Delhi Day Three, Lodi Garden and Old Delhi

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Today's picture is of a family riding on a bicycle rickshaw in Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi.
As crowded as Delhi is, there are respites from the jostling and the beeping of traffic.
Early this afternoon, Kim's driver dropped me off at Lodi Garden, an oasis built on the site of a 14th-century massacre. Lodi has broad lawns, winding paths and tombs of members of the ruling dynasties of that era. At one end of the park is a mausoleum to Mohammed Shah, third ruler of the Sayyid dynasty. It is walled off, an the inner wall is lined with an arched veranda. I poke my camera through a locked gate to take a picture. There must be some access because, as you see almost everywhere, there was a group of men, just sitting and talking, under one of the veranda's arches. There are two larger, free-standing mausoleums sited beautifully on a long axis, one in front of the other and at one end, shallow, stone-lined pond filled with water and algae.
The mausoleums are weather-beaten and worn, with tiles missing here and there. But the overall effect is peaceful. They are so stately and regal, despite the fact that people wander through and around them almost oblivious to their past.
Lots of school kids, lovers, the usual clusters of men (I have to say it because that's what we'd say in Pittsburgh) loafing. As a digression, one of the things someone was talking about at brunch the other day, and I have no idea how we got on the topic, is that Indian men are quite in the habit of adjusting themselves continually. As Suresh was driving me to Lodi Garden, I saw a man standing on a corner (while two others urinated nearby) holding the paper he was reading in one hand and, well, himself, in the other.
One of the things I've noticed, too, is how many many men there are here. It didn't occur to me until today, when Kim's friend Deepa Shah, a nurse practitioner here in Delhi and our guide for part of the day, was telling us about her driver, who wants to buy a bride. And then I remembered that there is also infanticide here. I don't know what other practices might mean a smaller female population and it's also worth me remembering that women here are second-class citizens and for that reason alone may be less visible.
Lodi Garden also is home to a small bonsai garden, which was quiet and cool.
At about 2 p.m. Suresh picked me up and we headed off to meet Kim, who had had an early meeting of the American Women's Association at one of the Oberoi Hotels here. This is the place where money is. Louis Vuitton bags and Hermes scarves. Tall Sikhs in spotless white uniforms and gloves, wearing dark turbans opening the doors for you. White marble bowls decorated with red rose petals. Guards at the gate going around every car, checking for anything amiss. The carry a long pole with a mirror, facing up, that they slide below the undercarriage, just to make extra sure. Marble floors. Handsome men behind the desk, which seems absurd because I saw a number of Westerners dressed in jeans and t-shirts asking for their help. (And a number, women mostly, who had caught the sari bug and looked quite lovely.)
Oh, and a beautiful swimming pool. I longed to trade my ankle-length skirt, three-quarter length shirt and all-covering head scarf for a bathing suit and a mojito to sit by that blue water.
However, Deepa, a native of India who had been away for 18 years and returned with her husband, an American born of Indian parents, was going to be our tour guide through Chandni Chowk, a dense market near the Red Fort, or Lal Qila, built by the Shah Jahan, a powerful 17th-century ruler of Delhi during what was called the Moghul era. Fodor's describes Lal Qila as recalling the "era of Moghul power and magnificence -- imperial elephants swaying by with their mahouts (elephant drivers), a royal army of eunuchs, court ladies carried in palanquins, and other vestiges of Shah Jahan's pomp."
As Deepa described it, Chandni Chowk was a long avenue extending from the fort, with canals and fountains, lined with havelas, or the homes of government ministers and officials.
Today, not so much. No canals, no fountains, no scented flower gardens.
The first smell that hits as you get out of the car is that of urine. The crowds at Chandni Chowk make the traffic of New Delhi seem like a walk in the park. You barely have room to move and you need to keep your eyes open at all times. Kim saved me from stepping in poop and Deepa warned me to turn my shoulders in when things got especially thick, to avoid being fondled.
There are shops selling saris, ties, white dress shirts, flashlights, jewelry, fabric, all manner of food. People stop to buy, or to haggle and men come out of the shops to entice you in. There's even a McDonald's. We stopped right off at a food stand selling fried bread with chickpea salsa and hot pickles. The boy brought us three metal cups and a pitcher of water, which sat unused. The bread was like what thin pitas would look like if you deep-fried them. Puffed up into a big balloon, hot and delicious. The sauce was spicy and salty but not too hot. The perfect accompaniment to the bread. Deepa also ordered a plate of a potato mash with rolls and sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. And bottled water. Kim peeled open the seal slowly to make sure it cracked properly. We skipped the veggies.
