Achtung Baby Covered

This morning I was listening to Achtung Baby Covered, which is a tribute album to the band that I have liked more than I’ve liked anything, ever, U2. This seminal album, which graduated me from high school and launched one of the best songs ever, “One,” is covered by The Killers, Jack White, Patti Smith, Depeche Mode, Snow Patrol among others. The man who invented Bono, Gavin Friday, sings a version of The Fly and the performance begs the question, “did Gavin Friday or Bono sing this and every other U2 song?” This question is both sacrilegious and incredulous, because it is impossible to imagine anyone coming near to Bono. I just tried to come up with words to describe Bono and failed, he’s that….again, can’t do it.

I digress.

As I meandered through my commute, I kept the usual nuttiness at bay by going deep inside the music on my iphone. I saw but did not hear the countless young moms shouting at their kids and the teenagers cursing each other out. I climbed onto a crammed bus and navigated bodies and strollers and more bodies in tune to Mysterious Ways. It was like floating above the fray, even though I was right there in it.

It got me thinking that I’ve gotten lazy about music. Music has been central to my life. I played the violin from age 5 to age 20. Orchestra after orchestra, I’ve played every classic piece of music there is. I love opera and hip hop and of course U2. But I never listen to music anymore.

When I was 12 years old and listening to the Joshua Tree in continuous rotation, I remember being in the back of my parents’ car on a weekend trip to Bear mountain in upstate New York, squeezing my ears into my walkman to get Bono’s voice deeper inside my head. This morning, as I descended into the metro, I did the same thing. Why don’t I listen to music like this every day?

At home, we have two stereos we’re planning to give away to the thrift store. But yet we have only tepid plans to replace them. Ever since I can remember the first part of setting up my living space was designing my music listening strategy. Why don’t I do that anymore? I need music in my life.

Today was a wakeup call. As I listened to the Killers, probably my second favorite band, sing a classic U2 song in their own unique style, I know I need more music. Everyday. Surely this is a guaranteed and simple way to make life better!

Rwanda

Sometimes I think I invented Africa. I think about it daily in DC. I decorate in early modern jungle. I work on African issues. I tell tall tales to my friends and family ad nauseam. “This one time I hosted 50 people for thanksgiving dinner and we slaughtered a turkey and a goat. This one time I owned a restaurant in Gulu. This one time I drank whiskey with one of the Presidential contenders for Uganda. This one time…” It’s such a definitive part of who I am, but I don’t live there anymore.

And then I return to Africa, like arriving in Rwanda this week, and I’m reminded that it wasn’t all a figment. I stare at the bougainvillea and realize when I say “I miss bougainvillea” I remember why – it’s beautiful. I giggle at baby bananas and bodas and baby bananas on bodas.

This week I’m in Byumba Rwanda to facilitate a training on Gender-based violence at Gihembe Refugee Camp. We have staff from four of our countries: Rwanda, Uganda, South Sudan and Somalia. It’s pretty intense and productive and I’m inspired by these ladies who do this incredibly difficult work. It’s been a real boost.

But I’m most of all enjoying the everyday life of Africa that I’m always going on about. It’s so familiar and comfortable. Not boring, oh, it’s never boring here. Often times in DC I find myself saying. “The thing is you only hear about the bad news in Africa, but there’s so much good news too.” Sometimes I struggle to remember it though. And then I see the biggest smile I have ever seen in my life on the cutest five year old I’ve ever seen in my life, simply chuffed because he’s splashing about like a duckling in a borehole, playing with a plastic water bottle and I remember.

I'm not yet ready to move back, but I just picked an avocado off of an avocado tree that I had been eyeing from my hotel window. What a delight.

Get on the bus (1)

I’ve settled into my work commute. For the foreseeable future I will walk through the Checkers parking lot to the bus stop at 14th and H Northeast, take the X2 (or mythical X9) to Gallery Place Chinatown, transfer to the Metro’s Redline, disembark at Dupont circle, ascend the infamous escalator (walking!) and scurry across the street to my office. I’ve dabbled in a few other experimental routes, other bus lines, Union Station, etc, but it seems the above mentioned route is the most reliable. It takes me 37-47 minutes each way.

I like riding the bus, because I like watching the city go by, but there’s a skill to it. First of all, there are city bus-riding rules that I’ve followed since my days of riding the M14 up First Avenue to the UN in NYC. I always go as far back as possible. This is because I don’t want to have to give up a seat should I be lucky to get one. This is a guaranteed strategy, but should some elderly woman with a shopping cart or a dad with three children make it all the way to the back of a double length bus without anyone giving up their seat, I’m happy to sacrifice mine.

I also like the back of the bus, because that’s where the real crazy is. How could I miss out on the teenager playing his gansta rap ipod without plugging his headphones in? (Nothing like a little “Move B---h Get Out The Way” in the morning.) Or the semi-homeless guy taking up 3 and a half seats in the back? Or the old guy shouting about the Redskins game to both the person on the other end of his phone and the entire bus? I also follow the rule of taking the first bus that comes and not waiting for the express. This is especially necessary in DC where an express bus comes every 20 or 9 or 37 minutes every other hour three times a week. Also one must not pay attention to the individual stops or to traffic, for this could drive one postal. Yesterday for example, there was very bad traffic for a couple of blocks and as I tucked neatly into my Kindle, the guy next to me was fidgeting like mad and cursing under his breath. Amateur.

There are, however, irresistible habits of bus riding that I do succumb to, like bemoaning the wheelchair rider (that’s right I do it and you do it too!) Even though technology has improved greatly, it still wastes a good 3.5 minutes of the commute waiting for a wheelchair to get off or on and that’s not ok when you’re rushing to or from the office. Driving me equally batty is getting stuck behind the guy that pays his bus fare in nickels. Click…click…click…and so on for 30 individual nickel clicks. Really? Who even has nickels anymore?!

