Charles Clover saves the day

So here I was wondering whether or not I'd be able to come up with an interesting blog entry that required virtually no input from me when I get an email from Charles Clover asking if I'd mind linking to the web site he's been putting together to chronicle, as he puts it, his "more interesting assignments for the Financial Times." Charles, as I've no doubt noted before, is one of my favorite fellows. He offers up that rare and wondrous combination of being disarmingly intelligent and yet delightfully goofy when the mood strikes.

Like most people I know, he holds a degree in Arabic from the University of Wisconsin, studied at the University of Jordan at Amman as a Fullbright Scholar and went on to get his MA at the Johns Hopkins University School of Advanced International Studies. Sometimes, sitting near Charles, I am daunted by the volume of knowledge I know is rooted in his cranium and I have no idea what to say to him.

And then he'll quote an episode of Friends and I think that maybe we are from the same planet after all.

The web site Charlie's put together includes diary entries and articles (sometimes, the former becomes the latter) from the past few years. In 2002, he spent most of the year in Afghanistan, before going on to cover the Iraq war in 2003 and 2004 as an embedded journalist and then as the FT's Baghdad Bureau. Most recently, he served as the Middle East/Africa editor at the FT in London. The articles that result from those experiences are a mixed bag. Some of them are so dense with information that my little brain can hardly keep up. Some of them are infused with Charles' obvious passion about the people and the places he's covered.

As a special treat, CC Lover (as he's been nicknamed at KWF for no reason whatsoever), has also provided a large and fascinating collection of photographs that feel like an insider's glimpse into the uncensored reality of the Middle East, war time, lives of soldiers. Scroll down and browse through them. It's a far more intimate feel than anything you'll get from the evening news.

Check it out at: http://www-personal.umich.edu/~cclover/.

Fellows on Ice

Let it be known that no medals will be won by this team, but last night a brave and adventurous group of us rose to John Bacon's challenge/invitation to join him for ice skating at Yost arena. The good news was that John had arranged for us to have Yost all to ourselves for an entire hour. The bad news was that in order to do so, our hour began at 10 pm on a weeknight. The late starting time proved somewhat difficult for some - mostly the weak of spirit and/or those with children.

A few of us with our priorities squarely intact met up at Gail's house beforehand to watch the first part of the Golden Globes. Somehow, we allowed ourselves to be pulled away around 9:30 to head to the rink. (Fools! Fools!) We lost the Aussies along the way, mumbling something about cold and ice. You know how their people are. But John, his friend Whitney, Graham, Rainey, Foley, Gail, Chris and I decided we didn't need them for our party on ice. Here's the thing about me and ice skating. I only do it every five to ten years or so. It's just enough time to forget the bad parts and remember it with a disproportionate sense of nostalgia - much like giving birth. Or so I'm told. Anyway...Rainey ordered up a pair of hockey skates and since she's from Boston and knows a thing or two about ice, I followed suit.

Big mistake. Skating in hockey skates is like sticking your feet inside two...things that aren't very easy to manage. Pick your own analogy. Not only that, but I was on the ice for approximately 15 seconds when the truth of ice skating came rushing back to me: it's not fun, it's exercise.

Despite my stellar and much-hailed all-eighties soundtrack CD, the first six minutes on the ice were the longest in my life. How is it possible to have your leg muscles hurt that much when you're not even moving? I noted that Gail, in her gleaming figure skating skates (is that redundant?), was gliding across the ice, doing turns and not clinging to the edge like some of us.

Now, I understood that switching skates would not transform me into a master skater, but I decided to try a different approch. Trading in my hockey ones for figure skates, I headed back to the ice. Yes! This was much better. I could glide along on the ice, even let go of the edge, and pick up some speed.

But it was still exercise, people. Don't let them fool you.

Bacon, of course, who skates every day of his life, was doing fancy pants moves all around the place, practicing drills and mincing across the ice like a good ol' pro. Foley held his own, although he seemed to be reminiscing about his former glory days on the ice. Rainey was brave, as always, and graduated from the wall to the middle in no time.

Graham's a good skater and was getting adorable lessons from Bacon on how to skate backwards. Just picture them holding hands and gliding along the ice and you've pretty much got it. Chris was a terrific sport, taking to the ice like a cat to water. Suffice it to say that after putting in plenty of good face time, Whitney and I wound up warming the bench for the last few minutes.

John says next time we'll do it earlier in the evening so more people can come - and I think it's adorable that he thinks there's going to be a next time!

How'd that happen?

The entire first week back at the fellowship has passed and not one blog entry from me! Thus, you will be robbed once again of all the laborious detail and given the bare-bones info on our first week up and running, so to speak... It's been a good week of speakers at the fellowship, kicking off with Susan Douglas, Chair of Communication Studies here at UM and author of Where the Girls Are: Growing up Female with the Mass Media and co-author of The Mommy Myth: The Idealization of Motherhood and How It Has Undermined All Women. Our calendar said Douglas would be speaking to us about Women in the Media, but she mixed things up a bit by speaking about - then asking the fellows' feedback on - a couple of areas she was interested in, including celebrity "journalism." Some interesting stuff and, perhaps best of all, the format really opened it up to become a group discussion about some topics in mass media today and it's surprising how little chance we get to share opinions in a group setting.

Wednesday was a special Director's Lunch - and who doesn't like to eat free on KWF? Brad Bushman, Professor of Psychology and Communication Studies, shared with us some of his compelling research on media and violence - specifically focusing on the impact of violent video games such as Grand Theft Auto.

Some chilling stuff, really, and it's funny that we require complicated science to tell us what seems so instinctive and obvious -- people who play violent video games demonstrate increased aggression. What migh surprise some is that people don't have to play the games often or for very long in order to increase levels of aggression - 20 minutes'll do it. I'm reluctant to judge anyone who tackles the task of parenting, but I honestly can't imagine why on earth any parent would allow their child to play games that glorify violence and criminal behavior, especially in graphic detail. Easy for me to say, I suppose.

Thursday evening, some Fellows were positively jelly-kneed to meet Alex Kotlowizt, journalist and author, perhaps most notably of There Are No Children Here. That groundbreaking feat of reportage was the result of spending a year following two brothers in a Chicago public housing project and it is, I think, the kind of seminal work many journalists would love to someday produce.

Kotlowitz shared with us some interesting perspectives about writing non-fiction and the importance of story - and I'm always most interested when we're talking about the craft of writing.

Speaking of which, it looks as though I'll be doing quite a bit of that this semester, although not in the MFA fiction class i'd hoped to get into. Seems they don't let auditors in those courses and, as disappointed as I am, I can completely understand. Instead, I let a couple of the fellows talk me into tackling Screenwriting.

If the first meeting of the class, which is taught by Detroit Free Press film critic Terry Lawson, is anything to go by, it's not a light commitment. But I think (think!) I'm equal to it. It's not like I'm itching to get my fantastic movie idea on paper or harboring any ideas that I'll one day make it to Hollywood.

But I am intrigued by the intensly organized approach to creating a screenplay. I think the methodology - moving from a treatment to an outline to a step outline to a script - will be unlike any writing approach I've taken and I'm actually pretty excited to be challenged. The mere fact that I'm intimidated as hell about the process probably means I'm going to learn something.

As I mentioned before, I checked out the Primo Levi class taught by Ralph Williams and I'll likely stick with that one. The class on Gender & Women in Post WWII Europe wasn't quite what I was hoping so, on a lark, I'm going to check out Women & Islam with Fara tomorrow. That would bring me up to three classes - and that's plenty.

I haven't even had a chance to contact 826 Michigan to see what my involvement will be this semester. I'd hoped to tutor, but my class schedule looks to be making that nigh impossible. I've been playing with this idea of doing a weekly writing workshop for kids, just an hour or so focusing on guided writing exercises to keep their creative muscles flexed. I'll have to see if that's something I can do on a Monday or Friday since those are my only afternoons left.

In the midst of all that madness, we finally vacuumed up the last of the cat hair from the old digs and have (almost) everything put away in the new house. It's amazing how much more settled I feel now, but it sucked up most of our weekend.

Tonight, however, John Bacon has arranged for us to rent out a skating rink for an hour - from 10 pm to 11 pm. I think he thinks we're all still young enough to stay up that late or something. So I've burned a CD of the same cheesy tunes I used to roller skate to in the early 80s and we'll see how many times I fall on my ass or other assorted parts.

A new semester begins

Well, technically, the Winter 06 semester - as it is known here at University of Michigan, lest you get coddled into a false sense of meteorological security by the notion of a Spring semester -- began last Thursday. And in that time, I've been to a total of zero classes. I should note that this isn't entirely due to ennui, as one might (understandably) presume. By Saturday, I was struck down with a nasty combo of a massive cold and a fibromyalgia flare-up. Thus, I spent most of the weekend barely able to stand up and move let alone move our things into the new home.

Fortunately, that Chris is a tasky boy and he did the majority of the work without complaining. Actually, come to think of it, he could have complained the entire time but I was asleep for most of it, so I wouldn't have known. We did, of course, have plenty of generous offers to help us move but considering we hadn't packed and didn't really have any idea how to begin tackling it, it didn't seem fair to subject anyone to all that. Now we're in our new house which is closer to campus and equipped with charming hardwood floors and a wondrous old clawfoot bathtub in which I plan to spend the majority of this semester. However, it's also a tad...buggy. The place is inundated with these little box elder bugs which are, according to our renter, completely harmless and just a bit of a nuisance. She clearly has a more liberal and tolerant bug policy than I.

