A Sort of Homecoming

I love creation myths. Athena popping out of Zeus' head, Raven letting the moon and sun float free...maybe it's part of the reason I've come to appreciate sports, particularly basketball, the obsession with genesis, the forging on schoolyard courts, not wanting to leave Ohio, having to stay until all the free throws are made.
I'm very interested in belonging (or not, as the case may be) which I think has something to do with origins and roots. Growing up on the east coast you are awash with beginnings and establishment. Either you came over on the Mayflower or you've started a Pakistani restaurant fresh off the boat. Field trips were to Plymouth Rock and Ellis Island. In school we read endless books about heritage and history- the holocaust and the middle passage...so much has been Coming To America in some capacity, willing or not, welcome or not. We memorized Emma Lazerus. In college I haunted Russ & Daughters, finding comfort and community in a culture not my own. My professional life too has been about not belonging, circling around the origins of others.
I'm murkily German on my Dad's side through a strange last name has Dutch roots...it's muddy without anything promising. My Mom's ancestry is more clear, Irish pretty much straight on, at least through her father whose parents were born there. Being Irish in America leaves you with a nebulous heritage, diffuse over generations like a Guinness pulled in New Jersey. Irish Americans are almost their own beast, not recognizable in the motherland the way Paulie Walnuts was when he went to Italy...What does it mean to be Irish? What does it mean to be anything?
My Mom's immediate family is intense, affectionately oppressive in its unity of mind and narrative. All that to say I don't think my Mom ever yearned for more family, she had enough right around her. It's only been more recently that she's become curious about her wider roots. With an artist's fellowship in Ireland it seemed a good opportunity to dig deep. She generously invited me to come along. We met in Dublin in April and immediately headed south, me giddy to be anywhere that wasn't work, even unremarkable city outskirts. Ireland was brilliantly, shockingly green and there were sheep EVERYWHERE.
After my first Easter mass ever (in Irish) and a few days of oysters and increasingly stunning countryside, we arrived in Kerry. We brought with us my great uncle's family narrative, well researched and creatively embellished. He had also sent a sketchy email with loose descriptions of where the houses of my great-grandparents were. I'd read the descriptions in Tanzania briefly when I'd first entertained the thought of meeting my Mom in Ireland but stopped when they became too enticing and my work schedule challenged my ability to travel. Now that we were actually there, I could fully embrace listening to my Mom read the stories out loud, pausing occasionally to turn down the U2 I kept turning up and to avert her eyes from a narrow turn on the wild roads.
We found my great grandfather's house first and were able to go inside because it was being renovated. Even with a new wood burning stove in the hearth and new cabinets in the kitchen, you could feel the original bones of the house, the stone floors, the massive beam (likely salvaged from a ship) that ran along the top of the fireplace. It was small and sturdy. Stepping out the door, through some scruffy hedge you could make out the small inlet of water and white sand from where my great grandfather had dragged boats out to sea and very likely where he had first seen my great grandmother, who's father used to play hurley, a maniac version of field hockey, on the beach. My great great grandfather actually died there, right on that beach, from a blow to the head during a game.

Walking around John's House, as the place was locally known, was surreal. I knew nothing of my great grandparents and struggled sometimes to remember more than impressions of my grandfather, who died when I was 7 or 8. We drove along the coast to the Derrynane House, home of Daniel O'Connell, an eccentric Irish hero who had fought for the right of Catholics to sit in the Westminster Parliament. This victory won him fame and a purple velvet carriage (chariot, actually) that would not have looked out of place at Prince's house. Apparently my great great grandfather had been The Liberator's huntsman, the care taker of his hunting dogs. I tried hard to feel the rhythms of the area...what must it have been like, more than 100 years ago, to walk to work at this house, along the beach? That night we drove to Portmagee and discussed how we'd try to find my great grandmother's house, whose description was much less specific.
After a false start that involved speaking to several older ladies at a church, post office and then in line at the post office, we resolved to forge ahead and keep searching. Knowing nothing about the local topography, we found ourselves climbing over the hills and valleys of the Ring, unexpected and un-enjoyed by my Mom who was navigating by GPS, computer and family history spread over her lap. In the spirit of my Dad I kept yelling CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT!?!? while staring out the window and generally upsetting my Mom with my lack of eyes-on-the-road. It was the most stunning scenery I'd ever seen, cliffs that ran down to almost Caribbean-blue ocean, jagged islands out in the distance. While we'd had typically Irish weather the first few days of our trip, the clouds had burned off for our most spectacular views. The Waking Ned Divine Soundtrack blasting on the stereo, we stopped across from a restaurant on the edge of a cliff,  boasting 'The Best View in Ireland' beneath which, supposedly, was my great grandmother's house. After a come-to-Jesus moment, my Mom agreed to brave the steep road down the cliff to get a closer look at the neighborhood where we thought Joanna O'Connell's house had  been.

