anappleanight

Cairo, Career Choices, and Corleone

March 19th, 2008

Hello Friends,

This posting has been a long time coming; parts of it have been written in Cairo, Egypt, the Sinai Peninsula, Eilat, Israel, Jerusalem, Israel, Newark, NJ, Detroit, MI, and Baltimore, MD. My recent travels might surprise many of you, as last you heard I had successfully fled Kenya and made it home to Detroit. Several important decisions have been made in the interim, and I thought I’d send out a quick (and final) update as I wrap up this chapter of my life and begin a new one. But first, the exciting and recent stories of my travels…

With several weeks to kill (more on that later) and not much for me in Michigan beyond exorbitant amounts of snow (and my lovely ladies), I decided to make good on several goals/promises to myself, as well as to take advantage of some serious frequent flier miles. So off I went, back to the Middle East!

I had been to Egypt several times from Israel, but had never left the Sinai Peninsula, and fount that to be a real shame. What’s more, I found myself genuinely craving the maddeningly ridiculous feel and ferocity of the third world. I do not use that term in a politically incorrect or loaded way, but rather, to describe parts of the world severely lacking basic infrastructure, and as a result, have pronounced poverty, chaos, and passion. Living in downtown Mombasa imbued me with a real appreciation for third world urban experiences, and Cairo seemed to fit the bill perfectly. In addition, my new found understanding of and familiarity with modern Muslim culture left me wanting more after my abrupt departure from the once friendly confines of Mombasa.

Multiple friends have remarked on how sadistic/senseless/stupid I must be to have chosen to go to Cairo to relax. After all, Cairo is a steaming mess of 18 million people, and is known for its chaos and disorder, not to mention seemingly open hostility to foreigners. Not exactly a Sandals resort in the Caribbean! I love my friends, but severely differed with them on this one, as that description of Cairo only served to further entice me. Plus, as well traveled as I am, how can I say “been there, done that” when I hadn’t even seen the pyramids (the only remaining of the original 7 Wonders of the World, not one of the many so called 8th Wonders of the World that range from the Leaning Tower of Pisa to the world’s largest ball of twine)?

The pyramids were truly all they are cracked up to be, and then some. I was very surprised by just how awe inspiring and impressive I found the Giza Plateau to be, having expected the pyramids and sphinx to be somewhat less than stellar, as so many things we build up to mythic proportions turn out to be when encountered in person. To explore the plateau I hired a guide and horses, and had one hell of a time. I bribed a guard to let me climb one of pyramids (the 4th largest in Giza), explored some tombs with ancient hieroglyphics, and generally just gazed at the pyramids. I also got some great pictures: http://www.flickr.com/photos/anappleanight/.

My time in Cairo was perfect. I spent several days barely talking to anyone (in fact, I played more charades more than actual speaking due to the language barrier), eating amongst the people, and generally just being content. No small feat for someone of my demeanor coupled with the events of the past months in my life. What’s more, after my time spent living amongst and interacting with the majority Muslim population of Mombasa, I feel very at home in the Muslim world, and feel lucky to have realized that “Muslim” as a catch all is as meaningless as “Arab,” with peoples of both sets coming from a million backgrounds and lifestyles, often times having less in common with each other than with this Jewish guy from the American mid-west.

After several delightful days in Cairo (while there I also visited some amazing Mosques, the ancient Islamic quarter, some shukhs, The Egypt Museum, and many things I could not fully comprehend), I boarded a bus to Taba, the border crossing with Israel on the Red Sea. It was long day (understatement), but a great experience nonetheless. It took me 14+ hours, two busses, and three taxis to get to Tel Aviv, and on the way I watched the varying and infinite landscapes of the desert role by. As usual, the real experience was in the journey, not just the destination. I met a few American Peace Corps members on the bus to Tel Aviv, and thoroughly enjoyed trading war stories with them, as they are all living in Armenia and had some unique insights into living abroad amongst the natives. None of them had been to Israel before, and it was a pleasure sharing some recommendations and opinions about Israel with them, as Israel has given me so much and I can point to Israel as being responsible for some major (and positive) decisions/directions in my life.

A quick back story to make way for the next part of my journey: the most incredible part of my tenure at the Embassy was the people I met. In one case I gained not just friends, but family. The Public Affairs Department’s secretary was a lovely woman by the name of Nurit Levy. She is insightful, wise, and as loving as they come. It wasn’t long once I started at the Embassy before we spent significant parts of the work day talking. Whether I was helping her with her English or she was advising me on recipes for my dinner parties, we quickly developed an excellent rapport. It wasn’t long before I became the best of friends with their youngest son, Maor, who had joined them in Washington, and a major admirer of her husband, Mickey, with whom I was known to enjoy an occasional cigar in the Embassy’s basement. Mickey, as some might know, is “kind of a big deal” (as my sister likes to say), having served as Jerusalem’s Commander of Police during some of the worst times of the Second Intifada. As a result of his heroism and humility Mickey is beloved by Israel and is an amazingly kind and gentle soul. He often tells me that I am like a son to him, and having him and his family in my life has been a real blessing.

Mickey’s posting as Israel’s Police Attaché in Washington ended last fall, and the Levy’s moved back to Jerusalem (they are 8th generation Jerusalemites!). It was with them I spent the majority of time in Israel, and to say I had a fabulous time would be a gross understatement. Liron, their 20 year old daughter is a fireball and a delight, and I had a fabulous time hanging out with her, in both Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. She is wise beyond her years, and the discussion I had with her had me revisiting past episodes in my life (i.e.: loving a shiksa!). While with the Levy’s I was lucky enough to see the camera control rooms for Jerusalem’s traffic and roads and the Old City, meet some of Israel’s business barons (complete with a strutting peacock), have dinner with many Chiefs of Police from the States (Austin’s and New York’s MTA were my favorites), as well as have a unique experience at the Kotel (Western Wall).