There are of course endearing moments on the bus, which is a bonding experience unique to the bus. The other day a woman got on a very crowded bus with three kids under the age of two. She was about 18 or 19. She wasn’t offered a seat, because there were a whole mess of grannies that were not going to get up from their precious and well earned seats, but they did offer to take the kids. One schmoopy per granny and the whole bus smiled. Another time I witnessed a brief exchange about a book a woman was holding turn into an entire nerdy sci fi conversation between a young white guy and an older black woman. Talk about May-December. These two could not stop geeking out!

It is interesting that although my commute is equal parts bus and metro, my stories come from the bus. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s because of the nature of the riders or of the vehicles. Is there some sort of subterranean depressant on the metro platform that dissipates as one ascends and fresh air rushes back into one’s lungs?

I don’t yet have my finger on why, but I sure am thinking about it as I get on the bus.

Guest Blog: Hayden goes to Ecuador

The last two days have been pretty enjoyable.Yesterday I went to Guayaquill in the south for the day. There are many domestic flights going to Guayaquill as it is the biggest city in Ecuador and the commercial capital. We have many of our businesses in the coffee and cocoa industries that we work with based in Guayaquill who we are helping connect directly with farmers in rural communities. This is the crux of the whole value chain approach that ACDI/VOCA and a lot of people in international development are preaching at the moment. In Ecuador it is much easier to build such relationships since the private sector seems to be so strong here.

My colleague, Esteban, the deputy program manager on the project took me around to visit three companies. I was able to meet the directors of each company, talk with them about how our project had impacted their businesses and whether they intended to continue working and investing directly with their suppliers with credits and training. I took tours of all the facilities. One of the larger companies, Ecococoa, had a huge facility. They were not only buying and exporting cocoa beans but also roasting and crushing them to make "cocoa liqueur" (100% pure cocoa) and cocoa butter ( the by product which is a fat that is used in cosmetics).

A highlight of the day was being able to sample the different kinds of cocoa from all the different parts of Ecuador. They set out a six or so jars of melted cocoa and I took a tongue depressor to each rolling the cocoa liquor in my mouth. Amazingly there is a lot of difference between cocoa beans grown on the coast or in the Amazon or in central parts of the country. Some have floral and fruitty after tastes while others are more bitter or subtle tasting. Like wine there is a whole science to picking the right bean and then making sure you know which tree it came from and then regenerating many of these "super trees" through grafting techniques. Considering my chocolate sweet tooth it was incredibly interesting.

The other cool visit was with the largest coffee and sweet shop in Ecuador called, Sweet and Coffee. they have 41 stores throughout the country and are growing like mad and expanding to countries like Panama and Peru. I was met by this young, tall, handsome Ecuadorian guy who looked very European. Niles, was the marketing director for the company. He must have been only 23 or 24 years old as he said he just graduated from LSU university in the US. He gave us a tour of the "coffee university" where they train their baristas and then took us to two sweet and coffee shops where I devoured the biggest piece of chocolate cake I had seen in a long time. We rushed back to the airport at the end of the day and 30 minutes later I was back in Quito.

Dad- you would not recognize Guayaquil. It has been totally made over in the last fifteen years with a renovated downtown and port and all this "Miami style" developments in these very American looking gated communities. There is still a lot of poverty but you don't see much of it in the downtown.

Today was also a interesting day as Esteban and I toured through the old town of Quito which was the first UNESCO city heritage sight. Esteban loves playing tour guide and insisted we not finish our work plan in the office but go to lunch in the old town. We were gone for about 5 hours touring around narrow cobble stoned streets, walking past very European and ornate government office buildings and beautiful catholic churches. One of the most famous churches is filled with gold leaf in side and was built at the height of the Spanish rule when they were pillaging all of south america for gold. I don't think i had ever seen so much gold lead in my life. We stopped into a fancy old style restaurant that looked out on to independence square. We then continued to stuff ourselves with empanadas, potato soup and a huge steak with fried egss on top. My stomach was stretched to the brim.

So this has been one of the more entertaining work trips. There are not too many places in the USAID world that are as nice. There are two more years on this project so i am hopeful to at least go back once more - maybe next time I could even fit in the Galapagos.

WFP Flight

A few days ago I took a World Food Programme (WFP) flight to Wau in northern South Sudan from the capital city Juba and back again. It was a first. I always fantasized about these flights. The rumors of drunk Russian or bad ass Israeli pilots traipsing across crap holes in Africa delivering heroes of humanitarian work sounded amazing when friends sat around tasting Tuskers and telling tales. But the Quakers were never hooked up enough to get these flights and then I was settled in Gulu. So I felt pretty cool rocking up to Juba airport with my ID that says “Emergency Humanitarian Assistance Worker.”

It’s also a bit funky to travel to small airports in Africa. And by funky, I mean terrifying. It wasn’t the smallest plane I had ever been on; it fit about 40 people on it. But it had propellers and landed on a dirt runway in Wau, and these are to me the telltale signs of gutsy travel. Before boarding I had to select my bag from all of the baggage lined up in front of the plane and then personally hand it to the guy loading the plane. I kind of like this idea and think we should be able to do it for transcontinental commercial flights. After that it’s basically the same drill as a normal flight: “ladies and gentleman please fasten your seatbelts…” Although I was delighted to spot a rarity: a female co-pilot.

I’ve always said that Air Burundi cured my fear of flying. If you are flying at 18,000 feet in a plane that has original 1967 upholstery and you are in Africa, well you might as well let go of your fear, because it truly doesn’t matter. And I was reminded of this as we took off and pitched through the clouds while huts and people and goats faded away.

