Here, There and Everywhere

Posts tagged ‘French’

Hanging by a Thread

Dear Friends,

Most people didn’t know who the Rwandans were until it was too late, and 800,000 of them were dead. Right now, the fate of Burma’s Rohingya people is hanging by a thread. Racist thugs have distributed leaflets threatening to wipe out this small Burmese minority. Already children have been hacked to death and unspeakable murders committed. All signs are pointing to a coming horror, unless we act.

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Genocides happen because we don’t get concerned enough until the crime is committed. The Rohingya are a peaceful and very poor people. They’re hated because their skin is darker and the majority fear they’re ‘taking jobs away’. There are 800,000 of them, and they could be gone if we don’t act. We’ve failed too many peoples, let’s not fail the Rohingya.

Burmese President Thein Sein has the power, personnel and resources to protect the Rohingya, all he has to do is give the word to make it happen. In days, he’ll arrive in Europe to sell his country’s new openness to trade. If EU leaders greet him with a strong request to protect the Rohingya, he’s likely to do it. Let’s get 1 million voices and plaster images of what’s happening in Burma outside his meetings with key EU heads of state:

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/we_said_never_again_en/?bMPbqab&v=26526

Torture, gang rape, execution style killings — human rights groups are using the term “ethnic cleansing” to describe the brutality in Burma. Already more than 120,000 Rohingya have been forced to flee, many to makeshift camps near the border, while others have fled in boats only to drown, starve, or be shot at by coastguards from neighboring countries. Reports show that violence is escalating — earlier this year President Thein Sein declared a state of emergency after another round of deadly attacks, and it’s just a matter of time until there is a large scale massacre.

Genocides don’t happen when governments oppose them, but the Burmese regime has been leaning the wrong way. Recently, a government spokesperson admitted that authorities were enforcing a rule that limits the Rohingya population to having only two children and forces couples seeking to get married to obtain special permission. And experts report that government authorities have stood by or even participated in acts of “ethnic cleansing.” President Sein has finally been forced to acknowledge what’s happening to the Rohingya, but he has so far refused to implement plans to stop the violence and protect those at risk.

Until he does, the risk of genocide hovers like a dark cloud over not just Burma, but the world. Through their trade relations, UK PM Cameron and French President Hollande have massive leverage with Sein — if they press him to act when he meets with them this month, it could save lives. Let’s make sure they do. We’ve failed too many peoples, let’s not fail the Rohingya. Join the call now and share this with everyone:

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/we_said_never_again_en/?bMPbqab&v=26526

Time and again, the Avaaz community has stood with the people of Burma in their fight for democracy. When the regime brutally cracked down on Buddhist monks in 2007, Avaazers donated hundreds of thousands of dollars/euros/pounds to provide technical support and training to activists to fight a communications blackout. In 2008, when a devastating cyclone killed at least 100,000 Burmese, but the venal military regime stopped all official international aid from coming in, our community donated millions directly to monks on the front line of the aid effort.

Our community didn’t exist when genocide was committed in Rwanda, 20 years ago. Would we have done enough to stop it? Let’s show the Rohingya our answer to that question.

With hope and determination,

Luis, Jeremy, Aldine, Oliver, Marie, Jooyea and the whole Avaaz team

Three Strong Women

Three Strong Women by Marie Ndiaye
Review by Gabriel Constans
New York Journal of Books

These stories torment readers with the possibilities and unfulfilled potential . . .

Three Strong Women is tormenting. Its characters are tormented, their lives are tormented, and some of the writing linguistically torments readers with its languid, insightful, and idiosyncratic nuances of internal dialogue and character description.

Three Strong Women is good, bad, and indifferent, as are Norah, Fanta, and Khady, its three antagonists. The story takes place in three parts or acts. Each story lands us inside the head of one of these Senegalese women.

The title is somewhat misleading for these women are not strong, in a traditional sense—in body, mind, or spirit—but are strong in self-doubt, remorse, and hopelessness.

Long wandering sentences and stories within and of themselves are not necessarily a trait of all African writers, but tend to dominate much of the language, as it does with Ms. NDiaye’s, even though she was raised in France and now lives in Germany.