However, she apparently has a strict policy against microwaves (there isn't one) and TV reception (there isn't any). I'm not sure how people live in these spartan conditions! But one day, when our boxes are all put away and we can find our underwear and toothpaste (not together, one hopes) again, I'm sure we'll just laugh and laugh about it.

I never thought I'd miss the old Brady Bunch split level but, dammit, I do!

Back to Tuesday & Thursday seminars this evening with a presentation entitled "Women in the Media" given by Susan Douglas, Chair of Communication Studies here at UM. Since I am a woman and I have been in, consumed and created the media, there should be something in there for me.

I'm also working out my class schedule which I think will include a lecture course on Women & Gender in European History, focusing on the way World War II changed the roles of women. During my past few visits to Scotland, I've spent a great deal of time talking to my grandmother about the blitz of the Clydebank in Glasgow during WWII and how it changed her life. It's something I'm circling around writing about, dabbling a bit here and there and I think this course could prove very useful.

As we've been strongly urged to take a class with near-legendary-status UM lecturer Ralph Williams, I'm going to be taking his Great Works of Literature English course on Primo Levi and the Memory of Auschwitz.

Chris and I are also hoping to take a class in the nonprofit segment of the business school (yes, there is such a thing) on Grantgetting, Contracting and Fundraising. Seems like something that might come in handy....

As for the Frederick Busch class, I wasn't feeling well enough to show up and harass him last night at the first meeting - and to be honest, I'm having some major second thoughts. As much as I think trying fiction after a 15-year absence might be a lark, I'm not sure doing so in a closed, masters-level fiction class would be the most beneficial way to approach it - for me or the students. I've got a note in to Birgit for tips on getting admitted but if it doesn't happen, I'm pretty content with the course load I have.

Terra Firma

We arrived back in Ann Arbor last night after five days in Glasgow. At the risk of sounding like a whiny international traveler, there's simply been too much back and forth in the past month and we're plum tuckered. However, we had a grand time in the mother land, spending quality time with family and friends. It's possible that I'll log some details here but considering I still haven't posted my final couple of travel diary entries from Buenos Aires, it seems unlikely.

Tonight we reunited with the gang for a dinner at Charles & Julia's to kick off the new semester which, technically, started today. It was good to see everyone, but it was also strange, considering the absence of Luis, Semiha, Sedat, Sarah and Steve. All of them have returned to their real lives and I wonder how the post-fellowship adjustment is treating them. Most everyone seems to be doing well. Fara is getting along nicely with her arm injury, although it will be a while before she's without a splint. Lisa, however, has been diagnosed with a heart condition and undergoes laporascopic surgery early tomorrow morning to repair a nerve that's causing an irregular heartbeat.

Apparently, as far as these things go, it's a pretty routine procedure. However, anything involving the heart sounds pretty damn serious to me. So we're over to the hospital first thing in the AM to keep Chuck company while she's in surgery - it's always hardest for those left waiting.

Otherwise, it's a crazy, chaotic time for us. I'm in the midst of selecting the classes I want to take and beginning the packing process for moving to our second semester home this weekend. As for classes, I've got about five I'd like to check out, but if the planets will align somehow to let me into Frederick Busch's fiction class, I'll be a very, very happy girl. Fingers crossed, virtually speaking!

Happy Holidays!

As you might have noticed, I'm working - albeit slowly - to get my travel journals from Argentina on line. I know that hundreds of you are waiting with baited breath. For Christmas this year, I ask only for your patience.... Speaking of which, I hope everyone enjoys a safe and happy holiday season. It's been an amazing year for Chris and I - with more fun to come before year's end as we go to ring in the New Year in Glasgow. We're incredibly grateful for all the many blessings in our life, especially family and friends, old and new. Thanks to all of you!

Farewell, Buenos Aires

So we kicked off yesterday morning with Round Two of the Coat Disaster. The woman, due at 10, called at ten to say she would arrive at 11:30 – and it bought her no sympathy or good will to wait around the hotel for a couple of hours until she finally arrived just before noon. She was extremely apologetic for the problem but rather than recognizing the problems, she seemed to be trying to convince me that there weren’t any problems. She wanted me to trust her that they could fix it and I was trying to convey that I didn’t really have any reason to trust that and, besides, I’d spent enough time on the jacket. I just wanted my money back. Then began the tears. I wasn’t sure if it was a sales ploy or if her children would be eaten by goats if she didn’t make this sale right, but against my better judgment, I agreed to let them take one more stab at it. She told me she’d return tomorrow with my coat and my money in her pocket in case I still wasn’t happy.

It made for a grumpy start to what was Chris’ first day “off” in Buenos Aires. Still, we made the most of it by walking over to Recoleta and visiting the Cemeteria there. We don’t make a habit of visiting cemeteries. However, this one is an architectural marvel and a stunning homage to the dead. It’s a little walled city of mausoleums, complete with paved streets, trees, benches to sit on and street lights. Truly amazing. Then we headed to the Plaza de Mayo where I had wanted to see the Madres demonstration, which happens every Thursday. Unfortunately, it seemed to be the time for the other Madres and not the ones we’d visited earlier in the week. Apparently, this group is an offshoot, a faction formed when they split with the original group over their goals and approach. To say I don’t understand their differences is an understatement.

And what better than to follow such a somber occasion than yet more shopping? Although I swore I would never venture onto Florida again, I found myself doing just that – dodging dodgers waving cards and ads for leather shops under my nose. But we were in pursuit of suits for Chris and after passing at one shop that swore its suits were “120% wool” we found some at Zara and got away with two beautiful wool suits for about $280 US. For real!

That night, we met up with Lisa and Chuck at Olsen, a restaurant in Palermo that was on both our lists. None of us is an expert on modern Scandinavian cuisine, but we were sold by the bagel and fish dip appetizers and the sleek design of the place. It was a truly beautiful restaurant and the meal was just lovely – particularly a dessert sampler we all shared. Genius idea! A couple of bites of everything for everyone!

I should probably mention that before Thursday, we had gotten quite used to stepping out of the Dazzler and into a white van and being delivered to our final destination. Once the official trip ended Wednesday afternoon, we were on our own and discovered that a) I know more Spanish than I thought when it comes to taking taxis and b) that’ll do me no good when I die in a fiery wreck as a result of the absolutely terrifying life-gamble involved in getting from one point to another in a Buenos Aires taxi.

Good Lord! Lanes are nothing but mere suggestions and even if there are eight of them on a single street, all pointing in the same direction, people just add their own, edging between cars. The taxis drive at break neck speed and tailgate as though their font bumpers were magnetically attracted to the rear one of the car in front. Terrifying stuff!

But the good news is that risking your life is cheap. Our longest cross-town trip – on which we may have been snowed by a mile or so of unnecessary scenic detour – cost us about 13 pesos. That’s about four bucks to you and me, folks.

Friday began not well with the return of the leather jacket, which was in even worse shape than the day before. The insides were bunched together in an attempt to rectify the situation. I still couldn't raise my arms above my head and was as disappointed in the amount of time I'd wasted on it as I was in the jacket itself. Despite the woman's pleas to give them yet another chance, I had to decline. And although I initially insisted I wanted my money back, we wound up compromising and Chris came away from the deal with a gorgeous briefcase, two pairs of shoes and a belt. Turned out to be his trip for goodies!

Chris and I took a tour of the Teatro Colon, one of the most magnificent opera houses in the world. The place is absolutely amazing, like something out of a different time entirely and I wish only that its upkeep were a little more meticulous but I fear that it too has fallen victim to Argentina’s difficult economy.

My favorite part was probably our trip down five flights of stairs into the bowels of the theater – where we found rehearsal space, scenery workshops, metal shop, cabinetry, dress makers, wig makers and cobblers. One of the rehearsal spaces stretched far underneath the street, reaching out under Avenue 9 of July, one of the busiest streets in Buenos Aires. I was absolutely smitten with the romantic notion that a rehearsal of Don Giovanni was taken place right beneath the smog and city rush of the taxis, unbeknownst to most of the people above.

At the hotel, we met up with Graham, Rainey, Gerard and Kim, who had returned from their side trip to Colonia, Uruguay, which they said was just magical and relaxing. I regret not being able to see the place but don’t regret having to pack everything and move our luggage away for an overnight trip. The boys took us to lunch at La Bifteca, an amazing joint in Puerto Madera where they had eaten with the fellows earlier in the week. It was the most stunning buffet I’ve ever seen, especially with its offerings of vegetables and salad in a zillion different forms – something we simply haven’t had enough of and gorged on like we were starving for vitamins.

We met up with Gerard, Kim, Rainey & Graham at the hotel and headed out to La Bifteca, a buffet of unequal proportions. The boys had checked it out earlier in the week and it lived up to all expectations with a sea of food, including a wide selection of salads which we were eager to dig into after all the meat we’ve been ingesting. Late that afternoon, Chris and I returned to the massage place where he got an hour-long Shiatsu treat and I enjoyed the hot-stone therapy – which cost us a whopping $35 US total!

