Two days before I returned from vacation, a nurse at work, L., collapsed and was taken to the hospital. Without going into medical details, it looks like she had an internal brain injury. She has been in the ICU and minimally responsive ever since.
Various nurses from Homeland have been visiting her and returning with reports, "she seems better," "she squeezed my hand," and so forth. I have to say that she and I have opposite personalities, so in the past, occasional sparks have flown. I looked at her as a golden-retriever-type; she thought I was a cold and snappy bitch. Eventually we have come to understand each other much more.
The issue came up yesterday that she might be admitted to Homeland to recover; the social worker asked the aides who were on duty at the time how they would feel about personal care for a staff member they have worked with. Later, the information faxed to the facility regarding any prospective admission arrived at the nurses' station, with three nurses in a small circle quietly reading pages of the information, and then being reprimanded for it by the social worker, which hurt some feelings.
Yesterday was a watershed day for discussing L. all day, and how would we feel if we were incapacitated and had to stay in a skilled nursing facility. The response was universally 1] I would be deeply embarrassed to receive personal care from people I knew, but 2]we all feel Homeland would be the best place to receive care, and 3]we would be receiving care from people who knew us and cared about us. We all ended up in tears.
I mentioned something about L. resuming her position in the facility. Another nurse, who has been to see her, said she doesn't see that happening. I find that difficult to accept, and decided to pray very hard for her recovery. When I got to the point I could no longer concentrate on my work I went out for a hamburger. But the good thing was feeling part of the rest of the group. A fellow earthling.
Today on my day off, at last I took time to go to the ICU and visit. L. She was recognizable, although her hair, usually kept rather wild, was pulled into improbable ponytails at the top of her head. She lay on her side with one arm above the covers. When I walked in, wearing the silly anti-droplet mask I was given, and said, "Hi, L.!" her eyes opened, I swear I saw a flash of recognition and irritation. I took her hand, which she released after a few minutes. She didn't do any squeezing. She kept her eyes closed most of the time.
This was an awkward place for conversation. I said the stupid things I always say when speaking to someone who isn't likely to answer me back or give clues what to say next. In my imagination many times I had carried on with sparkling wit, told scintillating stories about Homeland, or prayed aloud. I did none of that. Finally I told her that I would stop hovering over her and looking at her, go sit in the corner and say prayers in my head, so I wouldn't bother her.
Twice when her eyes flashed open and she looked right at me I thought I saw a smile. Her mouth twitched. I wasn't sure if it was irritation or an attempt to smile. Finally I said goodbye and left the hospital. I had difficulty with the automatically locked exit doors from the ICU and a moment of claustrophobia. And then I was out. Driving away, I thought, Why do I have to cry? Can't I just stipulate that I'm sad and move on?
For the first time I'm seeing that the castle that I'm in doesn't have to have such extensive walls or such high ramparts. I might be able to lower a drawbridge once in awhile and feel one with the rest of the human race. And if people see me cry it's not the end of the world.
I'm just afraid I won't stop.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Bogoli Pelloh a la Amrika [Dilled Rice American Style]
At the conference, at the buffet, there was one vegetarian dish [other than salad, rice and dessert] that Enayat could eat: dilled rice with lima beans [ he called it "bogoli pelloh".] He couldn't eat enough of it. Today at Eatonville I made stir-fry, so I was going to make brown rice with it. Then I saw a bag of dried dill and remembered the baby lima beans in the freezer.
Enayat really liked my bogoli pelloh and said it was far more satisfying than the typical dish made with white rice. It reminds me of when I was routinely making things such as boxed macaroni and cheese and could eat a whole pan of it. Although white rice tends to be good at soaking up dishes such as chili, refined grains are never really satisfying.
Enayat has the quality of applauding and cherishing my cooking efforts, even at times when they are rather feeble.
Dilled Rice With Lima Beans
in a large pot, pour about:
1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil,
2 cups water
salt to taste
at least 2 tablespoons dried dill
a 1 pound package of frozen lima beans
and bring to a boil, then add:
1 cup brown rice.