Here is a brief and—believe it or not—a brief example. When Norah is visiting her father’s home in Senegal:

“She found herself adopting the tone of peremptory volubility that she never used with anyone but her father, the tone intended to forestall his attempt to have Masseck, and before Masseck Mansour, do what she insisted on doing herself, insisted out of an awareness that he so hated seeing his guests perform the slightest labor in his house, thereby casting doubt on the competence of his servants, that he was quite capable of saying to her, ‘Masseck will wash your hands for you,’ without for a moment imaging that she would fail to obey him as those around him, young and old, had always done.”

This first section about Norah sounds the most autobiographical in its tone, though there is no indication that it has any resemblance to the author’s personal life.

Norah is urgently asked by her father in Senegal to leave her home in France and come immediately, without any explanation. She does so reluctantly and is caught up in a family drama involving her brother that plays out and comes to an abrupt end, as if everyone is at peace with the situation, though nothing could be further from the truth.

It is the truth of Norah’s loathing for her father that shines most brightly from this story.

The second story is about Fanta and her boyfriend, Rudy, whom she follows to France. The emotional and intellectual complexities that are portrayed in this chapter are quite astonishing, but often feel as if they are being told instead of shown. The internal thoughts and messages we indulge in in response to our environment or previous experiences and memories, are superbly revealed through the minds of Fanta and Rudy, but soon override any external sense of action, reaction, or movement. Thus the internal dialogue grows tedious and self-absorbed.

In this section of the story, Rudy feels inadequate, out of touch, and incompetent, taking out his self-loathing on Fanta. His remorse for his words and actions then adds to his low self-esteem. His selfishness and immersion in his internal world make it difficult to connect with his character or have any empathy for his sense of isolation, even though his feelings of emptiness and loneliness are palpable.

In the final story, Khady must deal with the loss of her husband and family and endure nightmarish predicaments and experiences. She tells herself that she is “still Khady” in spite of all that takes place, but what remains of who she is has literally been stripped bare. What little sense of self that existed at the beginning of her story, has been ripped away by the end.

There is a rare moment of hope and happiness when, “She was herself, she was calm, she was alive, she was still young, and she was in excellent health; every fiber of her being was savoring the kindly warmth of the early-morning sun, and her twitching nostrils gratefully sniffed the salty air blowing in off the sea . . .”

What all the women (and men) in Three Strong Women have in common is a lack of faith or belief in who they are. They each see themselves as inadequate, inconsequential and/or emotionally injured and are unable to be truly loved or thus love another.

No one really comes into his or her own power or feels complete and whole. The stories tell tales and let us know what people are thinking and feeling, but there is little progression, change, or insight with the characters.

There is no salvation. Everyone is doomed to live life as it is. In some respects, this is refreshing and realistic, but readers usually read in order to be taken out of our quotidian monotony, not for immersion in the minds of characters who have accepted the hopelessness of life as it is.

These stories torment readers with the possibilities and unfulfilled potential to which they could have aspired.

Read this and other excellent reviews, on the same day a book is released, at New York Journal of Books.

The English Lesson – Part 3

Conclusion of The English Lesson. An excerpt from short story collection Saint Catherine’s Baby.

After several moments of silence, Mrs. Frankel closed her eyes and whispered, “That man save my life.” Her eyelids parted slightly. “After war, our town in ruin from bombs. Many months go here and there. Much poor, much, how say, puberty?”

“Poverty,” Ruthie nodded, choking down her urge to laugh.

“We have little to eat. Most people in country same. Our haus destroyed. No verk. Father dead.” A smile caressed her lips. “Then comes Claude. He intrepoter, inturp . . . you know, talk for. He verk with Americans because he speak Deutsche, English and French,” she blushed. “I just young girl. He came in night, after verk and ask my muter if he can take out me. She say, ‘Ask her, not me.’ Of course, I say yes. He is so nice and looking good.” She smiled so broadly that Ruthie could see her scrubbed white dentures.

“He bring our family extra bread and ration coupons. I not help but fall in love with man. He very gentle and true.” She stopped and caught her breath. “One day he tell me his story. Claude’s parents were arrest by Nazis, just as he home from school in afternoon. He been told what to do if something happen, so he go hiding and join sister, who already live in château in France, where brave owner save many refugee.”

Mrs. Frankel suddenly stopped, got up stiffly and moved down the hall. “I show something,” she mumbled, then disappeared into the back bedroom. Ruthie could hear her opening drawers and struggling to close them.