It was breath taking. Worlds will absolutely fall short so here:

We found the house, now owned by a very nice professor at Trinity College in Dublin. She invited us in for a cup of tea and we discussed our trip, the house, my great uncle and her work. I had a hard time focusing, so drawn was I to the windows that looked out on this UNREAL view. How had she come by this house? How could my great grandmother had possibly left this glorious place? I gave voice to my thoughts, wondering if people missed this landscape once they had left it. I knew my great grandmother had eventually ended up in the Bronx...a great place but not one renowned for its views. "It was cold and smokey in these houses. There wasn't enough food. Life was grim. You couldn't afford to think about a view," the owner of the house answered, factually. Of course, this house during the Famine wasn't as pleasant as it was now, the second home of a well-fed professional...but I couldn't believe it would be easily forgotten. I can still see it when I close my eyes and I only looked at it for an afternoon. What if it had been there your whole life?
It turns out my great grandmother may not have lived in the house for very long/at all, as after her father died her mother remarried and lived further down the coast, closer to my great grandfather's house, actually. The house had apparently been built in 1907, a year after my great grandmother had left for America. Whether or not she had actually lived there, it was a landscape she doubtless would have known.
The small stretch of Kerry coast my family had called home is probably the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Table Mountain in South Africa is glorious, the wilds of northern Kenya are outrageous, Tuscany is stunning, the Alaska Range and the Redwoods are magnificent, but I did not come from there. I came from people who lived on these shores. I came from fisherman and farmers. Servants to eccentric liberators. My people walked along rugged coastlines to mass and had names like Crohane, Joanna, John and Charles. They were storytellers, hard workers, cranky bastards and warm-hearted charmers. They were born in a beautiful place and they left it behind. I had never been on the other side of Ellis Island, at least not for my own ancestors. I had never faced belonging and leaving so directly before. It was intense and stayed with me for the rest of the trip.
If you look up belonging in the dictionary...
ORIGIN Middle English (in the sense [be appropriately assigned to] ): from be-(as an intensifier) + the archaic verb long [belong,] based on Old English gelang[at hand, together with.]

But belonging also contains longing:
ORIGIN Old English langian [grow long, prolong,] also [dwell in thought, yearn,] of Germanic origin; related to Dutch langen ‘present, offer’ and German langen ‘reach, extend.’

Thinking back on the trip now, I'm reminded of a quote from Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, who felt the same senses of longing and loss that I did when he looked upon another evocative landscape: 

How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a world I never knew?

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. 

thank you for giving me my first real sense of be-longing. 

roads go ever on and on

oh YEAH.

And No Matter Where I Go

read this article about my favorite person at one of my favorite places. 

Incredible stories. Familiar faces.

Stay strong and stay together, New York. 

My Aim Is True

It's been a hard year for me and sports.

Not only because I've been away from a regular east coast sports schedule (and am no longer working a food service job where literally the greatest feeling in the entire world is biking home after closing, in the dark, shadow catapulting over you as you sail under the street lights, night air cool on your skin, coming quietly through the back door, opening an ice cold beer, sitting on the floor because you smell of ice cream, bleach and sweat and are wet from the bus, turning on sportscenter and letting the statistics wash over you) but because relatively recently I've been dealt two major blows:

Ray Allen left the Boston Celtics to play for the soul-less, gut-luss, remorse-less Miami Heat that stomped on my heart during the post season.

