Hi,
I haven’t written one of these little posts in such a very long time that you’ll be forgiven for thinking that I’d lost interest–or perhaps for thinking that some guy named Guido had broken both of my thumbs and they were healing badly. But the real reason I haven’t written is the usual reason for such things: sloth. In this case my sloth has been directed to the keyboard, when perhaps it would have better been pointed over towards the hammock. An idea worth pursuing, I think. But I digress…
After awhile, not writing to you became the new pattern. Rather than drop an occasional note to you, I began to wonder how best to break what had become an inordinate silence. Physicists call this, I believe, inertia. It’s a powerful force. Surely I’m not the first to discover that sloth plus inertia is an unrewarding equation? The “drafts” folder in my email software holds numerous more or less worthy attempts to break this new cycle–and don’t get me started on the drafts folder in my mind.
And then this morning it came to me, and in that most familiar and comfortable of places, the bathroom. Well, actually this particular bathroom isn’t all that comfortable. Don’t get me wrong: it’s clean and spacious and well-lit, but it is also cold and concrete and a bit damp–as might be expected of a bathroom in a campground in Wisconsin in June. It’s the sort of bathroom that one enjoys and then quickly departs unless, for example, one is an amphibian.
So:
Turns Out It’s Actually a Toad…
I think we can all agree that this little guy is lovely, and generally more attractive than the frogs who frequent my bathroom at home. I suppose that a number of you may remember meeting the frog in my bathroom several years ago. (If not, you can relive the experience at www.elotrowa.com.)
For now I’m camping and couch-surfing my way across the US for a couple of months, visiting family and friends and the occasional frog and collecting blue glass bottles along the way (details to be found in the Drafts Folder.) So do keep your eye out for blue bottles and a bug-spattered Honda. As for me, I’m soon to revisit the Drafts Folders; honestly.
Finally, I hope that the surprises in your life since last we’ve been together have been mostly wonderful, as they have in mine (for details of which we must check aforementioned DF.)
I used to think that my wife had an infinite supply of ChapStick. It was seemingly everywhere, the car, the kitchen counter, the knapsack. It was in every room in the house, on many of the shelves and in many of the drawers, even, inevitably, rattling loose in the clothes dryer with all of the tumbled laundry.
I began to think of the stuff as “our ChapStick.”
Mostly the tubes were of the original black variety but, in the years before she died a pink version increasingly appeared, accompanied occasionally by some random third color or the odd competing brand.
Only rarely did I use ChapStick, except second-hand. Never did I buy it. When it was wanted, ChapStick was easy to find in my world. I counted it a successful week when I prevented it from migrating to the clothes dryer or melting to the dashboard. There was no shortage of the stuff in my life.
But now I’m not so sure.
Of late, all of my ChapStick applications are first-hand. Sometimes I have to search to find a tube. Sometimes that search takes a while. It’s been quite some time since a tube of ChapStick turned up in the dryer.
I can foresee the inevitable day when I’m unable to locate a tube of ChapStick–even if I still find it inconceivable that I might at some point actually want to purchase one.
And so one touchstone to my previous life is gradually dissipating.
Those of you who have outlived a partner will know what I’m referring to: the shared bar of soap, that final tube of toothpaste, the eventual demise of an antiquated PC, the departure of the family pet. Some reminders of your co-joined life you couldn’t hang on to even if you wanted to, others don’t bear keeping.
I’m sure that Denise would want for me a measure of healthy and progressive detachment. And I’m equally certain that, were our circumstances reversed she would savor each slipstone of our lives as it melted into memory.
Fortunately, I got a million of those memories. And I hope you do, too.
Hi,
It’s difficult for me to write about the labor movement without coming off like some sort of supercilious asshole. So generally I don’t write about the movement at all.
Too bad.
I suppose that we all realize that every new day presents the opportunity to reshape the world around us and to redefine that which is at the heart of “us.”
In my experience it’s been the exceedingly rare day when it seemed simultaneously possible and desirable, “desirable” being the more constant of the two constructs.
To a greater or lesser degree on any given day I, like you, am an agent of change in this world. At the same time I can conceive of myself as an object with the potential to be changed by circumstances in the world. And, maybe like you, that’s how I’ve lived much of my adult working life: changing the world (generally in fairly small but not entirely insignificant ways) or allowing myself to be changed by that world. On really memorable days, both.