When we left, I noticed a very old man squatting on a griddle-like surface next to the cash register. There was a row of very small, cocktail-glass sized clay pots next to him. Later on I saw someone carrying one of those pots filled with something creamy and white. It might have been a drink called a lassi, but I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm glad I only saw him on the way out!
We walked on a little further and went in to Sisganj Gurdwara, a famous Sikh shrine. That was part of the reason for the head covering -- the other is that this area of Delhi is predominantly Muslim. Deepa pointed out at least one woman wearing a burqa. To enter the shrine, everyone must leave their shoes outside and everyone must cover their heads.
I'm not sure if you could call what was going on inside a service exactly. The interior is white marble, and the floor is covered with red oriental carpets. Devotees, when they enter, touch their right hand to the step and then bring it up to the head.
Inside, two men wearing the traditional Sikh turbans were sitting in the altar, which is surrounded by a metal gilt grate. I couldn't tell if the sermon was recorded or if they were actually speaking. Many people were sitting and listening, some people came in for a few minutes and left. Kim and I sat in the back while Deepa went up to the altar. The temple is built on the site where Aurangzeb, the paranoid son of Shah Jahan, roasted alive an early Sikh guru who refused to convert to Islam. (Despite his nasty reputation, Aurangzeb still has some streets named after him in Delhi. As Deepa pointed out, Indians have had to assimilate a lot over the centuries and there have been plenty of other bad guys, too.)
As you come out of the temple, there is a man at a large roasting pan filled with a (I think) wheat mixture. His hand is continually swiping in and out of the pan, delivering a small serving of the offering into the cupped hands of departing visitors. I took some. It tasted slightly sweet and had the texture of chewed banana. (By the end of the day, my hands were a little sticky, the first place offered no napkins.) Then at the bottom of the white marble steps, water jets out to cool your feet before you put your shoes back on. There were one or two women scooping the water into containers.
We walked up a bit more and hired, after some dickering by Deepa, two bicycle rickshaws to finish our tour of Chandni Chowk. (Total cost for one rickshaw for a half-hour: $1. And that is what you call a job with a lot of figurative heavy lifting.)
Our driver took us a bit further down the main drag, amid motorbikes, pedestrians, beggars, cars, taxis then turned off into a (relatively) quieter lane, where we immediately ran into a traffic jam. The rickshaw has a cover, so we were shielded from the sun. So were the men who pushed by balancing huge bales of fabric and rags on their heads. There were fruit carts and little stands where you could buy fried dough snacks and people were gathered about them, women in vivid saris, Sikhs in their turbans, munching and talking.
Kim was in a rickshaw behind us and our drivers kept yelling back and forth to make sure we wouldn't get separated. We turned again, into an even quieter lane, with the sun blocked by the rickety height of the buildings. It was frightening to see how the power lines were just kind of jumbled altogether on leaning poles -- like the scene in "A Christmas Story" when Ralphie's dad plugs the Christmas tree lights into an overloaded outlet -- except on a larger scale.
Kirana lane is where brides and other women looking for finery go for trimmings to the hems of their saris. There are beads, bangles, trims and bolts of bright fabrics decorated with sparkling threads, hanging all over the place. The smell of incense drifted past us and in a couple shops there were men just sitting and lounging. In Kirana, it is also quieter because there are no cars or motorbikes. Only bicycles, pedestrians and rickshaws. Then Deepa pointed out another lane off curtained Kirana, even narrower.
"People live there."
Finally after we came out of Kirana, the drivers cycled us back up to our pickup point, facing Lal Qila, where Suresh picked us up. We were exhausted and Kim or Deepa proposed a dose of Americana -- a glass of wine or a beer at ACSA, American Community Service Association, a club for ex-pats where the dues are $2,500 a year. No cameras allowed and you have to have ID and be with a member to enter. We sat beside (another) a beautiful pool, in an expansive, nearly outdoor patio and bar and had our drinks. Next to the shaded patio was what looked like a baseball field, complete with ad panels.
We lingered there for a bit, parted ways with Deepa and then went to pick up Kim's kids, who had been staying after school with a friend. I fell asleep on the way there and only woke when a beggar banged on my window.
One last note for the night. I think if you are poor and live here, and know there there is so much competition for money and food, you become inured to the hardships of others.
Beggars and hawkers haunt the traffic lanes and all forms of transportation usually hurtle right by them.
On the way home with Kim and her daughters, at a big intersection, a dark-skinned beared man with one whole leg and the other amputated halfway up, wearing a thick loincloth, a shirt and a turban, was dragging himself along on his rear end, banging on car doors. Finally, I saw a window roll down, a hand come out and a bill doled out. The beggar held it up and showed it around. Then he stared at it again and dragged himself out of the way.
The light changed and we were off.

