This is six years


Classic Photo 257

Two weeks ago at 3:45 in the morning, Mr. B’s phone rang. I heard it in my sleep. This the call, I thought mechanically, automatically. We’d been waiting for it, but not wanting it, for the past month. It was his mom, and it meant that his grandmother had succumbed to the heart problems that had been plaguing her for the past thirty years and reduced the warmth of her life to a series of emotionless medical statistics in cardiac intensive care units across Philadelphia for the past month.

I held Mr. B’s hand in the darkness as he fumbled for the phone, and in those three seconds between when the phone rang and when he answered it with someone else’s voice, I felt like he and I I had turned forty years old and the weight of the world descended on us in the early morning gloom. The baby kicked her quiet early-morning kicks, breaking up the silence of our small space. Mr. B got up. He was going to drive with his family to his grandfather to spend time with him before the funeral, four, five people trying to fill the space one person had created through over fifty years of marriage. He didn’t say a word, putting on his shirt methodically. I went downstairs to make him bagels and oatmeal and tea, anything hot, as if that would solve everything, wondering what I would do if he died, how I would fill the him-shaped space in my life. It was still 4:03 am.

Three hours before his grandmother’s funeral, my mom called me. “We’re going to the hospital,” she said. “Your grandfather called himself an ambulance because he was having strong chest pains.” My grandfather had open-heart surgery the following week. Before his triple bypass, all of my family was uneasy. We are not quick to turn to superstition, but when we do, we turn hard. The night before his surgery, I lay quietly in bed, just me, my beluga-sized pregnancy pillow, and whatever room Mr. B still had to sleep on, and I waited for the world to shatter.

I imagined my grandfather in his hospital room with just machines for company, beeping coldly. I imagined that the night before his surgery would be the last time I would see him alive. I imagined him all alone, over 80, in the operating room, under anesthesia, and my heart crumpled into a ball, sending out weak, helpless waves of empathy that couldn’t reach him. I tried to go to sleep on my own but the world weighed heavily on me, mortality lurking at the corners of the peaceful room in the suburbs. I listened to Mr. B. He was breathing the even, slow breath of dreamers, his lanky shoulder blade rising and falling, rising and falling, steady like a wave, and I closed my eyes, confident that everything was still alright.

When I made my wedding vows, these are not the moments I was thinking of. I wasn’t thinking that we would have to go to countless hospital rooms, to funerals, to dimly-lit restaurants where friends were crying because their own worlds were ending. I wasn’t thinking we would sleep on urine-stained mattresses in Jerusalem or that we would sleep separately for months in different cities.

When I made my vows, I just was afraid I was lying when I said I loved Mr. B, and I was terrified he would find out. Because, I thought, love is big and grand and patient and kind and all of that, and every second of every day that I didn’t feel that exact feeling, it meant that I didn’t love Mr. B and this whole thing was just a huge fraud.

But that’s not what love is. Love is not a big, grand man with a trumpet following you around with confetti and champagne. Love is small and quiet and takes time. Love is not the creation of something that’s not there out of nothing. It means creating a space in the other person for yourself, to the point where, if the other person is gone, you are not yourself anymore. Love wedges itself into the cracks of your personality until you’re not sure where yours ends and the other person’s begins. Love is not something that happens to you, or at least something that happened to me.

We built it together. We build it each time I make soup, even though I hate cooking, or each time he peels my pomegranates for me, even though peeling a pomegranate is one of the most pain-in-the-ass activities ever. We build it when we fight but don’t call each other names, or do call each other names but then apologize. We build it when we do things together, and it keeps us when we are separate.

Love means going on a business trip and thinking, “This is a great city, but why isn’t he here, enjoying the view with me? He would have loved this little store that sells tea.” It means waking up every day and thanking God he is still there, alive, breathing, mine.

When Mr. B’s other grandmother died three months into our marriage, I was heartbroken for him and for the woman she had been. When his grandmother died two weeks ago, I became heartbroken for his grandfather, because, after six years, I have finally begun to understand what it is to build love with someone, to carve space inside yourself for someone else, and then to have them leave. I saw ourselves, fifty years later, floating ghosts, soul-less, the love we had built into the other person, draining out, leaving a bottomless world void of meaning.

