach time is mid-afternoon because I like the sun. Late afternoon around here we are usually talking and cooking and playing with Seal, so I haven’t often thought about watching the sunset on the west coast of Africa.

If ever I made a good decision, this was it. It was tranquil. That time of day when we sit and wait for nightfall. Like me, others were on the cliffs above the sea, just looking and waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon. The sky was clear, except for a few high, light scattered clouds. The surf was perfect for the 15 board riders who were taking advantage of 20 foot waves. The rapidly approaching sunset was reflecting on the ocean, wrapping everything in golden light. The evening breezes were light and steady and refreshing. The only sounds were waves crashing and sea birds calling.

It was easy to be content, even knowing that I will be leaving in six days.

Simplest Things

It was clear, hot day. I walked over to the beach, and as I crested the small rise that leads to the rocky shore, the azur blue of the sky and the sea were blindingly beautiful. Everything sparkled…little glints of rock on the beach, waves catching the sun.

A slight movement caught my eye, and I turned just in time to glimpse a butterfly, black with four white spots on its wings. So simple, so graphically arresting and apparently so common: Hypolimnus missipus…the Mimic. Not sure why it’s called that…maybe it’s mimicking a black and white cow or black and white party dress.

It made me very happy.

left. Nearly six months have passed since I left New York on March 31. I will be departing Dakar on October 1. Hard to believe. Even harder to believe is the lump in my throat.

Yesterday Paul asked me when I would come back to “be with us”. Maybe it’s our diminishing language barrier, but he asked not “if” I’m coming back but when. My response was choked: “When I can, Paul.”

This morning, the naked and absolutely adorable Seal, fresh out of his bath, came running into the office where I was reading the New York Times online. He bounced up on the couch and screamed “Fany, Fany, Fany!!!” He was just as excited as we should all be at the start of a new day. Who is going to be that excited with me when I get back to New York?

These six months have been such a mix…certainly unsettling and isolating, but also productive and satisfying. Lots of good work has been accomplished, although we don’t have a hospital building to show for the time and energy invested.

Very soon I will be sharing the website address so that you can see the fantastic work of our volunteer website team: Bettina Klupp in Basel and Emily Collazo in New York. Soon, our fundraising brochures in English, French and German will be printed: the work of Carol Winer and Julie Farkas in New York. Over the weekend, I will be recording a new video with Paul and Nathalie, ready for posting on YouTube.

Every day I have experiences that, if I had had them earlier, might have led me to a decision to stay in Dakar. Currently, I’m having a fantastic time getting acquainted with Emily and Rachel who teach at the International School, but grew up in the Kansas City area and taught in New York before hitting the global teaching circuit. They are fun and fresh and know so much more in a month than I’ve picked up in six. They are a wealth of information about where to go and what to do. Same goes for my French teacher Anne, who is burning a path through downtown Dakar, seeing everything and meeting people from everywhere in the world. It’s been fantastic to have a glimpse of Anne the person to accompany Anne the teacher.

But I am leaving. I’ll spend two weeks in Europe, and then head home. My flight arrives at JFK at 11:30 a.m. on October 14. I’ve been told 69^th Street has been repaved. I already feel the temptation to kiss that fresh black asphalt, as I did when I returned to New York in 1997 after a 2.5 year exile to LA and DC.

In a world that’s recovering from a global recession and financial melt-down, I am blessed to have the security of a job on my return. I’ve accepted a position with GLSEN, the Gay, Lesbian, Straight Education Network (www.glsen.org), the leading national education organization focused on ensuring safe schools for all students. It was founded in 1990 and is responsible for the development of more than 4000 gay straight alliances in schools across the country. I will be joining the development team as Senior Manager, Institutional Relations with responsibility for relations with public, private and corporate foundations.

I am trying to look forward, aware of the past’s richness…aware that even a quick glance backward reveals an amazing web of interconnections: people, experiences, awakenings.

Adult Reading!

Some of you may recall that we have rabbits in the back yard. We had four on Friday. On Saturday morning we had five. The logical deduction would be that the rabbits finally got busy and had a baby. One baby rabbit? Not possible. Rabbits are not born in bunches of one, like elephants, bears, horses and humans. No, bunnies are born in bunches. And we haven’t had any…not one…four adult rabbits and in five months, not one baby bunny. No, we had five because Paul went to the market and bought a new rabbit.