The Yum Yum Tree and India Gate

At some point, I'm assuming I will get sick with Delhi belly and lose two or three pounds. Today I gained at least two or three. We walked down the lane with Kim's youngest daughter, Zola, and the girls nanny, Maria, avoiding puddles left from last night's rain to a small shopping area, a black woman and a white woman, drawing stares from everyone, which seemed to be mostly men. Kim in black long-sleeved top and skirt, hair in a turban and me in an ankle-length black skirt, t-shirt and my hair wrapped in a scarf (bad hair day, curling iron melted and curled itself when I forgot to use the right adapter. Whole trip will be bad hair. Except for the day I spent at Pittsburgh airport. Hair nice then.)
Fruit vendors, water vendors, barbers. Lots full of motorbikes and shacks made of corrugated metal.
We met Nadia Miranda, who teaches Kim's oldest daughter, Leilah, and her husband, Emanuel, a power plant IT manager, both French. The plan was for me to stay for a bit and then Kim's driver would take me to India gate. Unfortunately, but the time I was ready to go, it was pouring rain, so we dallied a bit longer. The brunch was delicious and the restaurant's owner, Varun Tuli, a young childless man of 26, has hit on a winning formula. A fixed price brunch on Sundays with a separate, glassed off play area for kids where the staff oversees art classes for the kids. The wine list was extensive and inexpensive (as it seems is most everything in India). We had dumplings, sea bass, sticky rice, seared tuna (not me) California rolls, spicy prawns and I don't know what else.
Finally after the rain stopped, Kim and I got in her car and she directed Suresh to India Gate. It's a huge red sandstone monument in the center of a traffic circle, with an eternal flame as a memorial to the soldiers of the British Indian Army who died in World War I and the third Afghan War of the early 19th century. It reminded me a bit of l'Arc de Triomphe in Paris.
I think I know a bit more of world history than the average American. China from the early 20th century to now is fascinating. I know enough to be aware that some places, or some foes, as in the Viet Cong, can be impossible for a conventional army to fight to a conventional victory. I know that 19th-century Western colonialism in India and Africa, built in large measure on arrogance of empire and race, has by and large left legacies that are not the finest. I know that Afghanistan has been called the graveyard of empires and is home to entrenched tribal cultures; but past that, nothing.
There is this one bit, though, which I read earlier this year as an introduction to an article in the New York Times Book Review. It's a quotation from Rudyard Kipling's poem, "The Young British Soldier," the whole of which is a series of cautions for the young soldier off to fight in a strange land. There is this verse at the end:

"When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier."

So I can only imagine that the third Afghan War of the late 19th century, commemorated at India Gate, was horrifying in every sense. Learning more is now on my list.