On the way back to Juba, I took out my traveling savior, my Kindle, and began to read a New Yorker from two weeks ago. The article was about the raid on bin Laden. It was perhaps one of the most griping things I’ve read in years. Hayden said it read like a van dam action film. Seriously. I couldn’t read it fast enough yet I read it meticulously so as to comprehend every SEAL acronym and every minute detail of their mission. Stephen Greenblatt knew he had a winner and teased his audience. Just when the pilot realizes the helicopter is going to crash Greenblatt cuts to Obama and the efforts to make the right call.

While I remain gripped on the article, I bounced through South Sudan airspace with my humanitarian compatriots. I barely even noticed the thing I had dreaded the night before: a pit stop at some other po-dunk SS town. The night before I worried that I’d have to land and take off an extra time, which would leave more occasion for pilot error. However, when we landed in Rumbek I was more worried that the flight attendant was going to ask me to switch off my kindle – right as the SEALS breached the inner wall! Luckily she did not.

As we landed back in Juba and jumped on a white bus marked “UN” (how cool?!) of course I recognized how different my mission was from these guys in Pakistan. Not just in terms of levels of badassness but also in service to a very different mandate. But it was still undeniably poignant to read this article on my 20,000 ft sojourn to humanitarian street cred.

Welcome to Suoth Sudan

The most annoying thing a person visiting a place for the first time can do is pass judgment on the place. Too bad!

After the initial shock of coming to this place (the airport does not a good impression make), I am realizing that South Sudan is not nearly as dire as we all thought. It is dire, mind you. For example, there ain't much here. “Capacity building” is a term used frequently and loosely in my line of work. It is a term meant to address the needs of a developing country, not with neocolonial ideas of how so society is shaped, but rather in partnership with a people and place utterly different then us.

South Sudan needs all the capacity building it can get. It is the world’s newest government. Systems are in start-up mode to say the least. People are being placed in jobs that literally no one has ever held before and policies are being created to align this country with international norms and standards decided in faraway places. Decades of lawless and corrupt practices have strangled development and must be mitigated. On top of that, this country is struggling to maintain a tepid, insincere peace with its northern neighbor. Tensions along the border where oil is prevalent flare and wane on a daily basis. Professionals with more than a few days of experience with South Sudan can articulate this far better than me. The challenges are enormous.

But I am also very pleasantly surprised by South Sudan. A sign post outside of Wau airport greeted me: “Welcome to the Republic of Suoth Sudan.” There is a tangible sense of pride and national unity here, despite the typo. Independence is only in its second month, but fears that South Sudan would descend into tribal civil war upon inception seem to be trumped by enthusiasm for this new country. For now at least.

It’s more than that though. Driving three hours from Wau to Aweil I realize that although infrastructure is scarce, there are so few people. Surely providing services for only 8 million people in a place the size of half of western Europe cannot be impossible? Ok, perhaps it is, but compared to its congested, over-populated cousins in the region, this seems to be an advantage for South Sudan. Also, despite being warned that goods were scarce and very expensive, I think I was expecting something far worse. It is true that South Sudan cannot manufacture anything on its own yet, but there appears to be an intricate and elaborate network of service and goods delivery in this country. I used to imagine in horror, seeing trucks broken down on the side of the road in northern Uganda on their way to South Sudan, that they were only beginning a nightmare journey. Surely utter hell awaited them on the other side of the border. Instead it doesn’t seem worse than the Uganda side and perhaps even a bit better because there is not the throngs and madness of the Ugandan roadside.

Apologies for a very naive first impression, but I cannot help but catch a little of this national fever. Perhaps it’s because I’ve stopped traveling for the first time in five days. Perhaps it is because I’m enjoying wireless internet, pizza and beer by the poolside at fabulous river lodge here in Wau. Perhaps it is because I met a bunch of community members in Aweil who spoke perfect English and Arabic and were volunteering to tell their communities about women’s rights and gender-based violence.

Or perhaps the news just isn’t all bad from South Sudan.

The world's newest country

I wonder if I’ll ever get to the stage where I don’t think it’s completely insane to jump on a plane and suddenly fling myself to a new country. This is what I did on Thursday when I arrived in South Sudan, a new country for the world as well.

It’s nuts. I find myself going with it physically except for my eyeballs. The rest of my body grabs suitcases amid the utter chaos of Juba International Airport, shoving grannies and 8 ft tall Sudanese men to the side while praying that my newly purchased paintings don’t get crushed. My eyeballs blink slowly while I jump into a Toyota hard top like I’ve been doing it for years. No one stops to acknowledge that I’ve never been in this crazy place and I offer almost no evidence of this. The only hesitation is detectable in my eyeballs. They move slowly and I blink about once every 10 minutes and when my eyes close, they make a noise: clang……….clang……..clang………

Clang…pile up at the airport exit…clang…there’s the ARC sign, thank fuck…clang…bumping up and down the road to get the office; that looks like a really deep ravine; will we makeand we’re through…clang…roll up to the guesthouse and see a bunch of ex-pats staring at me; no smiles and blinking slowly too…clang…and now I’m giving a presentation; I’ve been in this country for 45 minutes…clang…shoving beans and rice in my mouth, clutching for a soda to pep me up because it’s 400 degrees and I woke up in another country hours ago…clang…driver takes me to the hotel where they demand a bunch of paperwork I don’t have and we call the office and they don’t have it either…clang…in my hotel room which is clean and new but not very functional…clang…seven minutes of internet and gone for the rest of the evening…clang…staff dinner at an Indian restaurant that also serves pizzas. Why is there pizza at an Indian restaurant in South Sudan?...clang…back in the hotel where the sheets are made of some sort of plasticy polyester…clang…go to bed because tomorrow you’re taking a UN flight to north south sudan, where the trouble is; WHAT?!...clang…zzzzzzzzzz

A Sort of Homecoming

Well, I’m back in Uganda and it feels great. I arrived in Entebbe as if I never left…immediately knew the drill. Africa is much less intimidating when you know what you’re doing.