So we had five adults for a very short time. And then we had two and a lovely lunch: rabbit in cream sauce.

The two who had been living with us, whom I had named Soufle and Meringue when they were white, were lunch. Mysteriously, Souffle and Meringue were white in the beginning, and then, they got un-white. Their fur didn't change color. And they didn't get dirty...they groomed themselves fastidiously as they always had. They just got unwhite. Not very pretty. And then they started fighting, because as some of you may recall, they were both boys, destined never to have the babies we wanted.

Nathalie got a baked bunny recipe from her mom in Switzerland. Paul and Ba did the dirty deed and cleaned the carcasses. Nathalie and I browned the meat, stuck it in the oven and an hour later, we served it with Mama Cretin’s fabulous sauce over noodles. It was great at lunch…after sitting for eight more hours in the fridge, it was even better as left overs on Sunday evening.

Let me know if you want the recipe. Happy to share it, especially if you‘ve been waiting for your rabbits to breed and they haven’t. I heartily suggest you put those rabbits to good use.

Acceptance

Paul and I are going to the market early. I have to start over on a project. Our first stop will be a fabric store. Then we have to find a tailor. Third step seems to be the hard part: Communicating what I would like to have made. This project should have been simple. On round 1, I was clear about what I wanted. Nathalie understood what I wanted, and she was clear in her translation. But the tailor didn’t understand…clearly, the tailor did not understand. Because what I got was not what I ordered.

Instead of the boubou shirt, I got a classic man’s shirt with long sleeves, a collar, snap buttons…the kind of shirt I could buy at the Gap. Only a cheap shirt at the Gap would have been of superior quality to the one I got. It is so poorly made the snaps began falling off immediately, the seams are crooked, the buttons don’t match the holes. The shirt was obviously constructed without a pattern, and in that respect, the tailor is clever. But it’s crummy quality, and it’s not what I ordered

Even more maddening, though the tailor did not make what I ordered, he expected to be paid. And he refused to leave without his money. The business practices in Senegal require patience and language skills, and I’m short on both.

Another example: The guy across the street has been selling me baguettes for 150 cfa (35 cents) every morning for six weeks. Yesterday, he charged me 200 cfa. I paid it because he said the price had gone up. Later in the day, Paul bought bread and the cost was 150 cfa, just like always. The price only went up for me. It’s called the white tax. I pay more because I am white. These days, Aita won’t let me accompany her to the market because the merchants raise the prices when they see us together. She makes me sit in the car.

I understand the origins of this practice…maybe not totally, at the deepest level. I understand that colonialism is responsible. I understand. I don’t like it. I wish I had the language skills to argue when it happens.

Flush and Wash

This afternoon I have two meetings. The first is with Focus Africa, the consulting group that has been instrumental in cultivating the relationship between the Hospital of Hope and the City of Bargny and introducing Nathalie and me to several significant individuals who are connected to important people, corporations and organizations in Dakar. We’re meeting to discuss the possible role that they—a very smart group of senior consultants--can play after I leave.

Today is September 15, and my flight to Brussels is on October 1. We have 17 days to put it all together. I am mindful that “no one is indispensible,” especially me. The Hospital of Hope is certainly going to go on without me to play the role of the pushy bitch…which I am so good at…because nothing is ever done fast enough for me. Ever! Sometimes I have to remind myself that it’s 4 a.m. in New York when I send emails at 8 a.m. And the recipients are probably going to remain in their beds for two-three hours, and they will respond to my emails when they are up, have had a coffee and have begun to think about their day. But waiting…it’s so hard!!!

I think Focus Africa can play the pushy role much better than I. As a group of consultants, they are accustomed to mapping out the process for getting things done, leaving no steps out of the process, moving through the process systematically, and reaching the end goal on time and within budget. I am hoping I can convince them to sign on for a reduced fee and all the glory of helping make the Hospital of Hope a reality.

I’m also having dinner with my French professor from New York. I wrote about her earlier, and how she has been teaching smart board technology at the French Cultural Institute. We need to catch up…just our brief emails and phone conversation earlier today told me that it’s been a rough adjustment for her. Maybe the first month of anything is the hardest. Maybe. We can agree that West Africa is not for the faint of heart. Today offers a perfect example of why. At 10 a.m., the water taps dried up. Not a drop. No hand washing, no cooking, no flushing. At 2 pm, the electricity cut off and because our generator is not working, we are now without telephone and internet. At 3 pm the water came on, which at least guarantees I’ll be able to take a shower before my meetings.