Present day, India Gate has an expansive, grassy, if a bit muddy considering the recent weather, mall where people gather to stroll, picnic, sing, play cricket and have their pictures taken. There are vendors selling little gadgets that shoot off rubber bands. A little girl approached us with a tray full of some treat or another. A group of uniformed schoolkids marched past at one point. Balloon sellers. Dogs. Kids hanging out with their iPods. Cricket. There is a tower behind the gate that looks like a free-standing minaret and a beautiful red sandstone fountain. I would not get into that water for all the world, but kids play in it.
This site, and many others in what is New Delhi, are part of what was built by the British during the early 20th century. The neighborhood Kim lives in, New Friends Colony, was built by the Quakers in the 1950s. You wouldn't know it to look at it today. We'll be seeing parts of Old Delhi, which was old when Christopher Columbus was discovering America, later in the week. I love the idea of seeing the how a built environment reflects the ebb and flow of invasion and assimilation. Over the centuries, that happened in Delhi. Maybe that's why all of it seems so old.

Delhi with the expats

Saturday, March 28
Met with Kim early this afternoon with friends of hers, Natalie and Sanjay, after Kim had done her reading and picnic for kids in Lodi Garden, which we'll explore fully another day.
Kim's driver took me out into the roiling sea of Delhi traffic. Men pressed up against the Toyota's window holding magazines, sheathed in plastic, for sale. Elle, Vogue, another one with Michelle Obama on the cover.
The driver, Suresh, doesn't speak English, but he did turn his head when I saw the elephant and rider plodding along a sidewalk and said "Oh my God." My camera was ready for that one. Not too much further along, a beggar with a stump where one hand should have been banged on my window, smiling and motioning. He looked young, had a mustache and was smiling and dressed in something saffron-colored. His teeth did not look all that bad; he kept smiling and nodding and I shook my head "no" and looked away. The scams that we all saw and were horrified by in "Slumdog" are real. Kim has had all manner of infirmities bang on her window, and the blindings and maimings of children do happen. The other reality is that there are expats who hire poor Indians for somewhat decent wages, poor Indians who work for the equivalent of $20 a day and, I'm making a guess here, Indians who do not work at all. I saw two women today, dressed in saris, working at construction sites, digging. If you are a poor woman, your child is with you. And there must be so many realities in between.
The thing is, and I cannot say this with any extensive knowledge whatsoever, is how can there be a middle class when there are so many, many, many people(1.5 Billion, and those are the ones who have been counted) trying to live on one patch of the planet's earth? Maybe as a 10-day visitor, I shouldn't be asking that question.
Kim has been writing children's books and after lunch at Lodi Garden restaurant, which is a lovely treed area with banana and (I think) magnolias hung with lanterns and tables sitting atop pea gravel, we went to a going-away party also in New Friends Colony, where Kim lives, for Dharmi Bradley, the woman who has been illustrating the books and a first-generation Brit of Indian parents. She and her husband, who works for Agence France-Press, were headed to Paris for his new posting. The hosts were Brits who had previously lived in Madagascar, one working for the World Bank. Another guest, very nice but I did not get his name, designs cruise ships.
It is fascinating to see how the world lives, especially when you are so often confined to one little part of it. I am constantly amazed at the extracurricular I guess is the word, talents and interests of my coworkers and when you meet people who are so far away from what you do, you begin to realize, truly, what an interdependent and connected place the planet it. An Indian ex-pat designs the ships that folks from all over the Western World climb on for cruises and buffets. Not that he's the only one, but it does make you stop and think about where the built world comes from.
There was to be another party tonight, but a short nap turned into and hour and a spectacular thunderstorm rolled in. Kim was exhausted and I was happy not to be among strangers again, so we stayed in and talked. On Wednesday we'll head to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. Sunday, tomorrow, Kim has deadline work for her latest book. We'll have brunch and then her driver will take me to India Gate and the Red Fort. I'm including in today's post a picture of the elephant.

