An Homage to Dad

A week ago today, my mother and I passed a tender milestone together: 9 years since the death of my father.

Whenever I talk about my father's death, I always say the same thing--almost like I'm reading from a script. It goes something like this:

"What does your father do?"
"My father passed away in 2001."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"I really can't complain. He lived a good long life. 80 years is nothing to sneeze at."

And then I smile.

It's true. Eighty years is a pretty damned good run. My Daddy always said jokingly that we were only promised three score and ten; he got ten extra, either for good behavior, or as punishment. Maybe a little bit of both.

My father had lived 55 years before I had even formed as a twinkle in his eye. He worked as a math teacher, a principal, a WWII soldier, a late-night deejay, a speechwriter, a consultant, a landlord, and a bowling pin attendant (not in that order, or course)--all before I was born. Those, by the way, are just the jobs that I am aware of. There are, no doubt, thousands of stories and experiences that he forgot before I was even around to hear about them...and thousands of his stories I forgot before I understood how much I would treasure them in his absence.

In the 24 years that I knew him, he was stern, but generous-spirited. He could be very intimidating, but had a fantastic sense of humor. He was a great host, and could mix a deadly drink. He loved to be in control, and was usually pretty good at running things. He rarely admitted being wrong...about anything, ever. He had a well-worn wisdom that came primarily from life experience. He sought always and above all things to be a productive individual. He was very demanding of those he cared about, and was intolerant of indecision or lack of direction.

He was, as my mother would say, a piece of work.

My father and I spent most of my teenage years at each other's throats. He thought I was spoiled and entitled (which I probably was), and I thought he was out of touch and unreasonably strict (which he definitely was). We fought often, but rarely went to bed angry. With the mediation of my persistent and patient mother, we always managed to find common ground and remember that we loved each other.

Just last night, I was talking about my father with a patron of the opera here in Washington, DC. I was remembering going to the tailor with my father as a young girl (Dad was, by all accounts, something of a clothes horse), and watching him pick out fabric for his suits. He was partial to mohair blends, I remember. In the telling of the story, my senses came along for the ride; suddenly, I inhaled the dry cedar of his closet, recalled the deep cordovan of his lace-up Johnston and Murphy shoes. I could hear the creak of his armoire, and smell his Bay Rhum cologne.

It's amazing how vivid my memories can be, after so many years. It was like I went to 1985 for a visit.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that I still talk to my father. It seems only natural, since I can still hear him in my head! Hardly a day passes when I don't quote my father in conversation, or think of something he once said. When I'm in places that I heard him talk about, or even places that he never saw but know he would have enjoyed, I often send him mental postcards: "Having great fun, wish you were here." He's opinionated even in death; when I'm dating someone that my father would like, he always whispers a little approving word--and he's not afraid to tell me when he's not too keen on someone, either. His voice often comes to me when I'm faced with a tough decision or a situation which requires problem solving or strategic thinking. Most of the time, I still take his advice.

In truth, I may not remember my father exactly as he was, anymore. I'm hardly objective, after these nine years; in death, he's become superhuman. The things I admired about him I now hold sacred, and the things about him that drove me crazy while he was alive have become endearing. The implacable distance that death offers has given me a more generous perspective, rounded out the jagged corners of my memories, and allowed me a new kind of relationship with my father.

For one, I actually can win a fight now and then.

Love you, Dad.

Schengen Schmengen

It seems I may have overstayed my welcome in Switzerland.

It was early Saturday morning at the Basel-Mulhouse Airport. On my way home to Philly, I was bleary eyed but happy. I had printed my boarding passes out the night before. I had packed light. I had gone through security and would have time enough to get one last cup of strong Swiss coffee on my way to the plane. Smooth sailing. I am, after all, an expert traveler.

Huh.

I had to have my passport checked as a last step on my way to the plane and out of Switzerland. As the man behind the plexiglass lazily flipped through my passport, I saw him suddenly perk up. He started flipping through with more interest.

"When did you arrive in Europe?"

"June 22nd, I think, in Berlin." He flipped some more, this time with a scowl. Uh-oh.

It was then, dear friends, that this "expert traveler" was informed that she could only stay in the Schengen countries of the EU for 90 days without a visa. I had been in Europe for 111 days without a visa. Whoops.

Now, I knew about the 90 days...but I thought that those 90 days applied to each individual country (I had traveled in Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, and France).

