Ik ben voor een periode in Boston, bij schoonvader Chris. Hoogbejaard maar nog scherp en betrokken bij de wereld en wat er in omgaat. Beperkt door een recente valpartij, waarbij hij een arm brak en door ruggewervels die veel pijn veroorzaakten. Door een chirurgische ingreep zijn de wervels op elkaar ‘geplakt´ waardoor de pijn weg is. Wel is het lichaam stijver en minder mobiel geworden. Aanvankelijk aan huis gebonden, is hij nu zover dat we met een rollator weer een eind kunnen lopen buiten. Door osteoperose is zijn lange lichaam gekrompen en loopt hij gebogen. Maar hij loopt weer! Langzaam, maar toch.
Vandaag wandelden we naar Hook’s Lobster, een (historische) viskraam waar Chris al jaren verse vis en broodjes kreeft haalt. Heel lang (tijdens het leven van schoonmoeder) was dit een zondagse traditie wanneer we op bezoek waren: Echtgenoot, moeder Blanca en ik werden afgezet bij de kerk voor de ochtenddienst. In de tijd dat wij in de kerk waren reed Chris, die niet naar de kerk gaat, naar huis, haalde vier broodjes kreeft en haalde ons vervolgens weer op. Weer thuisgekomen maakte hij de broodjes klaar zoals hij ze het lekkerst vond. Ik vond er nooit zoveel bijzonders aan, proefde meer mayo dan kreeft, maar de traditie was bijzonder.
De broodjes kreeft die we vandaag haalden waren omgeven met een gevoel van nostalgie. Maar drie broodjes kopen leek niet juist. Het cijfer drie schuurt nog altijd na het sterven van (schoon)moeder Blanca.
Op weg naar de viskraam lopen we door het langgerekte park dat in de plaats van een gruwelijk lelijk viaduct gekomen is. Dwars langs de flat waar schoonouders wonen en midden door de stad liep, als een giftige slang, een groen monster op pilaren. Op het viaduct scheurde nacht en dag verkeer voorbij. Het lawaai en de stank waren vreselijk. Na twintig jaar werk en vele miljarden dollars (!) was er een tunnel. Op de vrijgekomen grond is een prachtig park aangelegd. Wat een schitterende verbetering was dat. Zoals veel in Amerika is er van alles in het park gefinancierd door particulieren. Zo kun je een tegel kopen, met je naam erop, voor $500. Veel mensen leggen een tegel om een geliefde te gedenken. Of puur om het parkinitiatief te ondersteunen.
In het park staat ook een boompje. Een kornoelje. Geplant ter ere van en in herinnering aan schoonmoeder Blanca die veel betekend heeft voor de buurt en de ontwikkeling van het park. Als we gaan wandelen, gaan we er steeds even langs om Blanca gedag te zeggen, zoals schoonvader het noemt. ‘I miss you’, zegt hij dan zachtjes.
Tijdens mijn verblijf bij schoonvader in Boston, deed ik weinig huishoudelijke taken. Af en toe mocht ik wat doen zoals, op zijn verzoek, zijn bed verschonen. Hoewel hij super handig was met één arm (de ander hing, na een operatie, in een sling), mocht ik het bed verschonen. Zelfs voor een onafhankelijk iemand als hij, bleek dat een onmogelijke klus, met één arm.
Niet dat hij makkelijk terugschrok, voor wat dan ook. Hij maakte zijn eigen ontbijt, sneed en smeerde zijn eigen English muffin, ik mocht niets vóórsnijden, alles lukte hem, alleen duurde alles, tot zijn grote frustratie, drie keer zo lang. Hij douchte met behulp van een douchestoel, droogde zichzelf, op aanraden van de ergotherapeut, met een badstof badjas die hij dan een paar minuten droeg. Ik bewonder hem zeer, voor zijn doorzettingsvermogen en inventiviteit. Tenslotte is hij geen jonkie meer, met 87 jaar.