Bring back to a boil, simmer about 45 minutes or until rice is done. Size up the concentration of dill in the pot and maybe stir in another 1 or 2 tablespoons dill, then crack lid to let steam escape and turn off heat. Let it sit 5 or 10 minutes.
This is really good with plain yogurt, too.
Enayat really liked my bogoli pelloh and said it was far more satisfying than the typical dish made with white rice. It reminds me of when I was routinely making things such as boxed macaroni and cheese and could eat a whole pan of it. Although white rice tends to be good at soaking up dishes such as chili, refined grains are never really satisfying.
Enayat has the quality of applauding and cherishing my cooking efforts, even at times when they are rather feeble.
Dilled Rice With Lima Beans
in a large pot, pour about:
1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil,
2 cups water
salt to taste
at least 2 tablespoons dried dill
a 1 pound package of frozen lima beans
and bring to a boil, then add:
1 cup brown rice.
Bring back to a boil, simmer about 45 minutes or until rice is done. Size up the concentration of dill in the pot and maybe stir in another 1 or 2 tablespoons dill, then crack lid to let steam escape and turn off heat. Let it sit 5 or 10 minutes.
This is really good with plain yogurt, too.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
One Day
One day gone from two days off. Two days off are not enough.
I had at least 17 things on my list this morning.
I dreamed about tiny deer the size of mice. Boy, were they fun.
Invited my hermit daughter to lunch and errands. [We leave each other books on the kitchen table. I left her the Funny Times when I finished it. She left me Oishinbo: Rice. That was in response to my introducing her to Oishinbo: Vegetables. I write grocery list items on the dry erase board: she illustrates them. She illustrated gloves and potatoes, so I wrote "Eiffel Tower."] At Chili Thai, we ate veggie fresh rolls with basil and ? leaves, cellophane noodles, rice and tofu in rice paper; ginger chicken; brown rice; Tom Kha, my new favorite soup, with tofu; Thai Iced Tea; and she had coconut ice cream and I had mango ice cream, and we both had leftovers.
To the library where we discovered not one Isaac Asimov book on the shelf. Not one. In the seventies there would have been three shelves worth. Also, it looks as if it's possible to put movies on hold now. She checked out some Bill Nye the Science Guy DVD's for nostalgia sake; I can't remember what I checked out, plus paid 15 cents-worth of fines. Did you know old typewriters used to have cents signs on the keyboard? I learned to type on an antique [even then] typewriter which had all its innards exposed, very long stems attached to the cutest round letter keys [somebody local makes them into jewelery.] And with every character typed, you got to watch the whole key and stem assembly rise up in front of you and crash into the paper with a terrific whack. Typing as an aerobic activity.
Drove by an apartment complex recommended by someone at work. Too busy for me to really check it out. I'm trying to figure out how to move out of my house, rent it out, and move into an apartment all at the same time so as not to pay double rent/mortgage.
Went shopping. They stopped carrying cases of Silk soy milk, so I have to buy it 2-3 boxes at a time. Tried a variety of other brands, some mistakenly vanilla [retch.] Many are much thinner than I am used to. Found large brown mushrooms for a change.
Washed clothes. Made cabbage soup with dried green peas, tomatoes, fresh [yum] basil. Went on the internet while waiting for soup to cool. Looked up all the suggested ways to get Sharpie marker stains off my pants.
I love carrying retractable Sharpies at work, but twice they've stained the pockets of my white pants. Now I keep them in my pocket in a ziploc snack bag.
Last week there was a doohickey in the exhaust system of my CRV that was shot and the whole repair plus scheduled maintenance was almost $700.00.
Also on the internet I started buying Farsi language books and stuff; also bought a copy of the VHS The White Balloon that I and my original husband really liked when we watched it 15 to 20 years ago at the Grand Cinema. At least it has subtitles.
I still mean to drive to Eatonville.
I had at least 17 things on my list this morning.
I dreamed about tiny deer the size of mice. Boy, were they fun.