A gang of us joined up with Luis, Claudia and Gabriel that evening at a beautiful restaurant called Moreno. All atmosphere, with dim lights and beautiful views of the moon over the water, it was a lovely evening, although I carried with me that slightly melancholy feeling you have when you know things are drawing to a close.

And close they did the following day. In the morning, we packed and checked out of the Dazzler before heading back to Palermo to check out the markets. Due to our geographical confusion, we stumbled upon a much larger market than the one we’d been at the week before, in Palermo Soho. It was a gorgeous day and we wandered around, snagging a hat for me and gazing at the overwhelming selection of crafts. Then we jumped in a taxi and met up with Luis, Claudio, Bacon ‘n Butters, the Aussies and Grainey at the MALBA

Buyer's remorse, South American style

The past couple of days have fairly flown by. I spent much of Tuesday in the company of Miss Fara Warner, our invalid, helping her go about her day. This included such crucial feats as bathing, dressing and, of course, shopping. We had a fun and low-key time while the rest of the fellows and spouses were off on another jam-packed day. We lunched on empanadas and salad at one of the many restaurants on Santa Fe and shopped for presents for Fara to take home with her. She also splurged on a reversible beaver…coat. Red basket weave leather on one side and black beaver – which is softer than you can even imagine – on the inside. Now, I’m no fan of leather, but this was a striking coat and certainly something she’ll never find again in the US.

I spent much of the time while we were out running interference between Fara’s shoulder and the crowds bustling down the street. In addition, we had to be careful not to trip on any of the giant holes in the sidewalks. I haven’t mentioned it before, but the sidewalks here are a disaster – you can’t walk a block without stepping aside to avoid giant holes, missing tiles, upturned slabs of concrete. It’s things like this that make it impossible to ignore the distressed economy of this nation even as it tries desperately to put on a brave face and retain as much of its former superficial glory as possible. In the afternoon, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I went back out with Rainey and Sally to do some more shopping although, in our defense – especially Rainey’s – we weren’t actually shopping for ourselves. We were shopping on behalf of significant others with no time to shop who sought special gifts. (We were largely unsuccessful in the end.) Now, I don’t even like to shop in other cities, so the fact that I seemed to spend so much time here shopping with one person or another makes me feel so unbelievably…shoppingy. And that’s not me. If I note that it was usually for other people, does that make it count as public service work?

In the meantime, I was thrilled to find out my custom-made jacket had been delivered to the front desk of the hotel. Sure, it had taken a day longer than promised, but what did that matter when I was going to have a tailor made jacket in the most beautiful hue? I could barely contain my excitement between the front desk and the hotel room and, perhaps, if there had been no one else in the elevator then I would have tried it on there.

Instead, it was a few more minutes before I was back in our room and slipped it out of my bag. It was an unqualified disaster – the shoulders started in the middle of my upper arm so that I couldn’t raise my arms above my shoulders, the bottom circumference boasted about 20 extra inches and the collar started around my ears. At first, I thought maybe I was being too critical. And then I tried it on for Fara. And she began laughing so hard, it hurt her arm.

I went off in search of Vanessa and begged her to come by and make a call to the leather shop and explain to them, in Spanish, what a disaster the coat was. I tried it on to show her the problems and had to wait for her to regain her composure from laughing before she could make the call. She dubbed it my leather smock. She was very kind and called the leather shop. Now, I’m not even close to being fluent, but she used the phrase, “totalamente mal” several times.

I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a return policy in Buenos Aires, but she explained we’d like her money back. The store manager was balking and instead asked if they could send the sales woman over tomorrow to the hotel to retake my measurements. I agreed to meet her in the lobby at ten and let them take one more stab at it.

That evening, we were scheduled to see a show featuring tango music and professional tango dancers. We’d been warned ahead of time that these shows are strictly for tourists and that real Argentines stick to the neighborhood milongas for their tango fix. Still, we are tourists, so what the hell? Fara was, of course, particularly excited about going – but one wrong turn as she stepped into the van and she knew the pain and the crowd were both simply going to be too much.

I’d like to say it was entirely selfish that I made a split-moment decision to stay home with her, but it struck me all of a sudden that a nice quiet dinner with some one-on-one conversation might be a nice change of pace. The meals here have been fantastic but when there’s 25 or so of you, it’s tough to make real conversation.

As it turned out, Fara and I had a nice evening. We walked up to the nearest restaurant, Torre Paris, and sampled some Argentine pizza. The meal was fair but the charming waiter went to great lengths to accommodate Fara’s injury and the conversation was really grand. I was happy to be at home and in bed by 11 for a change. Sleep is a commodity here and since I require about 25 hours of it each night to keep my crankiness and pain away, the exhaustion is starting to take its toll on me.

Wednesday morning, I helped Fara pack and then we finally ventured over to Thai Pie, a little massage therapy outfit just across Paraguay Avenue from the hotel. We’d heard rave reviews from other fellows and the hypnotizing smell of lemongrass was enough to woo us when we stopped in to make appointments for later that day. We killed an hour at a café – talking and, of course, eating - before venturing back across the road, ready for our rub-downs.

When you ask people what their favorite thing was in Argentina, they will no doubt note something noble or historically profound. Or perhaps even point out the massive and fantastic steaks. But me? I’m such a whore for massage, that I’d put Thai Pie at the top of my list. The place consists of several little rooms, separated from each other with reed-like blinds. There’s a reverent hush to the place and, as I noted before, an absolutely engaging aroma and we were each led to our neighboring rooms by goateed gentlemen in black kimono-like pajama outfits.

Fara was able to lean back, with some assistance, in the recliner and had a fabulous hour-long foot rub for about 50 pesos (about $19 US). I had a 30 minute foot rub, followed by a 40 minute facial massage, which included plenty of neck and shoulder attention, too. It was absolute heaven and I was out a total of about 70 pesos (about $26 US) when all was said and done. Afterwards, we were served green tea in the reception area where we sat, sloe-eyed and blinking out the window at the rest of the world in that glorious, inimitable post-massage haze.

That afternoon, we saw the first wave of fellows off to the airport – Gail, Fara, Tony, Sally, Drew, Semiha and Sadat. For the latter two, it would be the last time we’ll see them until February and, effectively, their departure from the Fellowship. Although I don’t think we’ll fully feel their absence until we reassemble on January 6, it was tough to say goodbye. They are both exceptional people and became an integral part of the program – Semiha for her poise and passion and Sedat for the fantastic sense of humor and good spiritedness that he managed to convey to us with a limited (although ever-increasing) amount of English.

I’ll share with you my favorite memory of Semiha on the trip. One evening, we were leaving the Dazzler to head across the road to our ever-present vans. Crossing the street in Argentina is a matter of life and death, a gamble, no matter how small a road, no matter what the crossing signal says. I happened to catch a glimpse of Semiha, endlessly glamorous and completely in possession of her own being, as she stepped off the curb. Around the corner came a gentleman driving a Mercedes. The unspoken rule in Buenos Aires is that cars stop for no one and nothing – pedestrians are on their own.

But this man slowed slightly as he turned the corner and Semiha, already half way across the road, caught his eye and with a slight tilt of her chin, a commanding smile and a firm but gentle lift of her hand, literally brought traffic to a halt. The man behind the wheel stopped and responded to her with a pleasant, admiring smile, as if he’d just fallen prey to everything womanhood had held over him since puberty and let her cross.

I’ll never be that kind of woman. I’ll stop traffic sometimes with sheer will and determination, with my boldness and my rallying cry that pedestrians always have the right of way! But this was something exceptional, a Sophia Loren-like sense of womanhood, a throwback to another time and a wonder and delight to witness. I’m still smiling as I write about it.

Como se dice "I think it's broken"?

Transcribed from travel journal Sunday, we fled the city on a Patridge Family Bus – complete with trippy, brightly colored flowers painted on the side – past the Rio de la Plata and into the grassy lands known as the pampas. An hour and a half drive, ending on a bumpy dirt road, delivered us to a leisurely, lazy day at the Estancia Los Dos Hermanos.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect – sunny and warm – and we came off the bus to a spread of sweet rolls, juice and coffee awaiting us. The estancia is run by a woman named Ana and her family and it includes small guest houses, a barn with bathrooms and changing rooms, a corral of horsies, a small gem-blue swimming pool and fields as far as the eyes could see.

After some lolling in the sun or shade in comfy sling chairs and good-natured fighting over the three primo hammock spaces, the vast majority of us lined up to take a horse back ride. For the most part, we’re not a really horsy group. Only Marcello, Birgit’s beau from Brazil, counted himself in the expert group, although Sally proved herself no slouch, either. A few brave souls – Thomas and Tony included – were mounting up for the first time. The rest of us fell into the category of having ridden a few times but not well, although Clover wondered aloud if his camel-riding experience was help or hindrance. For the most part, we rode in slightly separate groups – the brave souls who wished to gallop and go faster were up ahead, while most of us were content to walk and shake it up once in a while with a trot. It was a gorgeous experience, fields and blue sky for miles, all enhanced by the awareness that you are definitely not in Kansas anymore. (Although, having written that, I’m guessing there probably are bits of Kansas that look a lot like the pampas…but I’m digressing.)

A better writer would insert some foreshadowing here but I’m too lazy, so I’ll just say that things were going swimmingly until our poor Fara fell off her horse. It seems the two of them had a difference of opinion about whether or not they should gallop and, fortunately, they were not at full speed when she took her tumble. However, it was a nasty fall and although I know she wouldn’t have wanted it to, our concern over her well being colored the rest of our afternoon.