Lance Armstrong...I can't even write it.

My relationship with sports tends to be emotional/visceral/obsessive. In case you didn't get that yet. 

Professional cycling is the best example, but I'll start with Ray Ray because it's a little easier to deal with: 

As I said here, Ray Allen was my way into basketball. Growing up in Massachusetts, my allegiance lay with the Celtics, but it wasn't until I met a praise singer that I decided to sit up and pay attention. My senior year of college I took basketball seriously. I would go have a beer at the bar around the corner from my dorm and watch anyone play. The bartender started recognizing me and would put a game on when I walked in. I canceled plans when there was a Celtics game. I watched "He Got Game" three times in a row. I read everything I could find about #20. I was able to pick his Mom out of the crowd. My knowledge of the nuances of the game remains tenuous, but I watched the hell out of the 2009-2010 Celtics. I became a fanatic. Those Finals were devastating. 2010-2011 was even worse. Living at home, I was in control of the tv. I bought a Ray Allen jersey and wore it every time I went running. When he was on track to break Reggie Miller's three point record, I watched every game and when he finally did it, my whole family was wearing three-corner newspaper hats, eating a three-bean  dip I had made and waving flags that said THREEEEEE on them. The lead up to those Finals was out of control. I cared about the title, but more than that, I just wanted them to keep playing. They had become my companions and I wasn't ready to say goodbye. When I moved to Kenya, I hung a Ray Allen banner up on my wall. I checked Celtics blogs religiously. I worried about his ankle. I worried about the bone spurs. I woke up at 3am to watch games. I wrung my hands at trade rumors. I cried when they lost. And then "He Got Game" became real, Shuttlesworth weighed his options and went with the worst possible option. To go, willingly, to the Evil Empire, was more than I could bear. As the beginning of the season approaches, the spectre looms. How will it feel to see him in that uniform? Why can't I let it go? I've read about the uneasy chemistry, the desire for more playing time, the discomfort of being offered for trades...I've even tried to stomach the idea that he might just want to win...but it still stings. I can't bring myself to stop wearing that jersey. 

My history with professional cycling is even more intense.  It was only a few years after learning that my Dad was a cancer survivor (I was two or three when he was diagnosed and so have no memory of it) that I first read about Lance Armstrong. I paid attention to the Tour de France the next year, 2000, when I was turning 14. I started spending a lot of time at my local bicycle shop, sitting on a wooden stool in the corner, out of everyone's way, listening to Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, watching in awe as these slight men hauled themselves up mountain after mountain, blood sometimes seeping from open leg wounds that were stitched up while moving. I was hooked. In the years following, I would eagerly buy all the Tour de France preview magazines, recording the race schedule in my journal, tearing out pictures of Lance Armstrong, his tragic hero nemesis Jan Ullrich, golden boy Ivan Basso, scrappy Thomas "TiBlanc" Voeckler and plastering them on the walls of my room. Lance Armstrong was my entry point; my love for the sport, the knowledge of team names, coaches and vocabulary grew from there. I read all the books on cycling and Armstrong I could find. I eagerly awaited the Alps and Pyrennes stages, getting to the bike shop early to watch the long days. I made t-shirts, cupcakes with yellow icing and let the Tour consume my Julys. In 2004, while on a family vacation in Italy, my Dad and I drove to France to see the Alp d'Huez time trial. Our trip was a marathon, we were in France for only 30 hours, but it was incredible: staying in a shitty hotel outside of Grenoble, winding up alpine roads in a bus, taking two separate gondolas to the top of Alp d'Huez and walking down the switchbacks, finding a spot where I could run along with the men I'd been watching for years. I took only one photo as Lance Armstrong finally flew by. He is tiny, barely distinguishable in the frame. I remember wanting to run with him as long as I could, to bask in whatever it was that drew me to him. 