Invited my hermit daughter to lunch and errands. [We leave each other books on the kitchen table. I left her the Funny Times when I finished it. She left me Oishinbo: Rice. That was in response to my introducing her to Oishinbo: Vegetables. I write grocery list items on the dry erase board: she illustrates them. She illustrated gloves and potatoes, so I wrote "Eiffel Tower."] At Chili Thai, we ate veggie fresh rolls with basil and ? leaves, cellophane noodles, rice and tofu in rice paper; ginger chicken; brown rice; Tom Kha, my new favorite soup, with tofu; Thai Iced Tea; and she had coconut ice cream and I had mango ice cream, and we both had leftovers.
To the library where we discovered not one Isaac Asimov book on the shelf. Not one. In the seventies there would have been three shelves worth. Also, it looks as if it's possible to put movies on hold now. She checked out some Bill Nye the Science Guy DVD's for nostalgia sake; I can't remember what I checked out, plus paid 15 cents-worth of fines. Did you know old typewriters used to have cents signs on the keyboard? I learned to type on an antique [even then] typewriter which had all its innards exposed, very long stems attached to the cutest round letter keys [somebody local makes them into jewelery.] And with every character typed, you got to watch the whole key and stem assembly rise up in front of you and crash into the paper with a terrific whack. Typing as an aerobic activity.
Drove by an apartment complex recommended by someone at work. Too busy for me to really check it out. I'm trying to figure out how to move out of my house, rent it out, and move into an apartment all at the same time so as not to pay double rent/mortgage.
Went shopping. They stopped carrying cases of Silk soy milk, so I have to buy it 2-3 boxes at a time. Tried a variety of other brands, some mistakenly vanilla [retch.] Many are much thinner than I am used to. Found large brown mushrooms for a change.
Washed clothes. Made cabbage soup with dried green peas, tomatoes, fresh [yum] basil. Went on the internet while waiting for soup to cool. Looked up all the suggested ways to get Sharpie marker stains off my pants.
I love carrying retractable Sharpies at work, but twice they've stained the pockets of my white pants. Now I keep them in my pocket in a ziploc snack bag.
Last week there was a doohickey in the exhaust system of my CRV that was shot and the whole repair plus scheduled maintenance was almost $700.00.
Also on the internet I started buying Farsi language books and stuff; also bought a copy of the VHS The White Balloon that I and my original husband really liked when we watched it 15 to 20 years ago at the Grand Cinema. At least it has subtitles.
I still mean to drive to Eatonville.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Journey to Chicago, Part 7
Sunday we listened to more lovely music and the talk by Roxana Saberi, which I already discussed. In the evening after the program, we had one more laborious walk through the convention area and the hotel, searching for friends and acquaintances Enayat might have missed before. I was okay with this up to a point, but then I finally lost it.
Two years ago I suggested to Enayat that, rather than continuing to cut his chin shaving, he just grow a beard. I was thinking, a genteel, pleasant little beard. It was motivated by mercy. Now he has a scraggly beard down to his abdomen, hair down to his shoulder blades, and a lot of miscellaneous growths of hair all over his cheeks. The beard that ate New York. In vain I have asked him to have it trimmed.
Therefore, every individual we met criticized his beard. And every woman we met somehow held me personally responsible for this beard and long hair. I finally just lost it.
Monday we drove to the House Of Worship where we at last had a lengthy, uninterrupted visit, and I had plenty of time for that peace to soak in. Then we went home.
Two years ago I suggested to Enayat that, rather than continuing to cut his chin shaving, he just grow a beard. I was thinking, a genteel, pleasant little beard. It was motivated by mercy. Now he has a scraggly beard down to his abdomen, hair down to his shoulder blades, and a lot of miscellaneous growths of hair all over his cheeks. The beard that ate New York. In vain I have asked him to have it trimmed.
Therefore, every individual we met criticized his beard. And every woman we met somehow held me personally responsible for this beard and long hair. I finally just lost it.
Monday we drove to the House Of Worship where we at last had a lengthy, uninterrupted visit, and I had plenty of time for that peace to soak in. Then we went home.
Journey to Chicago, Part 6
On Saturday I decided to sign up for the bus running from the Renaissance to the House of Worship in Wilmette. It cost $20, and Enayat could not understand why I wished to pay that much for a bus when I could just drive. The truth is, I quickly became sick of driving. I don't have the endurance of a robot.