While Fara was carted off to be cared for at a nearby hospital – with Vanessa along to play translator – we all returned and were soon treated to a really lovely and (of course) meaty lunch served on red-and-white gingham table cloths spread across long picnic tables in the grass. Lots of fun! Especially when Tony left the table for an afternoon nap and we watched as the tame foal running around roused him right out of his hammock and onto the ground. From our point of view, it was like a Benny Hill skit, watching as the pony followed him around, professing its love.

After that, I entertained myself – inspired by the view of a wagon wheel propped against a tree – by forcing people to pose for senior portraits. It was quite a kick for the foreign fellows, to whom the concept of a cheesy, posed photo as rite of passage was completely foreign. With Gail and Rainey setting up and directing the shoots, they had no trouble getting into it. Should make for a wonderful yearbook. Although I suppose we need a yearbook committee for that, eh?

We were plenty sleepy on the trip back to the Dazzler that night, but we headed out for dinner to an Italian place a few blocks away. It was the choice of Jeremy, a friend of Graham and Rainey’s from back home in Boston, who happens to be on holiday here too. We had a great meal with outstanding service and it was, of course, dirt cheap. It would have cost even less if I hadn’t lost a handful of pesos on a Gerard-devised game of taking bets on which 80s group would next play in the steady procession of that era’s power ballads playing overhead. (For the record, Jeremy won with Berlin, after I came back and said, “Damn, I wonder if I should have put Berlin.” I’m still bitter.)

The last day or so have been pretty tame. Yesterday, the spouses played hooky from the day’s seminars and Kim, Rainey & I took Fara to lunch at a place called Edelweiss, at Luis’ recommendation. It was very businessman-y but decent food and you can’t beat this Argentine habit of sending over a little something extra free of charge – in this case, a round of drinks both before and after the meal.

After that, we took Fara shopping for tango shoes because, god love her, even if she wasn’t going to get to tango again, she sure as hell wasn’t leaving without some red suede stunners. (It looks like she's broken her shoulder and may require surgery - either way, she's heading back to the states on Wednesday with the rest of the gang and has to give up her side trip to Salta.) We delivered her back to the hotel to rest after that and Rainey and I went on a search for El Ateneo Gran Splendid, () a former theater turned bookstore mentioned in our guide books. Along the way, Rainey talked me into buying a pair of metallic sandals as though I were, like, someone who wears metallic sandals. She has sway, that girl.

In the evening, we attended the Foreign Correspondents dinner at Cabana Las Lilas, yet another stunning restaurant all about (no surprises here) the beef. Here, we were joined by and chatted with members of the local press, some past fellows and potential applicants as well as BA’s press agent. I think we were supposed to impress them with our sophistication and be good little poster children for the program. But, instead, we were ourselves, letting loose with laughter and cheers that bordered on manic fraternity behavior. Still, fun was had all around and none of us returned to the hotel to find our bags packed. Another day, another bullet dodged. Such is the life of the fellows in Buenos Aires.

Political cartoons & polo

Transcribed from travel journal We kicked off our Saturday morning with a visit to the studio of Alfredo Sabat, the best known and most revered illustrator and political cartoonist in South America. Our trusty white vans dropped us off outside of Sabat’s studio, where he works and teaches. The room was an artist’s atelier straight from a Puccini set – a giant window at one end shedding light on worn wooden floor boards, students sketching on miniature easels on their desks.

The man himself was unbelievably warm and gentlemanly, taking the time to go around the room and shake hands with each of us, often commenting on his own experiences with someone’s home town or newspaper. Now a spry 72, he published his first political cartoon at the tender age of 15. It was evident as he spoke to us about his career that he chose his words carefully and he walked us through a giant cartoon on the wall, character by character, detailing Argentina’s tumultuous political history.

We were, for the most part, in pretty good shape that morning, although some had stayed out at the milonga until the wee hours. General consensus seemed to be that it was more VFW than chic nightclub, but Fara got out there and tangoed with a local, putting to good use the fellows’ pre-trip tango lessons. I also heard that Sally, Drew and Gail courted death with a particularly wild taxi ride home from the club. Did I mention the driving here is insane? After we left Sabat’s studio, we were let loose in Palermo, a wonderful and colorful area with a small Saturday artisan market underway. Fara, Chuck, Lisa, Chris and I planted ourselves at an outdoor café and ate pizza, enjoying the most gorgeous weather. We’re getting to be pros at ordering our agua mineral sin gas or con gas. (Not surprisingly, I’m a fan of the latter.)

After, Lisa was let off her leash to go manic shoe shopping while Chris and I walked around the stalls and then the streets surrounding the market. I picked up a few trinkets for Christmas gifts and, of course, for myself and wished we had more time before we had to meet the gang back at the bus. But a polo game was awaiting us, so we showed up for duty in good time.

Yes, I said a polo match. Why? Because we’re just that sort of folk – when we’re not tooling around on our private yachts in our crisp linens, we’re cheering on the home team on the, uh, field. Or whatever you call it. On the way into the city, we saw some of the most decrepit slums of Buenos Aires and it’s fair to say that our day at the polo match showed us the exact opposite, a glimpse at the life of the very elite. The place was lousy with beautiful Argentinian men and women, with their jaunty Euro-polo look, tanned skin, sweater tossed across the shoulders, as if waiting for their Vanity Fair profile.

It was all class, including a sighting of John Walsh, host of America’s Most Wanted, decked out in a sparkling white linen suit that screamed, “Hey, I’m an American. Do I fit in yet?” Gotta love it! Until the polo match, I had managed to keep my own insecurities at bay but I’ve never felt so fat and unattractive as I did when I hit the loo at the match. It was short, dumpy me surrounded by coltish Argentine beauties, long dark hair with caramel highlights, tiny cotton tops and couture jeans, a fresh flower tucked effortlessly behind the ear.

Seriously, are these women born knowing how to do that? I’m certain they spend far more time than I can even imagine worrying about their looks. I’m certain their priorities are completely out of whack and that most of them haven’t actually digested a meal in years. But that’s a little hard to remember when you’re carrying more extra fat on your ass than the ten women around you combined. I got straight out of there – and had some ice cream.

The polo was great fun to watch – for about twenty minutes. Of course, that’s about as long as I last with any sport other than basketball or tennis. Like anything involving ponies, it’s a glorious sight to see them canter across the field and marvel at the union between them and their riders. But after a while, I went off to wander around the booths and people watch until the end of the game. It was an important match and some team with horses won. (La Dolfina, FYI.)

That night, our good friend Luis Vinker and his saint of a wife, Claudia, hosted us for dinner in their home. Poor Claudia had prepared the whole thing and it was so kind of them. We got a great chance to get to know their 18-year-old son Gabriel – nicknamed, much to his chagrin, Guapito – and hear him play the piano. He’s quite the afficianado and I always think it’s a real privilege to witness someone with such a strong connection to the music he performs.

Even cuter was his insistence that he didn't need to know how to fold his own shirts because "a girl or woman" would do it for him. Oh, those Argentina men and their adorable chauvenism!

Mothers of the disappeared

Transcribed from travel journal Yesterday, we had the rare treat of a late start to the day since we weren’t scheduled for anything before 1 pm, so after sleeping like logs until nearly 11 am, Chris and I had the luxury of strolling up the street for a late breakfast at the Café de Liberdad. We dined on medialunas, jugo de naranja and drank the first of many, many cafes con leche before doing a little window shopping in some of the many tiendas that surround our hotel.

It was our first introduction to BA in the day time and the barren streets of the day before did not prepare us for the crowded hustle and bustle of the city streets, nor the congested and intimidating traffic. Returning to the hotel to meet back up with the group, we then boarded the buses that would become our second homes, driven by our faithful friends Leo and Peco, and went to lunch at Brasserie Petanque, a French restaurant in San Telmo.

Service was a tad slow, inspiring Luis to make one of many quotable pronouncements during the coming week: “Whoever chose this restaurant, he is our enemy.” I thought the food was lovely, however – a chilly and refreshing gazpacho, a simple buttered sole that would be the last non-red meat we’d see for days, and a truly outstanding chocolate mousse dotted with chips of the dark stuff. From there we went to what would prove one of the most memorable stops on the trip, at least for me – a visit to the Madres de Plaza de Mayo Linea Foundation. I confess to knowing little of the Madres before our arrival and I still know frighteningly little about the circumstances surrounding their plight. What I can say is that this is an organization of mothers and other relatives of the desperacios – the “disappeared.”

In 1974, a military junta under General Jorge Rafael Videla took control in Argentina and began a reign of terror during which an estimated 30,000 people were "disappeared" by the regime. Many of these were young people who were considered politicos or had attachments - often tenuous - to an offshoot of the Peronista party.

In 1977, a group of 14 mothers united in their determination to find out what happened to their disappeared children and staged the first protest at the Plaza de Mayo, directly in front of the Presidential palace. For the past three decades, these women - now far larger in numbers and joined by fathers, brothers, sisters and other relatives of the disappeared - to seek truth and justice.

Three of these mothers - including two of the original fourteen - met with us and, through a translator, shared with us the stories of their personal journeys. At the beginning, their quest was naive - they didn't yet understand that their children had already been killed, that they would not be returning home. Nor did they realize that they would still be fighting for answers three decades later.

