as shared at a PenTales event themed “Foreign Affairs”

Listen to the Story!

In the 1930s, just as the situation in Russia was seriously deteriorating under Stalin’s iron grip, Ella was 17 and studying at a Geneva university. The 1930s were difficult times for everyone. Ella’s parents were getting very worried for their family in Moscow. Ella’s little cousin Anna was born only a few years before the purges started, but they were getting less and less information out of the Soviet Union.

But Ella was young, and finally her life took over. That year she fell in love. His name was David and he came from Palestine. His parents had left Russia in the 1920s. After her studying was completed, she decided to follow David to Palestine. Her father was very much against it. He was increasingly preoccupied by the lack of news from his own brother, and he hated the idea of his younger daughter leaving Europe to go to another turbulent region. Palestine that year, 1934, was not calm. Churchill had just made a trip to the region – visiting Lebanon and Syria under the French rule, and touring Palestine. The visit coincided with a spate of night-time Arab attacks on Jewish villages, which often culminated in the destruction of orchards and crops – eliminating the livelihood of many Jews at the time.

But there was nothing anyone could do. Ella went to Palestine. Her daughter Alona was born in 1937 in Tel-Aviv. In 1939 Ella’s husband David enrolled in the British Army. He fought in the North Africa campaign, travelling all over the region, from the Libyan and Egyptian deserts, to Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. Whenever his regiment was moved and stayed closer to home, Ella and the baby would come and
stay with him, from Beirut to Cairo, Ella followed her husband. But most of the time Ella was feeling increasingly isolated. David was away, Alona was spending her first years without a father, and what’s worse, news of her family in Europe were scarce. She was worried sick about what was going on in Europe. Mail was censored, and rumours not encouraging.

As the war drew to a close, at the 1st opportunity in August 1945 Ella took Alona and got on the 1st ship, an English military ship going to Europe. They crossed the Mediterranean and eventually came back to Geneva to be reunited with the family. Ella had intended to only leave for the summer, little did she know though, they never made it back to Palestine.

David stayed in the army until 1948. For another 2 years after that he tried to convince Ella to come back. The thought of leaving her family again was too much, the taste of isolation that she didn’t want to experience ever again, the solitude that was too threatening for her to go back. She stayed in Geneva.
Alona grew up and became fascinated with her family history, drawing up family trees, and trying to connect all the dots. She quizzed her mother about her experiences and wanted to know all the little details about their travels with she was little.

After Alona’s grandfather died in 1966 there was no way to find out more about his brother in Russia. The family preferred not to talk about them anyway. The trauma was still very fresh, no news ever came after the war, so they had to assume that the family perished either in the gulags, or has fled the country. It was not an unusual story; they knew most people had lost contact with the relatives in Russia.
In March 2010 Alona received an email. She had forgotten all about this website she had joined a few years back, trying to unite all her half brothers and sisters on an internet genealogy page. The girl in the email told the story of Anna, her mother’s cousin. Alona couldn’t believe her eyes. The email told Anna’s story. When the war started, Anna and her mother were evacuated from Moscow. They went all the way to
Ufa, 1400 km SE of Moscow. They stayed there during the war, Anna only a teenager at the time, she signed up to go to university to study modern languages, helping her mother earn a little bit of money by doing chores every night. The conditions were terrible.

After the war they came back to Moscow, Anna’s father was alive, working at a university and trying to remain optimistic about the future. As well as Ella, Anna grew up knowing that she had cousins in Switzerland. Such an exotic location! And so far away! But she had no news, no way of getting in touch with them. With time, her memory faded and only upon the insistence of her grandchildren did she agree to write down the story of her life, with as many names and details. It was her granddaughter who eventually went on a genealogy website, to see whether stories about people being reunited after decades were true. This is one of those stories.

Ella is still alive, she is 97, Alona is 71. And Anna is 87. Anna is my grandmother

as shared at a PenTales event themed “Foreign Affairs”

Listen to the Story!

“I think it’s best if we adopt the “tracing paper” approach – that is, applying a sheet of tracing paper to your letter, and writing my answers on top. With one of those retractable pencils that are so satisfyingly beyond sharpening. That way you know what I’m responding to. Some people call it a conversation. Pedants.
Said approach will also highlight the extraordinary fact that, despite the continental gulf that separates us (not to mention that other chasm of age and status) we’re basically going about the same life, with a couple of “lifestyle detail” tweaks here and there.

Pixster!
Dave,
Did you not get my text when you were at the zoo? Yes yes and I was in full agreement. Serbia has pixular communication but not many readers of the Roman alphabet, as we discovered to our chagrin on many an occasion, largely when “reading” menus. International texting seems unreliable on the work phone; Australia’s fine, Spain doesn’t work, and now I learn that French numbers are no-go! Stop going to Spain, they are shouty; France works just fine.

Where to begin with so much news, for so much time has passed that I cannot even remember the last time we were in touch. Probably about March at birthday time, right? And have I yet posted your 2007 gift? No. It will hardly be a good example of topical humour now, will it?