The bus was simply a blast. For once I was alone with the driver and 40 Persians. I'm sure this was a trip the driver will never forget. As soon as we were underway, people were asking for the microphone. Since it was attached with a cord, several individuals took turns making their way to the jump seat at the front of the bus, laboriously strapping themselves in, and sharing the most beautiful, gloriously chanted prayers and songs. I was glad I had my one memorized Persian prayer when they passed the mike to me [a good-looking gentleman in his seventies had invited me to sit next to him in the front seat.] My one trick pony of a prayer. They seemed to like it.
Cost for a bus trip to Wilmette: $20.00. Cost for the Prayermobile: priceless.
For lunch outside the grounds of the Temple I ate two slices of whole-wheat bread, some cashews, and some water. My sojourn inside the Temple was this time somewhat interrupted by my new friend wishing to take photos with me. I forgave him easily.
That evening we visited Enayat's aunt, his father's younger sister, her daughters, and multiple other cousins, feasting on dilled rice with lima beans [bogoli poullou], sabsi-whatever [stew with greens], salad, yogurt with cucumbers, and that wonderful stew made with pomegranate paste. I promised one of the American inlaws to send my recipe for Stealth Soup, made with butternut squash and red lentils.
The bus was simply a blast. For once I was alone with the driver and 40 Persians. I'm sure this was a trip the driver will never forget. As soon as we were underway, people were asking for the microphone. Since it was attached with a cord, several individuals took turns making their way to the jump seat at the front of the bus, laboriously strapping themselves in, and sharing the most beautiful, gloriously chanted prayers and songs. I was glad I had my one memorized Persian prayer when they passed the mike to me [a good-looking gentleman in his seventies had invited me to sit next to him in the front seat.] My one trick pony of a prayer. They seemed to like it.
Cost for a bus trip to Wilmette: $20.00. Cost for the Prayermobile: priceless.
For lunch outside the grounds of the Temple I ate two slices of whole-wheat bread, some cashews, and some water. My sojourn inside the Temple was this time somewhat interrupted by my new friend wishing to take photos with me. I forgave him easily.
That evening we visited Enayat's aunt, his father's younger sister, her daughters, and multiple other cousins, feasting on dilled rice with lima beans [bogoli poullou], sabsi-whatever [stew with greens], salad, yogurt with cucumbers, and that wonderful stew made with pomegranate paste. I promised one of the American inlaws to send my recipe for Stealth Soup, made with butternut squash and red lentils.
Journey to Chicago, Part 5
Weather in Chicago was hot, muggy and wet. Fortunately I had made a pancho from outdoor material which worked well in sudden showers without making me too hot. I just don't associate rain with heat. Also, it was odd that when the air conditioner was on, condensation formed on the outside of the windows.
Music at the conference was outstanding. At one point I approached a flute player to find out about his flute, a "ney." It was wooden, vertical, with holes of course for the notes. In all flutes, a way must be found to separate the flow of air. In European flutes, the flute is held horizontally and the player blows across the hole. With recorders and penny whistles, etc., "fipple flutes," the mouthpiece is designed to separate the air flow, and the player simply blows into the mouthpiece. I found out that with the ney, the air flow was separated with his tongue.
While in home health nursing I became very good at finding my way around, so I was surprised that every time I drove from the Renaissance back to the Days Inn, I became confused and lost. It became a complex for me, raising my level of anxiety whenever I faced the drive. Complicating this was my partner's tendency to play off my anxiety and add to it by making unhelpful comments such as "this looks familiar," or "this doesn't look familiar."
While I realize most women would be impressed with a man who wishes to stop and ask directions, I really don't want to ask a lot of total strangers for directions, as they usually aren't very helpful. Especially since I think his real motive is that he just loves to talk to people. I became very irritable with this whole process, and had to tell myself to stop trying to control his behavior, and make agreements with him instead.
Music at the conference was outstanding. At one point I approached a flute player to find out about his flute, a "ney." It was wooden, vertical, with holes of course for the notes. In all flutes, a way must be found to separate the flow of air. In European flutes, the flute is held horizontally and the player blows across the hole. With recorders and penny whistles, etc., "fipple flutes," the mouthpiece is designed to separate the air flow, and the player simply blows into the mouthpiece. I found out that with the ney, the air flow was separated with his tongue.