My obsession maintained its fever pitch until Armstrong won his seventh tour. I went to college and had jobs during the summer that were less accommodating of seven hour mountain stage viewings. I still kept tabs on the race, reading updates in the newspaper, watching the evening recap on tv (Outdoor Living Network, which covered the Tour during my early years gave way to Versus, which still televises the Tour. I always used to scorn the evening recaps, not only because it cut out the HOURS of footage where nothing really happens, but it was narrated by Bob Roll and some other American who PALE in comparison to the British/Zimbabwean wit and insight of Liggett and Sherwen, even in their twilight years). Even last year, when I was living and working in Kenya, I kept the livestream from the official Tour de France website open on my computer while at work. Years had passed but I still remembered most of the names.

So you can imagine how I've been feeling the past few weeks as the Armstrong legend has come crashing down. I honestly can't believe it. And by that I mean, I can believe it, but it isn't registering. For so long, he has been a fixture in my life, staring down at me from the walls of my room, a way to understand my Dad's sickness, a way to imagine dedication, perseverance, suffering and insanity. He was the doorway to a world I've loved inhabiting. I had a cyclist pendant on a necklace my grandmother gave me that I used to wear everyday and when Lance won his sixth Tour, the one I had seen, my Mom bought me a "6" to put on next to it. I always jumped to his defense, always believed that his incredible performance was real. And I'm not some idealistic and naive fool. I know how doping works, the intricate systems, the secrets, the lies, the enormous pressure the riders and their staff are under. But somehow I just can't reconcile that Lance did that. After he railed against it for so long. After making me believe so fervently.

And now his titles have been stripped, his name removed from the record books, like he was never there.

But he was. And so was I, running right along side.

seeking the old earth

transitions.

tall grass. 

BD knows what I'm talking about. 

[killer typo-title by the way...I like a rolling stone too, particularly this version]

back to work next week. 

What's next?

House of Cards

the heath, oysters, pig cheek, welsh rarebit, cricket at Lord’s, flat whites, horse puppets and proper beer sorts you out!

every time you close your eyes

you know what's great?

sharing what you love with people you love.

dust bath at Sheldrick's.

Offbeat Pride bros.

Mother and Child Reunion.

an implausibility.

lekker.

best.food.coma.ever.

up close and personal. thank you Charlie for the best hike refreshment ever.

peace.

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

Last weekend I went to northern Kenya for what was supposed to be a quick and easy handover; a co-worker was supposed to take over the final days of a trip so another co-worker could get back to the office and address some upcoming changes to our program...we forgot how rare quick and easy is.
With no satellite phone and no real food (other than some Ramadan dates), the rear/long axel on our Defender came out of alignment/cracked/'was bad.' The car would start, the gears would engage, but we simply did not move. Stuck on one of the more-isolated stretches of road in the district where we work, I began to prepare myself for a night of dates and waiting.

