Where The Streets Have A Name

Posted on December 2, 2015 by Nicki

Where is home when you’re away from it?

In my hometown of Pretoria, South Africa the streets all have new names. It’s been 21 years. New government. New era. New names. Charles Street is now Justice Mohamed. Duncan is Jan Shoba. Queen Wilhelmina has changed to Florence Ribiero but it’s still long and familiar. You cannot get from there to here without crossing it… no matter what it’s called. I don’t know why it was ever Queen Wilhelmina in the first place.

The hadedas call good morning before 7am. The African sun glows gently. It lights the whole sky from the inside. A car honks outside. Irreverent in the early quiet. For a few moments the hadedas wage a shrill war with the car. The sun climbs higher. The sky is brighter. The car moves on. The hadedas settle down.

The meat thaws on the counter. Somebody’s been up before me. Chops and steak gleam purply-red through the tight saran sheath. A faint smudge of frost clings to the plastic. Drops of water pool on the counter, as the meat softens in the warm kitchen. Coils of boerewors – literally “farmer’s sausage” – slowly defrost. So much wrapped up in those faintly spicy spirals.

There will be hot, crusty rolls. A crisp, green salad. Cabbage finely shredded and doused with sweet, tangy vinegar. Potato salad for sure. Homemade pickles. Cold beer and all kinds of soda. The meat is at the heart of it.

We will eat with towels wrapped around our swimsuit-clad bodies, water dripping from our hair onto our plates. We won’t care what the grown-ups are talking about and we won’t remember to say please or thank you. Not even when we ask for seconds. The meat will sizzle on the braai (barbecue) and everywhere will smell like smoke (the good kind) and chlorine. We will shoo away the lazy flies and pesky bees, and the grass will tickle my bum and make it itch.

Charles Street is still Charles and you always make a right at Duncan. This is the way from here to there.

We will swim some more and make up dances and tell our parents they have to watch us perform on the patio. Why wouldn’t they? We are their stars, shining with promise and bellies full of smoky boerewors and potato salad. There’s nowhere like home and even though their conversation is full of apartheid and Israel and Houston and Sydney, home is where we are and we are here.

We will have bright yellow mangoes and granadillas for dessert, meringues and something custardy. “Maybe there’s a bag of kosher marshmallows in the pantry…” someone will wonder.

Tea with milk and sugar. Plain “minute” cake. Or a rich, dark chocolate decorated with cherries and chocolate sprinkles. We will lie on the bedroom floor and play rummikub. So happy and easy together. As if we’ve been doing this forever and we have.

Years later, separated by vast oceans and complicated time zones, we will find our way back to each other time and again. Forever will come with us and the decades before and after will always be gently smudged with yesterday’s memories and tomorrow’s desires. But for now there is now. So happy and easy together. We will do this forever.

The sun will start to sink and the light will change. Woodsmoke, charred meat and jasmine will fill the air and wherever in the world my home becomes, the smell of fire outside will always make me ache with homesickness.

One day I will leave. Home will be where the foghorns are much louder than the hadedas, where the streets roll up and down the hilly city. They are long and will become just as familiar. The weekends will smell like smoky meat on the braai because my children love boerewors as much as I do. But we won’t have granadillas.

Charles Street is no longer Charles. But even after 17 years, you still turn right to get from there to here.

This post was inspired by the prompt “Food & Comfort” from the online Winter Joy Writing Retreat I’m currently enjoying. Hosted by Jena Schwartz and Cigdem Kobu of The Inky Path, the theme of the retreat is Edible Memories. It’s astounding, enriching and a little scary to discover where our food memories take us!

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt is, “What I’m really trying to say is…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Mardra of Mardra Sikora and Vidya of Vidya Sury. What I’m really trying to say is, so many things make home home. Even if they’re not there anymore.

Current Status:

Posted on October 31, 2015 by Nicki

It’s a weird and wonderful thing to be a living family that spans two centuries. My husband and I come from the 1970s, while our kids are born and raised in the 2000s. They have never known a world without wi-fi, on-demand TV and artisan pizza.