While in home health nursing I became very good at finding my way around, so I was surprised that every time I drove from the Renaissance back to the Days Inn, I became confused and lost. It became a complex for me, raising my level of anxiety whenever I faced the drive. Complicating this was my partner's tendency to play off my anxiety and add to it by making unhelpful comments such as "this looks familiar," or "this doesn't look familiar."
While I realize most women would be impressed with a man who wishes to stop and ask directions, I really don't want to ask a lot of total strangers for directions, as they usually aren't very helpful. Especially since I think his real motive is that he just loves to talk to people. I became very irritable with this whole process, and had to tell myself to stop trying to control his behavior, and make agreements with him instead.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Journey to Chicago, Part 4
I visited the Baha'i Temple for the first time in 2001 when we went to the Kingdom Conference at Milwaukee. Ever since then, I was in the habit of asking people who had visited but were not Baha'is, whether they "felt" any peculiar sensations within the auditorium. Usually they said no. On my first visit, I felt my whole being suffused with a profound sense of peace and love while I was inside the Temple.
When we got out of our car at Linden Avenue someone informed us that "it is about to close at 5 PM." Thinking they meant the actual auditorium of the Temple, I was suddenly in a great hurry. The gentleman who greeted us on the steps clarified that it was only the Visitors Center below which was about to close.
When we went into the Visitors Center and met the attractive Persian woman who greeted us, Enayat exploded into raptures of delight, "Bah, bah! How are you doing!" I thought, sheesh, you've seen pretty women before. It turns out this was another of his thirty or forty cousins from around the world, doing service at the House of Worship. The gentleman upstairs at the temple was her husband, who Enayat had not met before.
She kindly took charge of us, showed us around, showed us the Cornerstone and some other things. Quickly I bought some literature at the bookstore: mostly things with both Farsi and English, and a Farsi Kitab-i-Iqan, so I can identify [with help] specific authentic passages to memorize.
Upstairs in the Temple, I didn't really feel this awesome peace. Mostly I just had angina from climbing the stairs. I said as many prayers as I could, then we left in time to attend the opening session of the Friends of Persian Culture Conference back at the Renaissance Hotel.
When we got out of our car at Linden Avenue someone informed us that "it is about to close at 5 PM." Thinking they meant the actual auditorium of the Temple, I was suddenly in a great hurry. The gentleman who greeted us on the steps clarified that it was only the Visitors Center below which was about to close.
When we went into the Visitors Center and met the attractive Persian woman who greeted us, Enayat exploded into raptures of delight, "Bah, bah! How are you doing!" I thought, sheesh, you've seen pretty women before. It turns out this was another of his thirty or forty cousins from around the world, doing service at the House of Worship. The gentleman upstairs at the temple was her husband, who Enayat had not met before.
She kindly took charge of us, showed us around, showed us the Cornerstone and some other things. Quickly I bought some literature at the bookstore: mostly things with both Farsi and English, and a Farsi Kitab-i-Iqan, so I can identify [with help] specific authentic passages to memorize.
Upstairs in the Temple, I didn't really feel this awesome peace. Mostly I just had angina from climbing the stairs. I said as many prayers as I could, then we left in time to attend the opening session of the Friends of Persian Culture Conference back at the Renaissance Hotel.
Journey to Chicago, Part 3
All my mapquest trips I had printed up: from Days Inn to the Renaissance Hotel in Schaumburg; from Days Inn to the House of Worship/Baha'i Temple in Wilmette; and from either location to O'Hare Airport, included too many turns and expressway voyages, which I had no intention of taking. I considered this a vacation.
September 2nd we moved to the newer, much better Days Inn on W. Devon, having gotten excellent directions from them, and checked in. I got a map at the local gas station, but no hand lotion [mistaken assumption the motel would have lotion.] We discovered there was a mall off of Meacham on route to the Schaumburg hotel with a Ruby Tuesday, which we eventually found. At Ruby Tuesday we got very good directions to the Baha'i Temple in Wilmette: follow Euclid, which becomes East Lake, which fetches up on Sheridan, the street which cruises along the lake shore where the Temple resides in all its glory.