Of course, there was a fine: 850 CHF. Unhappily for me, the Swiss Franc is very strong at the moment, so we might as well say 850 dollars. The man behind the plexiglass asked me if I had any money with me.

My plane was going to take off in 30 minutes. I was standing in a country (actually, a whole Schengen area, whatever that means) that didn't want me to be there anymore. I heard my good friend Rachael Goldfarb whispering her trademark phrase in my ear: "Mary Elizabeth, throw money at the problem, and get the &*%# on the plane."

I smiled my biggest smile at the gentleman and I said, "I don't have any cash, but I have lots of credit."

I was escorted into a back room, and presented to two other uniformed and humorless officers. I filled out paperwork. I smiled. I apologized. When it was clear that I wasn't going to lie on the floor and throw a tantrum, they even smiled back. They decided not to make me pay right at that very moment, because they were concerned it would take too long and I would miss my plane.

They would bill me, they said.

"Great!", I said, with a smile.

The point was, after all, to get me OUT of Switzerland.

I hope they don't hold this against me when I try to get back into the country on November 1. I'll let you know!

Homeward Bound

One week from today, I'll be home. Considering how many places I call home these days, perhaps I should be more precise: in a week, I'll be in Philadelphia.

It's a little hard to fathom. I've been in Europe since June 22. That's more than three months! Three countries (four, counting the day-trip to Strasbourg, France I took today), nine cities, and countless voyages later, I'm headed back to where I started--at least for a 3 week visit. Good thing Mom will be picking me up at the airport--otherwise I might not remember how to get home!

I have big plans for my short visit. I have to fill my tank to the brim with Philadelphia, and remind myself of all that I love about calling Philadelphia home, with a big "H".

Besides spending time with Mom and my East Coast friends (and, in at least one case, kiss the baby born while I was away!), most of my plans revolve around spending money, eating, and enjoying 100% English-language entertainment. Absence makes you realize what you really miss about a place. Sadly for me, it appears that other than the people, most of what I miss about Philadelphia is commerical. Please don't tell anyone how shallow I am.

Although I love cooking at home in Basel (and being cooked for, thank-you-very-much roommate extraordinare Rena Harms), I am very much looking forward to being in a place where it doesn't cost a small fortune to eat out. I intend to make the rounds to visit Marathon Grill for a big old American burger, Vietnam for spring rolls and thai iced tea, and Pietro's for their arugula and parmesan salad.

The eating, of course, will be very important because it will fortify me for the shopping. How wonderful to be in the Land of the Perpetual Sale again! I am already fingering my debit card in anticipation. While shopping in Europe, I spend all my mental energy converting Francs or Euros to Dollars, and thinking, "can I live without this, or do I have to suck it up and buy it even though it is insanely expensive?" In America, the math I'm doing in my head centers around figuring out how much I will end up paying for a pair of shoes if they are 40% off, with and additional 15% off for the 1-day sale, and of course the 20% off I always get for using my store credit card. Sigh. I love that kind of math.

I am planning to go to the movies at least 3 times during my 3 weeks in the US; if I can fit in more, I will. I've been here in Europe so long that I've lost touch with what there is to see at the cinema, I'm ashamed to say. Truth be told, it doesn't matter; give me a dark theater with stadium seating, seats with cup-holders, and a story that holds together at least as well as a Mozart opera, and I'm in. As far as home entertainment goes, I'm still pretty satisfied with my dear landlord's insanely complete cable TV subscription here in Basel...but I will be profiting from a little time with Marilyn Milian in America when I can.

As I'm spending my dollars on Walnut Street and chatting over coffee in Rittenhouse Square, though, I'm going to be missing my little Swiss family. Why can't all the good stuff in my life be in one place?

I love Basel, and I truly enjoy living here. Philadelphia may be my steady flame, but Basel is my exciting new crush. It won't be the same, waking up in Philly and not being greeted by Pete's whirling-dervish happy dog dance on the hall carpet. I'm going to miss the cheap wine, the strong coffee, the abundant Swiss chocolate....and mostly, my new friends.

Having people and stuff to love all over the world is pretty wonderful.

Some nights, when I wake up and can't remember which bed I'm in or who (if anyone) may be on the other side of the wall, I think that I might have officially traveled one mile too many...but when I wipe the sleep from my eyes and get my feet on the floor, I realize that I should never stop being grateful that I have so many wonderful places to enjoy and to call home.