After several minutes she returned with a small, torn envelope and drew out its crumbling contents. She handed the paper to Ruthie who looked blankly at the German correspondence. “I found letter going through his thinks. It is to man who survive death camp and write Claude to tell him how his parents horrible finish. He know and see Claude’s parents go into gas death. Claude’s letter back to this man is scream of anger and how you say, griefing?” The handwriting was neat and precise up to the final shaky sentence. Mrs. Frankel read it to Ruthie. “His last words say, ‘I have to stop writing . . .’”

A shadow fell upon the room, as a limb outside the window blew in the gathering wind. Ruthie folded the letter with tenderness and handed it back to Mrs. Frankel.

“He end up verking as journal speaker for Radio Free Europe, then as soldier for underground,” she said proudly. “He speak languages good.” Ruthie’s smiled. “Not like me.”

Mrs. Frankel’s smile subsided as her story continued. “It hard to think my sweet Claude as soldier boy. He live in woods and mountain caves two years until allies, how you say, ‘parasite’ vepons from sky?”

“Parachute,” Ruthie gently supplied the word, not wishing to intrude.

“Yes, parashut,” Mrs. Frankel agreed. “Then they have guns and bullets to fight. He say he lost many friend . . . many French friend. He very brave. Not only he stood his place, but run back and forth during heavy fight to bring friends bullets. He grew above self and after war was honor the la Croix de Guerre by French guvermant.”

Mrs. Frankel took a blue and white embroidered handkerchief from the pocket of her plain, neatly ironed dress and blew her nose. “‘One of happiest day in life?’ he say, when he and thousand of French people greet American soldier boys and march down Champs de Elysees.”

“What was the other?”

“Other what?”

“Happiest day of his life.”

She gazed at her husband’s picture. “When he meet me.” Her tears flowed freely. “He always say I best thing in his life.” She resorted to her hanky once again, dabbed her eyes and apologized. “I sorry. Please . . . I just old, sad woman. Not your problem.”

“It’s OK.”

Mrs. Frankel blew her nose one last time and pocketed her handkerchief. “Enough.” She picked up the pages, pointed, and demanded, “What this say!?”

***

Sy was half-asleep, lounging in the car, when Ruthie left Mrs. Frankels. The wind had picked up, blowing a multi-colored curtain of autumn leaves around her. She stopped at the front gate to wave to Mrs. Frankel, who watched through the living room window. The shades had all been opened.

She went to the car. With the English lesson resting on her lap, she looked fondly down the maple and elm-lined street.

Sy sat up slowly and turned the ignition. The old Plymouth hummed to attention.

“How goes it?” He put the transmission into drive.

“Not bad.” Ruthie’s seditious smile lit her face. “Not bad at all.”

Sy put the gear back in park. “Not bad?” he said incredulously.

Ruthie buckled her seat belt and said, more to herself then to Sy, “Not bad, once you get to know her.” She leaned over and kissed Sy, who stared at her blankly. “I’m awfully lucky to have you,” she grinned.

“What brought that on?”

“Let’s go home,” she nodded towards the street. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

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Neighbor to Neighbor

If there hadn’t been a gigantic sign on the street saying “C.E.L.P.A.R. Polyclinique”, the house within which it resides would have been indistinguishable from the other small dwellings crammed side by side along the road in East Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. We had only driven for about 15 minutes from central Kigali and it was like night and day. The French spelling for the center is a result of the association Rwanda had with Belgian after they were colonized in the last century and the close connection they maintained with France, until the last decade. They are now focusing on English as their second language of choice and teaching it in place of French in the schools.

There was a crowd of people waiting for us on the street and others quickly joined, as they saw a mini-bus of muzungas (white people) stepping foot in their neighborhood, an area of town seldom visited by foreigners or aid agencies. It took us several minutes to say our hellos, take the obligatory photos of children and show them their image in the camera (to their unquenchable delight) and head towards the sounds of music we were hearing from somewhere in the near distance. Someone standing next to me said she was hearing the sound of angels and kept looking up, even though she wasn’t religious in the least. We soon discovered where the heavenly music was coming from.

The clinic’s doctor, Fred Ndatimana, led us over the ditch on a slanted path up to the entrance where we were warmly greeted by the director, Abel Sekabarati, his assistant, Fabien Musabyinana, the nurse, Ndayifluga Bizinana and a choir of patients (men, women and children) singing their hearts out. Some of them were sitting (too tired or sick to stand) and the rest were swaying side to side clapping their hands and looking upward as they harmonized. There was one older woman with a baby in her arms that immediately caught my attention. They looked like an African version of a cover from The Saturday Evening Post and had that Norman Rockwell vibe, even though their reality was far from idealistic or serene.