Maar zoals gezegd, het bed was net een brug te ver. Ik haalde de lakens af en zag dat het lakens waren die al vele wasbeurten ondergaan hadden. Zo dun als een spinnenweb, zeg maar, als fijn voile. Nu is is het niet zo dat deze man gierig is. Integendeel. Maar nieuwe dingen, als het oude nog gebruikt kan worden, dat is onzin. Hij heeft stapels lakens (voor gasten) maar hijzelf gebruikt maar één stel. Hij doet ze in de was, daarna in de droger en dan hup, weer op het bed. Volgens mij dus al jaaáaaren dezelfde lakens. Vandaar de vergaande verdunde staat van het katoen.
Nee, zei schoonvader, ik hoefde geen andere lakens op zijn bed te doen, straks gewoon weer de grijs gewassen voile erop. Maar dat kon ik niet over mijn hart verkrijgen. Laat me er gewoon nieuwe lakens opdoen, zei ik, dan is het maar klaar. Ik kreeg toestemming. Gelukkig. Met de handdoek lukte het niet. Die had ik ook gewisseld voor een nieuwere, maar dat kon absoluut niet. Zijn lievelingshanddoek, een Turkse, met extra absorptie moest na de was weer aan het rek. Akkoord. Ik haalde de nieuwe handdoek weer uit de badkamer en hing de veel gebruikte Turkse op.
s Middags kregen we een gesprek over het meubilair in de zitkamer. Ook grondig gebruikt, op zijn zachtst gezegd. Het viel me ook op dat schoonvader meer moeite had met opstaan uit zijn stoel. Ik bedacht dat dat misschien een goeie ingang voor het gesprek was.
Had hij weleens gedacht aan een meer comfortabele stoel, waaruit hij makkelijker omhoog kon komen, sneed ik voorzichtig het onderwerp aan. Zijn antwoord had ik niet verwacht. Moeite met opstaan ervoer hij niet, maar dat de stoelen en de bank er niet op vooruit waren gegaan in de laatste 20 jaar, was ook hem wel opgevallen. Niet dat het hem veel kon schelen, dat niet. Maar bezien door de ogen van een vrouw kon hij zich wel voorstellen dat het wellicht, misschien, wie zal het zeggen, tijd was voor een nieuwe set.
Opgetogen begon ik al te fantaseren over mogelijkheden. De bank waar mijn, twee jaar geleden overleden, schoonmoeder haar vaste plekje had gehad alle jaren en waar het zitgedeelte in een putje was veranderd, kon ook wel vernieuwd, wellicht? En het vloerkleed, waar haar voeten minstens 20 jaar op dezelfde plek hadden gerust, zodat het kleed nu glanzend kaal geschuifeld was, dat kleed moest eigenlijk ook wel eens vervangen? Misschien? Gewoon een idee, meer niet. Schoonvader heeft er een hekel aan als mensen hem iets opdringen.
Ja, zei hij, dan moet eigenlijk alles, in één keer gewoon vernieuwd! Dat is hem nu ten voeten uit: zuinig en duurzaam met zijn spullen, tot het haast niet meer kan en dan radicaal vernieuwen, geen gezeur. In gedachten tenminste.
Want ja, zolang je nog niet door de stoelen heenzakt heeft het geen echte haast. Toch?
Nee, niet echt. Ik moet nu van veraf het vuurtje wel warm houden.
I was going to New York to pay a visit to my daughter who lives there. First things first though: I had to do a load of laundry. This is a very exerting job in my father-in-law’s appartement. It requires me going up and down the elevator four times. Down, to the laundry room in the basement of the building to put my load into the machines. Up, to wait for 25 minutes and read the paper. Down again, to stick the same load into the dryer for 30 minutes. Up again, 16 floors and read while waiting and yes, down again, to fold the laundry. Such an effort! I was exhausted after all that work (note: irony! Husband said, after reading this: really? Were you tired?)
Well, I took the Megabus of four o’clock pm to NYC. A great way to travel! I reserved tickets a couple of days in advance and paid $13! Because I wanted an aisle seat, I reserved a chair for $6 extra. Total for one way ticket: $19,00! Return ticket the same. For a 4,5 hour trip not bad. (Prices depend on type of days and how much in advance you book!).
