Casting

I miss Golda.  Mostly because she's never coming back, at least not as the girl she was before.  Yesterday I wrote her a letter telling her all about Nutcracker auditions and Homecoming preparations.  Things she used to care so much about.  Things that are completely irrelevant now, and even seem a little silly.  Golda was obsessed about being Clara in the Nutcracker for years.  You could almost diagnose a clinical condition. Claritis or something.  She sketched endless drawings for the Nutcracker cover art contest, most depicting her dream role, Clara.  She literally would dwell on it all year. She filled notebooks with lists of goals and instructions to herself, all dedicated to the ultimate goal of Clara. Six months of hope and determination, and then six months of despair.  Sometimes just 12 months of hope mingled with despair.  The worst years were the two when she got a "Clara Callback," meaning she had come closer to her goal, and thus would be - and was - more devastated when she didn't achieve it.

Driving to my Nutcracker rehearsal last night, waiting at the stoplight on 2nd North, all the endless drives to ballet with Golda and all the endless conversations about Nutcracker came rushing back.  Buying the exact perfect hair ribbon for the audition.  Selecting the fabric for the Nutcracker Bag.  The pep talks, the dissection of auditions and what could have been different, the discussions about rehearsals.  Then later, when she left home, the calls from Orem about her Nutcracker rehearsals.  A different production.  What was the name of the company again?  I wasn't needed to drive her to rehearsals or to analyze who got what part, but at least Scott and I got to go see the production.  It was one of the last times we saw her dance onstage, and the sorrow of that realization penetrated Tchaikovsky's peppy, festive score.

Now, our little dancer is out on the world's stage, just like we hoped and prepared for.  Yet there are times when I feel like Golda with that role of Clara.  I can audition and audition, but I will never make the part of Golda's Mom like I had it before.  That role has been taken out of the production.

Cue Farewell Music

I probable mentioned how crazy-town it got the week before Golda's farewell.  I thought several times, "I can't believe so many people do this!"  On top of all the wonderful chaos, I had said yes to putting together a musical number for the farewell meeting.  I play in sacrament meeting all the time.  People probable get sick of me.  So it should have been no big deal to find a piece, but it turned into a time-sucking ordeal.  Everyone wanted to play, and I could not find a piece for all of us.  After finally nixxing a Circe/Golda duet, I decided on a cello-violin duet, so Araceli could be part of the farewell.  After MUCH searching, I found an arrangement and bought it.

Parts of it had SIX flats.  Seriously, why?  And on string instruments, too.  No string instrument sounds good when you can't play any of the open strings, but we won't go into that.  Araceli even had her teacher help her with it, but we could not play it.  It was flat-out too hard.  See what I did there?  ha ha.

We gave up, and Ruby stepped in, as she so often does, to save the day.  Ruby and I played a violin duet that I had previously played with Golda, Golda on flute, How Great Thou Art.  It sounds beautiful with two violins, but there was one tiny glitch: Ruby hasn't practiced violin for 8 years.  Nonetheless, she awed me with her abilities, coming in and playing it nicely.  We still had to practice several hours. over the course of a week, but we pulled it off.  I don't know how we sounded, but I felt good about playing with Ruby.  We loved it, and it was magical to play together in that setting.  I definitely felt the spirit, and I was honored to be included in the program, especially with Ruby.

That said, it took some serious doing to get it together, hence the pics.  Don't forget, it was summertime, and we were trying to do summer, doggone-it!  On top of that, I was texting all kinds of people about all kinds of things, probably farewell-food related.  Ruby laughed as she snapped pictures of me trying to get in a few minutes of post-pool practice.

I loved this time with Ruby, and this time in general.  I knew it was going by too quickly, and I knew I wasn't fully able to take it in at the time.  Thanks for documenting a moment of craziness, Ruby. I wouldn't trade any of it for anything.

Be the Presence of Love

I may have mentioned this story that took place when we were in Rome.  We were sitting in a restaurant when a woman burst through the door next to our table, cocked her head, zeroed in on us and exclaimed, "Engliiiiish!"

She was a Canadian who had been traveling solo for weeks, and she was delighted to hear our North American accents.  She sat down with us to dine, and a friendship was born from her enthusiasm and inclusion.  We all loved her immediately.