Besides getting to know Jerusalem beyond the tourist sites, I spent some time in Beer Sheva visiting some old friends (Israeli) and a former intern (American). The fact that my relationships with friends thrive no matter the context never fails to enthuse me. In Tel Aviv, one of my three favorite cities (tied with DC and Roma), I reconnected with some great friends, both old and new, and spent a moment imagining the life I could live in Tel Aviv. My trip was PERFECT. But fear not Jewish mothers, for my intention to live in DC is as resolute as ever.

I will not be returning to Kenya to work, for several reasons. This is mostly due to the crumbling infrastructure and continuing instability in Kenya, and my dislike for the way my NGO was being run. Simply put, good intentions are not enough in the development field, and that combined with putting my life at risk again does not make for the most desirable situation. I sincerely enjoyed my time in Kenya, and though time heals most everything, I think that there will always be tiny hole in my heart for what happened there and my friends I left behind.

The situation in Kenya is still far from resolved as the basic tenants of the situation remain unresolved. I say this despite the fact that a basic power sharing agreement was signed last week in Nairobi. Until there is a solution that Kenyans (not just their political elites) buy into, things will remain unstable, with sporadic bursts of violence and unrest across the country. My friends in Mombasa are trying to resume their normal lives, but are finding it very difficult, with many having lost their jobs, and random unrest an omnipresent threat and reality. With increasingly more distinguished international mediators and pressure, I remain hopeful that the initial agreement will pave the way for meaningful reconciliation. It is now up to the Kenyan legislature to act vote the new agreement into being.

With returning to Kenya not being an option in the short term (feasibility and stability) and long term (career and personal wise), I have decided to return to DC (I kept my apartment with a sub-letter in my stead), and enter the corporate world. The next weeks will be very telling, as I try to obtain a job in the strategic communications/PR field. In short, I realized that despite my wonderfully diverse experiences and eclectic resume, I am still lacking a defined skill set. It is with that in mind that I am embarking on this new career, intending one day to return to the NGO/non-profit world to put my skills to work helping others. I feel somewhat guilty and apprehensive about working for a company instead of a cause, but I feel that long term this is the best move, both personally and professionally, and that I am a worthy cause as well.

In the past weeks I have reveled in the knowledge and humility of just how young I am. Though it seems absurd to talk about switching careers at the tender age of 23, that is exactly what I am doing, and I couldn’t be happier. My modus operandi of late has invoked the old adage: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I can say with confidence and enthusiasm that I am making some bad-ass lemonade and am savoring every drop. If my final stop on this frenzied ride is a comfortable, warm, and hopefully fulfilling life back in Washington, then I consider myself to be more than lucky.

I am looking very forward to resuming keeping regular company with my amazing friends in DC, and to delving into a new profession. Last time I lived in DC I certainly lived it up, lapping up all the opportunities and diversions that go along with living in a vibrant city. This time around I look forward to living a simpler lifestyle and settling down a bit. With that in mind I intend to get a puppy (hypoallergenic) and a motor scooter (Vespa) and join a boxing gym. I am also very excited to announce that I am starting a book club for connoisseurs of modern fiction.

And so my friends, as this chapter in my life winds to a close, I bid you adieu (at least as far as mass emails go), and I extend my most heartfelt gratitude for your support, counsel, and humor that have served to fortify me through the ups and downs of the past months. The journey has been incredible. I look forward to seeing you all sooner rather than later, and to sharing in your simchas and shondas.

Much Love,
-DJT

P.S. In the course of my travels I have occasionally opened my eyes to the world around me, and on a select few occasions, thought about what I witnessed. Below are some of these observations. I hope that, at the very least, you find them amusing.

Observations:
Defining Ourselves- In the Hebraic tradition a man is defined by the past, his origins, his family, with his name ending in Ben ________ (son of _______). In the Arabic tradition a man is defined by the future, his offspring, with his name ending in Abu _______ (father of ______). I have not, unfortunately, arrived at any insightful interpretations of this reality, but am working on it, and in the meantime, would welcome yours.

Everything is Relative- Station wagons are considered to be very cool in Kenya. Why? People pimp them out like it’s their job, then cruise around with the tinted windows rolled down and their cheap speakers turned up. I just don’t get it.

Facial Hair- I grew a ’stache in advance of my trip to Cairo. In all honesty, I look terrible with a mustache, but felt that even a little bit of pronounced growth would grease my interactions with the Egyptians I would encounter. Keep in mind, I admittedly look less than charming with a mustache (think: used car salesman or confidence man). As Austin’s Chief of Police told me, it is obvious that the mustache is not me! Despite this, and my mother’s implorations, I went ahead with the ’stache, and could not have been happier. Case in point: I walked down the most touristic street in Cairo, wearing a ball cap and sneakers, carrying shopping bags, and generally walking around with my head in the air. Despite all this, I was consistently and repeatedly mistaken for an Egyptian, being spoken to in Arabic, and once I had made clear that I did not speak Arabic or was from Egypt, many a people insisted that my parents must surely be Egyptian, as I so clearly resembled an Egyptian! So take that ’stache naysayers! Epilogue: I shaved it as soon as I got to Jerusalem.

Love- My relationship with Israel is truly of the love-hate variety. Since I was introduced to Israel at the age of 15, we have had a passionate love affair, but not one without occasional bitterness and tension. I have been to Israel may times (approx. 15), but until this past week, had not been for two years, the longest absence in my adult life. The year I spent working for Israel’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs at the Embassy of Israel in Washington, DC was a good experience. To have had that opportunity and responsibility immediately out of college was fundamental, and I do not have any regrets about having worked there.