As he sat in the kitchen at 4:05, ashen, unshaven, drinking his tea, I looked at him, but I didn’t say anything. I could tell he felt the same way. I could tell he was thinking about the ghosts.  I moved to the toaster and quietly cut his bagel in half, turning the setting up to 5, the way he liked it.


The first rule of Russian club is you don’t use last names



One of the interesting things about being pregnant is that I’m getting all kinds of new information.  In addition to people sending me (sometimes unsolicited) parenting advice, I’ve also been invited to join Russian parenting groups for Russian-speaking parents my age in the New York and Philadelphia areas on Facebook.

In these forums, people (mostly women) my age with perfect English and names just as Americanized as mine discuss what to do if your toddler is not eating kasha (try to guilt them) and where to find Russian versions of Disney cartoons online for free (BitTorrent.)

One of the other things that frequently comes up is the need for service providers, such as nannies, plumbers, people who install hardwood floors, lawyers, etc.  “Can someone recommend a plumber that works in Northern New Jersey? Tia!” a post will read, thanking the recommender in advance.And invariably, only hours later, the thread will be full of something that looks like this:

Screen Shot 2014-09-10 at 9.28.19 PM


If you’ve noticed the pattern, you are correct: NONE OF THESE PEOPLE HAVE LAST NAMES.

Every service professional anyone Russian recommends does not have a  last name, but, even in the age of internet transparency and websites and business licenses and that kind of thing,  they can always somehow magically be located by just a simple phone number.

You call them. “Allo,” a gruff voice will say, sounding like they are either in the bathroom or smoking in an underground opium den. “Is this Oleg?” you’ll ask timidly, because, again, you have no real way of knowing since…you only have their first name and phone number. “Yeah, it’s Oleg,” the voice will say, acting like you owe them something instead of the other way around.

“I heard from my friend/mother/cousin/accountant named Lilya that you do good plumbing work,” you’ll waver. “Maybe you can come look at my pipes?” The line will remain silent. “If you have some time? Maybe next week,” you beg, like it’s them that’s doing you the favor.

“Sure,” the man will say, and gruffly hang up. You haven’t given Oleg Nolastname your address,but you can bet your bippy he’ll be there, and be cheaper than Americans.

I’ve been trying to figure out why Russian professionals do things they way they do for several years now, and this latest forum trend has brought up the last name thing again for me. In the pre-Facebook era, when we asked for recommendations, we’d be handed a first name on a slip of paper. There was a guy who did our backsplash. I still have no idea what his last name is.  What if you want to recommend him to someone? You simply go by phone number, because Russian businesses also don’t have websites.

What do you do if there are two people with the same name, as invariably happens when you have a small immigrant community? You just switch the phone number.

My sneaking suspicion is that this is all done for tax purposes. As in, if you don’t have a last name that can be traced anywhere, you’re super-mysterious and  don’t pay taxes, hence passing the savings down to the average Russian.  Kinda like Voldemort. He doesn’t have a last name, and it takes 7 books to find him and kill him.

My second theory is that Stalin scared Russia so bad in the 1930s that no one  STILL wants to own up to the fact that they’re who they say they are. Since Facebook has essentially become Happy Stalin with a Flat UI, the urgency for anonymity is even more apparent.

My favorite theory, though, is that everyone wants to be a star. If you don’t have a last name, you are unique, the best of your kind.  Like Cher. “Oh, you know that Slava? Which Slava? THE Slava. Plumber Slava. Master of the pipes. Fixer of the leaky faucet. He’s the star of Northeast Philadelphia. SLAVA! SLAVA! SLAVA! The people want more (for much, much less than the Americans are charging.)”


Why does American radio suck so much?


Every time I start driving to get to work, I get progressively angrier. Thankfully, this time my new job’s only 25 minutes away, but that’s 25 minutes of either radio or audiobooks. I love both audiobooks and public radio, and would highly recommend both to anyone doing a commute, but sometimes I get tired of  NPR gently telling me that global warming, racism,  ISIS and gluten-intolerance are all my fault,  and I  just want to listen to music.

The problem with American music stations is they SUCK. There is no other word for it. Which is why, when I’m at home, I usually listen to European radio. But it seems unfair that the American listening public is subjected to the same 20-not even 40-songs over and over again, and even those songs are all the same.