The other day, Shannon posted a quote that resonated with me, so I paraphrased it and adopted it as my new life mantra.

"In every situation, be the presence of love."

This comes from a book called Loveability by Robert Holden.  The actual quote is, "The greatest influence you can have in any situation is to be the presence of love."  This quote struck me so powerfully, I immediately began using it.  God is love, and so there's nothing else, really.  We are here to love.  As I go about my life. I visualize me being the person responsible for bringing love into any situation.  Love manifests itself in patience, and in really listening.  I can feel the love softening my facial features, even.  Yesterday I was driving myself, Xanthe and Ptolemy to ballet.  We really should have left home five minutes earlier, and I was on edge.  I noticed I was scowling, and I thought of my role in this world: to be the presence of love.

I felt my face relax, and I smiled at my kids.  I listened to them.  Their voices were so sweet.  I was happy because I was aware that my job wasn't to get to class on time, though I did.  My job was to bring love into the car, and then to take it with me to my class, and send it with Xanthe and Ptolemy to their classes.

Teaching ballet, I have a student who really has a hard time.  I noticed right off at the beginning of the year that the other girls were very patient with her, and I followed their example.  At 8 years old, they're too young to bring anything but love with them.  It doesn't matter to them if their friend is different.  They probably aren't even aware of it, but they crave seeing the teacher treating their friend with love.  I react to her behavior kindly, and I try to understand what she needs.

In an article detailing how the general authorities assign LDS mission calls, Elder Rasband related a story of then-Elder Eyring assigning missions.  He said that he liked to envision where the missionary would return from after his or her service was complete.  What perspective that brings to the beginning, to imagine the end.

Along with "being the presence of love," I am always cognizant of the intended outcome, rather than the process.  With my little student, I constantly imagine how I would feel if, at the end of the year, her mother thanked me for being her ballet teacher.  I try to act in a way that I'd feel proud of, in that moment.  Would I deserve the gratitude?

Whenever I'm successful in lovingly, instead of gruffly, interacting with one of my kids, it's because I am mindful of the kind of person I hope they become, and I'm thinking about how I hope they remember their childhood when it's distilled down to a handful of feelings in hindsight.  Lately, it seems like everyone in our family has been struck with a severe case of the blues.  Seasonal Affective Disorder?  I don't know, but if Costco sold mega family packs of Zoloft, I'd be the first one in line, and every crock pot recipe I prepared would include a double dose of them.  Since I can't do that, I focus on what I would want my child to know if he or she was away from me and feeling hopeless or depressed.  Would I want them to know that I expected their practicing to get done?  Would I want them to know that I was checking their grades and I wasn't happy?  No.

When kids are discouraged, it's hard to imagine that anything matters except for love.  I want my children to know that I love who they are.  There is nothing else. Last night, in the depths of exhaustion, nobody wanted to get their stuff done.  Instead, we sat in the kitchen and made a list of everything we're quitting.  School.  Violin.  Orchestra.  French.  Jazz.  Especially school.  As I channeled love, I just knew that nobody needed a taskmaster at that moment.

So there's love.  Now we just have to figure out how to add motivation back in.  Springtime, can you help us?  Can love and homework coexist?

ESL Playgroup

Tziporah and I have a new project.  We go on Thursdays to a playgroup at the Sunnyvale Community Center where the Asian Association of Utah gives English classes.  I get to teach and play with the children of the students all morning.

This all came about because of the refugee crisis worldwide.  I had a strong desire to cast my vote for humanity and compassion, but I can't very well travel to the island of Lesbos and scoop drowning Syrians out of the Mediterranean, as much as you all know I would love to.

Instead, I went with the "bloom where you're planted" notion, and our whole family checked out a "refugee fair," where all the aid organizations in Utah presented information on what help is needed.  We watched a short documentary in which a Nepalese man told his immigrant story.  He said that many immigrants to this country go years without having a single friend who is "from here."  I can do something about that.  Why shouldn't I go out of my comfort zone?