So, news.
• I’ve had an office romance, which was great fun but not fulfilling.
• Not having an office it would be difficult for me to undertake romance or other in a desk environment, but I did have a terribly inappropriate fling which went on longer than technically allowed under the diktats of its nomenclature (less of a fling, more of a full, long-distance throw).. I thought I’d escape unscathed after 18 months, curiously I overestimated myself. I’m scathed. Not yet bitter but getting closer with my advancing age. What they say about French men is true; me of all people should have learnt this from my close observation of crudely drawn stereotypes in cinema but strangely I didn’t seem to be listening.
• Last week I went sailing with my one and only client, then to one of the most brilliant Glade Festivals ever. Lots and lots of sun and psytrance. Made better by having last week off work — summer bliss — and I am more brown than I have been in years. I had forgotten what peeling skin was like and I welcome it back with fondness! Failing to bag a pedalo on the large canal/basin that I live near we scored a ROWING boat last week when it was very hot, and followed that with a quick round of pétanque (boules). It was like acting out my 11 year fantasies as drawn by the Tricolor 2A textbook “Marie-Laure et Delphine font du sport à La Rochelle” where everyone is : in the 70s, French, and does water sports. I even had a pastis which vastly improved my game.
• Tomorrow I am going to put in an offer on my Pimlico pad. I’ve been waiting for the right moment since moving in two years ago, and it appears to have presented itself. It is just about feasible that I could be a proper grown up — with a mortgage and everything — by the time that turn 30. But my offer is somewhat lower than market rate. Like by £60k. I’m not holding my breath. I live outside the UK and think credit crunch is a cereal. I don’t even have a washing machine. You are evidently a grown-up. Congratulations! you held off and now it’s time. It’s SW, but hey, they are my initials, what can I really reproach you.
• On the subject of breathing, and in the spirit of my new-found almost-30 maturity, I am pleased to announce that I have given up smoking. Again. This marks the 4th giving up attempt in 10 years, but this time I’m serious: I keep reading statistics about people that give up before 30, so obviously I only have a few weeks of buffer before I hit the danger zone. I’ve got ages. I do yoga. My karma is buying me some extra oxygen for later, like a good hypocritical bourgeoise.
• I won a trip to Barbados. Wooo! But I have to go with colleagues. Booo. WOW. I will allow a WOW there. Did you win it on a gameshow? Please don’t ever inform me that you went on Countdown unbeknownst to me. Also, get a move on, Countdown’s being canceled very soon. Re : my recent holiday, polar bears aside it was supremely relaxing. Eerily so.
• Of the last 7 lottery tickets for which I have been present for their number checking / scratching, their bearers have won a total of £134. Unfortunately, I do not believe in the lottery so none of it is mine.
• For five days next month, some chums and I are renting a big house at edinburgh festival, and I’m then am going to the USA for a week. Comedy and plays, followed by rock and roll.
• Sandra the frog still lives on top of my computer.
I’d love to hear your news. If polar bears and voyages in eastern european countries are anything to go by then I am sure you will have far more exciting tales to tell than the relative trivialities of London life.
Paris trivialities are the same, they just taste better.
The belgrade zoo story with the toddlers poking the bears was brilliant.
And still happy in frog? Going to come back soon? Or where next on your international tour of residentialism?

…………………………………dave x

as shared at a PenTales event themed “Great Expectations”

Listen to the Story!

As an annually optimistic person – that is to say – I am optimistic in September, every year, and then I go back to being a negative, fatalistic person for the rest of the time. No September was more significant‐ it terms of new beginnings ‐ than that of 2005, when I graduated from University. It’s a funny time that period of your life, when you barely dare to expect things, let alone envisage them. I certainly had no idea what to expect. But then I hadn’t done any expectation homework either– I hadn’t ascertained where I was going to live what I was going to do, and quite what my new exciting adult life was going to consist of.

I was adrift in a sea of dynamic graduate vagueness and uncertainty. Then, somehow, I was offered the opportunity to go and work in La Réunion. Obviously, my response was, “what the hell is La Réunion?”
Once I’d come to terms with the fact that it was an island, that was in France, while also being in the middle of the Indian ocean not that far from Madagascar, then I set about planning to go to La Réunion with about 2 weeks notice and 200 pounds in the bank. I can tell you now that that is 2,800 pounds
and about 8 weeks short of what you actually need to successfully move to Reunion – as it’s called in English. During my 11 hour “domestic” flight there from Paris, somewhere in the middle, probably at about Sudan, I realized I’d been so busy emailing my friends about my brilliant new career in the tropics and chuckling about the fact that one of the major towns in Reunion is called Le Tampon – that I hadn’t
considered for a moment what I expected from the place.

On the plane I came up with three crude and highly generalized assumptions:
EXPECTATION N° 1:
“Réunion will look like India.” Now I say that out loud it sounds a bit naïve, a bit like those stupid 15th
century Portuguese explorers who were obsessed with finding India and who, when arriving anywhere, be it Macao or Brazil thought it was probably India. My assumption was made of course, from everyone’s favourite geographical aid: Google maps. Now Google maps was still pretty basic in 2005, but Réunion
was there, a tiny speck in the southern Indian Ocean, so I zoomed in on it, anticipating a volcano and jungle montage resembling the opening scenes of Jurassic Park – which was actually filmed in Costa Rica – but that’s by the by. Problem is, once you zoomed in, the island looked like it had been pixellated to
conceal its identity: there was no evidence of the landscape whatsoever. So, with nothing to go on, like my Portuguese forefathers – if in doubt, expect India.

I won’t insult the islands extraordinary natural beauty by trying to sum it up in a pithy sentence but I will give you an idea of some major features :
1. The place with the highest annual recorded rainfall of anywhere, ever, is to be found in the centre of Reunion … as well as
2. One of the most active volcanoes in the world, which is twinned with Hawai
3. There’s also an art deco minaret in the centre of town, France’s oldest mosque
4. and everyday, awe‐inspiring traffic jams at the motorway exits for the many huge Carrefour supermarkets

EXPECTATION N°2:
“I will be a warmly‐welcomed, celebrity foreigner and probably the only white person on the island.”
I don’t think I need to elaborate; this expectation was the most inaccurate by far.

Unimpressed by quaint postcards of my hometown, by my poster of the British Isles and by my haphazard description of a constitutional monarchy – people would often nod sagely before asking, “Do you live near the Eiffel tower?”. You should have seen their faces when I told them I’d been in it on holiday – in fact, I’d stood on the very top of it. These people, whose passports are issued here, in this France – not their France‐ their eyes clouded over when I talked about Jacques Chirac or the European Union. They’d heard of those things but never really touched them. Not that I’ve touched Jacques Chirac, either, but you know what I mean. At first glance, many people in Reunion actually thought I was a visiting French civil servant. It was when I was scraping the human faeces off my hire car that someone had deposited there, during my first week on the island– that I realized that being French from this France – not their France, was, apparently not a good thing. After that, I carried a small, laminated photo of David Beckham in my handbag as a visual aid with which to ward off further ethnic violence.