Every day as I drive, I wonder in rage, not about measles outbreaks or genetically-modified vegetables, but why the hell the American public is ok with shitty radio.

I did a little digging, and aside from the fact that the American music industry is completely messed up, I was surprised to find that I’m the key demographic for this bullshit:

The Top40 format is generally targeted toward Women 18-34 years old. So, if you don’t fit into that life-group, you’re not likely to be interested in a lot of the music we play on those stations. Of course, Top 40 attempts to reach a broader audience as well including Men and most target teens/college students at night….Women 18-34 are our bread and butter there.

These women are generally very busy. Often they’re trying to balance career, kids, appointments, etc. They’re in the car a lot but for relatively short periods of time. In order to keep their interest, we try to keep things very fast paced content-wise. We’re also doing our best to make sure that as soon as they turn on our station, they’re going to hear a very popular hit song. We don’t waste time with a lot of “filler” on these stations. Thus, most of the music you’ll hear is relatively new – released within the last two years or so. The DJs keep their breaks quick. We know we don’t have a lot of time to reel in these women.

So basically I am listening to the music that’s targeted directly to me.  And I have to say I hate it, for the exact same reasons that Jia Tolentino rages against it in this Hairpin piece on the newest terrible American song, “Rude”:

The first time I heard “Rude” I thought it was a 1-800-411-PAIN ad, because Detroit radio is currently running one that sounds sort of like a more palatable version of “Rude.” The next couple of times I had the sort of physical reaction I associate with suddenly coming in contact with bees; before my mind could process what was happening, I pawed at my radio dial quickly, ahhh, get it away!

Get it away from me, and by it I mean mindless American radio. I suppose I could subscribe to Pandora or Spotify or play Grooveshark mobile, but that defies the whole point of this rant which is that I’m a music snob and all 50 million or howevermany 18-34 women there are should listen to the stuff I listen to, which is all this stuff. Get on it, radio stations.

NPR, if you’re listening, maybe you can throw some of this in between alarmist reports of ebola or farming bluefin tuna. Or better yet, instead of.


Conversations at Facebook

Screen Shot 2013-06-23 at 7.46.20 PM


Summer 2011. 4:40 PM.  Sheryl Sandberg’s open office at Facebook, just inches away from Mark Zuckerberg. Zuck is sitting on a blue yoga ball, staring into his MacBook Air with a furrowed brow.

Sheryl’s translucent glass door is closed, and there are several men in suits and women, around her desk.  They also all sit on blue yoga balls. Sheryl sits in an Aeron chair. Her nails are perfectly manicured and she wears patent leather heels.



The first in a series of blog posts about how Italy lied to me



 When you’re in Italy, you must eat pasta, drink wine, get fat, relax, enjoy life to its fullest. That’s what they say at Olive Garden, at least.  The colors are brighter, the food more natural and delicious, and the people so warm and approachable that one day you’re an intern, next, you’re  running a prostitution ring from the Prime Minister’s office.

Outside of Italy, we’ve been getting Italian cultural hype for hundreds of years.  Sir Walter Scott wrote anxiously in the early 19th century, “Methinks I will not die quite happy without having seen something of that Rome of which I have read so much.” 

This is because Italy has been luring gawkers continuously. Forster. Gogol. Twain. Lawrence.  at Pray Love chick. Everyone and their mom has been to Italy.  Certainly, Mr. B and his mom had, ten or so years ago, in an unfortunate Russian bus trip Mr. B would rather forget because the tour guide, a Teutonized Russian Jew living in Germany, refused to stop for most meals and old people.

The complete proliferation of la dolce vita in both American culture, caused by the strong dynastic pride of Italian Americans  and among Russians, who all secretly want to be Italian, left me with high hopes and firm expectations for our trip a couple weeks ago.

For Mr. B, it was a redo, a chance to wipe out memories of traumatizing vacations past. For me, it was a chance to fill in my travel knowledge, like Sir Walter Scott. Most importantly, it was a chance to be lazy. I spent all winter and spring working, writing, and studying, and I didn’t have it in me to plan an extravagant itinerary. Since Italy is the fifth-most visited country in the world, I knew there had to be tons already out there that I could easily take from. And even if we didn’t end up seeing anything, no big deal.  We were going to do a couple days in Rome, one in Naples, and the rest of the time relaxing on the Amalfi Coast, low-key,  Italian-style.