I have a terrific viewComing into New York City – Columbus Ave
Seats are reasonably comfy. I ended up on the top deck, in the very first front seat. Great view, but with the fast driving and the potholes in the road, a little bumpy and scary! Could take some good pictures, though.
On my way to the bus in Boston, I walked among the many commuters, well dressed, well groomed. And passed the chique restaurants with tables on their sidewalk patio’s. They have opened since the Greenway was established. So pleasant, so beautiful. Above the Greenway a gorgeous piece of art by Janet Echelman was installed. A gauzy looking, hammock like, enormous (ruim 2000 m2) netting/cloth in mainly orange, blue/green, oily colours. It moves and softly changes color in the wind (always blowing in this part of Boston) Very impressive. I was told it weighs more than a ton and is carefully anchored unto the buildings around the area. Title: As If It Were Already Here.
Crown Heights
After my 4,5 hour trip on the bus plus an 1,5 hour by subway to daughters place in Crown Heights, I got off the train in a different world, it seemed. Litter everywhere on the streets. Whereas in Boston (my neighborhood) black people are an exception, here I am the stranger. I feel very white and Dutch. Millions of little shops, colorful people with rasta hats or other custumes, cars with boom boxes playing rap or reggea driving around. Many of the black people come from Jamaica, originally. And many of the women I see have ‘rythm’. Meaning: big wiggly buts. This was said to daughters’ black friend by somebody in the street: Sista’, you got rythm!’ It is a compliment!
Hassidic Jews are also quite a sight around Crown Heights. There is a large community here. The high hats, the women wearing wigs, the teenagers dressed not for fashion but only, it seems, to cover themselves completely. Long sleeves, long skirts, stockings, nothing really attractive is allowed.
How colorful though, how noisy, how wonderfully messy. I feel I’ve come back to reality. The affluence and the many tourists of my Boston neighborhood creates a kind of distance and isolation.
Crown Heights
Here people more easily engage in a conversation, they live outside and comment on what’s going on (like the Rythm comment, :)) Daughter tells some of the shopowners I’m her mom and from that moment on I’m ‘Momma‘. ‘How you’re doin’, Momma?’, they will call to me in the next coming days. It feels homey and warm. It reminds me of Korea where my tall, blond, whiteness also made me stand out. Sometimes annoyingly so, but also a privilege! I was always greeted in stores and at the market. At first, standing anonymously in line at supermarkets in Holland took getting used to. It felt cold and lonely. Of course, it takes missing something before you really come to appreciate it! I was probably more irritated at the time in Korea…longing to be anonymous. Anyhow, now I feel at home in this sloppy, colorful. multicultural neighborhood, even when it means being adressed as Momma.
But the noíse…! At night I have a hard time sleeping, to put it mildly. People yell, play music, party and to top it off there is a firestation in daughters street, with huge trucks taking off once an hour or so, with loud sirens. When I finally dose off, I’m woken again by the screams, spouting from a church below the appartement. Doors wide open, people sing and dance and clap their hands. And the pastor gets going. This is no yelling. No screaming, This is what I call, having a fit! How can they stand it? The man has screamed his voice all hoarse and hardly has a voice left, and still he continues. It is a sign of the presence of the Spirit, is what they believe, I guess. An organ plays chords in an ever increasing crescendo.
This church is not the only one. On our way to our own church later we walk by several, small but loud gatherings of the saints. Many peope in the streets are in their sunday best, literally! Beautiful to see.
After church (Trinity Grace, Crown Heights) we walk around for a long time. We have a bite at Franklin Park, also called Dutch Boy Burger. Dutch Boy turns out to be an old paint brand. Next day we go to Park Slope, another area in Brooklyn. Much gentrified since the ’70s.
This happens to many neighborhoods in New York. Because rent is so extremely high, young people, students, artists, will move into cheap, poor neighborhoods because of affordable rents. But after a while these places become interesting to landlords who buy up whole blocks, renovate them minimally and then will rent them for double the price. Poor people are forced in the end to move away, out of these neighborhoods. The ‘hood will look increasingly beautiful, more green, with the old brownstones and historic places. By than it is an easy guess, rents are once again unaffordable for the original inhabitants and for young people. It is an ongoing cycle.