EXPECTATION N°3:
“Teaching in a school will probably be as boring as my recollection of learning in one”

I was going to Réunion teach English in a French Collège and a Lycée; I really hadn’t put much thought into the nature of the job – I expected that trying to enthuse teenagers about very basic English grammar and vocabulary would be, at best, repetitive and not particularly challenging. Again, I was wrong. Certain moments in my lessons left my eyebrows raised for minutes at a time, that’s when they weren’t forced down low into frowns of incredulity at what I’d just heard. Unsurprisingly, my students taught me more than I taught them, and they’d be well within their rights to ask for their money back as far as my pedagogical services were concerned. I learnt from my final year students that because of the Vichy hangover from the 2nd World War, an anonymous police hotline would never work in France. because people still bear the psychological scars of what’s known as the “denunciation” of thousands of Jews during the occupation. When I challenged this – when I outlined the utility of having totally anonymous and official channels through which citizens could contribute useful and potentially life‐saving information – I came up against a wall of incomprehension from my students. Thousands of miles and at least two generations from the second world war, the lingering cultural stigma of that brief period of betrayal , had still managed to permeate the consciousness of my pupils. But it was my youngest class – in fact ‐ that taught me about expectations and what they mean.

I had organized for my class in Reunion to exchange letters with Penpals in London and I’d asked each student to write a letter to introduce themselves. The basics: my name is… I have two sisters …. my favourite subject is … After 5 minutes, the smallest, shyest girl in the class walked to my desk and
handed me her letter, silently. She’d written two lines, perhaps three at the most. I suggested that, to complete her letter, why not write a sentence or two about Réunion, to explain about where she lived to British children‐ who wouldn’t know the place. She looked up at me curiously, through eyelashes, thick, like baby moths. She frowned slightly, struggling to understand exactly what I wanted from her. I made it simpler : “Write about why you like living in Reunion” I said.
Ten minutes of penmanship later, she came back. I read the addendum to her letter aloud, it said:

“I live in Reunion.
I like Reunion because Reunion has everythings. Reunion has Pineapples and the volcano and the beach.
Does England have Everythings?
Please reply soon,
Love from Delphine.”

Her mouth made a little bud, the beginning of a smile and I could see that her widened eyes were asking me if the amended version of her letter was ok? If Delphine was expecting pineapples and volcanoes and reef—fringed beaches… Well, then no, England really doesn’t have everythings.

as shared at a PenTales event themed “Royalty”

Listen to the Story!

Alright, Princess ? Gurgled the man as he shifted his weight and pressed his upper body
against the bar, a roll of man-boob spilling onto its surface, trapping a coaster.
“Naav another pint of lager?” Chantal, with an irritated but almost imperceptible flick of her
eyelashes snatched a pint glass from the shelf under the bar and held it at an angle under
the tap. As beer flowed calmly and silently into it, and condensation began to collect on the
outside, this man was annoying her. Usually Chantal was very tolerant of her customers. She
had to be; they got all sorts coming into the King’s Arms. But this guy was somehow worse
than all the rest. Perhaps it was his particularly potent combination of sweat and obnoxious
banter. Perhaps it was the fact that he supported Arsenal – very vocally, for that matter.
Perhaps Chantal found it particularly odious that this man was here, again, drunk out of his
mind at two in the afternoon right when Chantal wanted to sit down and file her nails with a
cup of tea and heat magazine and radio one turned up like on a normal day.
“Thank you princess,” growled the customer with an overly facial wink that revealed an
unhealthily brown row of bottom teeth. “You know,” cooed Chantal, with an arch in her
eyebrow and a conspiratory lult to her voice, “You really must stop calling me Princess.”
She leant forward, “You’ll put me in danger.”
“Eh?” said the man, smacking his lips after an open-mouthed gulp of his beer.
“Yeah,” breathed Chantal, “No one’s supposed to know about me being a princess.”
The customer grinned and let out an unbelieving “Phrrffff!” as he glanced left and right, as
if seeking agreement from imaginary peers.
“I’m serious” Chantal pressed on with her fairy tale. “I’m here as a cover, for my own
protection. See those fellas by the door?” She pointed at a hulking figure devouring a
ploughman’s lunch, as his associate leaned back and read the paper. “They’re Swiss Guard
and licensed to kill.”
The man’s eyes grew wide and he set down his beer, remembering the scowls they had
given him earlier. He felt uneasy. One of them looked a hell of a lot like some chap he had
sold a stolen car to the other week. Could that be him? And what about all those other little
business transactions that had taken place in the pub, under the watchful eyes of goodness
knows whom?
Deciding he should make a quick getaway while he still had the chance, Chantal’s most
annoying customer staggered away from the bar as she watched with a smug grin. He was
doing terribly well with the help of a few chairs on route. Finally he made it to the door,
grasping the brass handle between clammy fingers. And then, without the least bit of grace,
he staggered forward and fell back, into the King’s Arms

as shared at the PenTales event themed “Borders”