The details of their stories are heart-wrenching and shocking. Their sons and daughters were taken from their homes when they were betwee the ages of 18-21. It's now known that most of them were drugged then dropped from airplanes into the ocean. Young women who were pregnant were kept alive long enough to give birth before their children were given or sold to supporters of the military regime. Only one of the mothers we spoke with has been able to locate the remains of her son and give him a proper burial.

Because the meeting was, of course, off the record, I can't share with you the exact pleas of these women to remember and share their story with the world. I can tell you, however, that I don't know of another instance where a group of women - not backed by any political group or entity - worked so relentlessly to change history and fight governmental corruption. They are the true heroes, a title they refuse (as, I am learning, do all true heroes).

They reminded us that while there is a name for those who have lost a spouse or a child who has lost a parent, there is no name for their specific pain. They credit their vision and relentlessness to the particular pain of a mother robbed of her child. And if the current Argentine president follows through on his promises to meet with them, he will be the first president in three decades to do so.

---------

After the Madres, Leo took us to one of his favorite cuero shops, Antelope, where Chris found a beautiful black leather jacket ($450/$150 US) – and even agreed to buy it for himself. And I embarked upon what I thought was the unbelievable luxury of ordering a custom made leather jacket in a gorgeous lemony-green color. Now would be a good time to note that BA doesn’t sell clothes for the curvier set. The women here are tall and alarmingly thin and, apparently, most stores cater to them. Even the smaller women among us fit into larger sizes here and there wasn’t a chance in hell that they’d have something for me. Thus, when I admired a beautiful but too-small jacket, I was told that I could have it made to fit me perfectly, delivered to my hotel within 48 hours – for a mere $390/US $130.

It was a deal too fantastic to pass up. I’d read a New York Times article by a reporter who also had a jacket custom made and it seemed like the most decadent thing on earth! Yes! I must have it! My measurements were taken and I was promised a perfect jacket delivered to my hotel, no less, by Monday evening. I couldn't wait!

But wait I must and after a brief respite at the Dazzler, we embarked upon that evening’s entertainment - a wine tasting and dinner at Red (insert your own umlaut over the e) Resto & Lounge in the Hotel Madero in Puerto Madero. The wine tasting was probably fun for those who drink wine, but just a tad dull for those playing spectator.

We had dinner in the restaurant, under low light and seated on these soft fawn-colored over-stuffed sofas and chairs. The hotel is a stunning work of modern design, straight from the glossy pages of a magazine or the backdrop for a sleek film. The sort of place my people usually only enter through the service entrance. When the bathroom has you gasping at its stark beauty, you know to count your blessings.

The chef prepared for us some raw oysters covered in some additional slimy stuff (as though they needed the extra sludge). I've always felt that if you were going to force me to eat the damn things, then the least you could do is cook them. But not everyone feels this way. At our table - Chris, me, Min-Ah and Thomas - I had no trouble finding takers for my extra oysters. We were then a served lamb so tender it fell to pieces and some beautiful little bombs of strawberry ice cream. Have I mentioned Argentina seems to be all about the food?

Originally, the group was scheduled to go to tango after dinner at a milonga (a low-key dance club where locals hang and dance). However, we got started (and finished) with dinner so late that it was no longer an obligation for the fellows and Chris and I caught the bus back to hotel and promptly collapsed. Around here, if you're in bed by 1, you're an early bird.

What's new, Buenos Aires?

Transcribed from travel journal By the time we arrived in Buenos Aires yesterday morning, I was completely giddy from lack of sleep. Fortunately, the weather was temporarily uplifting – beautiful and breezy and not at all hot and humid as we’d been warned.

We were met at the airport and ushered into the white vans that would become like second homes to us during the trip and shuttled to the ambitiously named Hotel Dazzler. Buenos Aires isn’t a city that strikes you as impressive upon first glance. In fact, the day we arrived was a national holiday and the streets were deserted as we made our way toward the city center. The run-down high-rise flats we passed along the highway reminded me of parts of Puerto Rico. It’s not difficult to recognize instantly that this is a country that has lost some of its glow at the hands of economic and political instability.

We arrived at the Hotel well before our noon check in time, which turned out to be just as well, since they claimed to have no record of our reservation whatsoever. However, they promised us to take a look and we left them with our luggage while heading towards the first seminar of the day. Charles and Birgit took it all in great cheer, informing us that this was the Argentinean way while the rest of us wondered if perhaps we hated the Argentinean way. No matter! Back into the vans we went and were whisked off to a small art gallery where we were expecting a small breakfast but encountered, instead, some plastic cups and a bottle or two of Coke and Fanta. Since most of us were in need of tooth picks to keep our eyes open, the disappointment was palatable. Still, for the most part, we were able to focus on a very impassioned talk given us by a Rosendo Fraga, a political analyst for Neuvo Mayoria.

With absolutely no disrespect to our host, I was simply more tired than I remember being in years – pulling all-nighters in one’s thirties is not a pretty sight – and I had a great deal of difficulty following his thick accent. Not to mention the fact that I’m startlingly ignorant on the facts of Argentina’s political history and lacked the basic knowledge to follow closely enough. I consider the fact that I kept my head upright to be quite a coup!

By the time we were finished there, we headed back to the hotel where our rooms had been found, recovered or otherwise wrangled away from innocent victims. Of course, it turned out Chris and I were put in the same room with Kim and Gerard and some people didn't get into their rooms until nearly 3 in the afternoon. In hindsight, such mix-ups and gaffes weren’t major ones – it just felt that way since we were all hovering somewhere between the dementia and delusion of exhaustion.

Deciding that hunger was beating out exhaustion, a group of us decided to accompany Charles Eisendrath (newly nicknamed Iron Wire by our John Bacon) to one of his favorite meat joints near the hotel. My prediction for the week from the previous post came true, in spades. Except it wasn’t just lots of beef. It was lots of meat and…parts. Iron Wire ordered for the table as he has been here before and within seconds of sitting down, small plates of piping hot fresh empanadas were presented. Glorious little pastries stuffed with meat!

Next, came wedges of a salty, orange cheese grilled over an open flame until melty in the middle and bowls of tomato and onion salad in a simple vinegar and oil dressing. Chris and I learned quickly to ask for agua mineral (sin gas or con gas, depending on your bubble preferences) and we were plenty full by the time a little portable grill was presented, piled up with…bits.

As a hunter, Charles no doubt has a very economic and sensible approach to animal consumption – eat it all. Thus, the platter included sweetbreads (which, as we all know, are neither sweet nor bread), plump chorizo, dark bulging blood sausage links and little circles of intestine. Mmmm! I can only say for certain that the chorizo was quite good. The rest, your guess is as good as mine.

Did I mention we were already stuffed by the time the meat arrived? Our amigo Luis (whose fellowship ends with this week’s return to BA) spent four months complaining about how much Americans eat, how big our meals are. The Argentineans make us look like rank amateurs, if this week is any indication! (If I can just figure out how the women are all so rail thin, however, I’ll be on to something.)

Then, of course, came the secondary meat course – the Argentinean specialty of asada (basically, short ribs) as well as something we misunderstood as llama but which really turned out to be good old fashioned beef. And I tell you, there’s nothing like a giant, carne-heavy meat to really get your energy going when you’re running on 30 minutes sleep in 32 hours.

With a full belly and the sensation that I would fall over every time I stood up, I had no choice but to surrender to exhaustion. That meant I missed out on what I'm told was a very interesting and fun bus tour of Buenos Aires. I tried to get up in order to attend a talk at the hotel by Alberto Heguy, a former polo player and member of one of Argentina's preeminent polo-playing families.

In the evening, we walked a few blocks from our hotel to a terribly sophisticated night spot called Gran Bar Danizon for a fabulous dinner. The place was dark and impeccably appointed, the clientele entirely too chic for the likes of us – beautiful people pressed tan belly to tan belly in a crowded bar area next to the dining room. (As I discovered while forcing my way to the bathroom, many of them were young American men yapping it up with BA beauties.) It was a gorgeous meal, featuring some fantastic…beef!

I must confess that as we tooled around Buenos Aires yesterday, I had been a bit concerned. Completely empty sidewalks and closed shops seemed to accentuate the mish-mosh architecture of strange high-rise buildings and the graffiti’d monuments we passed along the way. I thought we’d stumbled upon a ghost town.

Fortunately, it turns out that Argentineans take their holidays very seriously and everyone was off for the day. By this morning, the area surrounding our hotel – at Libertad and Paraguay in the downtown area known as MicroCentro – was bustling at full tilt.

I haven’t traveled much in South America. And by much, I mean not at all. But I sort of expected a “feel” to the place more in keeping with the rustic feel of Puerto Rico than Europe, but I’d say this city owes its sophistication and versatility at least as much to the latter as to its outlying traditional areas. It’s been called the Paris of South America which seems more than a bit generous, although maybe it was true before 2001.

It’s still, however, a very sophisticated city with wide boulevards and loads of shops, people packing the side walks. I don’t feel as conspicuous walking around as I might in more rural areas – tourism is crucial to BA’s survival and with the dollar getting you nearly three pesos these days, if you can swing the airfare, you’ll eat and stay well very cheaply here.