So every Thursday, Tizzy gets to practice sharing and helping babies, while she brushes up on her Farsi.  All the kids are from Afghanistan, although the adults in the classes are from all over.  Colombia, Congo, Malaysia, etc.  We usually have four little boys, one little two-year-old girl and two baby boys.  They're all absolutely beautiful, with bright eyes and impish smiles.  I look into their fresh faces and wonder what their future holds, as children of immigrants.

Their mothers are the ones taking the English classes.  Most are friendly, some are weary and wary.  I can only imagine the tragic circumstances that brought them here.  At the break time, I try to talk to them, as difficult as it is.  Last week, I visited with two African women in full Congolese regalia.  They each have a dozen children!  We established that their children are all in school, and too old for the daycare.  When we all left, one of these women gave me a warm hug.  This is the kind of interaction I was hoping for, to break down cultural barriers in tiny increments.

A couple of months ago, I was in a Middle Eastern grocery to get some spices.  The kid at the counter, a young, hip, handsome college guy, gave me a wry smile.  He said, "Are you...?"  He wanted me to fill in the blank as to why I was there.  He wanted my provenance.  I found myself on the verge of saying something like, "I'm just white," or "I'm just regular," even though I know darn well that there is no "default" ethnicity.  It even crossed my mind to say, "I'm just American," as if "American" was an ethnicity, and that I represented that ethnicity.  The hubris!  In my defense, I'm not often called upon to state my heritage, and I admit, I didn't have an answer ready. I ended up saying, "I'm Caucasian.  I'm from here, from Utah."  The kid smiled and said, "Do you usually shop at Middle Eastern grocery stores?"

Suddenly I was in a position of explaining my presence, which, as part of the ethnic, religious and cultural majority here in Utah, is a position I am rarely, if ever, in.  I liked how it made me think about who I am in the larger context.  I liked that this kid was calling me out, so to speak.  Asking me who I was, rather than assuming - and letting me assume - that I was "just" one of the majority.

I told this kid at the store that I was looking for good spices, that I usually find them at Sinbad's on State Street, but I saw his new store and stopped in.  He told me they have plans to open a gyro stand, and I promised I'd be back.

In the meantime, I get to teach and learn from the smallest and newest citizens of this country.  Little Yursef, Muhammed, Ramish and Modesei are pioneers, just like my ancestors.  They're blazing a trail in a foreign land. A trail of cookie crumbs and legos at this point, but a trail.  They're the intrepid souls that will bring their parents into this new culture, not the other way around.  Children learn faster.  That's why those rambunctious, Farsi-speaking, soccer-playing boys didn't bat an eye when a timid little white girl with strawberry-blonde braids joined their ranks.  Tziporah will be speaking Farsi in no time.  She'll integrate just fine.

Drink More Water

I was lying on the couch recovering from getting a thousand (OK, four) kids to school and Tizzy wanted eggs.  I told her, "I can't make you eggs.  My stomach hurts."  She went and got a bowl, and a festive one at that, and said, "Here's a bowl, Mama, in case you throw up.  Now get up and make me eggs."

At three years old, she's been in this family long enough to know that her mother is a callous witch, and she's copying that behavior!  She's clever.  And I did; I got up and made her eggs.

Ruby knows my standard responses.  She'll say, "My ribs hurt."  I take a breath to launch into my speech, but she's one step ahead of me.  "Don't even, Mom!  I know.  I've heard the story about the rib cage linings rubbing together because I'm not drinking enough water, and that sounds fake."

Or how about this one:  "My hands hurt so bad, and Mom, don't tell me that practicing will make them feel better."  I close my mouth and pretend I wasn't on the verge of saying just that.  Ruby did get back to me, though, when I had surgery on my foot a year ago.  She came to me the next day, when I was groggy and drugged-up and said, "Are you ready for your guitar recital, Mom?"

Touche!  I thought back to the day after Ruby's knee surgery when I had insisted she play in her guitar recital.  I mean, it's not like you have to stand up to play the guitar or anything, and as long as she was on drugs, she likely wouldn't even remember it afterwards.

Oh, she remembered it.  Like an elephant.  Just like Scott remembers having to sleep under his desk at the office after having his achilles tendon reattached, because I wouldn't let him rest at home.