At the same time, as many of you know, the bureaucracy of the system was slowly beating the life out of my soul, and to stay at the Embassy was simply not feasible. Now, almost 10 months since resigning from the Embassy, I am able to reflect on the experience with a clarity tempered by time. I realize that a bitter taste was left in my mouth from the Embassy, and that recapturing and embracing my love for Israel was critical, and could only be accomplished by returning to the land. After seven short days amongst friends, family, and strangers in Israel, my love for Israel is as strong as ever, and I already pine for my return, shocked that I stayed away for so long.

While working at the Embassy I was privy to an insider’s look at the machine driving Israel’s foreign relations. The peace process, or lack thereof, was something I addressed every single day as I spoke to groups of Americans from across the country. I had the opportunity to meet with several of the lawyers and negotiators involved in the direct negotiations with the Palestinians, as well as the diplomats coordinating the process. Though I gained many insights and much experience while working at the Embassy, I realize now that I also lost hope; hope in the process, hope in peace, hope in reconciliation. After all, how can peace be made with a people and a culture, which those charged with bridging the gaps, do not understand themselves?

In addition, I was privy to the process of advancement within the Ministry, and what I saw was far from confidence inspiring. In many cases, “yes men,” or maybe better put, people who shied from rocking the boat at all costs, were those that advanced through the system. As a result, the culture is one of unquestioning acceptance that does not encourage new or innovative thinking. That genuinely saddens me, especially as I think back to many conversations I had with diplomats as they related how their efforts/initiatives had been stymied or blocked time and time again, for no other apparent reason that because they were outside the box.

And so, I was disappointed with the mode of operations at the Embassy, but would be far from surprised if bureaucracies around the world function in similar fashion. No matter, working at the Embassy was an experience I will not soon forget, and one that I will never regret. Peace in the Middle East…

Arsim: for those of you interested in learning more about a unique segment of Israel’s population, follow the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1q-RQlfiISA&feature=related

Posted by dteweles. // 2 Comments »

Endorsement: “Distortion” by The Magnetic Fields

February 7th, 2008

cover Rarely does a band offer such a combination of wit, creative elitism, and fun on a studio album, but The Magnetic Heads have done just that. The Magnetic Fields have never before come so close to the dreaded mainstream, an accident at best, though fortunate nonetheless. Their latest studio effort, Distortion, is imminently listenable, marking the major difference between this album and their previous recordings, which were just as original, though much more conceptual in both nature and accessibility.

I doubt that Distortion will find itself on your permanent playlist rotation, but I don’t think that is a fair measure of this album’s potential influence and pleasure, as it does not and cannot be blended into the background of your life. This is not the soundtrack, but the cause. Take a chance with your music, check out the Magentic Heads’ Distortion, and then realize just how indistinguishable most mainstream rock groups have become from one another.

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Endorsement: “The Delivery Man” by Joe McGinniss Jr.

February 7th, 2008

The Delivery Man, Joe McGinniss Jr.’s surprisingly analytical and in touch novel of narcotic induced excess and emotional vacancy is nothing if not engaging. Unlike many similar novels dealing with the slimy and cutting underbelly of modern life’s cruel temptations and easy downturns, this novel does not hesitate in addressing the mundane unpleasantness that accompanies living life on the edge of emotional capability. This approach results in The Delivery Man’s characters fully embodying the life sized personas ascribed by the author.

Don’t rush to your bookstore (keep it local and independent, as always), but while there, consider picking up this novel for a refreshing, if slightly depressing, modern novel.

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Open Letter to Mother Africa

February 7th, 2008

Dear Mother Africa,

You break my heart like a beauty queen gone bad. You torture me like a sunset’s mosquitoes. You excite me like a Dotson overtaking a Porsche. You scream for my love, yet rebuke it all the same. How can I ever love you when you fight my love with your indifference? How will I ever love you when one step forward is followed by two steps back?

I came into your warm and sticky embrace with an open heart and high hopes. I am leaving you with a troubled heart and the same high hopes, though they now seem much higher. You bit me and thrashed me, robbed me and stalked me, sickened me and disgusted me. Yet you also inspired me. Your worst manages to be endearing, and knowing that it could always be worse somehow molds the excruciating into the tolerable, the painful into character building.

You have the charm of a woman twice your age, and the curves of a woman half your age. Your mountainous peaks and misty hills are majestic, and your verdant grasslands and wind swept savannahs awe inducing. I want to get to know you better, treat you right, make you curl your toes in lustful pleasure. But each time I move in for a tender embrace, you knock me down faster than I can run to the toilet.

I can’t spend my days loving one who doesn’t want to be loved. So, Mother Africa, I ask you, do you want my love? I am ready to shower you with affection, write odes to your beauty, and spill my blood defending your honor. None of this will happen until you accept yourself. There, I said it. You are insecure. Think about it. Your insecurity explains everything. You’ve been given every opportunity to get ahead and progress into what might be your golden years, yet you get in your own way every time, without fail. Love yourself, then you can love me. It takes two, but honey, you have to get it right by and for yourself first.

As you fade into the distance 40,000 feet below I bid you adieu. Make peace with yourself, and then we can make love. Until then, know that I pray for you to take advantage of your assets, not your shortcomings; to take advantage of your potential, not your past.

Yours Always,
-Daniel

Note: Written en route from Dar es Salaam to Amsterdam, fleeing Kenya’s upheaval, and leaving Africa.