Of course I was distracted in my work by the mundane. Still am in retirement, as I suppose we all must be while living. But the mundane is maybe less intrusive for me in retirement, where I juggle less and have elastic deadlines.
Retirement has allowed me to think more, and to maybe more consciously appreciate the possibilities revealed and limits imposed by my own perspectives.
Moving back and forth between the new town of Las Galeras, RD and the political center of Washington, DC is more than culturally jarring. The bi-annual shift of the entire context of my life seems to sharpen my appreciation of the context or frame from which I focus on the world around me.
The end result is that I in my complacency, whether in Washington DC or in Las Galeras, RD, am shaken up twice a year.
I count this a good thing and I recommend it, particularly to those of you who may be in leadership positions in the American labor movement.
Probably it is intelligence, hard work, and good fortune that brought you to your position in the movement today and that sustains you in your office. But those same admirable qualities may not be what is needed to grow our movement.
Consider: you’ve got an important job with lots of administrative responsibilities. Your focus is on fulfilling your responsibilities. It’s a full-time job. Maybe you are like me to the extent that, somewhere along the temporal arc of your career, the relative emphasis of your work gradually shifted. I suppose that you now spend more of your time advocating for equity and less time agitating for change.
Like it or not, as you’ve moved up in your organization you have taken on additional administrative responsibilities with each advance. You now have responsibilities that constrain you in previously unimaginable ways and, if you’re like me, a strong temptation to define yourself by how well you meet those responsibilities.
Most of the union leaders that I have been priveledged to meet are really pretty good people. Consistently, they are smart; they are generally diligent workers who administer their national offices while maintaining complicated political, business, and financial relationships all in the best interest of their membership. It’s a full-time job and it’s important and it is rewarding but, for many, the job distracts from the possibilities of the position.
Perhaps you’re now less willing to risk failing. In successfully fulfilling your responsibilities perhaps you find an accompanying tendency towards complacency. Perhaps such a combination directs your focus to the mundane; maybe you choose to attend solely to the daily administration of your organization. You take care of business by repeating the things that brought you successfully to your position.
Actually, others should be fulfilling those functions within your organization now. You should move on to lead America.
From the outside, where I stand now, it appears as though you’re entirely unaware of the broad cultural and economic context that frames the lives of workers.
You seem reluctant to embrace the unique and powerful position that you hold within that broad cultural context.
You appear unwilling to engage the unfamiliar, to address the central issues of our society and to engage directly the citizens impacted by policies that can yet be impacted by concerted effort.
You didn’t always behave like that, or you wouldn’t be where you are.
Shake up, wake up, or embrace the risk of sharing the power of your position. It’s really the only way for your organization to survive.
For a kid who grew up in Pittsburgh or in Seattle, or in the “other” Washington for that matter, thatched roofs have seemed somewhat exotic. For me, a thatch roof brought to mind not a musty damp hovel on a rain-swept heath in medieval England–you know: the place with cats and dogs slipping from the sodden twigs and straw above–but shade and sand and palm trees and a warm tropical breeze with maybe a few women wearing grass skirts pleasantly swaying in the background.
Here in the Dominican the realities, as they often are, are somewhat different.
I have thatch, but no falling cats and dogs, only damp frogs leaping to the floor–and no grass-skirted chicas either. I have no sodden twigs or musty smells but I do have a pleasant tropical breeze, which is nearly constant on top of the little hill where I live.
Here, with thatch there are lots of shards of the “cana,” or palm fronds that make up the roof. Also there is no shortage of dragons and geckos and other reptiles and amphibians and the occasional small mammal living in the roof above. That’s living with thatch in the Caribbean. One grows accustomed, or one copes.
Typically, a Dominican housewife sweeps her floors twice a day. This is because the tropical breeze lifts the brittle ends of the cana and showers down just enough of the friable material as to to be untidy. The assiduous housekeeper can be seen, in addition, sweeping the footpath in the garden or the beaten-down earth around the door. Myself, I manage to sweep every other day or so, and just the floors. It’s always surprising how much stuff drifts down from the thatch, and just how much rustling and squawking and scratching is done by the critters who call the cana home.
Thatch also leaks. But usually not right away–the roof on the guest bungalow managed to last for seven years before water began to percolate through in a couple of places. The roof over the large terrace that is my real living area lasted only three years before giving problems. Over time I discovered that the charm of a thatched roof diminishes in direct proportion to the surface area of a wet floor.