Towards the end of my stay I realized why distances were so long on this map. The scale is one inch to two miles. On my Tacoma map the scale is probably one inch to a half a mile. Anyway, with distances so out of proportion, it led many times to a lot of confusion in my mind, thinking we must have passed a particular turn. Driving from Schaumburg to Wilmette along this surface street late in the afternoon took about a rather tedious hour.
At last we reached Sheridan, turned right, passed some smaller streets, crossed a small bridge and then, whoa! There it was, this breathtaking, beautiful, enormous white lacy dome. One is never prepared to see it. Here we are driving through a beautiful residential neighborhood, and then here is the Mother Temple of the West. My real reason for coming to the Chicago area.
Just as at the World Center, where we saw the Shrine of the Bab and the terraces, a jewel-like and holy setting, set in the midst of an urban center in Haifa, I wondered about the people living there mundane lives with this gem in their midst, so replete with meaning for the Baha'is. Do they notice?
September 2nd we moved to the newer, much better Days Inn on W. Devon, having gotten excellent directions from them, and checked in. I got a map at the local gas station, but no hand lotion [mistaken assumption the motel would have lotion.] We discovered there was a mall off of Meacham on route to the Schaumburg hotel with a Ruby Tuesday, which we eventually found. At Ruby Tuesday we got very good directions to the Baha'i Temple in Wilmette: follow Euclid, which becomes East Lake, which fetches up on Sheridan, the street which cruises along the lake shore where the Temple resides in all its glory.
Towards the end of my stay I realized why distances were so long on this map. The scale is one inch to two miles. On my Tacoma map the scale is probably one inch to a half a mile. Anyway, with distances so out of proportion, it led many times to a lot of confusion in my mind, thinking we must have passed a particular turn. Driving from Schaumburg to Wilmette along this surface street late in the afternoon took about a rather tedious hour.
At last we reached Sheridan, turned right, passed some smaller streets, crossed a small bridge and then, whoa! There it was, this breathtaking, beautiful, enormous white lacy dome. One is never prepared to see it. Here we are driving through a beautiful residential neighborhood, and then here is the Mother Temple of the West. My real reason for coming to the Chicago area.
Just as at the World Center, where we saw the Shrine of the Bab and the terraces, a jewel-like and holy setting, set in the midst of an urban center in Haifa, I wondered about the people living there mundane lives with this gem in their midst, so replete with meaning for the Baha'is. Do they notice?
Journey to Chicago, Part 2
At O'Hare airport we had no difficulty finding our way to baggage claim and finding the bag he checked. Then we followed the signs for car rentals, expecting a department within the actual terminal. This is how it works at SeaTac and at the Milwaukee airport when I went to the Kingdom Conference. But we found ourselves out on the curb, with a few signs but no rental offices. There were a few shuttles but none for Advantage. I tried asking the uniformed attendants at the curb and received a variety of conflicting information.
We were hauling a backpack, a small tote bag [me], a small suitcase, a large tote bag, and a santur [him.] We ended up hiking down to the end of the terminal and crossing the street, where I phoned the national office for Advantage [I had failed to secure the address and local phone number for the office at O'Hare.] Perpendicular to the terminal was a very long building and curbside which was the Hilton Courtyard, with shuttles coming and going. With husband and baggage I hiked the length of the building, hoping to speak to an actual human at a counter. This was a lady at a counter for buses. She directed us back to where we started at Door Number One.
Back and forth we hiked, between Door Number One and the curbside sign for Car Rentals 60 feet away, asking shuttle drivers and being directed to either location. At last we found a shuttle for Advantage, which we boarded, and discovered that the actual rental office was four miles off site.
I had Mapquested directions from O'Hare to the Days Inn in Elk Grove, but those directions, not only were confusing, but were going to be invalid from this other location. I got some wonderfully direct instructions from the shuttle driver: turn right out of the rental office, turn right on Touhy, which becomes Higgins, and follow about five miles, and Days Inn will be on the right.