In last year’s funny and cute To Rome With Love, Woody Allen is on a Alitalia flight to meet his daughter’s new Italian fiance when turbulence occurs. As is typical of Woody Allen, he starts panicking, and his wife, played by pragmatic Judy Davis, suggests he “unclench.”  “I can’t unclench when there’s turbulence,” Woody replies, “You know I’m an atheist.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t unclench in Italy, either, and the trip turned out differently than I had anticipated. The first reason was that I’m an 80-year-old Jewish man. The second is that everyone that, because there are so many blog posts, books, movies, and third-rate American restaurant chains about Italy, I came into the country with extremely high expectations, which were immediately busted by a combination of my Russian pessimism and the fact that Italy is not what it seems.

The rest of this blog posts will be spent exploring how anal-retentive I am and all of the ways the Western literary canon lied to me about Italy. Ciao!



Mr. B and I arrived at Fiumicino on a Friday morning on U.S. Airways. Flying this airline is a great way to punish your worst enemies, especially if they hate legroom and wine that comes in cardboard juice containers. By the time we arrived at the gate, our hair was matted to our heads, or maybe falling out slowly from plane-food related stress, we were going on three hours of sleep, and our necks didn’t turn the whole way.

This is how Italian travel is supposed to be:


This is how Italian travel really is:


We were staying at someone’s apartment through AirBnB, so I needed to call him and tell him we were on our way so he could meet us there. We had rented a cell phone through the same company I’d used in Israel.

Unfortunately, the cell phone thought it was still in its ancestral homeland, and refused to work. As Jack Donaghy notes, there are no rules in Italian airports, so we spent half an hour jostling through crowds of Russians in sweatsuits trying to look like crowds of Italians in sweat suits yelling at Americans in yoga pantsp,trying to get some information out of anyone about how we could get a SIM card or a phone. We finally bought an Italy-compatible phone and I connected with the host.

“Ciao, Vick-i. Where are you,” he asked.

“At the airport,” I said. “We’re about to get a taxi…we should be there in 30 minutes.”

“Okay. See you in an hour.”  We got in a shared taxi, filled with vaguely European tourists and  other Americans going to hotels.  The driver blasted Radio Deejay, whose motto is, “One Nation, One Station” (sic.)  Macklemore announced that he was pumped because he just bought some shit from the thrift shop.

I looked around the landscape. Central Italy is almost virtually indistinguishable from the States, except that there are hundreds of umbrella pines dotting the landscape, like so:

Screen Shot 2013-06-16 at 5.40.57 PM

and, also, it doesn’t censor American rap music.  The taxi driver’s phone rang. His ringtone was Get Lucky. It is impossible to escape American culture.

Twenty minutes later, we were standing still in Roman traffic. The driver turned apologetically to us. “There’s a strike,” he said. “On the public transportation.” “Also everyone leaves the city, the Friday,” he explained further. Italy’s public transportation services have strikes so often that Trenitalia has a helpful tab on its home page labeled ‘In Case of Strike.’ “Some services will still be operating maybe,” it says reassuringly.

Our driver swore, navigated, and gestured his way around the Vespas, Fiat Puntos, and endless crowds of Asians wearing fanny packs. Every lane merge was a personal affront to him, every Do Not Enter a suggestion, to the point where I’d begun to wonder if he was playing up being Italian just for us.

We had promised the apartment owner we’d be there in thirty minutes. We were pushing an hour and a half. Another half hour later, we arrived on a narrow, charming street in Trastevere, and I called our host, feeling terrible that we were late.

“We’re here,” I said.

“Okay, I park the car. I’ll be there soon! ” We waited outside for another twenty minutes, watching women in impossibly tall high heels walk impossibly small dogs down the street, smoking (the women, not the dogs,) and older couples holding bags full of groceries, before he came to let us into his beautiful , modern apartment. The apartment was up four flights of stairs

This incident began my understanding of Italian  Italian time. Italian time is different from American time. Every culture I know has the joke that they’re on X Standard Time, but I have yet to meet a culture that treats time with such elasticity as Italians.  Most that deal with anal-retentive Americans are on time. Everyone else is, come se dice, suggerimento.  Cafes open around 8 or 9, maybe, farmers’ markets, also, maybe 10, or whenever they feel like it. Everyone closes down around 1:30 for lunch and doesn’t reopen until dinner, which can be at 7:30 or 10, depending on  how you feel and if Gli Azzuri won their match. If you have a heart attack between 12 and 1, well, try to have it later.