New Delhi, Saturday March 28

My first impression of New Delhi was as Continental Flight 82 taxied to the gate late Friday night. At Indira Ghandi International Airport, a construction site was lit and men, some in what looked like turbans and wearing long white pants and shirts, mingled on top of some big structure, brightly lit against the dark and haze with floodlights.
After exiting customs, passengers were greeted by a gauntlet of men holding up signs for arriving visitors on one side of a railing and families on the other side.
Kim saw me first, looking as regal as ever. Hugs and kisses and then we went outside, where she called her driver. Here is my next impression of New Delhi. It's a fast-moving river of traffic, bubbling with honks and beeps and toots a blares and motorbikes and bicycle and rickshaws and trucks and cars and buses all rippling in and around each other in a dusty haze.
Kim said traffic lanes and just suggestions. I don't think they are even that.
It took us about 45 minutes to get to her home. I saw a man jump off a bus in the middle of traffic and women riding sidesaddle on the backs of motorbikes (men: helmets, women: no helmets). One couple passed us, as they did, the women's white scarf unfurled, flapping. Her left arm reached back and gracefully wound it back aground her.
I knew before leaving that pollution is a huge problem. We had only been in the car a few minutes with the driver’s window slightly open before I could feel my eyes watering a bit. Out in this hazy night, there were so many people. Men by the side of the road in groups, talking, I guess. Walking bikes. Urinating. The scenery was odd. Dusty underpasses fille with what we tend as houseplants in the U.S., but all looking quite tired and thirsty.
The newspaper that Kim's husband got up and running, LiveMINT, did a study that found that Delhi gets something like 10,000 (I need to double-check this, I was so tired last night) new motorized vehicles a month added to its traffic problems. And that does not include other forms, plus the occasional elephant or camel, not to mention the sacred cows that wander in and out. Those, I have not seen yet.
Kim's home is lovely. The floors are entirely of marble, with high ceilings and ceiling fans, a beautiful curving staircase railing.
She was up super early while I was still in a fog and out for an event with her daughters. We're to meet some friends later today for a party.

A day in New York that was supposed to be New Delhi

Day 2, Thursday, March 26, New York, Newark International Airport
Let’s try this again, shall we. After an unplanned sojourn in Newark, I took the train into NYC Thursday to walk and gawk, rather than spend eight hours at the airport. Its much more fun to be in New York with friends than it is by yourself. Got off at Penn Station, stored my luggage and started walking. All the way up 7th Avenue to 52nd street, over to 5th, detour to Grand Central, one of my favorite places, down to the New York Public library, short stop for lunch then back to Penn Station and off to the airport.
One of the neatest things I saw was on my way back to Penn Station, standing at the corner of 8th Avenue and 35th street. A pigeon floating and weaving back and forth between the tall buildings on either side of 35th, looking for a place to light. It seemed to be attached to an invisible, slowly ticking metronome. Earlier in the day on the train into the city, I saw an egret pursuing breakfast in a reedy patch of swamp surrounded by grimy industrial landscape.
Animals are amazing in their capacity to adapt to what we do to their environment. Most city dwellers aren’t fond of pigeons, but New Yorkers especially, ought to admire them for their ability to adapt and survive.
The plane left about an hour late. In line to board was a couple who had been on the ill-timed flight from Pittsburgh to Newark yesterday. I While we waited to board, a group of young men stood near me, talking. I loved this phrase out of the mouth of one of them.
“Wow. Get ready for 14 hours of awesomeness!”