Meanwhile we waited over an hour at the car rental office behind three other parties, one of which was very angry because he apparently had discovered that it would cost him significantly more to have more than one driver on the rental agreement. He kept saying, "I'm screwed!" There was only one clerk at the desk. At last I had the keys to the Nissan Sentra, and learned to use the automatic door lock; later I realized that the electric control for moving the side mirrors was discombobulated and we had to lower the windows to set them manually [they were probably broken by someone doing this initially.]
Down Higgins I drove until I came to a Days Inn and attempted to check in at the desk. Despite making a registration weeks before, they never heard of me. It was now nine thirty at night. We checked in anyway. At this point I realized it might have been better to just arrange for a shuttle from the motel and have a rental car delivered to the motel later.
It was a king, not a queen bed, and though my reservation was for a nonsmoking room, reeked of smoke. I was puzzled. I called the desk: "What is our address here?" "1920 Higgins." I compared this to my address on Mapquest: 1000 West Devon. Wrong Days Inn. I called the W. Devon Days Inn and explained where I was and arranged to check in there in the morning. We ordered a vegetarian pizza and watched actual tapes of the Frost-Nixon interviews on PBS.
We were hauling a backpack, a small tote bag [me], a small suitcase, a large tote bag, and a santur [him.] We ended up hiking down to the end of the terminal and crossing the street, where I phoned the national office for Advantage [I had failed to secure the address and local phone number for the office at O'Hare.] Perpendicular to the terminal was a very long building and curbside which was the Hilton Courtyard, with shuttles coming and going. With husband and baggage I hiked the length of the building, hoping to speak to an actual human at a counter. This was a lady at a counter for buses. She directed us back to where we started at Door Number One.
Back and forth we hiked, between Door Number One and the curbside sign for Car Rentals 60 feet away, asking shuttle drivers and being directed to either location. At last we found a shuttle for Advantage, which we boarded, and discovered that the actual rental office was four miles off site.
I had Mapquested directions from O'Hare to the Days Inn in Elk Grove, but those directions, not only were confusing, but were going to be invalid from this other location. I got some wonderfully direct instructions from the shuttle driver: turn right out of the rental office, turn right on Touhy, which becomes Higgins, and follow about five miles, and Days Inn will be on the right.
Meanwhile we waited over an hour at the car rental office behind three other parties, one of which was very angry because he apparently had discovered that it would cost him significantly more to have more than one driver on the rental agreement. He kept saying, "I'm screwed!" There was only one clerk at the desk. At last I had the keys to the Nissan Sentra, and learned to use the automatic door lock; later I realized that the electric control for moving the side mirrors was discombobulated and we had to lower the windows to set them manually [they were probably broken by someone doing this initially.]
Down Higgins I drove until I came to a Days Inn and attempted to check in at the desk. Despite making a registration weeks before, they never heard of me. It was now nine thirty at night. We checked in anyway. At this point I realized it might have been better to just arrange for a shuttle from the motel and have a rental car delivered to the motel later.
It was a king, not a queen bed, and though my reservation was for a nonsmoking room, reeked of smoke. I was puzzled. I called the desk: "What is our address here?" "1920 Higgins." I compared this to my address on Mapquest: 1000 West Devon. Wrong Days Inn. I called the W. Devon Days Inn and explained where I was and arranged to check in there in the morning. We ordered a vegetarian pizza and watched actual tapes of the Frost-Nixon interviews on PBS.
Journey to Chicago, Part 1
Sept 1st we boarded the Shuttle Express to SeaTac and had a good conversation with the driver who was a Christian. He ended up asking us whether Jesus Christ is worthy of worship. I thought that was rather a poser, and I was allowing Enayat to lead the Baha'i end of the conversation. I really wanted to get into the Kitab-i-Iqan [Book of Certitude] material which better illuminates the dual station of the Manifestation, but didn't have much of a chance.
I instructed Enayat later that when people have these deep convictions, it is counterproductive to say things which invalidate their point of view, such as saying the Bible has been translated wrong somewhere. It's much better to meet them where they are and lead them out of the jungle, shedding light on issues and assisting them to focus on the inner and spiritual meanings of scripture, rather than on the outer and physical meanings which people tend to be trapped in.