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The Fujo- My Ears Are Still Ringing

January 1st, 2008

Kenya held parliamentary and presidential elections on Thursday, December 27, 2007. They followed a short but intense month or two of campaigning. Every forecast was for free, fair, and quiet elections in Kenya, Africa’s shining jewel of democracy, and with that in mind I returned to Kenya from holiday in Europe the day before elections. Election day was uneventful, but in the hours and days after the closing of the polls, Kenyans witnessed their fragile status quo shatter into many sharp and deadly pieces. Accusations (and increasingly more proof) pointed to the incumbent’s rigging of the election so as to gain a second term, causing massive riots, demonstrations, and killings, many on the basis of tribe, at the urging of the main opposition candidate (and probable winner of the presidential election).

Fujo, Swahili for loud noise, is the catch all used to describe the events that begin immediately after the polls closed and continue to the present moment. The fujo has touched every corner of Kenya, killing hundreds and displacing thousands, all the while plunging Kenya into a decline it will not soon recover from.

I was in Mombasa until the morning of January 1st. In the days of the fuja I witnessed things I had only previously only glimpsed on the movie screen or documentary footage. I saw hundreds of women and children chased down my street by an angry mob in fast pursuit while throwing large stones. I saw government troops fighting riotous mobs in the street. I saw a vibrant city known for its relaxed air and freewheeling fun die in a heart beat. And what I saw is nothing. Men were burned alive a few blocks from where I had taken refuge. Churches were burned with hundreds inside. Cars were stopped, and their passengers lynched if of the offending tribe.

Throughout this, 99% of the stores and shops shut down. The price of bread has now more than doubled, and most are without cooking gas yet alone food. The banks are closed, and so the populace goes without both money and food.

During a lull in the violence a friend, no, a brother, of mine and I braved one of the most affected neighborhoods in Kenya to get to the airport. Leaving when I had the opportunity to was one of the hardest decisions I have ever been forced to make. While Kenya is not my country, in the few months I have lived there, mother Kenya drew me into her warm embrace and I described Kenya as the place I lived, not just worked. And so, in leaving, I not only left behind my home but countless friends who cannot or will not leave. I am overcome by a deep sadness and an unforgivable guilt, two emotions I look forward to overcoming upon my eventual return to Kenya.

During the days and nights of the fujo, as the battles raged nearby and with the constant symphony of angry cries, gun shots, and tear gas canisters, I spent a few moments now and then writing. Below are a few excerpts. I share them with you, not as a testament to what I survived, but as a reminder as to what is still taking place. The story, the headline, the news is no different than hundreds of other similar occurrences throughout the year that we glimpse as they scroll across the bottom of our television screens, but I bore witness to the all too real situation on the ground. My thoughts and prayers continue to be with my friends and loved ones enduring the fujo and the rapid demise of, what was, one of Africa’s remarkable success stories.

Helpless
The night is quiet. Too quiet. Long periods of utter stillness are interrupted by flashes of violence. Mobs of young men parade through the street showing their political resolve and demonstrating their commitment to their ideal of democracy. Their vision is clouded by their lust for violence, justified by their desire for justice. Justice at any price. Innocent pedestrians have been stoned in the streets. Shops have been looted. Houses are being reduced to ashes.

In the midst of this impending chaos we have nothing to do but sit and wait. Every flight is full. Many of the roads have been closed by mobs burning tires and anything else they can get their hands on. The situation will get better. There is no doubt. But it is equally certain that it will get much, much worse before any improvement is seen. No matter the content of the announcements made and election results revealed, a significant portion of the population will be angered.

The most threatening factor is that, as it appears now, those who will be the most upset are also those with the least to lose. A man with nothing to lose is the most threatening. Many have declared that truth over the centuries. I have always believed it. I only hope I do not learn the lesson first hand.

I am in a compound in a wealthy, residential area of the island of Mombasa. This area is off the beaten path of Mombasa’s main roads, and in theory, of the riotous mobs sharpening their machetes as I punch these keys. The family I am with is not scared. They have based their faith of a safe outcome in two seemingly opposed sources of strength: Allah and firearms. No matter what happens through the night, they will head the call of prayer, just as the mobs will follow their leaders’ calls to violence. Failing divine protection, there is a robust collection of guns and ammunition in the compound. and an over abundance of men skilled and ready to use them, should the need be.

Sadness
Sadness weighs me down like the pangas and machetes in the hands of the men in the streets. It is a burden to be sure, but I unwillingly shepherd it, unlike the men who dance with glee as more fuel is poured on the fire. The city, closed and shuttered, is teeming with thousands of men with nowhere to go and nothing to do. These same men have scores to settle and bloodlusts to sate. They may be lulled into a daytime stupor, but their collective rage will continue to simmer until it boils over with the setting of the sun each night. Until the politicians, nay, the riot provoking talking heads, fundamentally alter the status quo with concrete steps towards reconciliation, the country will continue to tear itself apart, tribe by tribe, city by city.

The violence yields no progress, only death, pain and death. The violence will know no end until the leaders of these warring factions make genuine attempts to put out the fires they have so methodically been stoking. For the opposition to acquiesce is nothing less than an outright acceptance of an election so obviously rigged by the incumbent that his methods were reminiscent of cheating on a primary school exam, rather than a presidential election. And the incumbent, acting more and more like a dictator with each passing day, will not make any concession, as any step in that direction will b e perceived as a tacit admission of fraud.

Fireworks
The ground vibrates with the almost rhythmic boom, boom… boom of distant explosions. The sky is aglow. A faint orange interrupted every so often with bursts of violent red. I know that the city is at war. The people are looting, fighting, killing each other. They have been at it for days. Yet, I have hope. It is January 1st, and it has been this new day, this new year, for but a few minutes. I hope with all my heart that the rumblings felt throughout my body, throughout my being, are the same that all my brothers and sisters are feeling as they usher in the new year around the world. Fireworks, symbolic of celebrations and joy, would be wholly out of sync with the blood in the streets, but completely appropriate considering the calendar. I hope that the glow in the sky is of fireworks being launched in celebration and exploding with joy, instead of marking the loss of yet another house and home for a family caught in the crossfire.