As you may know, water leaks are notoriously difficult to track to the source and repair effectively. For a number of years I earned a decent living in the United States doing just that, and so I do know from experience that of which I speak. However leaking cana is a whole different ball of wax. Where does one begin, if not by removing the whole thing and starting over?
In the words of Roberto,the Dominican roofer who last year contrived an entirely ineffective repair: “But I did the best that I could,” or in the words of the Bronx-born Dominican at the local ferreteria: “fuggedaboudit.” And now I have forgotten about it; I have completely dismissed thatch as a potential solution to most of my roofing problems.
Perhaps that’s why you haven’t heard very much from me since I returned to the RD a few months ago: I’ve been a fully engaged roofer, and more. Actually I’m more like a force of nature, now at work in my (thatched!) gazebo in a semi-industrial environment.
Let me explain.
All of those creatures formerly living comfortably in my thatch roofs are now homeless by my action and their abode has been consumed by one of several fierce fires set to dispose of the cana. Some of the creatures have seemingly departed for good, others are circling aimlessly looking for a place to perch and still others are glaring malevolently at me as I work to prepare and replace the roofing before the rainy season begins in earnest. So much for being a force of nature.
As to the industrial part, in these pages I’ve previously observed that much here in the RD in incomplete. For example, many items, purchased new, are missing the last few steps of manufacture. I can attest that this is true in the case of roofing tiles, and doubly so in the instance of roofing tile fasteners.
I mean, this shouldn’t be so difficult. For sure, I’m not the first guy in the Dominican Republic to buy clay tiles with the intention to screw them down to wooden rafters and battens. But I might as well be.
The tiles all have three or five holes, or rather they have three or five indentations suggesting where you might prefer to drill holes, should you decide to actually screw the tiles down. So, OK; I’ve got hundreds of heavy clay tiles and a drill, I’ve got saw horses, a work table and a jig to hold the tiles.
Electricity! Water!! More than one thousand holes! More electricity! More water!! Mud! Wait, wait for it–wait, wait…Zzzztt!! Pow!!! Whooeee!
Voilá, a little third-world industrial workshop.
Fasteners, you say? Well, you seemingly can’t purchase them sized for roof tiles, not in stainless steel or in galvanized metal, and not in brass either. And absolutely never, never in sufficient quantity to put on a couple of good-sized roofs. Drywall screws? Yes; those you can have, in a variety of sizes, goodly quantities too and all nicely rusted–and I have never even seen an actual sheetrock wall in the entire nation! Go figure.
Gasketed fender washers? Fuggedaboudit.
Eventually, and with several trips to a number of big ferreterias located in a couple of major cities in the RD I finally did manage to buy enough of several different kinds of screws to do the work. Screws with three different styles of head, naturally. And a rubber and metal fender washer that can seemingly only be purchased fully assembled with a useless bolt.
Voilá, another little industrial workshop, this one ideal for the mentally challenged. Someone, for example, who might find disassembling and reassembling thousands of fiddly bits of hardware intrinsically rewarding.
Me, I’m driven–consumed by the idea that I only have to do this once; these roofs will last for 25 years, which is probably longer than me and almost certainly longer than I’ll be here in Las Galeras. And so I plod on, removing thatch and diligently collecting the used nails (which have a magical affinity for tires), varnishing the roof framing (really), drilling and drilling and drilling and cutting and fitting materials and turning my home once again into a construction site, meanwhile confident in the knowledge that this will eventually pass.
And today, near to the end of the year and some months since beginning, the end is at last in sight.
The roof of the bungalow is finished and–because opening a building and replacing the roof is messy, the inside and outside have been repainted. Guests have come, been charmed, remained dry, and departed.
The larger but less dangerous roof over the terrace is fully shaded and with only a couple of small leaks left to chase and the gutters and downspouts to run.
The displaced critters have seemingly settled into the new world order, as have I and together we’re looking forward to new projects in the New Year.
I hope you are, too.
Conventional wisdom has it that travel expands one’s horizons. I’ve been testing that hypothesis this summer and have discovered that the horizon is not the only thing that can be broadened by travel.
Over the past six or eight years I’ve met lots of people who live, or regularly visit the little village of Las Galeras on the Samana Peninsula on the northeast coast of the Dominican Republic. Of course, most of the people I’ve met there are Dominican. Those who are not Dominican are French or Italian; they’re Belgian, or Swiss, or German. Very few of them are American. The majority of the expats in Las Galeras are French.