On Saturday I stopped briefly in Lugogo shopping center to buy some forgotten toys and had to resist the urge to stock up on cheese and pasta and dog food. It was nice but difficult to avoid the usual mad dash to stock up before trekking back to Gulu. I traveled up to Gulu, snoring off my jetlag on the usually tedious drive. Within seconds of arriving I started running into people I knew and noticed subtle changes in the months since I left. I pulled over to buy some pineapples and ran into Simon the handyman from NRC. I gazed over to the Total station, where I usually stocked up on samosas and other field food to see that the overhang had blown off – apparently that had just happened today. I asked the driver to do a loop past both of my old houses which looked exactly the same, but quiet. Jeter was not poking his nose through the gate upon hearing the vehicle outside. No doubt he was home in his DC townhouse, cuddling on the couch waiting for the next dog walk. I drove past the boda boda stand and got big smiles from the lads and after a quick hug for Uma I arrived at Jeanne’s, the ultimate refuge in Gulu.

The welcome from my friends was wonderful. It felt like seconds since I left. It was also a nice reminder of the true friendships I made in Gulu – an important reminder as I’m still working on such things in DC. My phone started ringing as word got out I was in town. I headed to Café Larem, where I was pleasantly surprised that it looked much the same. Tonny was behind the bar and there were random summer ex-pats using the internet. I planted myself outside and people began arriving. I had a lovely SPRING reunion with George, who filled me in on all the gossip; I assume about 50% was true. Office Mike, Emily and the GLACCR guys also joined us. Emily is about to have a baby (“SPRING 2” we called it and giggled at the reference to the sequel project that never came.)

I came back to Jeanne’s and a larger group of friends greeted me, including the newest of the group: Anna Carolina, born two months ago to Robi and Coy. I fell in love immediately. I was also greeted by my Dorian Grey, which Scott never, ever misses an opportunity to shock me with. Ugh!

We went to an ex-pat party and met a mix of new and old, but I was eager to leave. The days of meeting new people in Gulu expired long ago for me. So it was back to Jeanne’s for a great meal and great night of catch up.

On my second and final day in Gulu, I made the rounds at a fever pitch. I saw Emily, my former housekeeper who is struggling to find work. That was very tough. Johnson also showed up, who I feel less guilty and worried about, but nonetheless it was a heartbreaking reunion. I met Jennifer and Claudia, who were the same – great spirits, but stubborn. Claudia got a new swing, which I think was the perfect gift. I popped in on the Paramount Chief, which I’m pretty is against protocol. He looked good and it was happy to reunite with him. Before heading to another ex-pat BBQ, my last stop was to visit Beatrice, Arthur and Hope. The baby is now old enough to take one look at me and burst into tears, but I was prepared and bribed her with a toy turtle – it worked! They are surviving, somehow and were in good spirits anyway.

All in all it was great to visit! I do not regret my decision to leave Gulu – heck no! But it felt like coming home. Just like before I moved there, I always find a way to get to Gulu every once in a while. This will continue forever I think.

In an instant

Uh oh.

I think my walnut-size attention span has taken a serious hit. Today I was reading a New Yorker article for the first time in weeks. It was about segregation and the commemoration of the Freedom riders. I found it annoying. I fidgeted through it, skimmed major sections and kept thinking about what the next article might be. Then I got annoyed at myself. How could I be annoyed with my beloved New Yorker, especially when it's covering such a riveting moment in history?

And then the "a ha" moment came: the curse of the iphone.

Don't get me wrong; it's a beautiful machine. In a new town, the map and direction app is awesome.I love apps and how instantly gratifying they are. I was reading an Eating Well Magazine in the Aaronson's living room, wondered if they had an app and then in 12 seconds it was on my phone.I love the camera, which is of good enough quality to capture a random walk through nature in Vermont or my parents visit to Mt. Vernon or a video of Jeter jumping up a tree after a squirrel. It could've captured the U2 money shot had it not been for human error (caused by screaming, shaking and jumping.) I love that I can instantly download the re-vamped Spiderman song (now ahem featuring Bono and the Edge) and then play it through my awesome Mini sound system - in the middle of a road trip!

Yet, I think the iphone is actively contributing to my inability to focus on anything that isn't instant. I know things have been a bit busy for me lately, but I haven't read a single book since I got it. I check my email while lying in bed (at 11pm, at 4am, at 7am...) I check my email while departing or arriving at work, despite having my computer in front of me all day long. And when I'm not checking it, I'm thinking about checking it. Sigh. I know this is not newsworthy. The "crackberry" syndrome is so 2006. But I'm still amazed that despite having heard and scoffed at its perils, I still cannot resist the allure of the instant smartphone.

FYI, I just checked my email while writing this blog. Amazondotcom is having a 20% off shoe sale. Bel in Uganda is going to draft a capacity statement on health and nutrition. There's a dresser on craigslist that's still available.

Ei yei yei.











sent by my iphone ;)

Land of the Free

I thought living in our nation’s capitol was pretty patriotic and it is. Driving by the Capitol building every day never gets old. It’s stunning and I feel proud of our country…until I open a paper or listen or watch the news. Then I walk my dog past Russell Senate building and want to hurl eggs at it (and definitely let him lift a leg on the cornerstone.) In fact, I’m going into media black out over the coming weeks to avoid the dreaded vitriolic hyperbolic political mudslinging that’s looming over this budget ceiling issue.

But today, in downtown Rochester Vermont, population 1,171, I renewed my faith in Amurica. What a day. On this the 4th of July 2011, I arose to a fantastic view of ebullient cloud wisps across the green mountains. After a morning hike, where I rediscovered ferns and newts and white birch trees, I had a fantastic breakfast with the Aaronsons. We had Kristina’s homemade granola, which made me reminisce about wheat germ – wheat germ!