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Violated

January 1st, 2008

I deplaned in Mombasa, happy to be back in my adopted African homeland. The morning sun was welcoming, and the air fragrant and fresh as I remembered. My holiday in Europe was just the refresher I had needed, and I looked forward to getting back to Kenya, back to work.

My good friend, Issa, picked me up at the airport. After telling him how good it was to see him, and complimenting him on his newly grown beard, we were already approaching my Land Rover in the parking lot. By the time we reached my landy, my warm welcome to mother Kenya had been shattered like the rear brake light so many years ago.

Issa told me of the call he received from my landlord, Hassan, a few days earlier. A neighbor of mine had called Hassan with the news that my apartment doors were wide open. The simple truth: my apartment, my haven, my sanctuary, had been robbed, violated, broken into, while I was on holiday.

Issa immediately dispelled my greatest worries, saying how he had immediately posted a guard at my door, and found nothing obviously missing upon his inspection. Getting to my apartment was less than auspicious, as Issa got pulled over for speeding by corrupt policemen, and it started to rain… in the middle of the dry season.

Ironically, the guard watching over my apartment was named Osama. Even Issa, a shoe in for an Osama impersonator in a terrorist look a like sketch, thought that was funny. Unfortunately, the rest of the situation was a bit less humorous. Upon entering my apartment several things were immediately clear; the persons who had violated my previously secure space had not acted with reckless abandon or in a great hurry. They certainly had taken their time and enjoyed their stay in Hotel Daniel. I say they, because from the messy beds and empty condom wrappers strewn about, it was clear that more than one person had trespassed, and taken advantage of my unintended hospitality.

The kitchen curtains, normally tied up in decorative knots, had been untied and lowered. My sunflower seeds and many bottles of water had been consumed. A preposterously messy bowel movement had been taken in the guest bathroom. Every single door and cabinet and closet, all locked upon my departure, had been opened and rifled through. As everyone has pointed out, this was obviously an inside job. Someone who knew my apartment and knew I would be on holiday made use of their information in the most violating of ways.

Oddly enough, only a few select items were stolen. They left valuable speakers, clothes, money, champagne, and a host of other things that are far from readily available on the streets of Mombasa, in addition to being quite valuable. I am not sure what to make of this, other than to be thankful that it wasn’t any worse, as it could have been much, much worse.

Nevertheless, my perception of security and safe haven has been terminally corrupted. In theory, and now I understand just how theoretical it is, my apartment is very secure. There are three security doors in between the street and my front door, all with unique locks. The key to this, pun intended, is that they doors are only effective when they are shut and locked. My building has a total of three flats, and my neighbors have never been keen on shutting the doors, especially during the day. They always give different justifications as to their reluctance or “forgetfulness” about this, but going forward things will have to change. What’s more, the lock on my apartment’s outer door was not picked or monkeyed with in any way, but rather with the lock in place they managed to push the doors open. Consequently, I am having a steel security door installed, so as to further safeguard my apartment and myself in the future.

My neighborhood is not dangerous, rather, the world is. I have never experienced a violation quite like this, and I can sincerely state just how unnerving the feeling of powerlessness that pervades my consciousness truly is.

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I’m Sorry, We Don’t Speak English

December 25th, 2007

I spent the last week and a half traveling with my mom and sister through Italy, ending in Amsterdam. Our time together was priceless. We shared many laughs, cultural faux pas, and hilarious misspeaks (most courtesy of my mother) as we explored Rome, enjoyed Taormina, drove across Sicily to Palermo, relaxed in Bergamo, and were finally wowed in Amsterdam.

Not being home for a few months combined with the physical and psychological distance of several oceans between me and my ladies left us all feeling like my time away was much longer. Our initial reunion in Rome’s Fiumincno Airport (I had spent the previous night in Rome) was joyous, but tempered by the girls’ travel fatigue. They are no more enthusiastic travelers (in the sense of dealing with jet lag and tiredness while schlepping around from one city to the next while doing a million things in each place) than the Pope is a Sikh. They have great attitudes and are often enthusiastic, but the gap in perception of self inflicted discomfort and road weariness between us is tremendous. No matter, we retooled our trip to reduce the constant on-the-go feel of it, and ended up having a great vacation.

Our first days in Rome reunited me with one of my favorite homes away from home: The Daphne B&B. I originally stayed there when my then girlfriend, Katie, and I went on an Italian holiday several years ago. On that trip we spent several nights there, and could not have been happier. The inn is owned by a young couple (she is from Boca Raton while he is from Rome), who completely understand what personal service is all about. One of their many flourishes of hospitality occurs at check in when they give you a cell phone from which you can receive free incoming calls as well as call them at any time for directions, help, or as I often have asked, for restaurant recommendations. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and having their full time assistance is crucial in maximizing our time in one of the world’s great cities. In the ensuing years from my first stay with them others have taken notice, and I am happy to report that The Daphne has achieved worldwide renown. I don’t get a commission from them, but please do try and stay there next time you are in Rome. You will not be disappointed.

We spent several hours exploring the Vatican Museum (including the Sistine Chapel) and St. Peter’s Basilica with the aid of a private guide (read: best money ever spent). It certainly didn’t help that she was cute as a button and just older than me with a PhD in Roman history! My mother especially enjoyed the amazing reliefs on the ceilings throughout the museum (once Papal apartments and reception rooms), and as always, I was very excited to see Rafael’s frescoes. To walk around a random corner in a random room only to be standing right in front of the School of Athens is thrilling. A few rooms away lies the Sistine Chapel, a masterpiece of art, philosophy, the pondering of our relationship with God, and revenge.