They casually FaceTime their grandparents half a world and ten time zones away, and when they say goodbye they do not marvel like I do at the technological wonders of 21^st century connectivity. They believe most minor problems can be solved by Amazon, and they know they had better stay on top of their homework and their grades because we can access all that information any time we want with just a few key strokes.

Sometimes I long for the simplicity of the late 1900s. Handwritten letters, cameras with film and rotary dial phones meant life was slower and less immediate. Less reacting, more thinking.

Also less connection.

If there’s one thing I have embraced with arms flung wide in this new millennium it’s the seemingly limitless power to connect. Over broadband and wi-fi and satellite. Through text and email and social networks. With hi-res photos and hi-def video and hundreds and thousands of weightless words flying like so many graceful cranes through space.

It is in this infinite space of connection that I encountered Kelly, a fellow blogger and now friend. Kelly writes the often hilarious and always real stories of her life with wit and heart at Just Typikel. I admire and aspire to her humorous and pragmatic approach to life’s inevitable chaos and I was delighted when she tagged me in a blog challenge. More fun ways to connect!

Four names people call me other than my real name:

Nix. This shortened, affectionate form of my name is my favorite. It means we are friends and comfortable with each other, and really I wish everyone I know would call me Nix. Or Nick. That works too.

Mom. It’s usually Mom, sometimes Mama, hardly ever Mommy. I will answer to all. But not if they whine it.

My darling child. Obviously only my mother calls me this, and usually at the beginning or end of a conversation. It is a sweet reminder that someone else on this earth is responsible for me.

Crazy. This is recent and has everything to do with my impending swim from Alcatraz to San Francisco in shark-infested waters.

Four jobs I’ve had:

English tutor.

Waitress. For maybe a minute.

Client Services something or other.

Event Planner.

I always wanted to work in a book store. I still do.

Four movies I would watch/have watched more than once:

Pollyanna. This was my sister and my favorite movie when we were kids and we can still recite the entire movie by heart, complete with tone and inflections.

Grease. Another favorite. Another one we know by heart, including all the Travolterrific dance moves.

Say Anything.

Dirty Dancing.

Clearly I heart the 80s.

Four books I would recommend:

Owl Babies by Martin Waddell. I still love reading this to my kids. The hands-off mommy owl reminds me of me.

Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life. Kate Atkinson could write gibberish on toilet paper and I would love every word. This book is magnificent.

I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes. Read it. Now.

The Martian by Andy Weir. This is the last book I read and I loved it so much I insisted my 14-year-old son read it. I forgot the opening sentence is, “I’m pretty much fucked.” My son was hooked.

Four places I have lived:

Pretoria, South Africa: My hometown.

Grahamstown, South Africa: My college town.

Ra’anana, Israel: The place I grew up.

San Francisco, USA: Where it all began.

Four places I have been:

Austin, TX. I love Austin for the fun, food, friends. And red boots.

Nashville, TN. Country “Music City.” The perfect place to wear red boots.

Sydney, Australia. My family has a real affection for all things Aussie.

Edinburgh, Scotland. Kilts, Highlanders, accent. Och, say no more.

Four places I would rather be right now:

I can say with complete honesty and utter surprise that there is nowhere I would rather be than right where I am.

Four things I don’t eat:

Tongue.

Pork.

Shellfish.

Eel.

Four of my favorite foods:

Hamburgers.

Truffle brie cheese.

Hot, buttered toast with jelly.

My sister’s chocolate cake. Especially the frosting.

Four television shows that I watch:

Nashville

Orange Is The New Black

The Good Wife

Anything with Jon Hamm.

Four things that I’m looking forward to this year:

The end of Halloween.

Swimming from Alcatraz… Tomorrow!

Reading Jonathan Franzen’s latest novel, Purity.

Winter break at home.

Four things I’m always saying:

Wash your hands. With soap.

Sorry is sorry.

#FWP (as in First World Problems).

Oy.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was, “In 1,000 years from now…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Lizzi of Considerings and Dana of Kiss My List. In 1,000 years from now perhaps someone will stumble on this old-fashioned blog post and wonder why the hell people needed to wash their hands. With soap.