In the last ten years, Rwanda got a jump start on HIV education and treatment with a comprehensive array of support from the President’s wife, Mrs. Jeannette Kagame, multiple governmental organizations and national health plans, as well as funding from numerous international aid agencies and foundations. Mrs. Kagame has gone beyond the efforts of most governments in other countries to address the AIDS pandemic, let alone as First Lady. In 2001, she hosted the African First Ladies at the Kigali Summit on Children and HIV/AIDS Prevention gathering, which was the first of its kind. This meeting provided recommendations and suggestions that each First Lady in attendance would implement in their own region and country. Mrs. Kagame developed a national plan of action for Rwanda, which catalyzed the creation of PACFA, which means Protection and Care of Families against HIV/AIDS. Another program that has been somewhat successful is called Unite for Children, Unite Against Aids. The health department has this campaign in all the provinces. Its priority is making treatment and testing available to all children, as young as possible.

My friend Wendy Leonard, who is the director of an AIDS education and health treatment organization in Rwanda, called The Ihangane Project, was in a small town (Ruli) in the northern part of Rwanda four years ago, working as a physician with a program connected to the Clinton Foundation. She discovered that one of the most challenging issues was making sure everyone was getting the same information and protocols from the various government offices, committees, NGO’s and countrywide initiatives. She also found that the best way to connect with adults was to first focus on and get treatment for their children, thus the importance of programs like Unite for Children, Unite Against Aids. She concurs that there has been a lot of progress, but that much remains to be accomplished.

Though these programs and policies have made great strides, they have not completely reached small community clinics such as C.E.L.P.A.R.’s Polyclinique, which is overseen by a local church organization and gets by on pins and needles, literally. There supplies are minimal, medical staff scarce and funding almost non-existent. In spite of these realities they have hope, education and community support beyond the expected.

As the singing and dancing continued, we were led by Dr. Ndatimana through the facility, which consisted of a small room containing the lab equipment (a few items for testing blood, including an old hand crank egg beater turned upside down (which was used as a centrifuge), two brightly painted “sick rooms”, a toilet closet and the front living room, from which we had entered. Their medicine cabinet, in the same room as the “lab”, contained about 30 medications (antibiotics, Tylenol and a few antiviral meds). That was the extent of their high technology laboratory and pharmacy; a far cry from the equipment at the hospital. There are 2 hospitals in Kigali. One is public and the other private. There are also numerous health clinics run by government and religious organizations and departments.

Dr. Ndatimana filled us in on the details. “We have two doctors. One is here and the other is in school in Belgium.” There is only one medical school in Rwanda, which is of course a very expensive expenditure. “We see many people that are HIV positive and others with AIDS,” the doctor continued. “The government helps a lot, but it can take a long time to see a doctor or get treatment at the hospital. We help them here through the church. The medicine is from the government, who pays for the drugs. If people have good support they can live for 15 years or longer, if not, they usually die within 2 years. This is an outpatient clinic, but sometimes if they are real sick they stay overnight in 1 of our 2 beds.” The doctor couldn’t recall exactly how many people had died from AIDS over the years and didn’t want to guess. He said, “It is sad, but it is part of my job. I’m a doctor”.

Even with the help of the clinic, fellow patients, the church and the government, it is unlikely that many people have the “good support” which Dr. Ndatimana speaks of as a necessity of living longer, since the country (and surviving family members) is still struggling to regroup after the shattering 1994 genocide. Many families were decimated, leaving few relatives or next of kin, let alone the financial or material whereabouts to recover. Top that off with the thousands upon thousands of orphaned children and you have an overwhelming, though not insurmountable, landscape of suffering and struggle.

When asked about the attitude of Rwandans’ towards those with HIV and AIDS, Dr. Ndatimana said, “Many organizations have worked on educating people about the disease. Now they are treated just like friends, like any other sickness. They are not stigmatized as they once were. Now they know we care. We have a team of counselors that help talk with people and teach them to not be afraid.” Mr. Sekabarati (the director) added, “We help them here through the church. “These people are our neighbors and from different churches. We want to help them, not condemn them.”