This process is just beginning to happen in the part of Crown Heights where daughter lives.
St. John’s PlaceView of the Bird shop daughter works now. 5th ave, but in Brooklyn!
Last week sunday daughter Sas was with me here in Boston and we visited Citylife Presbyterian Church, a missionary church and part of the church-planting network of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York City.
Upside: Lots of young, Asian people, contemporary music (veeerry loud! boom boxes right next to my ears!) and very good, solid preaching by pastor Um, pastor since 2001. He has been preaching apparently through the book of Micah and this sermon was on the last chapter of the book: the primary tension in the bible between a just God and a loving God. Between a God of wrath and a God of forgiveness. The pastor’s point: for love to mean anything there must be anger as well. Anger in the sense of caring enough about someone that you cannot just condone his or her wrong actions. I thought he did a very good job of explaining and applying the biblical message of anger and love meeting in Jesus on the cross. It is not easy to preach that message without it being ‘cliché’ or unbalanced. Pastor Uhm did well, both my daughter and I thought. The whole series can be listened to here : sermons on Micah.
Downside: The congregation meets on the 6th floor of a chique hotel, which may make it hard for some people to enter. Also the church was not very welcoming I must say. No greeters, no coffee, no chatting except among the members. Afterwards, everybody went his or her merry way. Point of improvement!
Yesterday I went to the service at Park Street Church, an historic building and congregation in the heart of Boston.
Upside: The church has been around since the early 19th century and is well known for its community service. They minister weekly to the (many) homeless people, who hang around the Boston Common, across the street. Long- and short term missionaries are supported by the church in several countries. They combine relief work with gospel preaching. It is a fairly large congregation, with maybe as much as 500 people attending a service in the morning. The liturgy is traditional, but of high quality. Organ, choir and orchestra accompany the singing of traditional hymns. At the beginning, middle and end there is a solo of either choir and/or orchestra. The tempo of the service is high! The preaching is usually very good, thorough and biblical. Yesterday’s sermon was a little exemplary. Preaching about the 4 friends who lowered their paralyzed friend in front of Jesus, the pastor managed to develop a missional methodology in 4 points. Amusing, actually quite usefull, but slightly farfetched.
Downside: The church hall was freezing, with cold AC winds sweeping over me. Luckily I remembered from before and brought my sweater. The pastor shook hands at the door afterwards, but nobody else spoke to me. Everything is very orchestrated and at 12.30 there was an international fellowship, ( to which I couldn’t go), beforehand there was Sunday school. What to do with guests just coming in for the service is not written up in the handbook of the church. It seems over-organizing leaves little room for spontaneity.
‘It is so clean here!’, says my daughter, who lives in New York, Crown Heights, a low-income Jamaican neighborhood.
‘And where have all the black people gone? I haven’t seen so many white and Asian people in a long time, except Holland of course.’ Another one of her observations while walking to the station where the bus will take her back home to New York. ‘When I get of the subway in my neighborhood I might as well have moved to the moon. It is such a different world, here or there…!’
I am staying in a rather affluent neighborhood in Boston, where (mostly white) people basically either come to work in banks and trading companies or they come to work in the shops, restaurants and other entertainment places, catering to the the first group. The second group is multi cultural. The first group dresses well, looks well off and leaves town at night. The second group looks more casual, not very rich and they leave town as well, but much later in the evening.
On the other hand, the area around here is a big tourist attraction. Hordes of people from all over the world come to the waterfront in Boston to take boat rides, watch the seals and fantastic sea life in the Aquarium, or go for the famous Duck tour in the city.
Boston is an historic city as well. Its history goed back to the 17th century. In the 18th century colonists decided to stop paying the English taxes and fought for independence. A famous revolutionary was Paul Revere. His house and other famous building from that era can still be visited.