My callousness works well with Araceli, though, because she it a total hypochondriac.  Every day, it's a new ailment, along with a new link to a page on the Mayo Clinic's website.  Scott asked me if the kids were asleep the other night, and I said, "I doubt it. I haven't even gotten the text about Araceli's daily injury."

This next one had a picture attached to it, which I have spared you having to see.

In case you're at a loss as to what advice to give people around you, here are my standard answers:

Drink more water.
You might as well be sick at school/ballet/the office as at home.
You can be sick after your lesson.
It's probably growing pains.
Take some Advil.  Bye, have fun at class!
You'll have to rest this weekend.

Let's just hope none of my people ever has appendicitis.

Revenge of the Shoulder Pads

Scott and I took a couple of our kids to the Lang Lang performance with the Utah Symphony.  It was a black tie affair, so we trotted out Scott's tux and my beautiful Albert Nipon prom dress from 1989.  Oh, the humanity!  Take a look at these shoulder pads!  We were obviously serious when we wore these, but I can't imagine how we could have been.  My beloved prom dress was literally unwearable.  Even after I cut out the shoulder pads, the supporting fabric was enough to get me airborne if I turned to quickly.  Even Scott's tux was outfitted with shoulder pads, and the sleeves came down past his wrists.  Yet we thought we were such hot stuff back in the day.

Scott sent me a text the next day:  "I'm leaving you.  I thought I was marrying a woman with bigger shoulders.  False advertising."  Now I get why we didn't hear much about "modesty" in 1989.  Girls - and boys! - would never have exposed their shoulders, as skinny and narrow as they were.  I'm sure the narrow-shouldered among us were at the very bottom of the food chain.  If that was the case, then I must have been waaaay at the top, at least at Prom.

I'm So Hoppy!

 Our last week of Shelter lunch, and it was my turn to host.  Everything was done because the menu was leftovers from all the Memorial Day weekend festivities, and it was all in the fridge, just waiting for us.  Wow!  Look at me, being all ahead of the curve.

Then, with 3 kids to drive to 3 school within the next 5 minutes, I twisted my ankle walking out the front door and went down.  False bravado aside, it HURT!  Actually, there was no false bravado.  I was just writhing around on the porch, clutching my foot and hyperventilating.

"CALL.....uuuuuuuuuuuggggggg!....DAD!..aaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkkkk!.....TELLHIMTOHURRY!!!!  BRINGMEAPILLOW!!!!!"

Pant, pant, pant.  Scream in agony.  Breathe.   Groan.

I managed to send Freestone walking with 5 ballroom dance costumes and a 6-foot spear, for his assembly.  Even in extreme pain, I still manage to bark out orders.  Scott took forever to get home, because he had to stop and help Freestone, who was leaving a trail of costumes along the street.  So sometimes my ideas aren't the best.  Speaking of which, I thought it would be best if Scott took Golda to school and I took Ruby to seminary, so they would both have a chance of being on time.  Ruby helped me hop to the car and prop my foot up on the dash.  Driving down Mutton Hollow screaming in pain, I told Ruby, "If I pass out, just lunge over here and step on the brake or something."

For some reason, she looked alarmed by that possibility.  Thankfully, I made it home and hopped to my bed.  I was going to cancel lunch, but heck, I wanted to see my friends!  And it was all ready to go!  And Coco came over to herd the babies while I laid on the bed and fumed over things going so horribly off course.  Black and blue foot, not in my plans for the last week of school.  I think I scared Ruby with my hopping.  (Incidentally, I sold our crutches on KSL last Friday.  "When are we ever going to need these stupid things again?"  Uh-huh.)  I sounded like Quasimodo, thundering around crutchless, but sometimes you have to get from the ribbon cupboard to the table.  Several times.  It's vital.

I was complaining to Trajan and he said, "You don't get out of the car that often anyway."  It's true.  After Scott came home with a special brace and some ibuprofen, I spent the next six hours driving kids around, which is the perfect thing to do when you're tired of hopping.  And man I'm tired of hopping!  Now, three days later, I'm limping, not because of the original injury, but because of the workout my normally dormant muscles have gotten from all the hopping.  My hopping muscles haven't seen this much action since the 4th grade Double Dutch tournament at recess in 1981.  And I wasn't the champion.  This time, I'm determined to win.  Or at the very least, ignore this injury until it hangs its head in shame and goes away.