People were not always so understanding in the 80’s and 90’s. A lot of misinformation, fear and ignorance surrounded the disease and those that had it. Like most places in the world (West and East), it has taken an armada of consistent and persistent educational, governmental, health care and religious leaders to get the truth out about HIV and transform the cultures attitude from judgment to concern and support.

The fight is far from over. After another “awareness campaign” to reduce the spread of HIV, it was reported that there is still a low rate of condom use in remote areas of the country. They believe this is due to remaining stigma and lack of access to supplies. Rwanda imports about 14 million condoms per year, but that supply doesn’t meet the demand, especially in small villages outside the capital. These realities have driven the National HIV/AIDS Control Commission to increase imports for the demand and continue the Witegereza campaign, whose message is “Teach Me How To Use a Condom”. This campaign combines radio ads and over 200 billboards throughout the country. It is targeted at young people and adults.

The staff at C.E.L.P.A.R.S. Polyclinique state that all of the government programs, such as United for Children, Unite Against Aids, PACFA and Teach Me How, have made a difference, but it is neighbor to neighbor that works best. “When someone you know and have known for years, is sick, you want to help, says Mr. Sekabarati. “As Christians we are taught to love our neighbor as ourselves. It is the right thing to do. We are not here to judge others. Anyone can get sick; it doesn’t make you a bad person.” C.E.L.P.A.R.S. has been educating people door to door, during sermons, at social events and from the example of their pastors and church elders, who not only support the clinic, but helped set it up in the first place, when they saw that not everyone’s needs were getting met.

Before leaving the clinic I spoke through a translator with one of the women singing. She said, in her birth language of Kinyarwanda, “We all support each other and are starting to understand.” She stated that patients help each other and check in on one another’s families throughout the week. They’ve developed a support system of those that are HIV positive and are not shunned, as they were in the past. Her words reminded me of one of the teachers at the ROP Center for Street Children, the orphanage in which we had been working for a number of weeks.

The teacher that came to mind was a woman who is Hutu, but is now teaching children who come from predominantly Tutsi backgrounds. Her husband is in jail for committing atrocities during the genocide (perhaps even against some of the parents of the orphans his wife now teaches). The teacher is HIV positive, as a result of transmission by her husband, as is their child. She continues to teach and love the children at ROP, while also visiting her husband in prison. In the past, she would have been ostracized and shunned for her illness or tribal affiliation, but now she is accepted and speaks of it freely. Her life embodies the contradictions, traumas, circumstances, transformations and ever-present hope, mixed with realistic and pragmatic solutions, which encompass the lives of most Rwandans.

After our tour was ended, we sat on a wooden bench or leaned against the wall and listened to some more songs. I don’t know how many people were not feeling well that day or had been sick for some time or how many folks in that small room had already lost family members, relatives and friends to AIDS, but the energy that radiated from their hearts and voices, seemed to transcend their circumstances. It was as if they were telling illness and death that they had no hold on them and were powerless in their presence. Children were laughing and playing outside the door, peering in, giggling and smiling before dashing off to play hide and seek. Adults entered and left quietly or stayed and joined in the singing. Dr. Ndatimana translated a verse from the last song. “We might have AIDS,” they sang, “but no matter how sick we are, it doesn’t matter. By the time we get to heaven we won’t be sick any more.” They weren’t being fatalistic. It didn’t mean they would stop taking medicine, educating others or desiring to live into old age. They were at peace with what was and what would be. Although I doubt they have ever heard of Alcoholics Anonymous or 12-step programs, they seemed to have down the serenity prayer by heart and not just in their heads. The prayer says, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”

As we made our way back to the ROP Center for Street Children, we discussed the clinic and the experience. We tried to make sure that we cut short our tendencies to compare health care and HIV prevention and treatment in Rwanda with our experience back home in The States or Europe, but couldn’t resist. Some of us on the team, who had come to work at the orphanage, have also worked in the fight against HIV/AIDS in the West and dealt with the bureaucracy, setbacks, prejudice and fear that held sway in the early days of the pandemic and continue, to some degree, into the present. We were saddened by the lack of material provisions at the clinic, but also gratified by the community understanding and support. What impressed us most was the incredible dedication and lack of self-righteousness by the church, especially since it was a fundamentally conservative evangelical organization. They were actually matching their religious rhetoric with their actions. They were giving time, money and most importantly, a human touch to their faith. It was such a divergence from what we were used to with similar “Christian” bodies in the west. We were intimately familiar with people professing to be Christians, but whose rhetoric was hateful and only caused separation and pain and fanned the armies of ignorance. It was so refreshing to speak with the pastors and board of C.E.L.P.A.R.S. Some of us even began reconsidering our own faith or lack there of.