It strikes me how many Asian and Indian/Pakistani families walk around here on free days. Here, among other reasons because of sons and daughters studying at MIT (te vergelijken met de TU in Delft) or any of the other famous colleges and universities in the area. I imagine they have their parents over for holidays and sometimes it’s a funny sight to see. Parents (or even grandparents?) flown in directly from the hot countryside in India, their skins a grooved and wrinkled, their eyes into splits still, from the hot tropical sun, walking around the harbor. Slightly dazed by the opulence and freshness of the port.
Asians love to come here as well. There is a big China Town near here and many places cater to these Chinese Bostonians. There is even a direct busline from Boston to New York and back, Lucky Star, where all service is in Chinese, according to my sister-in-law. The bus is cheap but technically less reliable than some of the other ones, I hear.
The Chinese do well. The Asians in general do well. The Indian people do well. Not as many black people do as well. It is more difficult to say anyway. There is no such thing as The Black people, like Chinese or Japanese. Black people come from all over, some born here, others directly from Africa, the Caribean or elsewhere. The novel I read, Americanah, opened my eyes to this. They all have different histories, cultures and aspirations. Those who were born here often still suffer the sore results from centuries of slavery, but those who immigrated later for economic or educational reasons, have a different experience altogether. They were not in slavery, were not poor and suppressed, many of them were, or became, well-to-do. And Africa is a huge continent, with as many cultures as the West.
Race is a difficult and complicated issue and I’m learning not to simplify it. It is easy to do that. But I’m white and privileged, just because of that first fact. Hard to imagine, hard to realize, but I believe it to be true. ‘Boston is racist’, say my daughters black friends in New York. I wished it weren’t true.
And expensive it is as well. Take it from me. We go to a large supermarket in Somerville, next to Boston, to get anything for a decent price. And even there some tings are on the high end. Except meat. But as I said in my previous blog, I meekly follow my father-in-law along the aisles. I haven’t searched for biological meat yet. It’s probably not as cheap as the regular stuff.
This non-American, visiting family in Boston, went food shopping today. To get to the supermarket she drove her father-in-law’s car. An automatic Toyota Cambri. With father- in-law in the passengerseat.
When in the US I let my husband drive. He’s good at knowing where we’re going and I don’t like driving in foreign countries. I guess I’m a perfectionist and like to be in control. Not knowing the way ánd being unfamiliar with trafficrules puts me too much out of my comfortzone.
Now it was different. Husband not being there and father-in-law handicapped I was to be the chauffeur. Was I going to get this car to the shop in one piece and back? With some trepidation I started the car and could not get the handle to shift from Park to Reverse. I pulled, father- in- law pulled, the thing would not yield. Than I remembered from a long ago past experience with automatics: you must put your foot on the break and than shift to Reverse…That did the job. I was overjoyed and punched father-in-law’s shoulder in my enthousiasm. It was the wrong (broken) shoulder.
So we drove over to Somerville. Smoothly and without any problem. Driving an automatic car is so comfortable that I wondered why on earth we bother to drive cars in Europe with clutch and gears? To show our driving skills? Silly, if you ask me. I for one would love to drive an automatic.
Anyway, we got to the convention-center-size shop that they call supermarket here and started our trip along the aisles. My father-in-law has been going there for years, so he has a method. I followed him meekly, trying not to get over stimulated by the endless choices and billions of products. But some choices had to be made.
Like the choice not to worry about the packaging for once. Back in Holland I’ve started to avoid plastic wrappings as much as I can. Which is difficult enough in our compareratively small stores. I bring along used bags, paper and plastic, and put my veggies and fruit in them. But here I felt I would have really frustrated my father-in-law, going through that process. So I decided to just do things his way. I must admit, the ease of just loading anything into our cart that was handy and convenient, wrapped in layers of plastic or not, was very pleasant. Principles are good but always take more effort, it seems. At the cashiers all our shoppings were put in individual plastic bags…ouch. That did hurt a little.
We had stocked up, since my father-in-law cannot drive on account of his arm in a sling. We have a great supply of garbagebags now. At least he recycles them as such. It soothed my conscience a little.This non American is going to buy a decent shopping bag for her next shopping spree.
American supermarkets will have to change their packing policies. France has done it in the past. There too everything was put in plastic bags,, but now no longer. The bags are even outlawed. Even the paper bags, so typical for the American shops, are unneccesary if and when folks would bring along their own bags.