My passage to India

Departure day, Wednesday March 25
So, if its Wednesday at 11:30 p.m., I should be on a big, big plane, with wings and everything, somewhere over maybe England or something, heading for New Delhi, trying to sleep in an uncomfortable seat. Instead, I am at the Crown Plaza Newark Liberty Airport Hotel on a very comfy king-sized bed having a nice glass of wine. Instead of a three-hour layover in Newark, I have a luxurious 24 hours.
Long story short: 3:20 flight to Newark from Pittsburgh delayed, then cancelled because of maintenance issue. Everyone lines up to rebook and the line moves at quite a leisurely pace. The 6:20 for Newark leaves with me watching longingly from my place in line, my calls to Continental and Expedia to rebook while in line having been a total waste of time.
At 6:30 or so, a miracle. The maintenance issue has been resolved. Everyone still hanging around from the 3:20 flight gets on and we taxi away at 7. Then we stop.The pilot announces spacing issues at Newark. Boo hoo. We have to wait until 7:45. To take off. For my flight to New Delhi. Which leaves at 8:40. It’s an hour flight from Pittsburgh to Newark. The math doesn’t look too good.
And sure enough, the one flight I needed to be late was right on time. For my trouble I get a voucher for a comfy king bed in a hotel from a cheerful Continental customer service representative ("We'll go tomorrow!"). Oh, and my choice of aisle or window seat. She didn't burst out laughing when I asked for a free upgrade to first class for my trouble, so I figured she must get that a lot. Worth a shot.
In a day full of wasted time, I’m won’t squander any more on anger, but I’m sure hoping that the only way to go from here is up. And I mean that literally and figuratively.
The picture is of the unused USA3000 gates at the end of concourse C at Pittsburgh International Airport. When the flight delay was announced, I got up and walked three concourses, A,B and C. Not a bad idea, really. There's a good plug-in station for laptops in Concourse B and this empty place at C is great if you have a long layover and want to spend your time in a quiet place. My gate, D77, was by the end of a moving walk. After today, I've decided that one version of hell would be where the only thing you hear all day long is "Caution, moving walk is nearing its end."
Oh, a good thing. A nice woman I spoke to while languishing in line was waiting, too, after we got off in Newark to pick up our gate-checked bags. She asked me if I was going to make my flight. Me: No, no chance. She: I can get you an employee rate at a hotel I used to manage. Me: How sweet, thank you so much! Quick phone call and its done, though I cancel shortly thereafter since Continental has the voucher thing right and will put me up for "free." (Funny coincidence, same hotel chain, Crowne Plaza). But what a really lovely random act of kindness.

Just a short note

(Note to self: Remember to add tags for each post.)

OK.

Today's picture is of Twist, at the South Park off-leash are on Wednesday, 3/18. In a twist, no pun intended, the only other dogs there were a couple of lumbering Great Danes. Very playful, but Holli was intimidated. My girls aren't used to being smaller than any other hound in the park. Still, we had fun. Girls ran and I watched for chickadees and titmice.

Carl & I went to see "I Love You, Man" today. Cute, but I'm not sure why the Post-Gazette's fairly conservative film critic  gave it such a thumbs up. It would be nice if, in America, we could get away from the creepy stereotypes of dumb sexed up men and dumb  women enabling them (OK, that's the production money talking, I'm sure).  Other main characters in the movie? Man-cave. Dog poop. Rush. Lou Ferrigno.

Whatever happened to the grownups? Today's Parade magazine in Sunday's paper had an interview with Mary Tyler Moore, who is 72. Which I cannot believe. I remember the closing credits of "The Mary Tyler Moore  Show" featured her, in a jacket and long evening skirt, hair up in a bun, walking down a Minneapolis street hand-in-hand with (I think) her then-husband, Grant Tinker, and as the score winds down, she leans her head on his shoulder. Fade-out.

How grown up. The show was about Mary and her life as a single woman making her way, which she did. She had friends, quirky acquaintances, lovers and delightful, funny, infuriating coworkers. Her life was not about sheltering herself from the world in a tight circle of friends. Sure, she was looking for a man, but she was not going to settle. And the person she was looking for would not be someone who would settle either. The courtships were complicated and sometimes elaborate, but never ever of the crude kind of hookup that makes "I Love You, Man" seem like  such a failed effort. They went for the laughs and the gags, and could have done better. Friends aren't easy to find. The idea of making one deserves a little more respect.

OK. Rant over. The closing credits (stick around for them) were fun and whoever played the gay architect deserves some sort of special Oscar.

(Note to self: Remembered tags.)

Monday night musing

Pilates is my new best friend. I took a class last week at my gym; it was tremendous. I will never have to lift weights again. Second class was today and I am still feeling it, in a good way. My friend Ellen loves it because its like yoga, except speeded up. And without all the weirdness. I've tried yoga twice and just can't get into it. So this is perfect until (slight pause for wry ironic expression) I get bored and look for something else. My Dad's mother had it right when she (so I've been told) described me as "bright, but easily bored." What a winning combination!