To Be a Part of It...in Old New York!

Scott and I are very proficient at the Divide and Conquer routine, divvying up kids and doing fun things with them, or just taking them to lessons.  Not only is it very difficult for a group of nine to have fun together, but it's very expensive.  So we each take a kid or two of three here and there, to dinner or bubble tea or a movie, which means we are hardly ever together.  Like I said, we're efficient, and doing things together that just one of us could accomplish, well, there's no time in life for that.  We don't mind;  it works.

Then again, we do like each other, so we figured that we'd take a vacation together, just the two of us, every couple of years.  The last time we did this was August 2011, when we went to DC.  I was five months along with Tziporah, and while that didn't slow us down, I sure paid the price in aching muscles!  That was such a great trip.  It's hard to believe it was so long ago!  I have to admit, as excited as I was for this trip with Scott, it's hard to justify not taking a couple of kids, just to give them the experience.  Four days of non-stop Scott, you'd think it would be a little much, but it turns out I can't get enough of this guy!  I already knew that, but it's nice to be reminded.  :)

 Regardless, we managed to set sail, leaving our kids to fend for themselves.  I knew they could handle it, especially with Coco and Bill next door, Nikki planning on bringing them dinner that first night, and a whole army of supporters lined up to help watch kids and drive them where they needed to be.  With everything taken care of, we vowed to relax from the first minute of the trip.  Except that my dad was taking us to the airport, and he is a maniacal driver.  Being in his car is always the most dangerous thrilling part of a trip.   So we relaxed once we got to the airport alive.  Our layover in Denver was a nice, leisurely break.  We had lunch at a Mexican restaurant and chai from a Russian cafe.

 Once we got into New York, we exited the subway to this incredible view.  Grand Central Station.

 Scott and I are the most over-enthusiastic people you will ever go on a trip with.  Everything is always perfect, according to us.  Beyond perfect.  Just ask our kids how much we talk about how incredible the weather is, or how lucky we were to find such a good hotel.  Well, this trip was no exception, but the hotel REALLY WAS AMAZING!  www.pod39.com.  It's this hip, cool, brand-new hotel on Lexington and 39th, in a really happening neighborhood close to all the subway lines.  I mean, Grand Central Station.  So you can get anywhere in a hurry.  It would have taken us at least a week to try out all the restaurants on our block.  And, the roof is a beautiful terrace, with a panoramic view of the city outside and a fun room inside, to just hang out.  That first night, we got to our hotel at around 11 pm, and hung out with a group of Canadians in this cozy room.

 The view from our roof.

The next morning, bagels and lox for breakfast at Zucker's, then we caught the subway down to Battery Park and Ground Zero

Freedom Tower

 The 9-11 Memorial was sobering, and deeply comforting.  The design that won the contest for the memorial is absolutely chilling.  I can't imagine anything more perfect.  In the two footprints of the Twin Towers, there are 30-foot waterfalls, cascading down into nothing in the center.  They are surrounded by the names of the dead.  Ari is a big 9-11 aficionado, so we stopped in the gift shop to buy her a souvenir.  There was a film on, documenting the stories of the victims' families.  One mother and father lost both of their firefighter sons, who were 34 and 36 years old.  Some of the many who rushed in to save and never came out.  I can't even imagine.

 From the memorial, we went to Chelsea and walked the High Line and the Chelsea Market.  Lunch found us nestled in at The Spice Market for three courses of ambrosial goodness.  It's safe to say we savored every single bite.  These servers were all from Bangladesh.  It was fun to hear them converse and joke around in what I imagine was Bengali.  (On a side note, when we landed in Salt Lake after the trip, I overheard a nearby conversation.  I strained to hear it, thinking, "I wonder what language they'll be speaking."  It was a sad realization that probably every conversation I'll overhear in Utah will be in English.)