Art was worried we’d miss the start of the 230th annual July 4th parade, so we hurried down the mountain. Just in the nick of time we parked the car at the town hall and scurried over to the town square. I can’t remember in my life ever seeing a more picture perfect town square, other than on TV. The Aaronsons moved through the crowd like Ambassadors, greeting everyone and introducing Hayden and I like VIPs. We settled in down in front of the beautiful library and waited for the show to begin. We were promised 45 minutes of patriotism and that’s just what we got. The streets were lined with big smiles and red, white and blue scarves, hats and jackets. Every fire truck in the valley was on parade, along with Rochester’s finest: the state champion girls softball team, the town theater players, the world war two vets, the one Chinese guy in town and Senator Bernie Sanders, the fiery independent who reminds Democrats what they really should be saying out loud and proud. There was even a float that threw out Cabot’s Seriously Sharp Cheddar Cheese snacks…how much more Vermont can you get?! I fear I may have elbowed a kid or two out of the way for those cheese snacks!

We posed for pictures in front of the war memorial and I felt verklempt. To see so many people breaking from their jobs and iphones and all of the bad news and universally being proud to be an American was cool. Sorry liberal friends, but it was.

In order to get to the airport on time, I had to leave quickly after the pomp and circumstance. I jumped in my rented Dodge Avenger (a little cheap, but still kinda muscley) and wound around the mountains. At times I let anxiety creep in thinking about exits and rental drop offs, but I pushed it down immediately upon spotting a covered bridge, an ice cream stand or a bunch of fat Holsteins. This was America and what a perfect day to be celebrating America.

I got to the airport in plenty of time and wandered in to the Sam Adam’s Restaurant, where I consumed with pleasure the 4th of July special: A pint of Sam’s summer brew, real New England Clam Chowder and a truly delicious lobster roll. The waitress assured me that the ocean was just 20 minutes away – now that’s fresh.

Despite the tedium of daily politics and all that is wrong with the state of things these days, I was reminded today of this country’s greatness. Thanks for that Vermont.

PS I returned to DC just in time to see the migration to the Mall for the fireworks show...pretty cool and a perfect cap to a day in America!

I Will Follow

In 1987 tweens were given a choice a decision that would affect them for the rest of their lives. They could choose New Kids on the Block's "The Right Stuff" or U2's "The Joshua Tree." Last night, 14 years later, I confirmed what I suspected all along: I chose wisely

Last night I spent my 37th birthday screaming just like I did when I was 12. U2 gave one of the best concerts I have seen and I've seen a few...

Bono was on fire. No sign of a broken back as he leapt around the stage. He reinvented his own songs, like when he had Mark Kelly the Astronaut sing Beautiful Day FROM SPACE, or dedicated his obscure October song "Rejoice" to Ang Sung Su Kyi and then moving seamlessly into "Walk On," which he wrote for her to or when he paused and had the crowd sing almost all of PRIDE In the Name of Love. Or when they rededicated Sunday Bloody Sunday to the Arab Spring. Edge played new riffs for old songs like I Will Follow and nailed the falsetto in Mysterious Ways. Larry drummed standing up and I'm fairly certain I saw Adam having a blast!

Around me I noticed the Tweens and frat boys of yesteryear rocking out like me remembering their great choice.

There were other U2 nerds near me which always makes me excited, especially to see someone singing obscure lyrics along with me... The girl next to me and I were among the select few helping Bono sing the Pavarotte lines of Miss Sarejevo. Of course when I saw the tattoo of Bono lyrics on her arm I got competitive. But then I reassured myself that I was clearly the bigger fan, because I have seen them several times in Ireland AND I have Irish citizenship more or less because of Bono and the boys.

In front of me was a dad rocking out with his tweens who started out embarrassed but then Bono got to them too.

As they wound down and said their goodbyes I was surprised that Bono kept saying how great it was to have performed and thanked the audience profusely. I got a sense that after the broken back scare he's realized just how rare and special this little band called U2 is.

And as I scurried out of the stadium with 70000 of my closest friends I thought how grateful I am that I chose heroes that have lasted a life time.

Beautiful Day

Today is day “when kings in gold suits ride elephants over mountains.” My 12th grade humanities teacher used to say that to us every morning I believe in reference to a William Carlos Williams poem about Hannibal. My teacher was nearly identical to Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poet’s Society, which is pretty remarkable for an otherwise staid public high school. On occasion since 12th grade I’ve have exclaimed this phrase at spontaneous moments of bliss. This morning, with the heat and humidity kicked to the curb, a most glorious morning dawned and this quote bubbled up and out of me as I headed to work.

Yesterday was a different story. Yesterday I played soccer with a team I joined a while back and thought I was going to die. It was about 90 degrees and 100% humidity. I’m very out of shape and, dare I say it, no spring chicken. Soccer, unlike other 30 something sports such as softball or bocce ball or silly kickball, is not for the faint of heart. Literally. And yesterday I thought I was going to both faint and have a heart attack. Because it’s a co-ed league, the league requires 2 women on the field at all times. Only 2 women showed up which meant I had to play the whole game. Did I mention that I was old and out of shape? There was a point toward the end of the game when it actually hurt to breathe in, because I’m pretty certain the dense hot air of the day was hotter than my body temperature. I had a horrible feeling, as my body demanded oxygen, that there was no longer oxygen left on the planet. Instead it had been replaced by some dreadfully noxious and searing hot fume. Not a good sign. Exhaustion after the game was other worldly. I dumped water on my head and wrists and neck to survive. To survive!