Chris and I were exausted when we came home. We had shopped for an orphanage. And I had safely driven his car through Boston traffic.
I read Americanah, written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, a Nigerian writer. In the novel, the leading character, Ifemelu, writes a blog: Observations by a non American Black.
Inspired by the idea I want to write a few blogs while I’m here in Boston, visiting my father-in-law Chris, titled: Observations of a non-American visiting Boston. Let’s see what I come up with. I’m writing in English so my American family can read it as well…(do I really want that?)
Traveling with Americans is always relaxed. They communicate easily and are usually interesting to talk to. This is probably a generalisation, but so far it is my experience and I have traveled here for almost 40 years now. My fellow passenger waiting for our delayed plane in Dublin was a real traveler ‘American style’. He had traveled far and wide around the world, always in the form of bustrips or cruises. A cruise along the Yangtze in China for three weeks, a bus tour through eastern Europa in two weeks, a bus tour in India, now he just returned from a two week trip through Italy, by bus. He was tired, he said. It was a lot to take in, in a short time. I told him we Dutchies joke about American tourists like him, “doing Europe in a week”. He laughed and admitted it was probably their lack of patience to stay put somewhere longer than a couple of days. When you cross the ocean you want to see it all. Probably it’s also related to the way vacations get organised, trying to overcome language barriers. Americans speak only English (or Spanish) so to get around they feel safer on a tour. The gentleman I talked to was from Greek/Albanian descent, but didn’t speak the language.
After a long wait and a lot of speculating and joking around about the source of the delay troubles, we finally boarded and flew without any further problems to Boston.
Our plane crew was Irish, so no observations on their Americanness. I watched three American movies, which turned out to be very good. The Homesman, You’re not you (bad reviews, but I thought it pretty good), and I forgot the third one, probably wasn’t any good after all.
Walking around the neighborhood today, I enjoyed watching the busy streets and parks. It’s Memorial Day weekend (no Pentecost days here) and everybody is out to enjoy the first balmy weather. Shorts, tanktops, skirts and dresses, everybody is determined to get some sun! I noticed very short skirts and dresses, on sometimes very chubby girls. Not very becoming.
I noticed with great delight the absence of DOGPOOP! Nowhere to be found. Why I ask, why is it that in our so called ‘clean and well organised’ country we cannot seem to solve that filthy problem? Why do Americans clean up their mess and we don’t?
As a non-American I miss a place to sit down with a cup of coffee. Oh, I know there are dozens of Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts and what not, to pick up a gallon of coffee, but I miss the sitdown places where coffee is served in porcelain cups, accompanied by a small coockie. I would like to know what the amount of waste is in one single day in the city of Boston. Waste of only the take away plastic or paper coffee cups. The ‘take out’ culture in America is so deeply ingrained that I wonder if that could ever be changed.
Greeting in stores is something I have learned to handle over the years. But today’s greeting at the local supermarket left me speechless: Wassup? I know the expression (short for What’s up?), but what is the appropriate answer? I mumbled something like: I’m good..but felt very foreign.
I see many people of Asian, Indian or South American descent, but no Muslim people. At least not recognizable by headcovering.
Loving the outdoors on a beautiful day is universal: many families were out enjoying the sights and having fun!
Vandaag wandelden we naar Hook’s Lobster, een (historische) viskraam waar Chris al jaren verse vis en broodjes kreeft haalt. Heel lang (tijdens het leven van schoonmoeder) was dit een zondagse traditie wanneer we op bezoek waren: Echtgenoot, moeder Blanca en ik werden afgezet bij de kerk voor de ochtenddienst. In de tijd dat wij in de kerk waren reed Chris, die niet naar de kerk gaat, naar huis, haalde vier broodjes kreeft en haalde ons vervolgens weer op. Weer thuisgekomen maakte hij de broodjes klaar zoals hij ze het lekkerst vond. Ik vond er nooit zoveel bijzonders aan, proefde meer mayo dan kreeft, maar de traditie was bijzonder.