All this is probably less important than I’m making it, but suddenly flushing and had washing take on previously taken-for-granted importance. There are so many other cultural differences, which become magnified when you’re on your own. My friends, who teach at the American School, seem to have adjusted quickly to Dakar. But they are living in an apartment complex with other expat members of the faculty, they have intentionally chosen to be nomads living in a new country every year, they were previously in Khartoum which is seriously Muslim, and they are a couple, so they have each other as a constant. The solo experience is different. Sometimes, I have just wondered why I came here and what I’ve accomplished and was it worth it.

And then, I consider the people we have met, the support we have generated, the awareness we have raised, the groundwork that’s been laid, the possibility that thousands of people in the area around Bargny will be vaccinated, have their babies safely, learn about and control their diabetes, have a doctor stitch them up when they tumble in the middle of a football game and lacerate their elbows…and that’s when I know the last six months were worth every minute. Even the ones without lights and water.

Willing to Work

The days are passing very quickly now. I will be leaving Dakar on 1 October, spending two weeks in Europe before I arrive back in New York. Today, I confirmed plans to stop in London for three days for fundraising meetings. For the first time, I looked at my Heathrow-JFK ticket and saw that if all goes well, I will arrive in New York at 11:30 am on October 14, giving me the whole day to settle down and settle in: to walk in my beloved Central Park, to have a coffee with friends from the neighborhood, to go to Fairway and tussle with the old ladies, to watch the sunset over the Hudson, to sit on my rooftop if I want to do that.

Hard to imagine that six months have passed. But they have. The days are now flying by… the inverse of how the first days and weeks crawled by. Of course, the days really are shorter now. It’s 7pm and dusk is approaching rapidly. The sky looks like Raphael or Titian or one of those Italian masters decided to provide some artistic direction. The light is diffused because there are clouds developing all around…rumblings of some thunderstorm activity….I can hear our resident duck quacking away. The rooster next door seems to have forgotten that his work begins at dawn, not dusk. Daniel and Daniela, the sheep, are settling down for the evening…making little sheepish noises as they chew their way through dinner.

Today, like yesterday, has been quieter than usual. Nathalie and Seal are in back in Switzerland…yes, they were there three weeks ago on vacation. Nathalie is in her seventh month of attempting to get a valid work permit. Everything she’s been asked to do in this process, she has done, including three other trips to Switzerland to secure appropriate documentation, as counseled by lawyers. The process started in February. Now, in mid-September, we are all waiting to exhale. The process is nerve wracking for both Nathalie and Paul, because their family life could be disrupted completely by this process. Although she is a medical professional, employed by a global pharmaceutical corporation, there is always the outside chance that she will be denied a visa to return.

I can help but be aware that these challenges—which are occurring with legal counsel to a highly skilled, multi-lingual professional—would be insurmountable for someone who is working class, without resources, seeing asylum, unable to speak the language of the country where he or she wants to immigrate. And yet, every day, there are stories of families reunited, new beginnings, hope and possibility.

The hospital project represents hope. We need Nathalie here…Good luck tomorrow in Zurich!

Now

The goodness of life is limitless. Easy to remember in the good times. Tougher to believe when life is challenging. This morning, I rose and read emails…one from a friend who loves to keep her Manhattan neighborhood free of homemade posters about lost kittens, guitar lessons and poetry readings, one from a friend who was having second thoughts about his two-decade dislike and distrust of the small SE Kansas community where he lives, another from a friend whose father died quietly yesterday after a long, slow decline. Then I read the news.,..of gatherings of hundreds of thousands of Muslims in Mecca, Cairo, and other cities, of impending commemorations of 9/11, of the now-in-evidence construction of the 9/11 Memorial and other aspects of Ground Zero.

I can’t help but think about where I was that day, how I learned of the bombings, how with my neighbors gathered at the Muffin Shop we witnessed the collapse of both towers, how I rode my bicycle into the restricted area below 14^th street for a birthday party two evenings later. The memories are vivid, as they are with other American tragedies—the assassinations of the Dr. King and the Kennedy brothers, the explosion of the Challenger. They are American tragedies. They are ours. And they are no more or less important than those that strike other parts of our ever-shrinking globe. Reverence for life is in all beliefs.