Despite being in an area where lions are regularly sighted, I felt safe with my co-workers and fellow passengers. Luckily, we did not have to wait long for a vehicle, albeit one going in the wrong direction. Cargo trucks driving the abysmal roads in northern Kenya often carry mechanics who can hop out at a moment's notice and crawl over/under/around/through an engine in their omnipresent green canvas jumpsuits. Our first vehicle was such a truck and out popped a lanky mechanic who quickly assessed that we were not going anywhere. He told us what specifically was wrong with the Defender and what would be needed to fix it. Able to do nothing more, he hopped back into the cab and the truck rattled to life and continued down the road, leaving us in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. Not too much longer we had the luck of another truck, this time headed in the direction we needed to go. We were doubly lucky as it belonged to a company owned by my co-worker's cousin (despite being geographically vast, northern Kenya is a small world) and my co-worker vaguely knew the driver. The cab was crammed full, five men with the windows rolled up tightly against the dust. Riding on top of the crossbars covering the trailer of the truck were two sandy men, dazed by sun and wind. My co-worker turned to me, "Can you go ahead to Ngurunit and tell our mechanic to come get us?" His plan was that I would find our mechanic, who was with the rest of the team in a village anywhere between 2-4 hours ahead, describe where our broken Defender was and then send him out as a rescue vehicle.
I looked at the truck. I did a quick calculation. "Can I ride at the top?"
For everyone in northern Kenya, riding trucks (or 'lorries,' as they are called, only one of many vestigial English terms) is the way to get around. It is nothing new, nothing exciting. While 20-25 feet of iron or steel trailer gives you some shock absorbance not enjoyed by passengers closer to the ground, it is not a comfortable way to travel. I didn't care. As a woman, my independent movements (anywhere unfamiliar, but especially in northern Kenya) are limited. More adventurous male backpackers can boast of riding lories into the desert but it remains out of reach for most female travelers. Even in northern Kenya, lorries pass by with men on the roof and women down in the trailer, standing among goats, relief food, construction equipment, cows and cement. This was my chance.
"Of course," he said, "You are our messenger." So after politely declining the space squeezed out by the guys in the cab, I handed my bag up and climbed to the roof.  As we pulled away from the stalled Defender, I could hear my co-worker yelling the name of the closest village, to tell our mechanic as a landmark.
As soon as I balanced myself on the crossbars, I noticed how different this familiar landscape looked a few feet higher; the view was spectacular. Mountains were no longer obscured by wide-spreading acacia trees, I could see over brush to herds of dik dik, duiker and gerenuk. The road snaked in front of us and I noticed ditches and rocks with enough time to shift my grip and brace for bumps. It felt like being on a ship but with dusty rather than salty wind at my face. I can't think of a better perspective from which to see northern Kenya for the last time. As my work draws to a close, this trip was my last time to be in such an evocative and powerful landscape.

The journey was slow but uneventful. I arrived in Ngurunit to the shock and amusement of our field team, whose jaws nearly hit the floor when they looked up on top of the lorry to see it was me shouting their names. Our mechanic leapt into action, carrying freshly cooked rice and hopes of finding a spare long axel as he went to the Defender's rescue. When they finally arrived, seven hours later, it was clear our working vehicle would have to leave early in the morning to deliver my co-worker and I back home, picking up spare parts on the way and attempting to get back north before dark. This necessitated a 4am departure the next morning, 10 hours after I had arrived dusty and dry from our failed Defender. We decided it was the shortest trip possible to northern Kenya.
As we flew through the dawn, reaching the southern-most community in which we work just before sunrise, I looked out the window and swallowed a lump in my throat, realizing it would be some time before I came back to this place. With no time for reflection, we sped onward, hitting the beginning of the paved road, signaling the end of 'the field' as the sun arrived fully in the sky. 

Africa Man, Original

rest in peace rhythm. 

if you aren't swinging by the end of this, don't even bother checking your pulse. 
it's too late.

shout out to therhythmoftheone, rocking for two Fela hours on Sunday 5 August, noon east coast time. 

Angels Beating All Their Wings In Time

sometimes you just have to follow your bliss:

first fresh basil in a WHOLE YEAR. 

fresh baked whole wheat, tomatoes from the garden, BASIL, feta.

BASIL, feta, fresh ground pepper, watermelon radish (?!!)

Go Mordecai!

come on up now.

Music Like Dirt

in honor of some friends who drove to northern Kenya this weekend and because I couldn't go (damn you, commitments to this opportunity that brought me to Kenya in the first place!) I've put together 

the 31 core tracks of The Ultimate Northern Kenya Playlist. 

These songs have accompanied me on all my travels, in various stages of repetition (see play count).

A few notes:
Boxer, The National: This music is the sandy roads outside of South Horr. For some reason, while composed thousands of miles away in Brooklyn, this one of the most fitting soundtracks for northern Kenya. I had to include the album in its entirety.

"Strangers in Strange Land," Leon Russell: This song is the perfect accompaniment for a flock of birds catching a thermal, spiraling high above the desert.