When I first decided I was going to move to New York for some amount of time, which was by complete and utter dumb coincidence shortly after Meira (my girlfriend) decided she was going to NY, and after my dreams of being a garbage-man were shattered by the harsh truck-driving experience requirements of reality, I made sure to arm my self with the lowest possible expectations, really they were more like apprehen-tations.
The credit for intentional and intensive negative anticipation goes largely to my brother Nati and his sage advice. Among his pearls of wisdom were: don’t get in a car with Ouriel Hassan, try eating veggi burgers with a slice of cheese in a bagel- both of which I eventually discovered on my own to be completely on the money, and finally, and oddly regularly, don’t ever ever EVER go to New York. It’s cold and dirty and just plain awful.
So, bracing myself for what I had been informed, and then re-informed was a terrible decision I packed up my (read his old) winter clothes and I made sure to leave behind any laughter or optimism, which would obviously be of no use to me in my new and purely evil environment. I even decided I would write a blog and came up with a clever name for it: The Grass is Less Green on the Other Side, which I totally patted myself on the back for and used as a joke whenever I could bring it up in conversation (kind of like right now). Anyway, fully prepared, I trudged out to the airport and braced myself for the worst.
I also kept in mind my dad’s advice, which consisted mainly of stories about how everyone in New York is a violent criminal and I should shank the biggest guy I see on the first day or else I would never survive.
Well it has been almost a few months now and the truth is, I still haven’t written that blog entry. Now is that because the bleak soul-crushing despair of this place has completely pulped me of any motivation to do anything at all? Is it just plain laziness?
Maybe, or maybe it is because NYC just isn’t that bad, arguably not that bad at all. Sure, the first thing I saw when I got to the Heights was a lady defecating in the street, and sure stuff costs more, and sometimes the subway has a mystery smell and the sun has become more an abstract symbol of warmth than an actual provider thereof. BUT the truth is that the snow is beautiful! And in the summer people stayed up late and played dominoes and loud fun music outside and now babies get to ride in cool little VIP plastic stroller bubbles, and I found a big cool Gumby doll in my apartments recycling bin and the very EXISTENCE of the subway is so awesome and convenient. And I’m sure there are lots of really cool stuff out there which I am finding bit by bit.
Now I often say that all places seem pretty much the same to me; and in many ways that is still true, but in a place so basically physically different, those differences become much harder to ignore and, hopefully, easier to appreciate.
As I type this from my messily written half-sheet of paper, it suddenly occurs to me that the Washington Heights movie theater might provide a surprisingly good analogy. From the outside you would swear never to set foot in the place, you would question whether movies indeed show there at all. You might just, if you never did go inside, conclude instead that someone just put a lot of thought into keeping names of movies up to date and assembling reasonable looking times for what was clearly some sort of dark seedy home all sorts of “criminal underbelly” sort of activities. You might even construct an even more elaborate, unnecessarily complex and completely unlikely scenario involving an intricate web of crime and intrigue involving secret codes hidden in movie postings on broken down buildings that probably were never even movie theaters at ANY point.
BUT if you DID go inside, you would see a really charming interior, with nice decorating and comfortable chairs; and sure, the guy told us we couldn’t go in yet, but then didn’t let us know when it was time to go in as we heard the movie start, and it was weird that the urinals were filled with ice (be careful by the way, you WILL spray yourself with your own freezing urine). But the movie was nice and they let us stay while it started over again and the price was very reasonable.
In other words, the grass may be in an actual technical sense less green or alive, or extant in general, but when you cross borders its important not to hold on to the criteria from your old context. You have to appreciate a place, like anything else, on its own terms and chances are there is more than enough there to appreciate.

as shared at a PenTales event themed “Borders”

Just be strong. Get in there, do it, and get out. Nice and quick, like a band-aid. Just be strong. Be strong. BE STRONG! George was thinking so hard he was mouthing the words without realizing. He was pacing in the corridor outside his sociology professor’s office, waiting to be called in for his appointment. He’d practiced what he was about to say many times on the way over, and about thrice more while pacing. I’ve decided that your class, though it’s a great class, is not what I’m looking for this semester, so please give me permission to drop it. George prayed that Professor Wingblatt wouldn’t ask why. I don’t want to lie, but how to you tell a teacher his voice makes you want to run around banging your head into things?
“I’m ready, come on in!” The professor’s voice came from the office, sounding as nasal as ever.
“Hi, Professor Wingblatt,” George said as he closed the door behind him and headed for one of the chairs opposite the already seated professor. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Jonathan,” the professor honked. “How are you doing?
George fought back the urge to correct the name. Hopefully this is the last time I’ll talk to him anyway.
“I’m good, thanks. I just wanted to –“
“I’m glad you’re here, Jonathan. I wanted to commend you on your participation in yesterday’s lesson.”
“Yeah, thank you. Very much. I actually wanted to talk to –“
“You’re welcome. You know, often I get the feeling that youngsters these days don’t want to learn. They go to college because everybody else does, and they try to just coast through. Do you know what I mean, Jonathan?
“Yeah. I do, but –“
“And then someone like you comes along and contributes to the class discussion the way you do and restores my faith in today’s young. It is a pleasure to have you in my class.”
“Thank you, professor.” Crap. If I leave his class he’s going to be depressed for sure. He might start crying in this office. I don’t want to have to deal with that.
“You wanted to ask me something, Jonathan?”
“Uh, no. I mean, well, yeah. But – um.” George let out a sigh. “When is the next reading due?”
“Ah Jonathan. Always trying to stay ahead.” Professor Wingblatt beamed. “The next reading is due in three weeks, on the 20th.”
“The 20th. Got it, thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Jonathan, see you Tuesday.”
George got up to leave and opened the door when an unignorable voice shouted at him, “Be strong, you wuss!” George closed the door again and turned around.
“Actually, there’s something else.”
“Yes?” Professor Wingblatt put down the letter opener he had picked up and trained his eyes on George’s.
George sat back down. “Well, first of all,” What the hell? “It’s George, not Jonathan. My name is George.”
“Really? The professor pulled the class roster out of a drawer and scanned the list of names. “Oh yes, there you are. George. George. Very good.”
“Right.” The small victory had George feeling confident. “And also, what I actually came in here to say is… are you alright?” George noticed that the professor’s eyes had gotten suddenly red and he was clenching his jaw.
“I’m fine. It’s just that I have a cat named Georgie. And he he’s very sick. I think he’s dying!” And with that, the professor had his head in his arms on the desk and started sobbing. Loud, ear splitting sobs, each of which sounded like a complete flock of seagulls.
You’ve got to be kidding me! A dying cat named Georgie? What are the odds? George marveled at how badly this meeting was going. He definitely didn’t want to still be in Wingblatt’s office, watching the bawling professor, still enrolled in the class. He watched for a minute, waiting for the sobbing sounds to go down.
“Professor?”
Professor Wingblatt snapped up, rapidly wiping his eyes with a handkerchief he pulled from his jacket pocket.
“I’m so sorry, Jonathan, there’s no excuse for that. I – oh! I got it wrong again! It’s not Jonathan anymore, is it? It’s…”
George saw the professor’s eyes begin to well up again and cut in. “It’s alright, professor. Jonathan is fine.” After receiving a nod of thanks from the professor, George continued, “Professor, I’ve decided that your class, though it is a great class, isn’t what I’m looking for this semester, so…“ George hesitated, then looked down at the professor’s desk and continued, “So please give me permission to drop it.”
George did not enjoy the silence that followed. He determinedly avoided the professor’s eyes by focusing on all the different baubles decorating his desk, one at a time.
“Why?” Professor Wingblatt’s voice broke the silence after about a minute.
Stick to the script. “It’s just not what I’m looking for this semester.” George glanced up at the professor’s face, which currently displayed an expression what wouldn’t be out of place on a little boy who had just been told Christmas was canceled. “It doesn’t fit in my schedule,” he added.
Professor Wingblatt’s eyes drooped. “I see.” His chin rested on his chest and he seemed unlikely to move from that position for a long time.
George felt bad. He knew he wasn’t responsible to stay in the class just to make the professor happy, but he also realized that he was the only person who could allay the professor’s current sadness. Be strong, wuss!
“Well, I better go. Thanks.”
George waited a moment for a response, but then left the room without receiving one. I’m sure he’ll get over it soon enough. He gave a slight nod and smile to a pacing student he passed in the hallway, waiting to meet with the professor. He was already feeling relieved at not having to hear the professor’s voice again. That feeling only increased when, as he was turning the corner at the end of the hall, he heard that familiar honk, ”I’m ready, come on in!”
Yeah, he’s fine.