 Scott and I kept teasing my dad by sending him pictures of our food, since he always makes fun of people who take pictures of their food.  This was the best:  beef brisket marinated in soy sauce over a puree of celery root, topped with granny smith apples and daikon.  Heaven!!

 At the Chelsea Market.  I love salt.

High Line

 Just our luck, the Museum of Modern Art is free on Friday nights, so we stood in line with all the other cheapskates.  I have to admit, some contemporary art fills me with an extraordinary sense of despair, emptiness and depression.  Some of it gives me the heebie-jeebies.  Shudder!  A display of mannequins in thrift-store clothing?  Sick.  You would have to see it to believe me, it was disturbing.  Then there are the video montages of suckling piglets and industrial wastelands, accompanied by music that sounds like it's being played on a slinky.  Sure, it evokes some response, but I don't want to look at art and experience despair.  Maybe some people do.

I would rather spend my time with the masters.  It could be as simple as the fact that I have studied this art, and I get it.  Some of the new stuff, I just don't get.  But I hold to my conviction that some people have creative impulses that aren't worthy to be shared.

 St. Patrick's Cathedral

Back at Grand Central Station, Scott asked some guys to take our picture, and it turned out to be the same two guys he yakked with on the flight!  What are the odds?  I tell you, what are the odds?

 The whole trip was a smorgasbord of food and soaking up the vibe of various neighborhoods.  House of Lasagne was near our hotel.

 Willimsburg, Brooklyn

 Lower East Side

 Chinatown.  After we got our bubble tea, we found a restaurant where everyone in the place was Asian.  Can't go wrong that way!  For $5.95 each, we got an awesome meal.  It's so cheap to eat in New York.  Cheaper than Kaysville!

Why do I love Chinatown so much?  Why do I feel so at home there?  Maybe echos of past lives.  (Hee hee.  I did read a book called Breakfast With Buddha on the trip.  I must have been influenced!)

 Upper East Side.  We just happened to find out about a Chagall exhibit at the Jewish Museum, and it was Saturday, which means that the museum is free because of the Sabbath.  We waited in line for probably an hour, and it was icy cold, with the wind whipping through the streets, but the exhibit was 100% worth the frigid wait.  In fact, it we both said it was the best exhibit we have ever been to.  I wish we could have taken pictures, because the rooms were exquisite, with dark blue walls and ornate woodwork.  The paintings each had a plaque, detailing the context in the artist's life and symbolism of the painting.  We came out of it with a very clear sense of Chagall's life story and the emotion behind his art.  (Escaped Russian pogroms, fled Paris for New York, wife died suddenly...he was a broken-hearted man through and through, yet he was successful in his time.)  I have never been in a museum crowd where every single person reads every single plaque or stares at every single painting, but this exhibit was special.

 Did you know New York City has the best tap water in the country?  It does.  Look it up.  Here is Scott at a pizza joint, enjoying a nice class of water, vintage 2014.

 Our friends, Bryan and his son Bradley, from Indiana, were in New York at the same time.  Bradley's high school choir was invited to sing at Carnegie Hall!  We managed to meet up with Bryan briefly, while the choir was in rehearsal.  What fun!  We went 20 years without seeing each other, and now it's been twice in one year.

 Ari sent us a google docs thing that had several pages, telling us what was happening at home.  We were proud of our kids for holding it all together and cooperating.  Except Tziporah, who was super wakeful.  She kept Ruby up all night.

 A restaurant called Salvation Taco was in our hotel, and it was a happenin' place!  There were ping pong tables, couches, books, a fireplace, a bar, and it was crowded with hipsters from all over the world, judging by the languages spoken.  Scott and I liked to people-watch in there.

 Still on an art high from the Chagall exhibit, we walked down to the Guggenheim for - you guessed it - the free Saturday night.  We waited in another line in the cold, when Scott would rather have been sitting next to a brick oven eating pizza.  Our main goal at the Guggenheim was to take in the architecture.  There was a Kandinsky exhibit which, if I had been the curator, I would have been embarrassed by the quality of the experience, compared to the Jewish Museum's Chagall exhibit.  Plus, Kandinsky himself seemed to be a small, unemotional person in comparison with Marc Chagall, based on the little amoeba-like designs in his paintings.  I don't mind his work, but it certainly doesn't sweep me off my feet.  The pizza we got afterward, on the other hand, did!

