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.

Perfect Saturday

I believe in magic. I can be a bit Peter Pan-ish. To be unwilling to marvel—slack jawed even--at how incredibly perfect life can sometimes be would cynical. I don’t have to work at being cynical. It comes naturally. Occasionally, I suspend my disbelief and let myself go: I do believe in magic.

The day at Sitges was utterly perfect, and set the stage for yesterday. Our leisurely day started with baguettes and coffee on the terrace, under that blue, blue, blue, cloudless sky. We strolled up Montjuic, taking Connie’s favorite “secret” path and found ourselves first in a cluster of theaters that had been restored in the 1970s…up and up toward the summit where there is a Greek amphitheater, surrounded by manicured gardens, rows and rows of roses in bloom. From there, we climbed stone stairs, accompanied by soft babbles of water flowing downward toward the Placa Espanya, where the nightly light, music water spectacle takes place.

We emerged by the beautifully designed Miro Foundation and strolled on up to the Olympic Stadium and the site of the 1992 Games. Although modest compared to China’s vast Olympic enterprise, Barcelona’s “village” was as symbolic as China’s, representing Catalan’s freedom from the oppression of Franco’s dictatorship. We stopped for a coffee at the National Museum of Catalonian Art, a palace that overlooks the Plaza Espanya...and from there strolled down to CaixaForum, a free exhibition complex where Miguel Barcelo’s visually playful and inventive work is currently on view. Revered throughout Spain, he also lives in Malawi and has a long love affair with Africa, which has clearly affected his use of color and light in his painting. We left the show smiling.

But the day got better…more magical, I’d like to think…because we were going to see Pina Bausch in the evening. I started following Pina Bausch years ago at the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s “Next Wave Festival” and when I saw that her company was performing at the opera house in Barcelona, I didn’t ask any questions…I just bought the tickets. Well, it wasn’t just a dance performance by her amazing Danztheater Wuppertal, but it was a sung opera with full orchestra. The music, the dance, the costumes, the staging...It was an immersion in breathtaking beauty. Connie and I talked about it all the way home, and then we went to Wikipedia to read about Iphigenie because there’s nothing quite so convoluted as any story based on mythology, which this one is. Very twisted and very human, those gods.

The magic day ended with deep slumber and dreams of dancing.

My days in Barcelona have been a blur of strolling the cobblestone and asphalt streets on warm but refreshingly breezy summer days; listening in on others’ conversations in light and lisping Catalonian Spanish; savoring the delicate, diminutive tapas that refresh in early evening if dinner is going to be late; and through it, the ultimate pleasure: conversation and more conversation.

Yesterday Connie and I went to Sitges, the beach community about 40 minutes south by train. The day had dawned with not a cloud to be seen, the sky was azur and the forecast was for nothing but perfection. So we went…we strolled up and down, through the maze of old streets, past tiny historic fishermen's homes built unrepentantly next to majestic palaces, towering Catholic churches that were the center of life for centuries in Spanish culture, the stately mayoral mansion, as well as the refurbished, the chic and stylish, the designed-to-death hotels, bars and restaurants that characterize every beach community.

The backdrop in Sitges is the sea. It dominates. The light is white, accentuate by reflection off the sand, the buildings’ uniform white exteriors, and residents’ tendency to dress in white clothes. The air is fresh, touched with a salt breeze. The constant sound of surf is accented by clanking of lanyards against aluminum masts. Motorbikes buzz, an occasional skateboard hums and clacks along a sidewalk, and children squealing as the waves hit their feet, perhaps for the first time.

We talked. After 15 years of friendship, after five days of breakfast chats and dinner conversations, we still talked. Although it happens over and over, I’m always surprised by how many words can pass between people as they share a lifetime of experiences, memories, anecdotes about growing up, discovering who our families really are, learning who we really are through living, loving, working, aging.

Sitges was beautiful. As was the conversation.

Right Where I Needed to Be

Synchronicity is my friend. Or perhaps serendipity is my friend. Let’s look them up.

Synchronicity (n) an apparently meaningful coincidence in time of two or more similar or identical events that are causally unrelated

Serendipity (n) 1. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident. 2. good fortune; luck: the serendipity of getting the first jobshe applied for.

Here’s the situation I want to tell you about: I’m in Barcelona, having a great time. In addition to hanging out daily with Connie, Alicia and Helle, whom I’ve known for 15 years, I am also attempting to meet up with a couple of other friends. Tony I met two years ago at a conference. He’s a robust bon vivant, whom I nicknamed the Martha Stewart of Spain. Bob is an artist and former New Yorker who’s lived for several years. He arrived five years ago to see his son, and he stayed. Illegally.

I called both of them yesterday. Spoke with Tony and set up a time when we can have lunch over the weekend. Phoned Bob and learned that his number had been reassigned. I shot off an email to mutual friends in NYC in hopes that I had transcribed the number incorrectly…but no...and no one had his new number. Oh well, this is what happens in life. People lose each other.

I left the apartment for the day, got a truly fabulous hair cut…said goodbye to my Warsaw ghetto “do,” which was the worst haircut I’ve had in 15 years. I walked and walked, ate a late lunch and decided to drop by Connie’s bookstore in the Gothic quarter. As I turned the corner from Carrer de Ferran onto Carrer d’Avinyo, I heard a very low male American voice growl “Oh…My…God!”

And there was Bob! Right in front of me…his whole handsome artist self…he lives around the corner from Connie’s store in an apartment building where Picasso and Miro lived as students. He has an art show tomorrow evening. He’s no longer illegal. His daughter and her boyfriend are visiting. He’s happier than I have ever known him to be.

Life. Ain’t it grand?