I am tagging three wonderful bloggers to answer these same questions and to keep the connection going as long and far as possible:

Kristi of Finding Ninee. Kristi is the engine behind Finish the Sentence Friday and an extrordinary blogger whose thoughts and words squeeze my heart every time and leave me feeling all the feels.

Dana of the wonderful Kiss My List. I wish I lived next door to Dana or at least within driving distance. Her “moderately snarky,” always entertaining, unique approach to everything is always just what I need.

Jason Gilbert’s The Blog That Killed JFG is a masterpiece of exquisite photographic essays that weave wit and humor with everything that is raw and real. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with here (no pressure JFG ;)).

Why I’m Terrified To Escape From Alcatraz

Posted on October 3, 2015 by Nicki

I’m struggling.

To find the words. To form the sentences. To capture the thoughts. To get underneath the feelings, and plumb the deep salty waters I am swimming in.

I am struggling.

To separate the excitement from the nerves, the adrenaline from the dread, the determination from the apprehension.

I am struggling to harness the power and strength, my power, to pull it away from the fear, the worry, the panic. Even as my legs propel me forward, and my hands slice neat and even strokes through the cold, choppy water, my heart beats an unsteady rhythm: Won’t make it. Can’t make it. What if I don’t make it?

I am struggling to write it all down.

In one month I hope to swim from Alcatraz – that Alcatraz, the once-upon-a-time prison, the iconic Rock way out there in the middle of the Bay – to San Francisco. I will join 100 swimmers, some of them visually impaired, to raise funds and awareness for That Man May See, the support foundation for UCSF’s Department of Ophthalmology.

I am inspired, determined, excited. And terrified.

I’m not quite sure why.

I mean, for all the reasons one would think: it’s cold, there are sharks in the Bay (not great whites, I’m told, but little ones), the weather, the distance. These are all legitimate reasons to make my heart pump a little more erratically, to cause me to swallow hard a few times, to feel queasy and constricted even when I’m not wearing a wetsuit.

But that’s not it.

I talk about this swim with my family and friends. I truthfully say I am nervous and also excited, energized and really scared. I think about it all the time. I plan my days, my meals, my sleep around training sessions in the pool and in the Bay. But I am struggling to write it all down.

So. This is my attempt to name my fears, here on the page, in the hope that when I stand on the boat anchored at Alcatraz in 31 days and look across the water toward my favorite City by the Bay, I will know what I am swimming through to get there:

It’s far. The freezing temperature (it’s not quite freezing and the impending El Niño promises water that is warmer-than-usual), the sharks, the dirty waters (my swimming partner came face to face with a dead bird last week)… these are not the things that have my swimsuit in a knot. I swim in a wetsuit, I haven’t heard of a shark attack during an Alacatraz swim (maybe I’m naïve), and I’ll take a shower afterwards. But when I look at that island standing stoically in the middle of the Bay, it seems very very far from anywhere. I know it’s a perceived distance. The actual distance is less than a mile and a half. But I am someone who tracks each mile, each step, each stroke. I watch the tiny airplane inch its way across the satellite map on flights, I check my Google Maps continuously whenever we drive somewhere, carefully noting how much further, how much longer till we reach our destination. On November 1, I will be in the map with no way of measuring how far I’ve come and how much longer till I get there. I will have to pace myself, track myself, trust myself.

There are great big invisible forces in that Bay. Nature is strong, powerful, much larger than any life, and I will be floating somewhere between the unseen wind above and the hidden currents below. What if, what if, what if? I watch my hands slice through that murky green water, I hear myself count the strokes in my head, one two breathe, one two three four breathe. I realize it’s not only the wild elements that have power. There is force in those hands, that breath, that body too. And if I focus on my own strength and power, I will move forward.

I’m a crappy swimmer. This is the one that stops me mid-stroke, the niggling thought that I’m not a good enough swimmer to take on this challenge. I’m not fit enough, strong enough, fast enough. It’s a version of the insecurity that often lurks just beyond my reach: I’m a shitty mom, an uncaring friend, an insensitive wife, a lazy volunteer. And if I let it come closer, close enough that I can touch it and feel its tentacles creep up my arms and around my neck and squeeze my heart, I will be paralyzed right there in the water. I’m not a terrible swimmer. I am an okay swimmer. I can kick my legs and move my arms in rhythmic strokes and keep myself afloat and breathe when I need to breathe.