as shared at a PenTales event themed “Borders”

Watch Danny tell his story on Youtube!

Finally, time for a smoke.  Jack reached into his jacket pocket as he walked down the street away from the restaurant.  His three-hour dinner with Marcus had been pleasant enough, but it was a long time not to have a cigarette.  Usually, in the span of three hours, Jack would take at least two cigarette breaks, but not tonight.  He had told Marcus that he had quit shortly after high school, when Marcus left for Chicago, and he wanted to maintain that illusion, at least for as long as Marcus was in New York.  Unfortunately that also meant that Jack had to be cigarette free for at least an hour before he saw Marcus on account of the latter’s super sensitive sense of smell.  Today Marcus had met him at work and walked with him to the restaurant, so Jack was smoke-free for about 5 hours.  Holy crap, that’s a long time.
Jack felt bad about deceiving Marcus.  They usually told each other everything, which was probably why they remained such good friends all these years despite the distance.  Jack hadn’t lied when he told Marcus that he quit smoking.  He really had quit shortly after high school.  He just didn’t tell him that he started smoking again shortly after that.  He didn’t keep it from Marcus out of embarrassment or shame; those feelings didn’t exist in their friendship.  He knew that if he told Marcus, Marcus would never stop reminding him how dangerous and stupid of an addiction smoking is.  It would be high school all over again.  Jack loved Marcus dearly as a friend, but that was one part of Marcus he could do without.
Jack just about reached the corner when he stopped abruptly.  Where the hell are they?  He was certain he left his cigarettes in the left pocket of his jacket, but he currently found it completely empty, save for some lint.  He compulsively checked every corner of the pocket, and then proceeded to check the right pocket and both breast pockets.  When they yielded no cigarettes, he patted all of the pockets in his pants – front and back – to check for the familiar rectangular bulge.  He then went back to the jacket pockets and repeated the search.  I could’ve sworn I put them right…
Damn.
Jack wheeled around and ran back to the restaurant, where Marcus had just succeeded in hailing a cab and was crouching to get in
“He’ll take the next one,” Jack told the driver as he pulled Marcus out of the car.  He glared at Marcus as the cab drove away.  “Give them to me.”
Marcus looked Jack very plainly in the eyes.  “No.”
“What? What do you mean, ‘No?’  They’re mine.  They belong to me.  Give them back.”
“No.  I can’t do that for you.”
“You can’t do that for –“
“I don’t see why you need them.  You quit.”  Marcus produced the cigarettes from his own jacket pocket and gripped them tightly with his left hand.  “You told me you quit.  Years ago.”
“You’re upset that I didn’t tell you I was smoking again?  You’re punishing me for not telling you? That’s –“

Jack noticed that he was to shout and, wanting to avoid making a scene on this busy street, lowered his voice to slightly below normal conversation level before continuing.  “That’s ridiculous.  Grow up.  Give me my cigarettes.”

“They’re dangerous.  They’ll kill you.  Plus,” Marcus continued after a pause, “you never said please.”

Instead of using his works, Jack decided to lunge at Marcus’ left hand, grabbing for the cigarettes.  Instinctively, Marcus extended his hand as far as he could away from Jack, into the street, successfully hailing another cab.

Jack didn’t have time to control the volume of his voice this time, and shouted, “He’s not going anywhere!” to the cabby, who smiled apologetically (if not a little defensively), nodded, and drove off.

Jack, acutely aware of the attention he and Marcus were getting from everyone on the street, took a moment to compose himself, a moment of which Marcus took advantage.  Already leaning halfway out into the street, Marcus noticed a sewer drain directly under where he was standing.  With an architect’s precision, he released the pack of cigarettes and both he and Jack watched them disappear below the street’s surface.

For about thirty seconds, neither of the two men spoke.  They just stood side by side, staring at the sewer drain that had just claimed the source of their latest scuffle.

“You suck,” Jack said.

Marcus nodded unapologetically.

“You know I can just buy another pack,” Jack said.

“Yeah.”

“You know I’m going to buy another pack.”  Jack said.

“Mm hm.”

“You want to grab a beer?”