The Italians, and the French in particular have been after me for years to visit them in Europe and this summer I have done so, making for some interesting stories on both sides of the Atlantic.
France
Christian is French. He is my friend and neighbor in Las Galeras. In a previous life Christian owned and operated a Michelin-rated restaurant on the Continent. He’s been in Las Galeras for fifteen years, more-or-less, and he has a pretty high profile in the community of French expats living there.
Over the last several years he and I made a plan to travel through France together, visiting his old friends and our more recent and mutual friends all over the country. We figured to do this until we got on each other’s nerves, or until we’d run out of friends. My secret hope was that our French friends–who mostly all know one another–would compete with each other in an effort show us what makes their part of France special. My fantasy was particularly vivid when imagining the regional culinary specialties, as Christian described them. Once you think about it, this is a pretty compelling fantasy. As it turned out, something like this actually happened. We were five weeks in France without running out of friends OR making each other crazy. This speaks well of our friends, who were consistently generous, welcoming, and patient, even if they are all French and accordingly a little different.
In fact, everything about France is more than a little different from the United States, or the Dominican Republic for that matter. For example, everyone there SPEAKS FRENCH! And they behave as if this is quite normal. When conversing together they will often speak French rapidly. I find this confusing. At that point the conversation becomes for me something like a soft wave of sibilant sound that rises gently over my head and then recedes, leaving me charmed, but none the wiser for whatever the speaker intended to mean. I can listen
For me, one of the real joys of traveling anywhere is discovering that my own preconceived idea of something is just wrong. This realization is like a bonus–I discover an interesting and true fact about the world and at the same time, if I’m paying attention I can also discern a surprising and true fact about myself. Since it’s all about me, this is very important and really, really interesting . You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?
That’s one more cool thing about my more honest friends–they often and inadvertently provide little windows into my soul, and generally from a novel perspective. On a particularly good day I reciprocate. Whooeee! Anyway, take it from me: if the opportunity presents itself, the way to visit France is in the company of a good friend. Even better if you can make the trip with an accomplished chef and stay in the homes of French friends who know and love their regional culture and cuisine and are enthusiastic about sharing.
Of course, I must have gained three kilos in five weeks. For those of you who are accustomed to think in terms of “pounds” or “ounces” rather than in “kilos” and “grams,” think “many.”
France may not be all or only about the food–and in fact it is not. But they certainly do have a food culture there. This culture begins with the production of food, and continues with its’ display, purchase, and preparation and in the enjoyment of meals in the home. Further, the French seem to also enjoy talking about the production, purchase, preparation and consumption of their meals and–truth be told, it makes for pretty interesting conversation. And memorable eating.
Driving in France
At least the French don’t make the same profound motoring mistake as the British and Japanese; they know upon which side of the road to drive. And it appears as though they have driving rules, and mostly everyone seems to follow them.
And they have traffic roundabouts. Oh, the French have roundabouts. They seem to prefer these traffic circles over “X-type” intersections. Once you get used to them, the roundabouts make a great deal of sense. I suppose somewhere there is a traffic economist who could tell us exactly how such a system saves petrol by eliminating a lot of stopping and starting. As for me, I just like the feeling of being a player in a seamless ballet of more or less constantly flowing traffic. Of course it is sometimes necessary to come to a stop before entering the circle, but more often you can easily take your place in the organic swirl that is the French roundabout and generally you can exit when desired. Failing a timely exit, one can always whirl around one more time. Life in France seems to be like that.
I don’t know where the French get their reputation for rudeness. Maybe from visiting New Yorkers? I certainly didn’t experience inordinate rudeness in France, even in the traffic circles.
We didn’t spend more than a few days in Paris, where I do seem to recall one driver glaring at me as I wandered distractedly against the light and into an intersection. Now that I think of it, drivers did honk at me on two occasions before I figured out what the wavy lines on the road mean, relative to who has the right-of-way at an “X-type” intersection. But I think those were self-defensive honks. They weren’t like the emotional bleats of gridlocked drivers on the beltway in Washington, nor did they resemble the jubilant blaring of traffic in Santo Domingo. In my experience, the French are polite, on the road and off.
In fact, my French friends are generous, and their generosity extends to the meta-level of sharing their own friends. And so we had a marvelous meal of cassoulet at the home of Marie François and Marie Francis, good friends of our hosts in Toulouse. This was followed a few days later by a somewhat larger party featuring an additional number of vibrant and attractive women, including our host, the wife of a chap named Jean Jacques. I had been forewarned that this party was perhaps not a place to try out my best French phrase (“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”) unless I was prepared to be taken seriously.