The King of Limbs, Radiohead: While Radiohead’s entire canon could have been written to score a trip to northern Kenya, this album is the most precise. "Bloom" will forever conjure images of dropping down the final escarpment and speeding along the shore of Lake Turkana, sun beating down, hot air pounding through the vehicle, the water shimmering, people out floating on rafts or casting nets from the shore.

"Juicy," The Notorious B.I.G.: A slight departure from the other, more contemplative selections, this song is equally representative and emblematic of northern Kenya. To listen to music in the Land Cruiser, we have a basic memory stick reader that plugs into the cigarette lighter. Often, someone will insert a stick containing 11 songs that are played, on repeat, for the duration of a three week trip. However, if we are lucky, someone will throw on a mystery stick containing hundreds of potential gems. Hearing "Juicy" while driving through the Kaisut Desert was perhaps the gem-mest of them all.

Ray Allen, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down

Dear Ray Ray,

Congratulations on a killer season. As always, it was a pleasure to watch, even when the bone spurs were hemming you up. I’ve been living in Kenya for the last year and haven’t been able to see you play as much as usual, but I followed the season closely. It was a mess.

I have to say thank you for drawing me, almost single handedly, into professional basketball. Having never played I didn’t really have a connection to the game until a friend waxed rhapsodical about your jump shot. There must be something to basketball, I thought, and there was. I’ve developed into a purely emotional fan. My knowledge of the game is limited, at best. I’ve absorbed a nominal number of facts considering how much I watch, mostly because I’m wringing my hands, cupping my head, closing my eyes or yelling. But I love to watch you play. I love to read about your routines, your preparation. I check your stats after every game, hoping you’ve had a good night. I wear your jersey when I run in the morning. Being from Massachusetts, of course I’m a Celtics fan, but I love the Celtics because you are a part of them.

So I’m really trying to be a grown up about this, to understand why you made this move that breaks my heart. Maybe you wanted to try something new. Maybe, playing basketball is your job and you can do it better in Miami. Maybe you want to win another Championship and you think this is the best way. Maybe you’re tired, frustrated, angry, bitter or bored. Maybe money isn’t enough. Maybe you don’t like the bench. Maybe you actually enjoy Miami. Maybe Flo wants to be somewhere warmer. Maybe you want to be part of something else great, great in a different way, something once in a lifetime. I’m trying hard to understand why you would do this, this upsetting thing. Maybe it isn’t upsetting to you.  Maybe it’s what needs to happen. Maybe you don’t give a shit what people will say. Maybe you want to play with LeBron. I’m trying to learn how work can be separate from your life, how it can not define you, how you can keep it in its place. Maybe Miami will let you do that. You’ve left teams before. You know what you need to be comfortable, to succeed. Just because you play for a soulless, black hole of a team doesn’t mean you are a black hole. I just have a hard time with change, which is something I think you know a little bit about.

So here’s what I need from you Ray. Here’s what I need to be ok with this horrible, go-against-everything-that-I-stand-for move. I need you. I need you to be your smooth, three-draining, pre-game head shaving, shoe laces perfectly tied, 133 shots three hours out, slight-drawling, son of a bedazzled mother, upstanding, fight-breaker-upper, Kobe and Dwayne guarding, occasional lay-up, deep-breath he’s got it, RAYYY ALLEN FOR THREEEEEEEE self. I need you to remind me why I started watching basketball. Why I woke up at 3am to watch the Playoffs this year. Why I went to a Nets-Celtics game by myself and paid $100 to sit in the fourth row. Why I will put on your jersey tomorrow morning when I wake up to go running at dawn, because I think for an instant it will give me power. I will try and have it not matter that you are wearing red instead of green, that you are now guarding Rondo, that KG will no longer help you up when you trip into the stands. I’ll try. Because I respect you, I’ll try.

But I won’t become a Heat fan. Don’t ask me for that. Good luck with the ankle. 

Thanks for everything. 

most.necessary.ice.cream.ever.