Ellen and I had dinner with Virginia tonight to celebrate Virginia's birthday at a nice restaurant on the South Side, Bruschetta's. White linen table cloths and napkins, tables nicely spaced, good service and food and no piped-in music, just right for dinner conversation. For as much of the town as I saw today, namely Downtown and the South Side, it seemed as if there was a collective Saint Patrick's Day hangover from the weekend, with everyone resting up for the real thing tomorrow. It's not my bag, but it sure seems to make a lot of people  happy, or at least crazed.

I like what Seattle does: it has a Saint Patrick's Day run. I think I'd rather do that than drink green beer.

Ellen drove me home and we talked on the way -- she has a rough few months ahead of her. Quick hug before I got out of the car and as I walked up the driveway, she rolled down her window and called my name. I turned around and she had a big smile on her face.

"We really are lucky, aren't we," she said.

Friends you choose, but family's a crapshoot. So I think I've hit the karma lottery, because I was born into a great family. Today's photograph is of my Dad and me, when I was just a few months old. Daddy was the family photographer, so I'm guessing my Mom snapped this. His mother, who was just grand,  supplied the succint description of me above.

Nights, quiet and otherwise

On Fridays, my husband and I have a standing date at a local bar, The Saloon. It's something to look forward to, and the bartender, a funny, very nice woman, has become a friend. 

Another delightful woman, whom we became acquainted with through dog walks in the park, comes over and take the girls for their evening stroll on Fridays, saving me from rushing home. Tonight, because of a mixup, she didn't show. Happy, frantic greyhounds greeted us when we got home and I took them for a much-needed short stroll.

One of the things I love about winter nights is the opportunity for stillness.  Tonight, the darkness was so crisp and quiet. A dog barked some way off, and up the street, because it was warm-ish,  kids were outside playing. A little bit of traffic noise on the other side of the park, but otherwise windless silence, cold and clear. We made our way around our little half-block walk and I glanced up at one point to see Orion the Hunter in the southwestern sky, the three stars  of his belt lined up in a shiny diagonal.

It is so nice to be able to be outside in the dark and feel safe. Just as nice is to look up in the night blackness and see an old friend, constant in structure, finding his new place in the evening sky.

As a contrast...

Noisy bar, hoops tournament games on TV ( I LOVE March Madness), heads bent towards each other, ears cupped, sentence fragments heard, then .... "what? I missed the first part of that."

It's been a good early hoops tourney season for Pittsburgh. Pitt, Robert Morris and Duquesne all are deep, if not winners of, their conference tournaments. That is awesome for the Dukes, who have been awful for so long. When Carl & I moved to Pittsburgh in the early 80s, he didn't have a full-time job so he did a lot of stringing for the wire services. Mostly Duquesne and the Penguins. Both were awful at the time. And, the game, in the broader sense, was a lot different then. Not so much money was involved. I went to some of the games with him and sat right behind the press table. Freezing! At least the basketball games were. Because the teams were playing on top of ICE! Eek.

It was fun, though. We were young and poor and what the hell, games for free!

Different now. Older. Comfy (sort of). More of a mind to watch on TV than attend. But with March Madness, who cares? Park in front of a screen and you are guaranteed four or five hours (not that I dot it) of fabulous college  basketball. And, best comparison between the 80s and now? Its men and women. They are all awesome. All this from someone who went to one (that I can remember) football game at Ohio State as a student. Funny how we all grow up.

Friday at the Saloon, the games were on, people were happy and talking. I decided to ask two women across the bar if I could take their picture. Both lovely ladies, they agreed and we chatted for a few minutes. Allyson gave me her card and an impromptu speech on doing something that you love for a living. She's right! Not all of us are blessed with a passion and a gift, but still, better to be trying for something you love (and I think that is the artistically challenged me) than to live in a drudgery that feeds only your body, not your soul.

Allyson and Barb were so gracious, they let me take their picture and it is included in this post. Allyson is on the left.

A Sunday picture, a Tuesday bus ride

Sunday morning found Holli & I heading into town for our shift at the www.goinghomegreyhounds.org Meet & Greet at the home show. The city's rivers were covered with mist. Noon was much like 10 a.m. as we left the convention center. This is the view looking toward the Ohio River and PNC Park, a beautiful baseball field, and the new Alcoa building.