Rome was also the beginning of our epic shopping quest; one which ended unsuccessfully a week and a half later, but nevertheless provided us countless kilometers walked and stores visited. Robin came wanting a funky Italian leather jacket, but soon ditched that goal in favor of a European futbol jersey or some such official get up. In the end neither object was obtained, but nevertheless, the trip’s booty is quite unique and memorable.

For dinner on our second night in Rome we went to Osteria Gusto my favorite restaurant in the whole world. That is a weighty description, and not one taken lightly; rather, I have come to that conclusion after close to ten visits, and it is probably exactly the opposite kind of place than you expect when it comes to a restaurant with that designation. Gusto is light, airy, neither pretentious nor expensive, and is far from your standard destination restaurant. Its appeal lies in its simplicity. The osteria is chill, very chill, with sophisticated Romans (many politicians, philosophers, and artists hang out there) grooving to the perfectly funky lounge mix while drinking and eating, as it should be. The prosciutto platters are sublime while the cheese selection is mind boggling when combined with great bread and simple yet depth defying honeys, you have a recipe for enjoyment. They also serve incredible Roman cuisine, something that is increasingly hard to find, even in Rome. My mom and Robin loved it, and my little sister is now fully aware of prosciutto as a delicacy, something all too rare among the Jewish women in my life!

From Rome we flew to Catania, rented a Lancia station wagon (a little station wagon with a big heart) and drove up the coast of the Ionian See to the resort town of Taormina. Taormina is perched on the rocky cliffs overlooking the sparkling blue waters, and is nestled right in between the snowcapped slopes of Mt. Etna (Europe’s most active volcano) and the sea. Arriving there at night was a bit of a harrowing driving experience for my mom, but she handled those streets (read: alleyways) like a pro as they zigzagged up the steep slopes. We spent the evening walking down Taormina’s main street, enjoying the relaxed pace of a resort town in the off-season, and by having both gelato and pastries. And so began Robin’s appreciation of Italian pastries. Robin enjoyed most everything on the trip, but her multiple pastries per day must have been the highlight. I have no idea how such a small girl puts away so many pastries, but she did, and with gusto. Nary a bakery was passed (read: at least one or two per block) that we didn’t go in so that Robin could take stock of its potential pastry offerings. If nothing else, going back to the States is going to be a tough transition, it being the land of Dunkin’ Donuts (not that I have anything against them, but they can’t compare to Italian pastries).

Waking up to a view of the sea and mountain was amazing, and I took advantage of my family’s hibernatory sleeping pattern by walking through the still sleeping town (which sounds absolutely jovial until you consider the countless steps navigated as I felt like an ibex navigating the cliffs. Walking through a small Italian town brings to mind the simple joys in life, simple joys we have so often sidestepped in the name of progress.

That afternoon saw us drive across the island of Sicily, to it’s capital city, Palermo, but not before we had a little roadside tailgate full of Italy’s delights: pastries (of course!), buffalo mozzarella, fresh fruits, and a variety of olives.

The rest of the day was spent traversing Sicily, Sicilian drivers and all. Sicilians are too drivers the way that the French are to soldiers: the worst. I apologize if any of you are French, or Sicilian for that matter, but we’ll let history speak for itself. The drive took us from the autostrada (modern four lane highway) to back country roads full of hairpin turns, and sheep, complete with their ruggedly attractive herders (at least according to my mom).

As feeding time approached, we were all famished, and at the right moment happened upon the perfect trattoria, in the middle of nowhere. Lunch was beyond perfect for our Sicilian immersion. Upon walking in we saw the whole family sitting around a large table enjoying their wares. With my limited Italian and our big appetites we managed to order an array of antipasti and veal that will never be matched for the rest of our lives. Experiences like our lunch (the food, interaction with the proprietor, and the circumstance) make traveling the adventure that it can be when you step off the beaten path of package tours and the biggest sites.

At one point on our drive we stopped and took in the view and pictures on a dramatic hillside. Sicily is beautiful in the way your favorite sneakers are, they may be a bit worn out and dirty, but the essential purpose and vitality remain intact and are thriving. The whole Mafioso component just adds to the gritty yet loveable nature of Sicily. I learned much about the Sicilian Mafioso and the government’s pursuit of them from the old Sicilian man working the night shift at our hotel in Taormina. He spent a long time telling me stories straight out of a Mario Puzzo novel, but oh so true. The best part was that after each sentence in his limited English he asked: “Capito?” Hell, if he would have stroked his chin and said: “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…” in his Sicilian accent, I might as well have been in a mafia flick!

By the time we reached Palermo’s mind crunching traffic, aggressiveness, and occasional open hostility, we were all ready to call it a night, but not before finding the “best chicken I’ve ever had,” according to my mother. Not a bad bit of praise for a rotisserie place in Piazza Marina.

The next day we still had our Lancia, so my mom and I decided to drive up to Monreale, a medieval town in the hills overlooking Palermo. We arrived at two-ish to a city so quiet, so deserted; that naked, motorcycle riding yahoos could hoop it up in the central square and not a soul would be there to witness it. We found a small bar that was open, got a lunch wrapped with care, and ate it in the aforementioned square. Slowly, ever so slowly, we witnessed the town’s reawakening. By three the elegantly simple dressed men and women of Monreale woke from their mid-day naps after eating lunch with their families, and reclaimed the city their ancestors had fought for. Our whole time in Italy we had really only been aware of the mid-day break by its limitation of our shopping during those few hours. Seeing it in a small town was remarkably telling, especially considering that just down the hill was Palermo, a city that never sleeps if there ever was one.