Somewhere between Miami and Argentina

Transcribed from my travel journal It’s just after ten at night and it feels like it’s about three in the morning. We’re more than twelve hours into our sojourn to Argentina and it’s been interesting, to say the least. After leaving the Wallace House by bus at around 9 am, we boarded a flight from Detroit to Miami. For the most part, everything went swimmingly – until we touched down at Miami International Airport.

We were informed of a “security event” that had us waiting before heading towards our gate and, after ten or so minutes, those of us with cell phones downloaded the CNN news to discover that the airport was the top story of the moment. A Federal Marshall had shot and killed a man who, apparently, claimed he had a bomb in his bag.

It turns out – as of this writing – that the details are a tad different. We learned later that the man was, apparently, a manic depressive who hadn’t taken his meds. He became agitated on the flight, running down the aisle of the plane and deplaning, declaring he had a bomb in his back pack and was pursued by Federal Air Marshalls. They apparently demanded that he stop and get on the ground, which he did. Then, the story goes, he reached into his back pack – at which point, he was shot and killed. More details – and, perhaps, a corresponding lawsuit – will follow, no doubt. We may perhaps learn whether he was a dangerous man or just a sick man, or both. But the tarmac was swamped with emergency vehicles and as we taxied past the scene, there was little to see other than a circle of vehicles and myriad flashing lights.

The incident took place in terminal D, at gate 42. Our flight was scheduled to arrive at gate D 44. Thus, we were diverted to terminal C, just the first of many stops on our multi-terminal tour. I should note that we were originally scheduled for a lengthy five-hour layover in Miami, complete with threats of a seminar that never materialized. By the time our plane reached our makeshift destination, an hour of that time had already passed.

We disembarked and wandered off to locate the new gate for our 8:40 flight to Argentina. Like a bunch of disoriented (and, mostly, hungry) lemmings, we followed one another, winding our way through C, back over to D to find our gate. Satisfied we knew where we were going to end up, we headed to a little cafeteria-style joint serving up some fairly tasty Cuban fare – pork in various forms, baked chicken, ropa vieja, rice, beans, plantains, etc.

It was good grub, but it required us to go outside of the security zone to dine, so we had to line up again and remove our shoes like good little soldiers. However, once we were inside the D terminal, the screens informed us that our gate had changed and we were supposed to be at E 25. Now, despite the proximity of these two letters in the alphabet, traveling from one terminal to the other involves some sort of little train contraption and not a little footwork.

We arrived at gate E25 – an odd downstairs space owing more to a Greyhound station than a major metropolitan airport – and settled in for a moment only to learn that our gate had changed again. This time, we were to relocate all the way over to A12. Now, dear reader, while I know that detail is the stuff of truly great writing, no one here is making that claim and you likely know way too much about our travels already. But here’s my real point: it sucked. A lot.

And now we are in the air, after our flight took off about an hour late. It should take us about 8-1/2 hours to get to Buenos Aires, which means that – with the two hour time change – we’ll be arriving at around 8 in the morning. The lucky ones among us will be able to catch some shut eye on the plane, something I’ve never been able to do. And all of us will be taken directly from the airport to our first seminar of the week – on Argentine history, I believe. I pity the poor speaker who has an audience composed of our motley crew, exhausted, mildly jet-lagged and, likely, in need of bathing.

Apparently, after that seminar is over, it will be time to check into our hotel and we can do so then head out to sample Eisendrath’s favorite BA restaurant – or stay at the hotel and nap. We leave from the hotel for our next seminar at four. Should make for an interesting day.

We’ve been told that it’s the Argentine way that our plans will change frequently. It seems they’ve changed so much, in fact, that we haven’t yet seen a schedule for the week. So I have no real sense of how we’ll spend our time, other than knowing that the fellows have the vast majority of each day scheduled to the hilt. And if we don’t know what is scheduled for the Fellows, then how can the spouses plan what to skip out on to go shopping? These are our dilemmas. Hard life, really.

My prediction for the week: lots of beef.

Time flies

I keep waiting for time to slow down so that I’ll have time to update my blog, but first it’s one thing, then another and whole weeks have passed. Time is moving so quickly here it’s starting to scare me. This week, we had the last of our presentations and fellow-prepared dinners. Tuesday was a very lengthy day of presentations. I missed the 4 o’clock one as I’d been off at a local elementary school working one-on-one with some fifth graders on their personal narrative essays for an 826 anthology. It was a pretty neat experience and I was surprised at how varied the children were in their levels of writing and their interest in creating stories through plot and narrative.

We then had three Fellow presentations back at Wallace House, as a computer glitch had caused the Titheringtons to delay their presentation from the week before. Thus, in rapid succession, we learned about the lives of Vanessa, Jamie and then Steve and Sarah. If I haven’t mentioned before how terribly fond I am of Vanessa, consider it stated here. (Any more and I’ll start blushing.) She’s terribly beautiful in every sense of the word and wears her passion and romanticism – for writing and Cuba and all the things she loves deeply – bravely on her sleeve. My favorite thing about Vanessa is that, when she’s talking to someone, she leans into them and listens completely and intently to them. Only in observing this in her, and the inherent kindness and generosity she brings to the mere act of listening, did I realize what a rarity it is.

Her presentation wove her story from her native Puerto Rico – a place near and dear to my own heart – to her last post, spending four years in Cuba working for the Florida Sun-Sentinel. I don’t suppose I can say I’m truly surprised that it turns out that she’s a talented photographer too, with a keen sense of composition and style. It’s as though she pays the same close attention to her subjects, leaning in to them, eschewing frills and capturing images that somehow express her own genuineness.

Jamie Butters was next, detailing his own journey from Chris’ home state of Iowa to his current position as the auto writer for the Detroit Free Press. I kind of expected to hear more about his career focus and, while there was plenty of that, there was also a really delightful focus on family – the members whose names (and attributes) influenced the monikers attached to his three young daughters.

Chris and I were commenting not too long ago that it’s both interesting and telling to see what people choose to focus on in their presentations. What it means to them to talk about their life, their accomplishments, etc. It’s been a really interesting mix of approaches and I have come to expect nothing less from this group.

The Titheringtons went next with a grand – if rushed – presentation of their own lives and Steve’s serendipitous rocket to editor of the newsroom at the BBC World Service. It was all tinged with a bit of bittersweet, though, as we’ve grown so unbelievably fond of them and they’re heading back to London while we’re in Argentina. Seems the BBC can only spare Steve for one semester and, frankly, I don’t blame them. I think I’d want him back too.

(In fact, we’ll lose more fellows at the mid-year mark. Semiha and Sedat will return to Turkey after the trip to Argentina, although we at least have the consolation of seeing them when we visit Istanbul in February. And El Guapo, Luis Vinker, will stay in Argentina, his home town, when we all head back mid-December. I can’t tell you how much this will change the dynamics of the group and, quite frankly, just don’t really want to think about it right now.)

The presentations took us quite late into the evening, so we were all a bit starved by the time we sat down to eat. Rainey, Graham and Thomas had prepared a meal themed “three friends, three stews, three haikus.” Fortunately, like all good stews, they were none worse for the wear for their delayed service. There was a pasta y fagioli, representing Graham’s upbringing; a tangy New Brunswick stew from Rainey’s NC past; and a thick, peanuty Rwandan stew which no one could really say was or wasn’t authentic. But they were all delicious for sure. And the fact that I don’t remember the haikus should tell you just how hungry we were.

The piece de resistance, however, was Rainey’s famous Strawberry Wooing Pie, a secret family recipe she declined to share. It was the pie she made for Graham on their very first date. It worked. It worked on us, too, which is good since she spent the day slaving over five of them, including making a strawberry glaze by straining berries through cheesecloth. They featured a graham cracker crust (coincidence?), a lovely creamy middle layer (perhaps somewhat cheesecake-y?) and was topped with whole fresh strawberries and said glaze.

Next thing we knew it was Thursday, and Charles Clover and Chris were in the hot seat. Clover kicked things off with a truly fascinating glimpse at his eclectic career, including plenty of slides (okay, a slightly ambitious 251 of them) of his time spent embedded with the troops in Afghanistan. Then he wowed us with a clip of himself being interviewed on Russian television. In Russian. And he looked as suave and cool as a cucumber doing it. Enough so that I’ve started wondering if we’ve got a “No Way Out” situation on our hands….

Perhaps best of all, though, was his presentation of a clip of his acting debut in college in an Arabic language production of Sheherezad. Although we understood none of the dialog, the way he swept his cape around the stage, his raw emotions shone through. What a thespian!

Truly, though, this is one of the things that I love about Charles. He’s an unbelievably intelligent man, capable of conversing about the most cerebral and intricate matters of philosophy and history – in Russian or Arabic, should you so desire. He’s incredibly devoted to his work, an inspiration in terms of writing discipline. And he’s so quiet sometimes, staring off to space in a way that makes you wonder, as another Fellow put it, whether or not he’s “solving fractal equations.” But then he can pull out something so self-effacing, so funny and so…personal at the same time. That’s the good stuff, my friends.

Chris and I went next. I’d like to say it was mostly about him but, in truth, I was the one who mastered Power Point for the presentation so there was plenty about me, too. At first, you think you can’t possibly fill your allotted 30 minutes, but it’s surprising how quickly it flies – especially with questions from the peanut gallery – and so we were actually a bit rushed to wrap things up.