The good news is that I have pretty good muscle memory. I.e., I can still play soccer. It’s great actually to know that all of those years of playing will be with me forever. Even if my body can’t quite handle the pace, I can still dribble, shoot and hopefully score as if I have never stopped playing (or stopped playing not too long ago…)

I wish the break in weather had come a day early, but do not dwell on it. Well, I do a bit, because I just got up to go out for a few minutes and realized that my muscles are still in spasm from yesterday. But other than the hobbling I’m just enjoying the day. In fact, everyone in DC has a smile on their face today. It’s simply beautiful. Here’s hoping it doesn’t revert to the dreaded HHH weather too soon.

Wiener Roast

I’ve owned the George Forman indoor/outdoor grill for the better part of a decade. It is a wonderful machine. I’m reminded of this almost every night here in DC, because after a few years in storage, it has emerged like an O.G. prize fighter. It’s grillin like the champ it’s named after. Back in my East Village days, I had an annual Wiener Roast on my roof. It was classic New York. My roof on E. 9th street and 2nd avenue had 360 degree views of the 5 boroughs, albeit accessible only by climbing 7 flights of stairs. It managed around 20 of my closest friends without feeling crammed to the brim. And my Forman cooked wiener after wiener, no problem.

Speaking of wieners (segue way indeed) the latest to be grilled is of course the NY Representative. What a douche bag. It’s becoming exhausting that powerful men in this day and age still think they need sex so bad and still think they can get away with soliciting smut. While this is no IMF scandal, it does remind professional hard working women like me that while men no longer grab us on the ass at work, we still have to deal with sexism. My gorgeous blonde hair blue eyed big boobed friend Amy tells me receiving lewd pictures via text or twitter is commonplace. Sigh.

This morning as I listened to some stupid pundit wax lyrical about the bigger issue of Anthony’s super ego, I rolled my eyes and thought, no he’s just a dumb guy. A really really dumb guy. It also made me question what it must be like to be an elected official in this country. What must the view be like from that side of power that one thinks he can engage in such degrading behavior and still govern people.

The only moment of hilarity in all of this was the notable absence of this discussion during the Eliot Spitzer hour on CNN last night. The scandal of Weiner’s admission broke literally minutes before his broadcast and I can imagine how the conversation with the producer went:

ES: “No way, Jose”
P: “Come on, we have to. It’s breaking now. Now now”
ES: “No way, Jose”
P: “Come on, we have to. He lied to our very own Wolfie. NO ONE lies to Wolfie
and gets away with it!”
ES: “No way, Jose. ”
P: “Sigh, I guess we’ll have to wait an entire hour and go with that clown
celebri-news guy Piers then.”
ES: “La la la not listening.”

Sure enough, the very second CNN kicked Spitzer off the stage, in comes Piers with the breaking news (minus 1 hour). The hour that was supposed to be Mitt’s was spent dissecting and diagnosing wieners. Poor Mitt, can’t buy a headline…




*Note of correction: the Spitz did mention the story and make a brief passing acknowledgement of the familiar terrain...so what Wolfie wants, Wolfie gets, but I still imagine the above conversation took place!

Target, Tequilla and Tornadoes, oh my

Did you know that Minneapolis is the birthplace of Target? Nor did I, but what a wonderful surprise bonus to my business trip! Because there is one on every corner, I’ve been to Tar-jay every day!!

Minneapolis is quite possibly the nicest city on earth.* When I say nice, I mean pretty, hip and very very friendly. Case in point: after scoping the strip of fabulous shops and bars and restaurants along the Nicollet Mall area of downtown Minneapolis, my buddy Amy and I settled on Barrio Tequilleria. We munched on pork belly tacos and I had probably one of the best cocktails ever: “Enter the Dragon,” a passion fruit margarita infused with red pepper. Simply delicious. (Side note: I seem to be enjoying a tequila renaissance. In addition to being the basis for delicious cocktails, tequila doesn’t make me hung over. Woo hoo!)

Our waiter not only gave us tips on where to go next and his life story. Seriously, with a table full of customers, what waiter does that? Toward the end of the meal, super nice exchange with a Minnesotan #247 occurred. Two women came up and asked if they could take the table and chairs currently linked to our table. We said yes and after 12-15 apologies and an increasingly awkward 20 minute conversation, they finally left with their table and we returned to our pork belly. Five minutes later, our friendly waiter announced that the ladies had bought us a round of drinks. Jesus! We gave them a table not a kidney!

Meanwhile, the weekend was peppered with tornado warnings and touchdowns. Luckily for me, I happened to be accompanied by my very own personal Dorothy in the form of my friend Amy who grew up in Tornado alley in Kansas. Our attempt to view the mighty Mississippi was thwarted when low but urgent wailing began to resonant throughout the city. I turned to Dorothy and the look on her face said it all: these were tornado warning sirens. She started scanning the sky, quickly pointing out what was going on: “Those are the wall clouds. You see that cloud there, with the dangly bit, that’s the part that forms the tornado when it touches the ground, etc. etc.”

She became mesmerized and perhaps a bit paralyzed by the prospect of the tornado and probably from the fearful memories of racing to her grandma’s external basement when the big storms were coming. Clueless about the storm, but empathetic to my friend, I suggested we step into the Crowne Plaza hotel we were just walking past. From the safety of the internal hotel bar, Amy was able to watch the weather channel, while I settled into the NY subway series. 45 minutes later, the Yanks took the series and Amy cleared us for departure.

*it does not escape me that this visit to Minnesota is in May and not January...

DC Food Fad

Borrowing some chutzpah from Spike Mendelsohn and luckily having the cover of far fewer adoring fans, it’s time to diss the DC restaurant scene. This is not breaking my promise not to incessantly compare New York to DC, because in many aspects, especially given where I am in my life, DC is better. Yes, I said it. People are friendlier and less nuts; there is lots of very interesting job related stuff going on here and eventually one day rumor has it I’ll live in a house and still be in the city.

