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...
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 13, 2011
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.
“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.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 6, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 2, 2011
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.
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.
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