These are my fears. To write through them is to name them and own them, and to know that this is what I will be swimming through to get from Alcatraz back to shore. So. I will trust myself, believe in my own power… and know that I can do it.

If you’d like to support my swim and That Man May See, please click here.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was, “I can’t believe it took me so long to realize that…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Ivy Walker from uncharted, and Roshni from Indian American Mom.

Too Hot Not To Handle

Posted on September 10, 2015 by Nicki

117

The air is still. So still I can barely hear the crickets chirp. The window is open wide to the sultry night and somewhere far down the street a dog barks. It must be midnight. Every now and then, the faintest, coolest breeze kisses my skin. The leaves sigh.

Softly he rests his hand on my arm.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” My lips scarcely move. The words are a flat monotone in the dark.

His amused chuckle fills the heated space between us, and he rolls over.

It’s too hot. Too hot to touch. To be touched. Too hot to think, to exhale, to remember if I turned the dishwasher on. Even the whisper-soft breeze has stopped. It’s too hot to sleep and I feverishly wonder what tomorrow will bring. If it ever comes.

***

The sun scorches the trail we’re walking on, and a spotted lizard darts under a bush next to me. Its branches are crackly and brittle, and the dry leaves curl themselves like miniature cups, waiting for water. I take just a sip. It’s warm.

“I want to find the French Trail,” I murmur. I know that is the trail that is shaded and cool. It’s the trail where the trees are the tallest. They stretch and bend their skinny redwood trunks up up up toward the sun and they filter the light in leafy, holy patterns. G-d’s light.

But I am not usually able to find it. I take a wrong turn, start on the wrong path, or run out of time.

“Okay, so let’s find it,” he says next to me. He holds out his hand as we start to make our way down through the trees, out of the dusty, beating sun and over the thick roots and fallen logs. Something scuttles but otherwise all is quiet. The sky stretches white-blue above us and the sweat makes a slow trickle down my neck. I grab his hand. Too hot.

We walk carefully in silence for a while. The roots coil over each other in deceptive lines, and I worry he is going to twist his ankle. He asks if I’m okay.

“Here it is!” I can’t believe it. French Trail with an arrow that way.

I hadn’t wanted to go on a hike that morning. The heat is intolerable, insufferable and the sun bites my skin with iron-hot teeth every time I go outside. I am moody and cranky and only looking for ways to escape, not walk towards, any kind of inferno. Out there or inside.

And there is a grocery list at the bottom of my purse, and two essays waiting to be continued, and it’s an early dismissal day so even less hours to get this sweaty mess together. Who hikes when it’s 95 degrees out… at 9am?

But it is a rare morning of togetherness. A time that caught us both by surprise, when we could shift schedules and be flexible and walk and talk and breathe in nature and in light.

The light floats through the trees and we walk, close but not touching. This is where I want to be, I think, in this cool, shaded silence that smells green and full of hope. Hope that the drought will break, that the heat will ease, that this peace and calm will stay with us today and tomorrow and tomorrow.

And suddenly we are back in the sun, working our way upward to where we started. Because what goes down must always come back up, and it’s hard. The flies buzz around my ears and the dust is in my nose and I stop to gasp mouthfuls of hot, stagnant air every few feet. Slow-going.

“You are so noisy,” I mutter as he tries his own system of inhale exhale. My disapproval is as thick as the air.

“Just trying to survive,” he puffs as he strides past me. I knew he would say that. When I come around the next bend he is waiting for me. We are steps away from the car.

“It was so great until the last part.” I stop right there in the broiling sun. He nods in agreement. And even as the words are out my mouth I know that’s not true. It was great, even the last part. It is great. And it’s not over.

It’s time to say goodbye. To get on with our days, as usual. To try and stay cool, and remember that in the parched dust of our discomfort and in the breathtaking dappled light of love and ease, we are together.

“This was a good suggestion,” I say.