Last night after dinner, Seal came into the kitchen where I was cleaning up. He stood quietly by me for a few moments, then raised his hand and insistently said “Fannie,” which is code for “Come with me.” So I took his hand and he took me to the living room to play. First, we colored…me inside the lines, him wherever he wanted. Then we made a paper airplane, which amused us for about 10 minutes. Next, we put all eight couch pillows on the floor and did gymnastics, which could have kept us screaming with joy all night. Except that one of us got tired.

Life is so good and so simple. We have it. And then we don’t. Between the beginning and the end, we have endless choices about what we do with the one life that is ours.

Peace and Quiet

Ramadan is over. Ba survived, as did billions of others who fasted from sunrise to sunset from the beginning of one new moon to the end of the next. Observing Ba during the month, it was apparent that he was not experiencing hardship by giving up his noonday meal. He boosted his intake at 5:30, adding extra protein to help him get through the day. The part that seemed challenging to me was the abstinence from water, especially through the hottest days of the summer.

Throughout the month, he was as happy, loving and generous as always. Ba is Seal’s best friend, and the two of them continued to play together, work in the yard, take care of the sheep and go for the evening baguettes. He was endlessly kind, never impatient or put out by the endless chatter and demands of a two-year old boy discovering the world. But it did seem to me there was a bit of border-line exuberance last night when I called Ba for dinner, and we engaged in a little hand-slapping and celebrating. The moon was visible. The annual ritual was complete.

Today, Ba dressed up in a new green grand boubou, which is the traditional Senegalese men’s kaftan costume of pants and ankle-length top, and off he went to mosque. The morning call to prayers was extra loud and long …lots of singing and exhorting…and I’m sure the mid-day services were similarly expanded. I feel as though Dakar has slowed down today. Certainly the streets are quiet as families traveled to be together today for services and celebrating. It’s not unlike the emptying and quieting of New York during the Jewish holidays.

Aita and Suzette and Ba have the day off. Nathalie stayed home from work. Seal didn’t go to school. We’re just a little family hanging around the house, going for a fantastic ice cream at Gusto, enjoying the relative quiet (when the mosque isn’t broadcasting) and contemplating tomorrow, the anniversary of 9/11.

23 Left

I’m back! Barcelona…the climate, the culture, café society, strolling, talking…it was just exactly what I wanted and needed! But Iberia 3722 was going to Dakar, and I was on it. We touched down at 8:35 last night, exactly the moment it was scheduled. It was a packed flight, not another row, not another body, not another bag could have been squeezed onto that jet. I’ve seen sardines with more room in their tins.

Interesting to fly during Ramadan. Lots of passengers missed dinner. Around 7:15 there was intense interest in the right side of the plane, the west-facing side. As the sun slipped below the horizon, a special snack tray emerged from the galley: coffee or brewed tea with a four-cookie snack pack. Whether it was a Ramadan special was unclear, but the effect was immediate: blood sugar was restored to normal, conversation and laughter picked up. It actually got a little rowdy in the last five rows. Not rowdy bad…just lots of fist-bumping and “bro-ing” and what sounded like trash-talkin’ in French and Woloff.

Although Paul was somewhere at the airport, we never found each other so I took a cab to the house…pleased to arrive safely, not pleased to have been lied to by the driver who wanted more money, although we had agreed to a fare before leaving the airport lot. It was great to see Ba waiting by the front gate, catch up with Nathalie on hospital affairs, tease Paul about forgetting what I look like, and give Seal a hug this morning before he went to school.

Good things continue to happen, as people learn about the hospital project. Nathalie and Paul contributed 10 boxes of clothes to a Qu’ran school on Saturday, which led to a meeting with the local hospital director, who wants our mobile unit to provide additional support for his staff. Service needs are so great, that his hospital distributes care tickets for one hour every morning and then has to close down because capacity has been reached. Nathalie and I were just speculating that patients probably arrive at 5 am to get in line, hoping to get one of available tickets. The Hospital of Hope will be able to relieve some of this desperate need for healthcare, at least one day a week.

Help and hope. That’s exactly what we’re delivering.