Its Duomo is world class with glittering mosaics reminiscent of St. Marks in Venice, but in a much less Byzantine way. The real draw is the cloisters (clois·ter: a continuous covered outdoor walkway built against buildings surrounding a central courtyard or quadrangle, especially in a monastery or college) of the Duomo complex. The 500+ columns of the courtyard were uniquely carved and decorated with mosaics, reflecting the many rulers and styles of the past millennium in Monreale. Pictures are here:

Later that evening Robin and I walked through Palermo, this time on a quest to find a sweater from a Sicilian designer named Costello, that had “Sicily” written across the front. In walking through town we saw a much different side of the city than what we had previously seen, especially having mostly been near the ports and its palazzos. The area we walked through took the edge off of Palermo for me. There were tree lined boulevards alight with a festive glow, major cultural institutions like the symphony orchestra, piazza after piazza, and beautiful people strolling through Palermo as if they were anywhere but. Just when I thought I knew Palermo I was exposed to its genteel side. I anticipate going back there, maybe not soon, but maybe Sicily will be for me like Tuscany is to so many others.

Speaking of northern Italy, we flew to Bergamo after an exhilarating/frightening (depends on who you ask) taxi ride to Palermo’s airport, much of it spent driving straight into oncoming traffic. Bergamo is about an hour outside of Milan, and is as picturesque and relaxed as Italian towns come, especially in comparison to Palermo. I had originally chosen Bergamo for its logistical value in getting us from Sicily to Destination X (which was Istanbul, but due to the schlep factor we scrapped it in favor of heading in the direction of home for the girls and going to Amsterdam). Nevertheless, Bergamo was an absolute stunner. The city is divided in two, the medieval and untouched citta alta, high up on the hill and reachable via a funicular, and the lower city, a more modern but perfectly laid out mini-city. I say mini because it has everything any major city has, but in an easily walkable and digestible portion.

Our stay in Bergamo was elevated by the luxurious and hip accommodations of the Mercure Palazzo Dolci Hotel we stayed in. My mother loved the periwinkle walls of the bedrooms and silver tiled bathrooms, and Robin was a fan of the sumptuous breakfasts (read: good pastry selection) and internet connection. We climbed the bell tower in the citta alta, walked, shopped, laughed, and attended Puccini’s La Boehme at Teatro Donizetti. Not bad for a little town nobody has heard of!

I was earnestly struck by the interactions I so often witnessed between my mom and sister and the residents of the places we visited. First, the vast majority of people we encountered during our travels spoke at least a smattering of English, while Robin and my mom had a nonexistent knowledge of Italian and Dutch. No worries there, but what I found to be so interesting was the way they responded to others speaking poor English or no English to them. In this case I mean interesting in a manner more akin to watching plastic surgery or a train wreck on TV, it is painful to watch, but you have to see what happens next. The girls were like deer caught in the headlights whenever they were spoken to. Before long they were forcing me to ask their questions for them, never mind the fact that my Italian is just slightly better than terrible, which meant that I was usually doing the asking in English. I attribute this cultural timidity to a lack of exposure and an overdependence on me. I took care of every other detail on the trip, so why not have me ask if the maxi pads also come with wings. OK, a slight exaggeration, but you get the point. The highlight of this came when a fellow customer in a nice clothing store came up to my mother, held up a shirt, and started saying something in Italy. Clearly she thought my mother worked there, or was, at least, very knowledgeable about Sisley’s current collection. With a pardoning smile and an apologetic tone my mother kindly looked at the woman and said, “I’m sorry, we don’t speak English.” It took a moment for Robin to point out the ridiculousness of the statement, but once she did, we could not stop laughing, and that line became a punch line for nearly every other encounter over the rest of the trip.

Our final stop was Amsterdam, city of freedom and gateway home for all of us. Due to our change in plans, I reserved our room at a bed and breakfast the day before we arrived, and thus, was hard pressed for appropriate yet affordable accommodation. Well, we ended up getting it… and more! It just so happened that our B&B, The Greenhouse Effect, was more of an ode to the wonders of hydroponics than global warming, and we found ourselves staying in the Mary Jane Room above a typical coffee shop, just a few blocks from the Red Light District. Robin was shocked, embarrassed, and intrigued by the sights and sounds on the streets of our neighborhood, and all the more so because she couldn’t handle being there with my mom! We all had a good time though, and in addition to walking past countless sex shops and peep shows, visited the Anne Frank House and some of Amsterdam’s finer shopping boutiques. That night I took Robin for a walk through the Red Light District, a place she had heard so much about and as a result, had so many preconceptions about, yet did not really have any basis of knowledge. To be honest, walking with Robin past the prostitutes and through the crowds was a highlight, as she realized that the Red Light District was far from as scary or dirty as she had originally imagined. Given, neither of us have any plans to move there, but I can’t help but celebrate the responsible and regulated expression of freedom, especially in the times, our times, of things like the Patriot Act in our continuously less accepting society.

And so, with a day in Amsterdam and more than a week in Italy, our trip came to an end at Schipol Airport. Our goodbye was tearful, and with Robin’s guidance and my mom’s determination to make it to the grocery store before it closed, my ladies made it home on Christmas Eve without a hitch. Thank God.