But, DC, you are not food people. And it’s driving me batty. Yesterday, while going to deposit my first paycheck in 5 months (woo hoo) I passed the Shake Shack, which was celebrating its opening day in DC. The queue was around the block. Around the block for burgers? I mean, I know Shake Shack is a big deal, but missing an hour or more of work for it? Ich don’t think so. Also, like many things food in DC, Shake Shack is sooo 2005. (Really, DC, cupcakes?!)

As I shook my head at the silly shakers, I think what annoyed me is that while there is some recognition of celebrity restaurant moments, such as this one, it’s not based on a passion for premium food. It’s a curiosity about headlines and a desire to stay in the know.

In the several months I’ve lived here, I’ve been led astray by almost everyone. People know popular food here, but not necessarily good food. Maybe it’s not a priority here. Maybe gathering around mediocre gastro-pubs for burgers and beers is all people in DC want after a long day of working hard on tough issues. Americans might be divided on debt, but everyone loves themselves some waffle fries.

Last night I reached Minneapolis for the first time. This is supposed to be one of the best places to live in the country and everyone I met here is definitely trying to let me know that. But one of the ways they are demanding attention for fabulousness is through food. Every single person I met defines Minneapolis’ success as a town based on the great restaurants (and theaters and lakes in cities, etc.) Minnesotans, as it turns out, have a passion for good restaurants. Granted I have only been to the Brit Pub (don’t tell the Irish), which IS a gastro pub and I WAS de-stressing after a long day, but they put stilton on their steak sandwich! I can tell you right now that at The Irish Times might have something as exotic as cheddar perhaps, but never, ever, stilton. Point Minneapolis.

Mirlande's Haiti

Mirlande is the mayor of Acra camp, an internal displacement persons (refugee) camp on the grounds of a factory smack dab in the middle of Port au Prince. She’s not really the mayor, but as she took us on the guided tour yesterday, she shook hands with people at every point along the rows and rows of tents like a true leader. Visiting IDP camps is an important part of the work, because it gives one the truest sense of how people are living and what is needed. However, it also makes one feel voyeuristic and sad. With Mirlande leading the way, a lot of these feelings were mitigated by her genuine engagement with those in the camp and her enthusiasm for our presence. Mirlande, a self-described talker, gave us the low down:

“Here’s where ARC built a water tank; the faucet broke the day the donor came to inspect it. This child here attended ARC’s child-friendly spaces program and her mother is my good friend. People used to live on that garbage pile, but were moved because they were getting diseases. My husband and I live in the “Libya” section of the camp; people are fighting all of the time. Hahaha!”

I find it difficult to explain my new job to friends and family. My title is “Protection Technical Advisor.” Within the humanitarian community, this is a familiar title, but the tasks, even among the experts, seem nebulous. I’ve told my mom that when people have to go into refugee (or internal displacement) camps, my job is to provide guidance to our water and shelter and health programs to ensure that we respect the human rights of the people we serve.

Protection is about dignity. Today when I walked through this meandering urban camp of about 35,000 it was the utter lack of dignity that punched me in the gut. There was the stench of sewage, piles of garbage being picked through by pigs and dogs, little babies sitting in filth and people bathing in alleyways. To me, this all added up to a terrible loss of dignity. How can we possibly allow people to live like this? Why haven’t our interventions worked? What can be done to solve this?

The answer is simple: get these people the hell out of the camps. To work toward this simple answer is not so simple. Bound by humanitarian law (and common sense) we cannot force people to leave. Also, while some of the lingering in camps might be because of the “dependency syndrome,” most of the people stay because they have nowhere else to go. Housing is scarce as people still dig out from the earthquake.

At the end of our tour, I tried to slip Mirlande a $20 bill. She had been an employee of ARC, but because of lack of funding she was let go. She gave us the tour of her own good will and I wanted to thank her. She very quickly refused and I pushed back. She was adamant and explained that “the camp has eyes everywhere.” I immediately felt embarrassed and amateurish for compromising her position in the camp and apologized profusely. Mirlande instantly summoned her mayoral poise and offered a quick solution: the volunteer organization she created when ARC funding ended was having a fund raiser next week and I could make a contribution. What a woman, what a place.

Hello Haiti

Haiti.

Haiti Haiti Haiti. Haiti. Oh, sweet Jesus, Haiti.

My first impression of this country is amazement of how quickly one can travel to the worse emergency in the world. This hits me directly after the wall of heat and humidity does, the likes of which my hair has never known.

Climbing the hills of rubble-strewn and traffic dense Port au Prince I quickly channel my inner-Uganda road traveling skills. I block out my peripheral vision saving me from fearing 75% of the near-miss collisions. For the remaining 25% collisions, most of which would be head on, I channel my inner zen (yes, I have some) and ignore them and stare and stare and stare at this crazy place.

The average car ride in Port au Prince is 1 hour through snarled, congested, hilly roads, so switching to developing world passenger mode suits me just fine. As I press my nose to the glass and try to imbibe as much of Haiti as I possibly can, I return to my first impression. This place has all of the hallmarks of the third world: goats and bush dogs, constant animation of tiny shops selling soap and chinese candy, and utter utter poverty.

The displacement camps from the earthquake a year and a half ago are everywhere. Every crevice of every open or semi-open space is jammed with plastic sheets and tents that must be absolutely ungodly in these soaring temps. I haven't yet been able to visit a camp, because the ones I've seen in town are too dangerous for us to stop in, even to snap a photo.

I haven't been able to talk to too many Haitians yet either, because I've been running from meeting to meeting and also because moments of idle chit chat are denied to me by my inability to speak French or Creole. Relegated to muted observations, Haitians seem a bombastic people.From the cheers as the plane landed to the movement around me to the recent election of a pop star as President, the Haitians seem bold.

