Images Abroad

I woke up early, around six, but the whole street was already astir. There were old women squatting down to peel bamboo or to wash clothes outside. Neighbors were already calling to each other from their doorstep. There was no privacy; one’s porch was adjacent to another and we lived on top of each other.

I left the already packed streets and entered the cool sanctuary of Taichung University, and walked past the groups of elderly people exercising as seriously as they conducted business. They were no longer surprised to see me. I headed over to the group practicing Tai Chi and joined in. The master only spoke Taiwanese so my rudimentary Mandarin didn’t help one bit. But I followed along, thinking of my friend’s joke as I made the movements « take a watermelon, cut the watermelon – one half for you, one half for you. » The master eyed me with amusement.  He knew it was just a passing fancy for me.

* * * * *

I walked briskly along the Seine over the Pont Neuf, then along the Louvre. Wherever there were trees, they were the golden color of Fall. This day was bright and sunny and boosted my spirits. It had been helped by the recent prescription for anti-depressants that I would never have thought I needed – I guess the doctor was able to see past the sore throat that I went in for.

But the low, grey ceiling of despair had lifted and my brow didn’t feel so heavy.

I could bear my brother’s death just now. I could bear my own near escape from death in the car accident, and how alone it felt to wake up in the hospital disoriented, only able to feel one side of my head. I was in Paris now and walking past history, living an adventure, dreaming of a future I would eventually have with someone else.

* * * * *

I woke up in the hotel and put on the luxurious white bathrobe. I liked this hotel because it faced the park and had a good swimming pool where I could do laps. I ordered breakfast in my room and ate as I stared out the window. Everything was perfect – the toast, the pot of coffee, the moment’s peace when I could just be myself. Eventually I had to put on the suit that never really felt right to me, stuff my briefcase with materials and go do a job that had long lost it’s novelty. Still, I was glad that they at least spoke English in Singapore.

I took the taxi that pulled up and headed out to the first of six meetings that day. In this country I could do one every hour since the meetings was so easy to get to; everything was so orderly and clean and … civilized. It was only my first of two days in Singapore and I still had to do Malaysia, Philippines and Indonesia in the two weeks that followed.

Perhaps I should have saved the easiest country for last.

* * * * *

The driver dropped us off in the outskirts of town and followed us slowly from the dirt road as we jogged in the sand. We trusted the work of the Danish De-miners to have removed everything that could have harmed us, but the driver was a fearsome man who cared about us, and he knew there was more than just mines that could give us problems. It wasn’t an exaggeration. Someone had called out to us from the back of the truck to go home, that we were not wanted here. And just the other day a car swerved right next to me on purpose, knocking the groceries out of my hand. I could only stare at them and ask « why? » It was one of the few words I knew in Somali.

We ran alone or in pairs over the sand dunes, graced by the occasional cactus or sturdy desert grass. We passed a group of nomads herding their camels, giving us discreet looks as we went by. We women were unveiled.

I had not yet seen a camel so close and never knew that their feet were so spongy.

* * * * *

I was the first to arrive in our new apartment in Battery Park City. All my fears of poor air quality from living in Ground Zero were dispelled when I saw how absolutely beautiful the area was. Right next to the Staten Island and Circle Ferries was Robert Wagner Park (which I knew about and loved). And right next to that was the Jewish Museum and then our apartment building that we thought we would never be able to afford because it was so nice. Then there was the walk along the water and the marina and the financial center with a view on the towers being rebuilt.

I entered the apartment, the one I hadn’t seen yet, and thought I had never lived in such a pretty apartment. It was white with wood floors – sure, a view on the West Side Highway, but then also on the towers of Wall Street. It had central air conditioning, which was a blessing for New York in August.

There had been a long waiting list for these apartments in Ground Zero that were slowly drawing people back to the traumatized area with government grants to reduce the rent. I asked the building owner how I could jump in front of the list and he said we had to sign for the apartment, sight unseen. So we did it. And here I was, standing in the empty apartment, in the nicest part of Manhattan, waiting for Sir to arrive with the movers.

This was the apartment where we rebuilt our lives after 9/11, after Africa, through Sir’s year-long unemployment. This is the apartment to which we brought a tiny Young Lady home from the hospital.

I had a life before kids.

But I didn’t have such a reason to live it.

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