“I’m glad you were available,” he replies.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was, “Each Fall, I…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Julie from Carvings on a Desk, and Danielle from Way Off Script. This is the Fall that does not yet feel like Fall, but every year around this time I notice a shift somewhere nearby.

Home Is Where I Am

Posted on July 23, 2015 by Nicki

When my son comes home from anywhere he bursts through the back door with dusty sneakers, bits of his day caught in his dark brown hair and on his thick eyelashes, and always an exuberant: “I’m ho-ome!”

His voice is strong and the singsong words bounce off the kitchen walls and reverberate up the stairs. Often there is nobody around to hear them, nobody in his physical space to receive him, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t pause with his hand on the door or stop to listen for rustling in the kitchen or footsteps in the rooms above, before announcing himself. It is the house he is telling about his homecoming. “I’m home,” he says to the taupe-colored walls and wooden floors, the dusty windows and the dishes in the sink. “I’ve come back and I am happy to be here.” And the house, his home, beams at the sound of his voice, gathers itself around his tall, gangly body and welcomes him. Home.

It’s not always easy, to come home: a sibling could be spoiling for a fight, a nagging mom might kill his buzz (Don’t bring those dirty shoes into the house. And wash your hands. With soap!), maybe we’re all out of his favorite snack, or someone’s playing their music too loud or watching an annoying show or borrowed his earphones without asking.

Still. Home is home.

“I’m ho-ome!” I murmured to the passport control officer at Ben Gurion airport. I must have said it too quietly. He didn’t even blink. “I’m ho-ome!” I told the guy at the rental car counter. He continued reading off the insurance policy and pretended I hadn’t said a word. Maybe he doesn’t like to be interrupted. “I’m HO-OME!!” I yelled at the top of my furious lungs to the women who claimed my chairs for their own at the pool. “Go away, you’re annoying us,” they replied with a condescending flick of the wrist, as if I was an irritating little sister. Ouch.

And yet. Home is home.

The radio in the car is set to Galgalatz, and the catchy combination of popular Israeli and other music makes it the best station to listen to. In my opinion. Biglal hamusika (for the music) is the tagline and a sexy, gravelly male voice fills the car every 15 minutes. That might also be a reason to listen. I turn the volume up when the news comes on and sometimes I even understand three full sentences. Last night on our way home they played Abba’s “Super Trouper.” Biglal hamusika. Every home needs a memorable soundtrack.

The kids kick the ball to each other and bury their legs in the sand as the sun streaks orange and pink above an inky sea. Their play transcends all language, time and distance: catch, giggles and hugs mean the same in English and Hebrew and all of the adults look at each other in wonder. “Next year he’ll know some English,” someone says. It really doesn’t matter, we all think. The sunset is magical and so are the connections.

And then it is Friday and we’re out of milk and pita. Maybe I’ll get a challah and creamy white cheese and the small, crispy cucumbers the kids like to eat whole. And popsicles. But the line is so long and the scanner stops working and now the cashier needs change so off she ambles. I think she forgot to come back. It’s been more than five minutes and I can see rivulets of icy juice pooling in my basket. “Tsk” and “Dammit” I mutter to myself. The woman behind me catches my eye and shrugs toward the heavens. Ma la’asot? What to do? I hear her thoughts. I shrug back. She’s right but really this is ridiculous, the line is growing longer and restless. I pay for and pack my groceries in a determined, not-so-quiet hurry. “Shabbat Shalom!” the slow-going cashier calls out as I turn to leave. It’s hard to be frustrated with someone who wishes you Shabbat Shalom.

Not everyone cares that I’m home. They honk at me if I linger one second too long at a traffic light and flash their lights if I drive too slow in the fast lane. Maybe I’m annoying with my expectations and my terrible Hebrew and my children who won’t eat anything with sesame seeds. But there are ways this place gathers itself around me and my family, holds us close in its warm waters and bustling markets, tells us stories about where we’ve come from and how we got here and inspires ideas about where we might go next.

And so… ma la’asot, what to do? I am home.

Parts of this essay were written during an online writing group with the incredible Jena Schwartz. Todah ve’ahava, Jena.