Jack’s Ciggies, by Danny Hoffman

as read at a PenTales event themed “Royalty”

Once upon a time there were three queens in three kingdoms far, far away. The first, Amaleia, the queen of the land of dust, was queen by birthright, due to the lack of male sibling and so on. The second, Veronicaleda, the queen of the waterways, had been married to the king at 12 years old and acquired her title by marriage. The third, Evasingua, whose husband, the eldest son of the holy kingdom of Vulcania’s royal family, had passed away on their wedding night, had been reigning supreme in the Land of Vulcanic fire for 20 years.

One day the three queens met at a polo match, the traditional precursor to war between their kingdoms. Amaleia and Evasingua exchanged hard, stone cold glances across the table, whereas Veronicaleda, started sweating, flustered and looking up and down the long table, searchingly trying to catch the only other two females’ eyes. When Amaleia, queen of dust, finally caught the insignificant ‘married to the royal’ eyes, she wrinkled her forehead while trying to decipher what that wife of one of her arch-enemy was trying to mouth. She sent forth her trusted servant to relay the message and whence he, Jean- Baptiste- a handsome young pleb- returned with a message from queen Veronicaleda, smirking slightly, she couldn’t quite believe the words from his mouth.
Breaking with the interest of the diplomatic entente, Amaleia sent Jean-Baptiste to relay the same messge to Evasingua. Shortly after, during half-time, when the menfolk would go to smoke shishas in the man/harem tent, Amaleia, Evasingua and Veronicaleda each took a different path to the women’s bath. One they found themselves in private, Veronicaleda spoke up first: Thank you so much, fellow queen sisters, for coming to my help. In all the years as queen has never such embarrassing thing happened at an outdoor event. You must understand, it is my lunar bloodbath, and I have come unprepared!
Worry not, Veronicaleda, said Evasingua, as queen by birthright/dead king, I have been able to surround myself with female guards that do not my husband serve (him being dead and all), which means they are free from contamination of the seed. I have been able to use my cunning female slaves to come up in unison with a handy tool, to not stain
official thrones and such at the lunar bloodbath.
Amaleia, feeling her internal guard slowly coming down and relaxing, also started speaking the familiar tone. Yes indeed, I have been able to call upon scientists in my land to sort out these monthly inconveniences. I however, have also found that there is strength in the changes in body and mind during these times. Let us not waste time here, without calling on suspicions of the menfolk and the kings- Evasingua, do you have a spare contraption to aid Veronacaleda on you? Good, so that should be fine. I am intrigued however at what powers of sisterhood this has called forth.
I suggest we shall make secret meetings and communications to inquire and invest in this new form of dialogue, less bloodthirsty and war-like behaviour in these baths than I ever encountered. It is as if we have forgotten our warring histories and have leveled ourselves, despite different heritage and power…
From that day forth, the three queens would send carrier pigeons with messages, oft complaining of the unfair treatment that was even bestowed upon queens themselves due to their gender and biology.
Why was it that only male children were to become heirs of the throne?
Why was it that in these circumstances, women often killed their newborn daughters?
Why was it that their female servants were ‘made love to’ against their will by the menfolk of the palace and court?
Why was it that as women in their courts they were made to wear things that wer uncomfortable –almost to faint-to appear slim and waif-like, whilst their husbands and male courtiers were proudly wearing their big bellies?
Secret meetings between the queens become more frequent as well, to discuss these issues and plan a secret revolution of female rights and equality. But it was not to be, one of their meetings was found out by the kings of the kingdoms surrounding the land of dust, the land of Vulancia and the land of waterways. And these kings made a pact,
treason against all man-folk in the 5 kingdoms of the Salome region was to be the crime,
punishable by the worst of all fates…

Expulsion. By forces far greater than had ever been summoned the 3 queens were
banished never to return, to a land so far away; no one in the civilized world could point
it out on the common land-maps.

This place, more magical than anyone imagined, was what is now known to the world as New York city. And where exactly can you find their imprint, that these queens made so long, long ago? They settled in a wonderful place and proceeded to name it-after themselves: Queens. So if you ever manage to venture there, make sure to look out for
their descendents…a common tribe called the Drag Queens, bound by the force of sisterhood through the ages, not lunar bloodbaths or weakness of spirit. Most venerated in glittering clothing, with voices like angels, celebrated, adored and, if legend holds true, the secret rulers of the modern world.

With the necessity and legitimacy of international borders now established by God (as we have seen in PART ONE), it is a logical next step to conclude that international borders are also a moral idea, as strange as it may seem to some.  Yet despite its seeming strangeness, this is not a hard or difficult thing to conclude, for since God is perfectly holy (Isaiah 6:3), anything he establishes has moral authority behind it.

Since the idea of international borders is a moral thing, it is therefore worth our time to take a look behind the idea of a border to know what should exist there.  A border is simply a barrier that separates two things that are different and distinct, and an international border is no exception to this, for it separates two distinct nations or peoples.  A look into what is to be distinctive about the nations thus separated is therefore in order, and once again the Scriptures shed their light upon the subject.

The first point of note regarding this issue is that God set a very definitive border around His people Israel (Numbers 34:3-12), which tells us that borders between nations should be clearly defined and maintained in order to fulfill the role God has ordained for them.  It is from this thought that we proceed to the heart of today’s discussion, which is to take note of what was different on the Israelite side of the border from that of its neighbors (beyond the obvious point of geography).

Were one to cross into ancient Israel from a neighboring land, it would immediately be noticed that there had been an abrupt change of language, for the Israelites spoke Hebrew – something that made them distinct in their region.  This should be not at all surprising, for in reality the first border was that of language (as we have already seen in our prior look into the incident at Babel in Genesis 11), and it had continued as a natural border ever since that time and even until today.

The second thing that would be noticed is that Israel had a distinct system of law, which for the Hebrews was the Law of Moses, and this law applied to everyone within their borders, whether native-born or otherwise (Exodus 12:49).  When you entered Israel, you were subject to her laws regardless of your nation of origin.