Eggplant!  I also had one with breaded chicken.  

 Spiced cider at the Pig and Whistle, because we couldn't go to bed at a reasonable hour, not when we were in the city that never sleeps!

 We tried to go back to our hotel and turn in, but it was still early.  Like 11.

 So we got pizza again.  The boy working the counter in this place looked so sad, I asked him if he was very tired.  His eyes welled up and he said yes.  He said his mom was sick in Bangladesh and that she wanted him to come home.  He said it hadn't worked out for him to go.  After that, Scott and I talked a lot about how fortunate we are, that our jobs pay relatively well, that our hours are humane, that the work we do is enough to yield a comfortable, satisfying life with plenty of time for our family and the strength to enjoy the life around us.  We noticed and appreciated so many people working such long hours, for so little money.  We saw an older Chinese man (I'm assuming Chinese because he was playing a traditional Chinese instrument) playing for money on the subway.  We speculated that his kids were at Harvard, and he was turning his time and talents into money to buy opportunities for the next generation.  Who knows?  All I know is, our predecessors did that for us, coming to this country and sacrificing entire lifetimes to hard work so that we could pick up where they left off.  We made a commitment to not complain about things.  We are terribly spoiled in every way.  I hope that young man at the pizza place does his mom proud.

 Sunday morning we took the subway up to Harlem.  There was a restaurant there that we planned to go to.  As we got off the subway, we saw a family and said, "They have to be Mormon."  We followed them, and sure enough, the LDS church was a block away.  We sat in on a Spanish-speaking sacrament meeting where the subject of the talks was missionary work and children were eating Cheerios.  Church is the same everywhere!

Coming out of the LDS church, we were somehow swept into services at the Harlem Church of Christ.  Two elderly people, dressed to the nines, steered us in, saying, "You come in now, you hear?  You come on in.  You'll enjoy it."  Wow!  I could write a whole essay about that experience!  Finely dressed young men took time to usher every person to a specific spot in the congregation.  Dozens of people welcomed us.  The pastor leaped up out of his chair to talk to us.  The back row was a line of older gentlemen who were the most zealous about shouting out their "You tell 'em!"  and "That's right!"

The opening song lasted, I'm not kidding you, 40 minutes, and included two singers who led the congregation in what can only be described as joyous musical meditation.  At first, we turned to the page in the hymn book that was mentioned, but it soon became clear that what the singer was singing had very little to do with what was written in the book.  For one thing, it didn't end when the music in the book ended.  He just made up more verses, riffed on them, led the congregation in an on-the-spot harmonization, and kept right on going.  It was pure praise, pure prayer.  We didn't even get to hear the sermon.  We had a flight to catch, and there was still brunch to be had.  We left reluctantly, with the sure knowledge that God was in that chapel with that well-dressed and devout group of worshipers, and that His love pervaded their souls.

 Brunch was at The Red Rooster.  The highlight was the band, and more specifically, the singer.  She was a woman in her 60's who rocked the place like nothing I've ever seen.  Her voice was smooth, agile, powerful and sure.  She hit every note known to man during the course of her scatting and improvising.  Here's a taste of it.  She worked the crowd like nobody's business, too.   And here's a little trumpet solo.  We had no desire to ever leave that restaurant!

 A walking tour of Harlem showed us a neighborhood that knows who it is, with a burnished sense of identity, proud with nothing to prove, and quite bourgeois.  A fun place to be.  We spent some time at Levain Bakery, talking to some people we met.  The timid, friendly guy behind the counter, whose partner was at Sundance right then;  a Yale-educated young woman who was on a jog with her boyfriend and didn't get a cookie;  an educator in a mink coat who waxed on about unemployment and the troubles of the working class.  Sheesh, we didn't want to leave anywhere, it was all so enjoyable.  Or maybe we were just too worn out to contemplate our next move!

 Our next move, unfortunately, was leaving Harlem and going back to our hotel to get our bags.  We took a little nap in the rooftop lounge first, before leaving for the airport.

This is La Guardia.  I guess it was time to come home.  *sigh*