I doubt we will ever take another vacation as hectic as this one, but it could not have been any more fun. I remain wholeheartedly convinced that travel with friends and family is the best use of one’s funds, bar none.
—
Written at the Greenhouse Effect coffee shop, Amsterdam, The Nederlands, KQ Flight 4141 from Amsterdam to Nairobi, and on my roof in Mombassa, and edited at the Peacock Hotel in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

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Sincere Salutations

December 25th, 2007

Dear Friends and Family,

Happy holidays from Rome! I arrived here yesterday after an overnight journey from Mombasa. I left the grueling African sun and 100+ degree weather to arrive here in Italy to the cold cold weather of December in Europe… without a jacket. Luckily, today my jacket will be arriving care of my ladies! My mother and sister are en route for a holiday we all so thoroughly crave, and each others’ company, which we all so thoroughly need. The next ten days will see us explore Rome (probably my favorite city in the world), drive through Sicily, and then spend an extended weekend in a mystery locale. The girls only know it as Destination X, and I am rather impressed with myself, considering how many months after initially planning our itinerary, I have managed to keep the details under wraps, especially in the face of persistent pestering from two fiercely querying Jewish women. But I digress…

I thought I should send out an update to reassure you that Africa has not yet swallowed me whole, but rather, is slowly but surely eating away at me. I am doing my best to stay happy and healthy. I will briefly update you on my relatively mundane life, and further direct you to my blog ( http://www.anappleanight.com/wpblog), where I have been writing extensively on many a topic, including street children, my puppy, being white in Mombasa, a Muslim funeral, and what I will be pursuing upon my return home. Let it suffice to say that I could, and just might, write a book on my experiences living and working in Kenya. The snapshots I provide on my blog are my attempt to provide some insight into my daily and unique experiences. I sincerely hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

I have been living in Mombasa now for 10 weeks, though it seems much much longer than that, and not at all in a bad way. Rather, a lot has happened and I have truly adapted to a new life. It has been a challenging, trying, and modestly rewarding time in my life. I doubt I will ever look back on this time as the best, but it is surely an opportunity and experience that will expose to me things that I otherwise would not encounter, and from which I will always benefit. In addition, my perspective on the world, one which I have always endeavored to challenge, expand, and challenge again, has been given a crucial dose of the have-nots, a critical yet often and easily overlooked segment of our brethren.

My health situation has been incredibly difficult, as I have visited the emergency room three times now. I now have the doctor’s cell phone number and the administrative staff knows be my name; perfectly nice people, but not my top choice when it comes to people I frequently see. I have suffered from anti-malarial drug side effects, diarrhea, fatigue, insomnia, viral infections, the flu, and god knows what else. Despite all that, my body continues to prevail, and I can only continue to hope that, despite logic and experience, I will adapt to my newly adopted home despite all of its malicious maladies.
Psychologically and emotionally I have reached a plateau of moderate contentment. As I have become more familiar with my surroundings and its previously foreign rhythm of daily life, I have begun to keep in synch and embrace the tempo. I continue to be blessed with amazing friends, but am sorely lacking friends from the western world, people with similar backgrounds experiencing similar things with whom to process my experience.

As for my work, I find it incredibly comical and slightly cheeky when I consider how many of you have let on that you think I have spent my time in Kenya digging latrines. For the record I have not even seen a shovel, nor would I, realistically, last an hour digging in the equatorial sun, in this, the hottest time of year in the tropics south of the equator. My time can best be described as fulfilling several roles, some prescribed, others adopted on the fly. Most of my time has been filled designing and implementing a Population Density Assessment for Kayafungo’s 4 sub-locations and 25 villages. This has entailed the training (through a translator) of close to 100 volunteers, mostly consisting of village elders and first wives, the design and translation of the forms, glossaries, and guides, and the patience and forbearance to carry out the assessment.

The results have yielded the clearest picture of the region on record, and will go a long way in the final decisions concerning the routing of the water pipeline. The rest of my time has been spent schlepping all over Kayafungo and Mombasa speaking with everyone from the community water boards, Chief, and Assistant Chiefs, to bigger government bureaucracies, engineers, community members, and many of the 18 candidates for the position of Kayafungo’s Development Councilor, with whom I will closely work once Election Day comes and goes at the end of this month.

I had not anticipated that I would be playing the role of researcher here, but alas, the job needed to be done. Working for such a small NGO has its advantages and disadvantages; I try to concentrate on the former, but find myself frequently beleaguered by the latter, namely a lack of both experience and resources. Despite this, I continue to remain committed to the work I came for, and will renew my contract at the end of the year for another three months. Needless to say my professional life has witnessed quite a transition, one totally lacking glamour, but I am have no doubt that I will retain my cocktail party skills for my return. Until then, please have a cocktail for me…

The fervor leading up to Kenya’s second democratic elections has been… intense. Kenya’s democracy is still quite fragile, with the presidential incumbent, Kibaki, having been elected just 5 years ago, after 23 years of Moi’s dictatorship. The northern part of the country has been ripped apart by tribal violence related to the election that has displaced thousands, and frankly, justifies many of the lasting stereotypes sub-Saharan Africa so desperately needs to overcome. I will be returning to Kenya just in time for the elections, and remain wearily enthused and optimistic that Kenya will keep it together and democracy will prevail. Believe me, if it doesn’t, you will hear about it. I don’t say this to scare you, but rather, to convey the fragile African world in which I live.

And so my friends, I must bid you arrivederci. Your email updates and calls continue to be the highlights of my days and weeks, and are a constant source of juicy information, gracious encouragement, and necessary reminders of where I come from and just how amazing the people there are. Thank you for your continued support. I hope that the new year is one of health, happiness, and the right amount of adventure for you and your loved ones. As several of you prepare to come and visit in the coming months, I again extend the invitation to the rest of you. In the words of Hillel, if not now, when?

Much Love,
-Daniel

P.S. Now that I have rejoined western civilization (defined by a fast internet connection speed), even temporarily, I have uploaded some pictures of my flat, car, and life to http://www.flickr.com/photos/anappleanight. Enjoy…

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Sincere Salutations

December 16th, 2007