Finally, it would be noticed that Israel was distinct in its culture, and so some thoughts on the idea of culture are needed in order to properly understand the issue.  Culture has at its root cult, which signifies the idea of worship.  Culture, then, is the shared worship of a people; in Israel, this was the worship of Jehovah (Exodus 20:3).  In essence, therefore, the borders of Israel stood as a sentry behind which were protected the Israelite language of Hebrew, the Israelite Law of Moses, and the Israelite worship of Jehovah.

Whenever there is a difference, therefore, in the language, law or culture of a people or nation, an international border should exist between them, and that border should stare out against the world as the stern and ready sentinel of protection for the language, law and culture that lies behind it.  Anyone who does not respect those differences enters at their own peril.

Stay tuned, as the next installment will discuss the issue of cultural superiority and inferiority, and put to bed the ridiculous notion of multiculturalism that so pervades our modern thinking.

So profoundly muddled is today’s thinking regarding the issue of international borders that I find it necessary to bring some Scriptural firepower to bear upon it, and so today I launch a four-part series dedicated to the subject.  Our first look into the fog will be to discuss the need for many separate and sovereign nations.

Contrary to what the evolutionists and secularists among us say, humanity is not perfectible, but rather is infected with the nature of sin, as any realistic look at planet Earth will immediately show.  Naturally enough, the Bible calls this the sinful nature (Romans 7:5-25; 8:4-13), and the tendency of the sinful nature is always to lead humanity toward Hellish thought and activity.  When left unchecked, this sinful nature will literally cause life on Earth to resemble Hell, and so must in some manner be governed (limited).

For instance, after the Fall and the introduction of the sinful nature (Genesis 3) it took humanity about 1700 years to force a holy God to hit the reset button on planet Earth, which He did through the Flood (Genesis 6-8).  This pre-Flood era was marked as a time of anarchy, during which the sinful nature of humanity was allowed to exist without the limitation of human government, and the notorious results of this are repudiated by God in Genesis 6:5 as follows: The LORD saw how great man’s wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time.  Not too good, all things considered.

In order to keep the pre-Flood conditions of wholesale human violence and wickedness from recurring, when the eight remaining human beings exited the ark after the Flood, God instituted the idea of human government by way of capital punishment (Genesis 9:6), and then commanded the survivors to take this idea of human government with them to the far reaches of the planet (Genesis 9:7).  But the sinful nature must corrupt everything with which it comes in contact, and the idea of human government was no exception, for it took a mere century for humanity to find itself limited to living only in Mesopotamia under the boot heel of a one-world government run by the charismatic hero Nimrod, who despised the will of God (see Genesis 10:8-12; 11:1-6).

It did not take God long to act, and in the famous incident at Babel (Genesis 11:7-9) He so confused the languages of humanity that He effectively caused the immediate spread and separation of humanity into at least several dozen different groups (if this was done at the family level, as seems obvious from Genesis 10).  The result of such a separation and spreading of humanity by God would have resulted in many separate and sovereign nations over time, and so we must look into the reasons why God has a preference for the idea of many nations and their attendant governments rather than for a singular government over all of humanity.

The answer lies primarily with the idea of freedom, and so we must take some time to discuss this idea and its origins.  Freedom calls to humanity because we are beings created in God’s image (Genesis 1:26,27), and God is a perfectly free Being, which makes freedom (existing without constraints upon conduct) our natural state.  But because of the sinful nature we are not to be allowed complete freedom, but rather must be limited in our conduct to a certain degree.  This limiting is what is known as government, and it is therefore vitally important to understand that even though human government is necessary, it is also the natural enemy of human freedom.  Every ability of government thus comes at the price of a freedom once known to its people, and so if government were to grow too strong, all freedom would eventually be lost, for a government not properly shackled will always naturally grow to the point where it completely shackles its people.

The first Divine shackle placed upon the idea of human government was that of ensuring the existence of many separate and sovereign nations, for centralized government will eventually always enslave its people.  If there is only one government, all human freedom will soon be lost.  If there are many governments, human freedom has a greater chance of surviving and even flourishing, for the spread of totalitarianism can be checked by the existence of a stout border, and even destroyed by those of other nations who understand the nature of its threat.  In short, nations hold other nations accountable to the idea of freedom, thereby ensuring its existence.

If there is but one nation and one government, all will be losers.  If there are many nations, there will be winners and losers, but freedom will survive and even quite possible thrive, especially when people that love and export freedom arise from the mix of nations (1 Kings 10: 1-25).

The maison rouge was neither a house nor red. It was a hotel painted in a powdery, pastel green that rubbed off like chalk on your fingers.

And the soot from chimneys and the exhaust of the endless stream of cars that choked the narrow Rue St. Jacques had gently dusted it layer upon layer, day after day, year after year, until finally from a distance the color of the first three floors resembled the deep black earth of a freshly plowed field through which a profusion of bright, tender green growth had suddenly sprouted. Only behind the shutters, which were thrown open to the light of each day, was something of the original color preserved in the angel-like wings that were revealed each evening when the shutters were pulled tight against the night.

But despite its sainted appearance, the old hotel was named for the hope of lives that never came to be. Mr. Stratos Caramanos had inherited it from an uncle who had died in the 1970s, and from the day he and his wife and daughter left Greece aboard a Balkan freighter bound for France, their only thought was of the minimum years of investment it would take to step out from under it, to buy a house in the Midi, and paint it the pastel red with cobalt blue shutters his wife so loved and still have enough left over to raise some sheep and dabble in wine. And it was for that dream they toiled, serving the lowly laborers who had come from the countryside where the lack of work had gradually driven them off the land. Many were from the south and their accents danced gayly like young, pent-up country girls at the bal musettes. Like the Caramanos, most had come with no intentions of staying. They hoped only to bridge the bad times until they could return home again. So they lived low, using only what they needed and sending back the rest.