And so I was uncharacteristically reserved at this dinner. In fact I was tired. And it was late. And ten or twelve bottles of wine had been consumed (none by me). And ten or twelve people were speaking at once and I seemed to be the only one pretending to listen. And after a while, it was exactly as if a tumultuous ocean of French was repeatedly breaking over my head. I’m sure my eyes must have glazed over as my thoughts drifted away from the party and the table…the next thing I knew, our hostess was standing beside me and holding my hand. “Come with me upstairs,” she said enthusiastically, “we will play Babyfoot together!” With that, she pulled me to my feet and began to run through the living room towards the staircase leading to the upper floors. As I passed, I glanced at her husband, who shrugged and smiled and at the other guests who were only mildly interested and so I whooped and joined in the chase, if somewhat apprehensively as she lead me upstairs to an unknown destination and an uncertain fate.
We continued past the second floor and on to the attic where, prominently displayed, there was a professional model Foosball table. The table soccer game called Foosball, you may recall, was popular in homes and bars in the United States in the 1970’s and ‘80s. In France, Foosball is called “Babyfoot” and it seems to be enduringly popular. And so she and I warmed up our babyfootmen and then challenged all comers for the remainder of the evening. Although I was a distinct liability to our side, she played brilliantly and a good time was had by all.
A few weeks later found us visiting with Jacques and Eunice in their cabin high in the mountains near to Spain. Jacques and Eunice have a five year old son, Yahn. Yahn speaks French and understands but does not speak Spanish. He has no English.
Initially, Yahn did not like me, perhaps because I appeared to understand French selectively and speak it very badly. In any event, Yahn surprised me by taking a jab at me when his parents weren’t looking. I tried to joke and tease him into more civilized behavior, employing all three languages,but only succeeded in frustrating him more. Finally, he spit in my direction, which prompted me to take his little arm and firmly remonstrate with him in my own language, which seemed to translate pretty well on the occasion.
This made Yahn cry but, to his credit, he didn’t race off to rat me out to his parents. That’s when I decided that I like Yahn, and that I wanted him to like me. After that exchange he and I had a couple of awkward hours together until I discovered the Foosball table in the basement. It turns out that the kid is mad for Babyfoot, and so we played together.
Yahn cheats. I let him get away with it three out of five times (that I noticed) and then I also began to cheat. The first time that he caught me at it he smiled, and our relationship blossomed. We became a sort of brotherhood of Babyfoot ladrónes, with larceny as our common bond and Babyfoot points the common currency.
Over our next few days with the family it was not unusual for Yahn to quietly and unexpectedly appear in front of me, a beautiful curly-headed Franco-Dominican child with soft brown eyes, a slightly protruding lower lip, and in his quavering childish voice utter the single word we share in common, a word that contains both question and answer and all meaning in between, a word that I share with you now: “Babyfoot?”
Switzerland
Switzerland is a different story–also wonderful, but entirely different.
I could tell immediately when the high-speed train crossed over from France to Switzerland. France is tidy, but the Swiss vineyards look as though they’re pruned with a laser and the fences repainted early each morning. The mostly masonry homes are built of dressed stones that are uniformly laid, neatly pointed and surrounded by beds of colorful yet somehow disciplined flowers. Only later would I realize that these things are quite likely to be a matter of law and have probably been put to a vote of the people.
Switzerland is small. The nation is composed of quite distinct Cantons. There are four official languages in the country. It is politically, if not entirely culturally unified. It is fierce in any number of ways and it is unyieldingly democratic. It seems that the Swiss will vote on anything and legislate everything. Those traditions which are not legislated are enforced by very strong cultural norms. God help the driver who illegally moves a truck on a national holiday or the Swiss homeowner who fires up the power mower on Sunday, for example.
Perhaps that’s why the Swiss take such delight in Ass-bombs.
Some of you, I know, remember the liberating feeling of running head-long across the grass, building up a load of momentum before leaping with abandon into a pool of cold water while clutching your tucked-up knees in a vain attempt to empty the pool of water with a single gigantic splash.
Ass-bombs!! So much more fun than a cannonball.
Enjoy the rest of your summer and be sure to enjoy your ass-bombs and Babyfoots where- and whenever you may find them.