Breakfast at 9. Or 10. Ish. 

If you’re late to something you signed up for, you might get a frown or a shrug or nothing, depending. Asking for directions  could mean you’re driving “around 30 minutes” or “a couple streets.” Sitting down for a tiny cappuccino can mean 45 minutes, or however long you want to sit.

On the outside, this is charming. It means Italians have resisted the pull of modernity that keeps us all glued to the screen and at the grindstone. To someone with an absolute view of time, Italy is extremely stressful. I’m punctual  and view anyone who isn’t as a child-eating monster.  If you ask me to be somewhere at 2:34, I will do everything in my power to be there at 2:33:50, because it’s important to you.

I am a  list-maker, a horological stickler, and unbearable pedant. Mr. B has more flexible views about time, and the first three years or our relationship consisted of me writing tearful emails to him saying that I was breaking up with him because he didn’t respect my time and to please give back the mix CD I made him. But even for him, to be in a country where some people took time very literally, but most didn’t, and it really depended on the situation and the weather, was hugely annoying.

But Italy has nowhere to hurry, and this was obvious from the very beginning in Rome. In a recent essay about Italian soccer racism, Wright Thompson wrote, about Liga Nord, the Northern Italian political racist party that popped up in the 80s and wants to split Northern Italy from the South and send everyone south of Rome back to Africa, that, “Yesterday is familiar. Everything else makes them afraid.”

This is all of Italy. It’s accomplished enormous amounts of creative throughput in the last couple centuries. Dante. Fermi. Garibaldi. Nero. Caesar.  Vivaldi. Machiavelli. Augustus.  Benigni.  It’s in no hurry to prove itself like America is. Italy’s done with the marathon and relaxing with a coffee and a cigarette on the sideline.  America is still young and uppity, trying to constantly prove itself, failing, tripping over its shoes, getting back up and at it.  America’s still only (I hope) on mile 3 of 26.”That’s fine, kid,” Italy says. “I’ve done it all. I’ve done the 12 gods thing and the monotheism thing. I’ve made the most famous penis sculpture in marble. I’ve combined tomatoes and cheese. I’ve given hipsters centurion sandals.   You can take it from here. I’m on strike. ”


For the next three days, we started to understand more about this culture as we walked Rome ragged. Russian vacations are never-say-die vacations, as I’ve written about before, and despite the fact that even up to two days before we left I didn’t have an itinerary, we walked the entire city.

We walked an average of 7 miles a day, and we walked ceaselessly, trying to get into every nook and cranny.


Too many people have written about Rome for me to write anything meaningful. People have been writing about Rome for centuries. Mark Twain wrote, in the second half of the 19th century in Innocents Abroad,

What is there in Rome for me to see that others have not seen before me? What is there for me to touch that others have not touched? What is there for me to feel, to learn, to hear, to know, that shall thrill me before it pass to others? What can I discover? — Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. One charm of travel dies here.

There is nothing we saw in Rome that’s any different than millions of people have over the centuries.  We walked around the Forum, down the Spanish Steps to the gelato shop next door, down Via Cavour, across the Tiber, near the Castel Santangelo, ate at a tourist trap restaurant the first day, then got better at finding local places in Trastevere where the waiter plied us with wine and grappa. Holy shit is grappa terrible. But great for being drunk. And Rome is a great city to be drunk in.

The air in the spring is warm and Mediterranean and salty and full of umbrella pines, and no one goes to bed until 12, even on school nights. We stumbled across a tiny street where a kids’ birthday party was still going on at 9 PM on a Sunday. There were a couple kids running around with balloons.  But it was mostly  more adults, standing, smoking, discussing the meaning of life, and how to get their kids to smoke, probably.

We watched Il Grande Gatsby with Italian subtitles in a theater full of locals.