Our flight was excellent and we sat next to a woman about my age whose parents were born in Latvia, so we learned some things about that country, and the music.
I instructed Enayat later that when people have these deep convictions, it is counterproductive to say things which invalidate their point of view, such as saying the Bible has been translated wrong somewhere. It's much better to meet them where they are and lead them out of the jungle, shedding light on issues and assisting them to focus on the inner and spiritual meanings of scripture, rather than on the outer and physical meanings which people tend to be trapped in.
Our flight was excellent and we sat next to a woman about my age whose parents were born in Latvia, so we learned some things about that country, and the music.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Lost in Evin Prison
The final day of the Friends of Persian Culture Conference, Sunday, there was a talk [fortunately translated] by Roxana Saberi, author of Between Two Worlds, My Life and Captivity in Iran. Later I bought a book and she signed it. I told her, "I'm glad you got out!"
This is the journalist who was arrested on suspicion of spying and spent 100 days in Evin Prison, who met the two Baha'i ladies, members of the Yaran, who were incarcerated there. That section of the prison was for "political prisoners."
Still extraordinarily emotionally and physically fatigued by my journey, I'm wrapped up in this book, which I started reading this morning. It seems to complement and exacerbate my depressed feelings.
This is the journalist who was arrested on suspicion of spying and spent 100 days in Evin Prison, who met the two Baha'i ladies, members of the Yaran, who were incarcerated there. That section of the prison was for "political prisoners."
Still extraordinarily emotionally and physically fatigued by my journey, I'm wrapped up in this book, which I started reading this morning. It seems to complement and exacerbate my depressed feelings.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Running For the Bus
I was feeling my usual level of anxiety about catching my flight, and decided to do a little time traveling to explore it. It's always about catching the school bus.
Here we are, the four Elwood girls in a line, braiding each others' hair, gulping down overboiled oatmeal on a frosty morning. There's a brother too, but not braiding hair until much later. For some reason there's always a terrific hurry. In twelve years of riding the school bus, I don't remember ever missing it on the way to school. But if we had, it felt as if the consequences would be dire.
So here I am galloping across the little park called the Schoolyard, for an old school which used to be there, my red fourth-hand tights down to my knees by the time I'm halfway to the bus stop, and I haven't even passed the Black Dog yet. The line at the Bus Stop has a Lord of the Flies aura of disorder and confusion without adult supervision. People with clout can take cuts. I usually go for the back of the line.
Right up the hill from the stop is a stair-step family of Mormons with a collie dog they are forever trying to send home. "Go home, Goldie, Goldie, Goldie." They show up last because they are right there by the stop. And here is the bus.
I step on. Suddenly, forty years later, I can smell it. It doesn't smell horrible, but it is a distinctive odor. I've caught the bus. Where to sit? The first day of school I actually engaged in conversation. I hated sardines. I had never even seen a sardine. I became Arlene Sardine.
I used to have Borrowers-sized people rafting down the water in the ditches. Welcome to my world.
Here we are, the four Elwood girls in a line, braiding each others' hair, gulping down overboiled oatmeal on a frosty morning. There's a brother too, but not braiding hair until much later. For some reason there's always a terrific hurry. In twelve years of riding the school bus, I don't remember ever missing it on the way to school. But if we had, it felt as if the consequences would be dire.
So here I am galloping across the little park called the Schoolyard, for an old school which used to be there, my red fourth-hand tights down to my knees by the time I'm halfway to the bus stop, and I haven't even passed the Black Dog yet. The line at the Bus Stop has a Lord of the Flies aura of disorder and confusion without adult supervision. People with clout can take cuts. I usually go for the back of the line.
Right up the hill from the stop is a stair-step family of Mormons with a collie dog they are forever trying to send home. "Go home, Goldie, Goldie, Goldie." They show up last because they are right there by the stop. And here is the bus.
I step on. Suddenly, forty years later, I can smell it. It doesn't smell horrible, but it is a distinctive odor. I've caught the bus. Where to sit? The first day of school I actually engaged in conversation. I hated sardines. I had never even seen a sardine. I became Arlene Sardine.
I used to have Borrowers-sized people rafting down the water in the ditches. Welcome to my world.
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