I realize I’m biased, but I thought Chris’ presentation was outstanding. He’s so honest, so apparently passionate about his work, so open and humble about his life’s circumstances. Telling his real story seemed both brave and yet unremarkable for him and I think I value most of all that it got people to see some of the parts of him he holds in reserve in larger groups of people. I’m really, really proud to be married to this man, to be his partner and to be at his side. And I’m not just writing that in case, you know, he’s reading this.

We followed our presentation with yet another giant meal, this time courtesy of Drew and Sally Lindsey and Min-Ah Kim. We started off with a lovely salad and some Korean sushi-type rolls that Min-Ah had rolled with her friends. Truly beautiful little wheels, filled with rice and avocado and crab meat. We followed up with a hearty chili, with big chunks of carrot, peppers and tomatoes and rectangles of corn bread with honey. Then, Min-Ah produced giant bowls of Korean beef, sliced thin and prepared in a slightly sweet marinade. Dessert was a selection of sweets, including home made cupcakes topped with decadent butter cream frosting and a generous sprinkling of stark white coconut.

Thank god those dinners are over because we’ll all be so fat by the end of the year, we’d need to be air lifted from the house…

Dag. It's time to be thankful again!

It's snowing! Hurrah! Check with me in, say, two months when the winter cold will have been relentless and the sight of fluffy stuff floating down from the sky will be mind-numbingly cliche - but for now, it's glorious. I feel giddy like a school girl at the year's first sign of the white stuff, filled with holiday feelings and general excitement. It helps that today feels like a holiday or a school day, with Chris' class cancelled and people scattering hither and yon for the Thanksgiving holiday. I'm typing this curled up on our couch, warm mug of coffee in one hand, a down lap blankie over me, a warm cat at my side. It doesn't get much better than this.

I will say that I have been persistently annoyed this week at how real life keeps encroaching on this fellowship. Laundry keeps not doing itself, the bathroom isn't magically clean all the time and the fridge does not contain a self-renewing supply of groceries. It throws a real wrench in the magical other-world feeling of the fellowship when you're petulantly reduced to cleaning out the microwave. Reality blows. But reality in a college town can be very odd, my friends. I have yet to pass a day sans something truly odd and noteworthy. For example, last Sunday Chris and I left a small but cozy brunch at Wallace House to take a stroll in the truly lovely Arboretum. On our way, we passed two male students, one carrying a quart of egg nog and the other carrying a red plastic cup with a squirrel's tail sticking out of it. Let your imagination run riot as to where they were heading and to what end.

Then, a couple of nights ago, we were returning from a drive over to Trader Joe's and spotted a woman out for her evening run - decked out like a Christmas tree. She had a string of lights around her (which must have been running on a battery pack), garland and ornaments swaying as she took each step. I can only suppose it was a lost bet, but Chris prefers to think she's just spreading holiday cheer.

Did I mention it's fun here?

It seems things have been more scattershot the last week or so, but we were convinced by Lisa to return to Wallace House late Sunday afternoon to bear witness to the weekly tango lessons some fellows have been taking in anticipation of our trip to Argentina. Watching the instructors glide across the floor, making an unbelievably complex communication seem effortless is quite breath-taking.

I greatly admire the fellows attempting tango, which is highly revered in Argentina. (At one point, a fellow said, "It's just a dance" to which the instructor quickly pointed out, "It's not just a dance to them. It's who they are. It's their identity.) Every motion, it seems, means something, is redolant with intent. It requires a tremendous amount of trust in one's partner - and in the dance itself. From a viewer's stand point, it reminded me of yoga in that there's really so much going on - mentally and physically - in what looks like a relatively simple affair.

I can't wait to see them all in action!

Last night was another Wallace House affair. First, was a presentation on China which I missed in order to work on an essay I'm trying to rewrite for submission to an anthology. (It's slow going, in case you didn't pick up on that - but it's due soon.) Chris dropped me off instead at the Espresso Royale on South State, which Jamie Butters has dubbed the Branch Office. He was heading on to Wallace House, so I hopped out of the car at the corner of William and South State.

What I had forgotten before I did so was that a few moments before, my hands dry from the winter air already, I had removed my wedding band and (stupidly) placed it in my lap while I applied moisturizer. Thus, when I sprang forth from the car, my wedding ring went flying out into the ether. Of course, I didn't realize this until about an hour later when, typing away at my lap top, I glanced down and realized I wasn't wearing my ring. And, like in the movies, it came rushing back to me exactly what had happened.

Panicked, I hopped up from my cozy arm chair and abandoned my wee pot of tea and headed back to the corner where, in the light of dusk, I side-stepped traffic to scour the road. I looked in the middle, I searched the gutters. I found cigarette butts, hair bands, a lost hat - but no wedding ring. After a while, I gave up, succumbed to tears and made the cold trudge toward Wallace House.

Some people might have been afraid that their husband would kill them. I don't have this problem, since I'm married to the most forgiving and understanding man on the face of the planet. Still, it would almost have been easier if he was angry at me. Instead, I was left to just be angry at myself, which is a much worse mental scenario.

I still managed to have fun during the presentations, despite being preoccupied with my own idiocy. Fara Warner told us about her life leading up to the fellowship, including some useful bits of advice about writing a book. Then John Bacon took the stand and delivered an (expectedly) funny, self-deprecating and (surprisingly) heartfelt version of his life story.

It's unbelievably moving to hear a journalist (who is more accomplished than he likes to let on), say in all sincerity that being around the fellows this year is an amazing experience for him and that it has already been the best year of his life. I'm telling you, I suspect if you gave this crowd half a chance, they'd weep with appreciation of this opportunity with little provocation. And quite right, too.

Dinner was courtesy of Vindu Goel, his friend Vickie Elmer and the delightful Gail Gibson. They whipped up a feast of American comfort foods, including a gorgeous squash soup, garlic mashed potatoes, chipotle mac 'n cheese, green beans and meatloaf. The meal was rounded out with apple crisp a la mode, which I was too full to sample.

We then adjourned to the living room and somehow got to sharing the tales of how the wedded among us were proposed to. Rainey's sage involved great detail, right down to the chocolate-chip pumpkin pancakes with caramel sauce and whipped cream. Mine was short and funny, with Chris (as always) willingly playing the bad guy. After much coaxing, we convinced Luis Vinker to share the story of his betrothal which turned out to be a hilarious tale about how Argentina winning the world cup completely got in the way of his wedding and honeymoon plans. (Or, perhaps, more accurately, vice versa.)

Then everyone started scattering to prepare for their various journeys home for the holiday - although quite a fair number of stragglers will be joining Lisa for a Thanksgiving feast at Wallace House, many of them foreigners experiencing this particular American event for the first time. On the way home, Chris convinced me to stop at the intersection of William and South State and take one last look for the ring.

It seemed pointless, of course, in the dark with just a hint of light from the street lamps. But light is a funny thing and there was something about where we were standing and the way that it hit the side of my wedding band, which was lying out in the middle of the lane, waiting to be discovered. It had been roughed up a bit, looking as though someone with steel teeth had chewed on one of the edges for a while, but it was there. And now it's back on my finger, where it belongs. Pretty amazing, no?

And so I'm especially thankful for that small miracle as we head into the holiday weekend. I've got a lot to be thankful for, but it's all the little things in my life that make me feel truly blessed. This year has made me even more grateful than usual and I owe a lot of that to Thomas Kamilindi, who - although he probably doesn't know it - taught me in a way I'd never learned before that I am blessed beyond my comprehension. I'm grateful for having a roof over my head and food in the refrigerator and that I can live my daily life largely without fear.

I'm grateful for all the wonderful friends and family Chris and I have. Old ones back home in St. Louis who, as we were reminded recently, are with us even when we're far from them. And amazing new ones we've known only two months but love dearly already. I don't think anyone truly needs a fellowship experience to feel gratitude but, damn, it helps.

Tomorrow morning, Chris and I head off for a regrettably short trip to Ames, Iowa for Thanksgiving at his mother's house. We'll be joined by his sister Amy, who I haven't seen in years, and his brother Joel and his wife Kathleen, who are expecting our new little niece, Genevieve. It'll be a whirlwind trip, with us returning on Friday and while I wish the airlines made it more affordable and easier for us to stay longer, what an amazing luxury - to be able to board a plane and visit family for even the shortest of time. Blessed, I tell you. We're blessed.

Skip the Blue Vinny

Tuesday morning I woke up to discover I was 35. At some point during the night, I had been delivered squarely and inarguably into my mid-thirties. It sort of snuck up on me, which is actually a good way to handle birthdays. (In theory, it limits expectations and/or over-sensitivity about age. In theory, I said.) It occurred to me that I could no longer claim to be in my late-early-thirties by any stretch. No, I'm squarely in my mid-mid-thirties now. Staring down forty in the face. But until I'm in my late-mid-thirties I shan't give it another thought. Actually, it didn’t bother me at all, especially since I slept ridiculously late. When I awoke, the World's Best Husband delivered to me breakfast in bed – a slice of chocolate mousse cake and a big cup of strong java. Probably not part of anyone's nutritionally balanced breakfast but I highly recommend starting your birthday this way, if not every day.