Yesterday afternoon, we took the earthquake tour. The area I'm staying in does not seem so badly hit, but as we traveled closer and closer to the city center, the impact of the earthquake was much more visible. We passed the palace, which was striking not only for it's destruction (the main once proud dome of elegance appearing awkwardly decapitated) but also because it appears they were setting up for the inauguration of the President on these grounds on Saturday. How strange it will look to the world, this juxtaposition of new promise and old terrible problems.

Chop it like it's hot

This week I made my lunch for work, which was great, because I probably saved about $50 or the allowance I need for the dog walker. I had a Honey Maple Turkey and Picante Provolone sandwich, an apple, pretzels and a few Pepperidge farm cookies. Today, however, I ran out of fixins and bought my lunch at “Chop it.” I’m a big fan of the make-your-own salad craze. Since it began, I get more or less the same thing: a spinach salad with feta, cranberries, artichokes, carrots and an egg. While away from the US I finally learned to like cucumbers, so now they get tossed in too. I usually get the light Balsamic Vinaigrette.

I had never been to “Chop it” before and stood in the queue quickly trying to calculate how much my usual items would cost and if I should swap some of them out for less costly items. For example, artichoke hearts can cost $1.50 and these make- your-own salads can add up. Indeed, I did opt for the last minute switch and chose soy beans (or edamame as they are known in Japan and in urban lunch establishments.)

I got to the top of the considerable queue with incredible speed. And then I saw why. The servers behind the counter were moving at light speed. I’m serious. They tossed in my ingredients before I was even sure I wanted them. The little additional flare of “Chop It” that distinguishes it from the other places is that they then indeed chop up the salad with furious fervor and punctilious panache. It was like watching Edward Scissorhands. And just like Edward, everyone was friendly and polite.

It is particularly unnerving when an impatient, hurried person such as myself gets outpaced. Like a slug I tried to regain my composure as my tossed salad was tossed to me. Upon receiving ever-so tender instructions to move to the register, I lurched forward. My feet felt like concrete compared to the tizzy of roughage around me. I handed over my ticket with trembling hands. I feared I would not get to my wallet with enough speed and I would be THE ONE who halted the precision of the salad assembly line. Henry Ford is certainly beaming down from heaven on “Chop it.”

The salad was pretty good. I missed those artichokes, but whenever I eat edamame I feel like I’m adding years onto my life. So, I think it was worth $8.69. Once a week anyway.

Revolution Backtrack

Hmm. I have been planning to write about my abhorrence to violence and my selfish wish that in places like Syria and Uganda, where I have loved ones, revolution might be muted. My thinking was that I believe change is necessary in both places (for similar and different reasons). However, I realize that when revolution hits close to home, it’s harder to be clear cut on the outcomes if they involve putting these loved ones in possible harm’s way. And then bin Laden was killed and I was happy.


Before this big news, I received a phone call from Samson, my 16 African “son.” He was home on leave from boarding school and as we went through the usual litany of questions about school results (not great) and miscellaneous requests (basketball, denied.) I found myself bringing up the recent and still on-going riots in Uganda and getting quite practical about it. It was not a conversation about who was right and who was wrong. Instead I very sternly and clearly stated that Samson should stay out of Gulu and Kampala town centers and that if he did find trouble starting to brew he must promise me he would run away quickly. I explained that recent events often target young men and teenage boys, whose testosterone-infused curiosity makes it hard to walk away. “Please Samson, promise me you will run away.” “I promise Jess.” “Really?” “Yes, Jess I will run away.”

Similarly I watched my dear friend Hala well up with tears as she thought about her twin two year olds she just left in Damascus to visit New York. News from Syria is not good. At one stage she looked at me and asked “What do you think is going to happen Jess? “ And my reply was “Well, I thought you were going to tell me the answer to that.” As I looked at the pleading in her eyes, I realized that I had to provide her with an answer. Not based on my nuanced understanding of geopolitics and Syria, but based on a friendship that required comfort.

I do not want either one of these dear people and the places where they live to experience revolution. Change would be ok, but only if anarchy and violence do not ensue. Why does everyone want change so quickly, I started to ask myself? Surely a step by step approach, which includes rather than excludes current regimes, is the better approach. I find it troubling that my sympathies shifted away from clear and passionate support for necessary change now that it is personal.

With bin Laden’s death I got my answer to what I would do if I met Hitler. I am happy both are dead. I’m elated in fact that this terrible man has met his maker and that it was a US bullet that did it. I joined in with the USA chants. I thought for once, liberal guilt be gone! Who cares what this looks like outside of the US?

I understand the hypocritical implications of this.

I also understand better than ever that it’s harder to be absolute about something when it effects you personally. New York is my home. Damascus is Hala’s home. Gulu is Samson’s home.

Shoulda Coulda Woulda

As I ascended the famous Dupont Circle metro escalator this morning for my first day on the job I was, among other things, reminded that I was not in New York or Gulu for that matter. In what I think is typical DC fashion, there was a man performing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” which echoed throughout the long climb to the surface. This seems fitting for the first day of the rest of my life.

The emails are starting to come in and meetings and road trips are already being planned. I’ve got a lot to think about and perhaps should make this entry quite short. However, I pause to acknowledge the inevitable moment of regretting how I spent the last three months of what I shall now refer to as “leave without any idea of when or if it might end.”

Should I have written the great American novel? (note: I say novel now instead of memoir after the Mortenson ruckus.) Could I have driven across country for the first time or at the very least gone to the Caribbean for a week? Would I have spent my time differently if I had known there would be a job at the end of the tunnel?

Well, I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is now it’s time to shift gears. I feel a bit like I’m playing work today instead of doing it. I know the work is coming, but for now I look outside my window, which overlooks Dupont sidewalk cafes filled with goat’s cheese salads and pinot grigios and I smile, because I’m not in Gulu. I’m right where I said I’d be…yeegads!