Nzozi Nziza. Butare, Rwanda.

might have eaten three of those. 

I still have a lot of thinking to do. I have to weigh my options.

I wonder if Ray Allen is listening to this song too. 

rocks off

There isn't really anything to say about Lalibela. 

Or rather, there is nothing I can say. 

No words can replicate how it feels to stand at the foot of these epic, mythical, living structures, 

what it means to get up close to the walls and see individual chisel marks, 

or the intensity of standing next to someone kissing the floor, praying under their white cotton shawl. 

I'll try and show you instead:

unreal. 

the story of how we begin to remember

For my whole life, I've heard stories from my Mom and her brother and sisters about growing up in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. Hilarious, tragic, touching, apocryphal...there are as many versions as there are siblings but I never tire of hearing them, of pouring over the few photos that remain, of imaging what my grandmother sounded like on her jazz radio show on Voice of America. Mine is an overpowering legacy, full of memory, family and experience. So naturally,  I was excited to return to the site of so many collective remembrances on a vacation/quest for a new visa last week. My trip to Addis was superb, mostly due to the boundless generosity of my fellow Fellows and their extended social matrix (also thanks to some fantastic coffee, popcorn and the greatest sparkling water in the world). On my first full day, I endeavored to find the cornerstone of my family's Ethiopian experience: their grand, majestic house. Armed with my Mom's annotated google maps and an obliging cab driver (with the furriest of furry dashboards, one of my favorite Addis taxi details), we circled the African Union headquarters, a landmark in the general vicinity of the house, craning our necks over the imposing wall for a glance of a red roof. After not too long, we found what we thought might be it and I bounded up to the closest gate, heart pounding, hoping that I could find a way inside. A very kind guard assured me that if I went to the Main Gate, I would be given a pass and I could walk around the house freely. Barely believing my good luck, we drove to the main entrance and I was given an African Union Commission Visitor's pass. [A double thrill, given how much I've read about the AU and that I was minutes away from potentially finding the house.] I walked through a plaza, past towering buildings where important decisions were being made (ok...discussed) and headed down the hill toward where I thought the house might be. I turned a corner and then, there it was, just like in those faded pictures.

I walked closer and nervously climbed the steps into the driveway. It was clear that the old wall around the house had been knocked down on one side and then fortified by the larger AU compound wall on the other:

Slowly, I started walking around the house, looking up, taking it all in, trying to locate the site of stories and anecdotes: Which balcony was the one my Mom and her brother used to play records from? Which room was my grandparents'? I took out my ipod and started listening to Dave Brubeck's recording of 'Take Five,' trying to imagine what it must have sounded like wafting out an open window, accompanied by laughter and the tinkling of cocktail glasses...a dinner party getting going, my Mom and her siblings sitting on the stairs, in their pajamas, drinking Tang. I was overcome by emotion.  

My grandparents died when I was young, my grandfather several years before my grandmother and while I remember them clearly and very fondly, I never got the chance to ask them about their life in Addis. My interest in Africa began with wildlife and as an 11 year old I didn't understand the significance of being in Ethiopia at the end of Emperor Haile Selassie's reign. It must have been a remarkable time. Lost in my reverie, I didn't notice a woman sticking her head out the front door until she said "Excuse me, can I help you?" "Hello!" I said, "My mother lived in this house more than 40 years ago. Would it be alright if I came inside?" Thus began my tour of the newly acquired African Union workspace in what used to be my Mom's old house. Everyone was very kind while I interrupted their work and poked my head into their offices (i.e. my uncle's former bedroom) to have a look around. It was unreal.

the largest upstairs balcony

an upstairs bathroom

The view from the servants' quarters up to the main house. My Mom and her brother tried to fly off this ledge. 

As we came back downstairs, I thanked my kind and patient tour guide for showing me the house. I took one last turn around the outside, committing the place and all its details to memory, thinking about how I was the first person from my family to come back and wondering when someone might be back next.

"How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a world I never knew?"