In words, this is the 8:15 Tuesday morning view. Sleepy me on a Port Authority  bus. Wall Street Journal sitting unread in my lap. Eyes closed. Peace please. Not to be. A voice wakes me to tell me how much she likes my earrings. The opening gambit. Then the voice proceeds to share many details. Age. Marital status. Purpose for going Downtown (Jury duty). Life away from Pittsburgh. Reason for coming back. Mother's advice. Sleepy me gets a few sympathetic comments in. 5:15, there she is again but with different seatmates. I catch her eye and pull out the Journal to protect me just in case. But I don't need it. She has a soft voice, which is probably just what you want to have if you are going to share with strangers. I hope never to do that.

Walking slowly

Holli is slowing down. She pants on our walks and stops frequently to turn her head back, looking at where we've been. I feel that I am dragging her, because she is so slow. I want to unclip her leash, even though I'm not supposed to, when we get home. But I do. Twist & I take the front steps a bit faster and I let Holli, loose, follow as she can.

Today I wanted to take them all the way around the block. Up Mayfair to Washington Road, north on Washington, then west on Vernon and back down around Vernon to our house. Finally, it was the kind of lovely, almost-spring day that called for a long lazy walk. But Holli couldn't keep up. I grew frustrated, but realized that I needed to walk slowly, for her.  I am not built to do that, but I began to understand that when we three are out together, as much as I would like to be the absolute in-charge decisionmaker, pace-setter, I cannot be.

I hold the leashes, but the smells of the earth seduce the dogs and, in Holli's case, age governs her pace. So we are a single unit, stopping, starting, smelling, gazing. (Holli gazes behind, I gaze up at the skeletons of the bare trees and the gray shapes of singing birds). I need to remember this on weekday mornings, and schedule our walks accordingly, so that I can develop the patience to go at her pace and realize that, if we don't get home in time, there's always another bus I can take to work.

This is how my dogs teach me. I am present to their daily lives and witness to their emotions and moods. That, aside from the fact of ownership, makes me responsible for their well-being and happiness.

What they don't know, of course, is how much they have given to  me.

What to do when you're blue

Every one is tired of winter. Even sunshine, welcome as it is, doesn't seem enough when its below freezing outside. What to do? Nothing to change things, except be patient. Or adjust your attitude, and not necessarily with alcohol. Even so, sometimes melancholy lingers, demanding to have its day. Perhaps its best to just go with it and not take it personally.

I saw and heard two things recently that I thought were wonderful. One evening last week, the last week of February, the dogs and I were coming up Youngwood out of Bird Park. It was relatively warm, in the 40s or so, the sun was setting in a clear sky and the air was so still. It was the prettiest dusk you could imagine. We stopped, the dogs with their noses trained on some fascinating odor and me with my eyes and ears open, taking in the deepening evening sky and the windless stillness. As we reached the corner where Youngwood meets Mayfair, I heard a basketball thumping on pavement and the sound of small lungs huffing. We continued on and there was a little girl in a pink hoodie and soft blue jeans taking aim at a basket set up in her driveway. Her soft breath, the hard thump of the ball on asphalt, the quiet, deep silvery blue of the night air and the pink and washed blue of her clothing all came together in my mind as a lovely snapshot, to be stored away and pulled out of its box every now and again to study, not for meaning but just for beauty.

The other experience was just as brief and ephemeral, but so lovely. Again, me, the dogs and the park. We wandered in the Bird Park Drive entrance on Sunday. Sunny again, but cold. Too often, I have my head down when we walk, because its cold, or because I am watching the dogs. Maybe because I am tired. At the Bird Park Drive entrance, there is a long field, which sits in a valley at the bottom of two smallish tree-covered hills. There is a small play-gym area for kids, a fire pit and a path leading up to a picnic shelter. But its mostly open space. We had just walked in and I lifted my head in time to see, as a swift breeze picked them up, a scattering of dry leaves being tossed, hurly burly, across the field. It seemed almost as if they were chasing each other. As quickly as they flew past, the breeze died and the leaves, so soft and light and pale, drifted down again to the ground.

When I'm feeling blue, I do know that a walk can be the best thing for lifting spirits. Second best is the memory of other good walks.