I was absolutely knackered from being a social butterfly all weekend in St. Louis so I spent the most decadent day – lounging in bed reading until noon, then slipping into the fragrant bath my wondrous husband drew for me and poring over a stack of long-ignored mindless magazines. I believe at some point my brain actually ceased functioning. And it was glorious.

As a birthday present to myself and in deference to my laziness, I played hooky from that afternoon’s lecture, from which Chris returned with a bunch of beautiful stargazer lilies. He then presented me with a glass necklace my lovely friend Adria had made, in response to some heavy hints I dropped during the Women’s Support & Community Services Holiday Boutique. We had dinner at Paesano’s, where we’d had an excellent experience sharing a few choice appetizers a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, we didn’t find dinner itself nearly as spectacular, but it was nice nonetheless. Yesterday I woke up to discover it was winter. Just like that, all of a sudden. The glorious fall sun was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with a steel gray sky and a light dusting of snow flurries. Many people said that Michigan would be cold. It turns out they weren’t kidding. Today, it’s chilly again, temperatures tap-dancing around the lower twenties, the wind oppressive and biting. And while I’m not in the habit of telling you about my intimate wear, I don’t mind letting you know that I broke out the long underwear this morn. And not a moment too soon.

After skipping Tuesday’s lecture, it seems like weeks since I’d seen the KWF gang, so I jumped at the chance to join some of the girls out last night. Gail, Kimberly, Rainey and I kicked off the madness with a cheese tasting at Zingerman’s. It was a little more formal than I had pictured, with all of us seated around long tables at the coffee house with a basket of bread, a pitcher of water and sheets on which to write our observations about the look, smell and taste of each cheese.

I’m not much of a cheese aficionado, steering clear of your stronger-tasting types like Camenbert or Roquefort. My taste buds are embarrassingly unsophisticated and I tend to find such pungent concoctions reminiscent of ripe feet in both taste and smell. However, I’ll do serious damage to a nice fresh mozzarella or a brick of sharp white cheddar.

I wasn’t able to differentiate much between some of the cheeses last night - the words "mild" and "cheesy" generally popped up a lot. We tried cheeses made from both goats' and cows' milk and learned that when you're working up the former, you need to watch out for goat funk. (The phrase "filthy beasts" was used more than once.) They ranged in texture from a cow's milk cream cheese so far from the Philadelphia crap that you'd barely recognize them as cousins. There was a hand-ladeled fresh goat round, and we were treated to the flavor sensation of a small chunk submerged into the most unbelievably yummy squash soup from downstairs.

We got bits of the perfectly peppery Sharon Hollow and the firmer Manchester, which we tasted baked up en croute with an Italian chestnut cream. It was divine but, as I've said before, if you wrapped a shoe in puff pastry, I'd eat it. All of the cheeses are named after small towns in the area, and we lobbied hard, on Gail’s behalf, to get an unnamed cheese named after her hometown of Jackson. Not sure they were having it. (Which is fine with us, really, since that one was packed full of an overwhelming amount of green and cracked black pepper.

The Little Napoleon was a favorite and only partly because of its adorable moniker. The last two were Chelsea, which I don't recall much about and Bridgewater, which was memorable for its slightly beige color and peppery flavor. We learned a number of fascinating facts, including the highly unsanitary origins of the Blue Vinny as well as how to skirt the law and get your hands on some raw milk. And we were given just enough hazelnut gelato to make addicts of us. (Don't dealers always give away the first taste for free?)

After we were so full of cheese we could barely move, we headed down to Rush Street - the sort of classy joint that never would have admitted the likes of me in my drinking days - to meet up with Lisa. We were then joined by Gerard and Graham who, despite their head gear, were distinctly not girls, thus all that chatter about our ovaries ground to an immediate halt. Boys ruin everything, don’t they?

Meet me at the wrecking ball

There were a couple of times when I awoke in the night, which is not unusual for me, and I thought I heard thunder in the distance. Each time, it took full moments to dawn on me that it was, instead, the sound of the wrecking ball reducing whole rows of Busch Stadium to rubble and dust. We had seen the wrecking taking place during the day. The window of our hotel room downtown had a wonderful view of the stadium, looking straight down at the statue of Stan Musial, bat still ready to strike even as everything around him crumbled. We could see through the arches of Busch’s skeleton right into the strange, half-built new stadium, the brand new bright red seats shining, lights in the new luxury booths suggesting work underway. I think I’ve probably been to two baseball games the entire 15 years I’ve lived in St. Louis, but that stadium has always been there, in the background. And while I’m an unlikely candidate, I found myself filled with nostalgia for something I’d never felt particularly tied to.

Of course, woe feeds on collective energy and Chris and I were amazed to find people gathering across the street from the stadiums – at the point where the new one waits impatiently for the old one to disappear so it can progress.

Even at nine o’clock on Saturday night – when the streets of that part of St. Louis are normally a ghost town – there were 50 or 60 gathered to watch the work take place under the glare of the stadium flood lights. Giant construction beasts moved from side to side, gliding across piles of concrete and metal as smoothly as if they were ice. Their giant claws dug into the ground, gnawing insatiably at the infrastructure. Others guided wrecking balls at the end of cables that looked thin as threads. The balls swayed almost gracefully before turning a corner of concrete into powder or bearing down on a mountain of debris. I’ve done a lot of construction writing in the past and I find everything about buildings – from their design inception to their construction to be amazing. But it’s every bit as intriguing to witness the methodical destruction of a behemoth – especially one you didn’t even know you’d grown fond of.

On Sunday afternoon, we detoured from a walk on the riverfront to visit the site again and found well over 100 people gathered. Seems like the city has finally struck on a way to draw locals and visitors alike to the streets of downtown on weekends – by tearing down a landmark. Wait until developers get a hold of that trend.

It’s a funny thing to play pseudo-tourist in your own town. We opted to stay in the Hilton on Broadway because Chris got us a stellar deal (of course) and because I’m a terribly fitful and light sleeper, which tends to cause havoc in other peoples’ homes. Thus, I probably spent more time in downtown St. Louis proper this past weekend than I did in the months before I left town to come to Ann Arbor.

Sunday, in particular, was a beautiful day and we walked the few blocks down to the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial . We strolled past the Old Courthouse, where Dred Scott argued for his freedom. We stood under the Arch and marveled at it because, no matter how many times you’ve driven around with it looming in the distance, it’s still a hulking, impressive beast up close. There’s some gorgeous architecture in our city and, like most St. Louisans, I just forget to look at it. Or, perhaps, I forget it’s even there.

So suffice it to say that this visit home – my second since we moved to Ann Arbor – reminded me of the many reasons I do love that city. St. Louis has an ongoing PR problem – the rest of the world thinks it’s smaller than it is and pretty much just holds a bunch of Missourah rubes when, in fact, as Chris says, it’s probably just about ten years away from being a world-class city. But for now, it’s a perpetual also-ran with glorious parks, free museums, gorgeous neighborhoods, stunning architecture, rich history, good people – all without the housing costs of a world-class city. I’ll take that.

Last time I was in St. Louis, I felt like I couldn’t wait to get back to Ann Arbor. And while I’m glad to be back in Michigan now – despite the promise of snow later this week – I realize that what I really missed was the grounding of my life with Chris. I do realize how that must come dangerously close to inducing bouts of nausea for readers, but I continue to be amazed at how much a person – or a union with a person – can become your home so much more so than any skyline or building.

I have to say there’s something really appealing about returning to a place where you’re known – walking into an event or a coffee shop and seeing familiar faces, rather than a sea of people you don’t know. We were just so consistently surrounded by friends and well-wishers, those glad to see us and equally thrilled to hear that our adventure in A2 is such great fun.

It was a whirlwind weekend of activity, from the time we got there, it seemed. I had dinner with my best girls Friday night, which is energizing in a way nothing else is. On Saturday, I was supposed to be helping Christina with a shift at the Urban Knitters booth at the Women’s Support & Community Services annual Holiday Boutique. It’s a project some knitting friends and I came up with a year ago to help raise money for the agency, for whom I also volunteer on the crisis line when I’m in St. Louis. We get knitters around the community to donate their hand-made goodies and then we sell them, with 100% of the proceeds going directly to the agency. (Other vendors donate a percentage of their sales, so we didn’t have a tough time being last year’s biggest single donator.)

Needless to say, I wasn’t much help to Christina at all, instead flitting around like a social butterfly, catching up with friends and acquaintances and generally enjoying myself. But I’m just glad I got to be there. Saturday, we caught up with more friends for the afternoon and dinner. Sunday, my wonderful friend Margaret held a glorious brunch with some of the women I admire most in the world. And that night was Free Candy and I tell you, it still amazes me that so many people pack into Hartford Coffee Company just to watch me and Amanda Doyle have a tremendous amount of fun. It was an absolute blast, all of it.

In case any of you are clamoring for the book I was pushin’ hard during the show, it’s The Power of the Purse by Fara Warner. You should buy it now. For every woman you know. And we have to clear the air on behalf of the much-maligned Rob Thurman who, it turns out, did not skip the show to go on a date with our Candy Sponsor, Aaron Belz. No, it seems Amanda accidentally booked him for Sunday, November 17 – which doesn’t exist. He assumed she meant the 20th and, well, this is precisely the sort of thing that led to that annoying saying about assumptions. Thus, when you see Rob Thurman out and about, you needn’t kick him in the shins after all. This business we call show…it ain’t easy.