-Ernesto Guevara

this is way too much, I need a moment

6:00 am. The sun had risen. Birds were chirping. I had been up for nearly three hours, glued to the screen, not wanting to roll over or scratch my nose in fear that I would a) disrupt my decent internet connection or b) disrupt the force that enables you, sports fan, to influence the outcome of a game 7,000 miles away. I hadn't even made coffee. I had eaten a few frenzied mentos in a panic in the third quarter and now my breath tasted vaguely of orange and sleep.
Watching professional basketball in a place seven hours ahead of the east coast requires a frightening level of commitment. This was an important game, not only because the Celtics-that-everyone-gave-up-on could potentially make to the Finals by beating the soul-less Heat (I bet Perk was thrilled/terrified at the prospect) but because it might be the last time to see ALL DAY RAY RAY in that brilliant green. I had to watch it all. I had to be there.
Armed with espn radio, gamecast and an arsenal of illegal streaming options (espn3, some guy filming espn in his living room, etc.), I tuned in at 3:42am, just in time to catch a Ray Allen three. It was an auspicious start. There were moments of elation. There were moments of despair. There were absolutely beautiful shots and Rondo gems and there were terrifying this-is-what-we-are-up-against LeBlocks that knocked the wind out of you. The first half was glorious. Everyone was on fire. Ray kept knocking 'em down. And then we got tired. Or they dug deep and found some frightening motivation in the fear/arrogance nexus. I don't know what happened. Sometimes all of my windows would just freeze and I would be there, in silence, frantically clicking back and forth to try and see what was going on. It was no use. It got away. Something that had gone from certain to possible to impossible to absolutely not to they'll give it a try to trust that ol' Celtics pride to they should do this to they'd better do this to they'll never do this to HEY THIS MIGHT HAPPEN...just didn't.

And the worst part is that you simply like watching them play. All you want to do is spend time with them. It's a routine. It's something to think about. In the post-season, it's that manic all-or-nothing obsession. You can't make any plans because of games. You notice little things night to night: consistencies, inconsistencies, shoe laces. You wake up at 3am. It's exhausting. And then, head in your hands, it's over. You can no longer do the thing you wanted to do. There is no way to watch them anymore. You never, ever appreciated it when you had it. The screen goes black, the gamecast stops updating and it's 6:30am. You're sitting there, in your Ray Allen t-shirt that you slept in, sunlight streaming through the window, your lap hot from your computer, tears welling up because it's gone. And all you want is for it to be 3:42am again, when anything was possible.

possible for me to articulate how much I love BBC's 'Sherlock' ?

thanks, brilliant website. 

as long as we live in emptiness

An incredible thing happened today.  I handed over my phone to my replacement, which meant I had to delete 300 text messages I've been collecting since August. There were messages that I had written, messages that I had received, a few that I had never sent. I sat there, scrolling, pouring through my typed, segmented, carefully, often pain-stakingly composed life over the past 10 months. Rereading these dispatches, I traced the arc of friendships. I watched a relationship spark, reliving the uncertainty with which those early messages were composed, hastily deleting the ones where it stumbled, lingering over the triumphs. I found movie quotes and song lyrics from my brother, words of encouragement from my parents, wisdom from a sage and funny FUNNY quips from friends long since moved away.  Messages that made me laugh, messages that made me blush, messages that I wanted to read over and over. I sat for almost an hour, hypnotized, accompanied only by the tight clicking of my keypad. Delete. Delete? Deleting.

In the end, everyone was just a number again. The way they had begun.  As I erased my contacts, messages became unmoored, belonging only to a string of digits. I hesitated, not wanting to lose these markers, these relics of my life so far.

And then I pressed OK.

And then the phone was empty.

Everything In Its Right Place (really)

"This one's for Adam Yauch."

 -Thom Yorke and the lads, last night in wonderful ol' NJ

finally, a fitting tribute.  

thank you, Universe. 

thank you, Radiohead.

and thank you, to my brother, who plays a mean piano-only version of "Reckoner," 

for the greatest text-message-live-set-list-update of all time.