We watched hordes of Russian tourists go right past the historical sites and to the Prada and Gucci stores with signs strategically in Russian. We ate bruschetta every night. We went to creepy-ass ossuaries and crypts. We went far, far below the city, to a darkened room that was probably a highway in Roman times, and somewhere deep in the room, a spring trickled ceaslessly, like it had for millennia, and it made us shiver.

This probably all sounds super-glamorous. But it was not.

It probably reads like this:

But it was more like this:



Because by the time we were done walking, we got home, limping, having skipped lunch, and ate salami straight from the supermarket packaging, Italian cookies with tea, olives, and fresh bread, and waited for dinner. We skipped lunch most days because we didn’t have time. We were sight-seeing. By the time we limped back to the apartment, I was ready to die at the doorstep.  The other fun part was that the apartment was four flights of stairs up.

There was an elevator, but since it was an old, charming Roman building, the elevator was built into the architecture, meaning it was the side and height of a middle school locker. Just myself in the elevator was fine. Just Mr. B in the elevator was also fine. But having both of us in there was a potential safety hazard. You also had to get in, close the elevator door from the outside, then close the inside one, before it would go anywhere.

So we crawled up the stairs.

We took embarrassing pictures with gladiators. These pictures cost 5 euros and 5 dollars.


 We saw too much large marble genetalia. Some of us were immature enough to take pictures.


In all of that, in all the constant walking and the monument-seeing and the gelato-eating, we were never sure whether we were having genuine experiences, whether we understood the real Rome.  Rome is a city that has been washed over for hundreds of years, and, as such, is designed to put on a show. It has a thin veneer that it coats for tourists, near the bridges, near the castle, near the Typewriter, and near everything that makes tourists want to visit.

We were never sure if Rome was merely putting on a show for us, or if it was working the way it always did, the way it always had, and we were merely viewers. Did the waitress who said ‘Mamma mia!’ in exclamation as she swept of a dirty table cloth really mean it, or was she playing up to a stereotype? Was the waiter that gave us grappa just hoping for an extra tip?  Nothing felt sacred or genuine in Rome .Everything felt worked over by groups of tourists and people who were trying to make money off of them. None of the churches had a soul anymore. Everything was optimized for people who have minimal time to see the city, as we did. Pre-packaged is the right word.

There was one glimpse of the real Rome. We went to the Jewish Quarter, to the synagogue, that was the most beautiful synagogue I’ve ever seen, aside from the Spanish Synagogue in Prague. An older woman named Laura, one of the members of the Jewish community, gave a very thorough tour, talking about living in the city during Fascist rule, about how the Jewish community in Rome went back, back before Sfaradim and Ashkenazi rites, back in time, moving with the vagaries of the city, and I felt something, a piece of the truth. But then we were outside the gates of the Jewish Museum and it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Trying to see the true Rome is like looking in a thousand mirrors for the true reflection, and I’m sad to say we didn’t find it, no matter how far we walked. And we walked really, really far.  We were exhausted and overloaded with ancient stuff and Roman stereotypes.


Somehow I knew that the Amalfi Coast held the truth, the true vacation, the true relaxation, if only I could live until then.

The reward for the fact that my blisters had blisters was that the next morning, we got on the train to Ostia, Rome’s ancient port city, to pick up our rental car and drive to Naples. This was my first glimpse of the real Rome, the city beneath the dazzling facades, at real Italians.  The train was dirty and looked like it hadn’t been washed for several Berlusconi administrations.

Foreign workers held onto grimy Nokia phones and slept on the way to work. Women with shopping bags full of bread talked loudly. People read the paper. The day became hot.  I sat and watched stations go by, trying to reconcile this mundane scene with the Rome of yesterday.

At Ostia, a very helpful man in a tiny un-air-conditioned office gave us the keys and asked us twice if we wanted insurance. We had seen Roman driving. We said yes, yes, and again, yes, per piacere.

The car was conveniently parked in a roundabout.  Mr. B had to back up into oncoming traffic while an older Italian woman impatiently motioned for him to move from the space, lightly hitting our car with her palm at to guide the way. Vespas and Puntos zoomed by within inches of the bumper.  Baptized by fire, Mr. B entered the ranks of Italian drivers and my feet entered a previously-unknown rest state.