Sunday, September 10, 2006
The Worst Diarrhea
It was night and finally, we landed in the land of the free. I felt freed of the burden of Natasha’s endless talk and marveled by the cleanness of the US airports. The fact that people orderly got into lines, unlike the disordered masses in Uzbekistan, where everyone pushed to be first, leaving a formless mass of people. People here smiled. They stood patiently in long passport control lines. They were polite, even the people who were behind the glass who checked your passport. This, and perhaps just a bit of Natasha’s exultation of this generous land of America inspired me to believe that I had arrived in the land of plenty, the land of choice, the land of freedom, and that I took all this good for granted.
I was tired though, and when I got out of the airport, past the baggage carousels, past customs, to where people are waiting behind the cordoned off areas for their close ones who arrived, I imagined for a moment that someone from my family would be there to pick me up. I looked around the faces of the people, looking for the ones they eagerly waited for. You saw people embracing, people helping carry luggage and I knew that no one from my family would be there. It would have been a nice surprise to see someone there, but, there were some things you could always count on never changing in New York, no matter how long you left it for, and there I was, lugging my suitcase to the lines of people waiting for taxis. I settled into the back of a taxi, gave the driver my father’s address, and lay down feeling tired, hungry and dirty.
My father had been waiting for me in his apartment. He looked the same as always, much younger than his sixty years, always amazing me with the fine taste and neat orderliness of the apartment he took since he and my mother divorced five years earlier. He hugged me and asked if I’m hungry, if I’m tired after my 18 hour trip. “Both,” I said. “But I need to eat.” I look into his refrigerator, which is practically empty.
“We can eat whatever you want,” he said and this is true -- he lives in the best part of the city for restaurants and there is any kind of food imaginable: Italian, Japanese, Thai, French, American, vegetarian, and on and on. I could not make up my mind and asked my father to choose for us – so long as the place is close by. We settled on the Italian restaurant across the street, which is good and large and could accommodate us immediately with seats.
I looked through the menu consisting of foods that I’d nearly forgotten what they tasted like. So many of them, I could hardly choose, while the waiter stood above us waiting for my order. “Order whatever you want,” my father said. And I ordered Portobello mushrooms, mesclun lettuce, and ravioli in pesto, which are brought to me quickly. Suddenly feeling like a person long deprived of food, I marveled over the size of the portions, the tastes, though I devoured it so quickly, barely able to enjoy the tastes or able to open my mouth long enough to answer all the questions my father has. I told him quickly, between bites, that everything was fine out there, that I enjoyed my work and my life overseas. He said that he was surprised to see me looking as well and as healthy as I did. “What did you expect?” I asked, though actually feeling a bit sick.
He told me that he had begun seeing someone and that it was serious. I told him that I was happy for him. However, he said, my younger brother was opposed to the whole thing, essentially saying that my father didn’t have the right to see anyone unless they were Jewish and menopausal. I started feeling as though I could vomit, as though the ground beneath me was shaking and feeling unpleasant bubbling sensations in my intestines. I asked my father if we could get the check and go home. I felt weak and tired and as though my insides would explode.
Back at his apartment, I rushed into the bathroom and had the worst diarrhea, worse than anything I had experienced in Uzbekistan and I thought of the Russian expression, “sitting on the volcano.” His bathroom was large and had an echo and I was a bit embarrassed that my father could probably hear all the distress from outside. I ran the water in the sink, just to mute the noise. I stumbled out of the bathroom and onto the living room sofa, where I closed my eyes and immediately fell asleep. ¶ 10:07 AM
It was night and finally, we landed in the land of the free. I felt freed of the burden of Natasha’s endless talk and marveled by the cleanness of the US airports. The fact that people orderly got into lines, unlike the disordered masses in Uzbekistan, where everyone pushed to be first, leaving a formless mass of people. People here smiled. They stood patiently in long passport control lines. They were polite, even the people who were behind the glass who checked your passport. This, and perhaps just a bit of Natasha’s exultation of this generous land of America inspired me to believe that I had arrived in the land of plenty, the land of choice, the land of freedom, and that I took all this good for granted.
I was tired though, and when I got out of the airport, past the baggage carousels, past customs, to where people are waiting behind the cordoned off areas for their close ones who arrived, I imagined for a moment that someone from my family would be there to pick me up. I looked around the faces of the people, looking for the ones they eagerly waited for. You saw people embracing, people helping carry luggage and I knew that no one from my family would be there. It would have been a nice surprise to see someone there, but, there were some things you could always count on never changing in New York, no matter how long you left it for, and there I was, lugging my suitcase to the lines of people waiting for taxis. I settled into the back of a taxi, gave the driver my father’s address, and lay down feeling tired, hungry and dirty.
My father had been waiting for me in his apartment. He looked the same as always, much younger than his sixty years, always amazing me with the fine taste and neat orderliness of the apartment he took since he and my mother divorced five years earlier. He hugged me and asked if I’m hungry, if I’m tired after my 18 hour trip. “Both,” I said. “But I need to eat.” I look into his refrigerator, which is practically empty.
“We can eat whatever you want,” he said and this is true -- he lives in the best part of the city for restaurants and there is any kind of food imaginable: Italian, Japanese, Thai, French, American, vegetarian, and on and on. I could not make up my mind and asked my father to choose for us – so long as the place is close by. We settled on the Italian restaurant across the street, which is good and large and could accommodate us immediately with seats.
I looked through the menu consisting of foods that I’d nearly forgotten what they tasted like. So many of them, I could hardly choose, while the waiter stood above us waiting for my order. “Order whatever you want,” my father said. And I ordered Portobello mushrooms, mesclun lettuce, and ravioli in pesto, which are brought to me quickly. Suddenly feeling like a person long deprived of food, I marveled over the size of the portions, the tastes, though I devoured it so quickly, barely able to enjoy the tastes or able to open my mouth long enough to answer all the questions my father has. I told him quickly, between bites, that everything was fine out there, that I enjoyed my work and my life overseas. He said that he was surprised to see me looking as well and as healthy as I did. “What did you expect?” I asked, though actually feeling a bit sick.
He told me that he had begun seeing someone and that it was serious. I told him that I was happy for him. However, he said, my younger brother was opposed to the whole thing, essentially saying that my father didn’t have the right to see anyone unless they were Jewish and menopausal. I started feeling as though I could vomit, as though the ground beneath me was shaking and feeling unpleasant bubbling sensations in my intestines. I asked my father if we could get the check and go home. I felt weak and tired and as though my insides would explode.
Back at his apartment, I rushed into the bathroom and had the worst diarrhea, worse than anything I had experienced in Uzbekistan and I thought of the Russian expression, “sitting on the volcano.” His bathroom was large and had an echo and I was a bit embarrassed that my father could probably hear all the distress from outside. I ran the water in the sink, just to mute the noise. I stumbled out of the bathroom and onto the living room sofa, where I closed my eyes and immediately fell asleep. ¶ 10:07 AM