If there was no sign in front of the clinic and we’d been taken there under a different pretext, we would have thought we were simply going to meet someone’s family in a small apparently insignificant home on the outskirts of Kigali. The clinic was so inauspicious and unassuming. Some of us had expected to see a large building with modern conveniences, staff in white coats and long lines of patients sitting quietly in waiting rooms, awaiting their name to be called. As it turns out, size really doesn’t matter, it’s the quality of the place and the connection of the people that make something special. The people in this East side community of Kigali are connecting. Members from the local churches are connecting. The families in the area are communicating, educating and connecting by knocking on doors, speaking in the alleyways and markets and embracing their neighbors, one precious soul at a time.

Cheapest Trip Ever!

It was on a gorgeous afternoon that I sat at an outside table of a local downtown coffee house and took an unexpected voyage around the world.

I had just put my derriere on a metal chair (made in Italy) and was waiting for my friend Betty (originally from Chicago) to join me with pictures of her recent trip, when the woman at the next table asked about the emblem on my shirt. I told her it was an Iranian National Soccer Team patch. She asked if I knew someone there and I said our family had an Iranian exchange student live with us for a year when I was growing up. She explained that she and her husband, who had just joined her, were fans of Majid Majidi and other Iranian filmmakers. She introduced herself, her husband and their child (Sylvie, Richard and Marcel), just as Betty sat down with her Guatemalan coffee.

Turns out that Sylvie and Richard (Oxman) put on a political/international and cultural event (including documentary films) which is called OneDance and includes filmmakers, educators and activists from around the world. They are also the proprietors of French Paintbox. Several times a year they organize retreats in the Southwest of France and meet participants from around the world. It doesn’t sound like your ordinary tour, as those on the trip have the opportunity to study and paint daily with master teachers’ such as Isabelle Maureau from l’Ecole Nationale Supérieure Des Beaux Arts De Paris. Sylvie said they also take daily excursions to botanical gardens, vineyards, museums, grottoes, country fairs, musical events, cafes, etc. She said it’s always a mixed group and you don’t have to be a painter to attend (thank goodness).

As their son Marcel, who looks like a miniature French movie star, came up to tell me that we both had on the same colored shirts (white), I thought about my wife’s French connections. I mentioned that my father-in-law spoke five languages and that he had lived in France for many years and that he and his wife (my mother-in-law) are originally from Germany. My friend Betty and her son both speak French, as does her husband (whose family goes back to Nova Scotia). Betty, obviously not thinking, asked if any of my children speak French. She should have known that that could send me on a long torrential downpour about my kids.

I looked down at my tennis shoes (made in China) and told them about my daughter, who traveled to Eastern Europe with her husband and how much they liked Italy, The Czech Republic and Turkey. Our other daughter was in Tahiti for three months, as part of her college studies. Two of our sons have been to and loved, Ireland and England and some of our best friends live in Sweden, I concluded, realizing I had never answered the question about speaking French. Sadly, I finally admitted, I don’t speak French or any other language, besides English, but both our daughters can speak Spanish, my wife German and youngest son took French for a year and a half in school. I’ve been trying to learn Kinyarwanda, which is spoken in much of East Africa (especially Rwanda), but still only know a few words.

After Sylvie, Richard and Marcel naturally tired from my monolingual linguistics, having heard all about my wife’s three-month trip to China, the Cameroon and French soccer teams and world politics, they politely said their au revoirs’. Betty was finally able to get a word in edgewise and told me about her trips to the East Coast, Nova Scotia and Nigeria.

About an hour later I walked past a World Bazaar retail store, paid my parking garage ticket (with American dollars), got in my Japanese car, turned on some Brazilian music and drove past Mexican, Sri Lankan, Thai, Indian and Afghani restaurants to my friend’s home on an Italian named street.

I’d only been at the restaurant for a couple of hours, but it seemed like I had traveled the globe. It was a pleasure meeting the Oxmans, hearing about French Paintbox and talking with Betty; but quite ironic that I, a stay-at-home American native, had felt like such a world citizen. For the price of an espresso (coffee from Nicaragua) it was definitely the cheapest trip I’ve ever taken!

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