There was credit at the bar and Mrs. Angelica Caramanos prepared the meals with a flair for simplicity. And their daughter Eleni moved among the men crowded at the tables in the back, serving out plates of lamb roasted on a spit that smelled of lemon and desert flower and subtle things snatched from a Mediterranean life. Mother and daughter tucked the sheets with care and culled pensées from the window boxes and left them in small vases on their writing tables so the men would feel a little nearer to home. Because like the Caramanos, they had cast themselves onto uncertain seas and had only one another on which to rely. And like the Caramanos, they saw generosity of spirit as a basic ingredient of anyone’s daily bread.

Still many of the men found themselves scraping simply to cover the cost of the pension, with little or nothing left to put into a postal check. And men who had never wanted to sink roots in a city that made them feel like illegal immigrants in their own country, were slowly being cut off from the worlds that had nurtured them. For some, their lives took on a sort of permanent impermanence, hovering somewhere between their graying dreams and the realization that perhaps destiny had never imagined a better world for them. And in their eyes Mr. Caramanos caught glimpses of the cold nature of fate as night after night they nursed glasses of uzo-like pastis and spread their stories on the counter as though considering their last bits of change. Mr. Caramanos knew that those who inhabited his rooms were no different from himself. He had just been lucky. And yet he could not help but wonder where their dreams had diverged from their will to shape them.

Unlike his uncle, Mr. Caramanos was not born to business. His father had been a shepherd and as his father’s son he yearned for the unspokenness of solitude and open space. But he was no fool and knew also the bondage and poverty of his father’s life. To Mr. Caramanos, his uncle’s offer from the grave was nothing other than the offer of a freedom he had never even dreamed of. And though he saw very clearly his own good fortune, as the years went by he grew restless for the day when he would be released from his indentured servitude. He might scrape the head off of a demi with a spatula and set the dripping beer on a coaster in front of a customer, and glance up to find himself suddenly standing beneath a vine-covered trellis sagging with grappa fruit, gazing out across the flat, windblown nothingness that shimmered beneath a grinding sun, sweat running down his brow like olive oil as he stared at his little piece of the world with the hunger of a man for a woman. It would come so close, so quickly that he had to shake himself out of it, sometimes with crescents of tears rimming his eyes for such moments were like a brush with death.

Been waiting on a book to go on sale, have a book idea for Father’s Day?! Head on over here, click on the “like” button, and then click on the “This Week” tab to snag a coupon good for 50% off any one item at Borders valid today (May 25th) only. Use this coupon for an in-store purchase (either print it or show it on your mobile device) or the coupon can be used online. Limit one coupon code or promo per customer; valid at U.S. Borders, Borders Express, and Waldenbooks stores and at Borders.com until 11:59 PM PT today.

DON’T FORGET TO GO THROUGH SHOPATHOME TO SCORE 6% CASH BACK!!

* Fine Print: Not valid at store closing sales. Coupon excludes Borders Rewards Plus memberships, previous purchases, special orders, shipping, gift cards, coupon books, newspapers, magazines, comics, toys, games, puzzles, stuffed animals, used merchandise, textbook rentals, audiobook downloads, music downloads, vinyl LPs, Rosetta Stone® software, tax software, video games, all electronics (including eReaders), eReader Protection Plan Packs, and certain eBooks (see the Details section on the applicable eBook product page on Borders.com to determine if excluded), as well as posters, arts & crafts, and scrapbooking items purchased online.

If you are heading into the Borders’ store with your 50% off any item ( instead of shopping online as I mentioned here + free shipping & cash back) … Be sure to grab a drink at the Cafe!!

Print a coupon for 50% off any one large Cafe Beverage at Borders. You’ll need a Borders card to use this coupon. If you don’t have one, you can sign up for free here.

This coupon is valid through May 23, 2011.

If you have had your eye on anything at Borders, now is the time to shop!  Now through May 23rd, you can get 50% off of one item, free shipping and even earn 6% cash back on your purchase!  How?  First of all, you will want to use the code BLP2566Y at checkout and save 50% off of one item.

You can also get your order shipped for FREE when you go through ShopRunner.  I’ve mentioned this site several times, but if you are new, I’ll fill you in on the details.  ShopRunner is a membership service that offers free shipping to various merchants.  Not only that, they offer free returns (which is the feature I love the most).  If you shop very often on-line, you can actually save money by getting free shipping.  Right now, you can try it for free for 30 days.  Head to ShopRunner and sign up and give it a try!

You can also earn 6% cash back on your purchase if you go through ShopAtHome to shop.  Not only that, if this is your very first purchase through ShopAtHome you will earn $5 as well.  This is a great way to earn money when you shop at your favorite retailers.

Here are the exact steps to follow to get the best deal:

1. Head to ShopAtHome and log in or create an account.
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5. Click on the green ShopRunner link to sign in and activate free shipping.
6. Finalize your order.
7. Within 3- 7 days get 6% of your total purchase back in your account.  If you are making your first purchase through ShopAtHome  you will also get a $5 credit to your account.

Borders is offering a free book for kids ages 12 and under as part of it’s Summer Reading program.

Here’s how to participate:

1. Review the form and have your child read 10  books.
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This form can be turned in between 6/1/11 – 9/5/11!

(Thanks, She Saved!)

And I actually get a chance to go with her alone and I BOUGHT some gift for him >.<

I was thinking about what to get him quite a looong time since he likes lots of different stuff: like Assassin’s Creed artbook, Tron, Dead Pool, Scott Pilgrim VS the World etc. x__x

But I got something from him at Borders : )

See related posts on activities today. The excerpt below is from“The Heart of a Refugee,” by Juana Hernandez, age 11, a participant in the Owl & Panther writing project. It’s included in their book Writing Out of the Darkness: An Anthology of Poetry by Refugees in Transition.

The refugees

They walk through the desert
With no water

Many die of thirst
Hunger for the freedom
That they never find

The refugees

Their feelings are buried
In the desert

Their dreams
Die with them

I will always
Have the heart
Of a refugee