- Published on
It's been wicked hot, pretty much for the last month, and sunny, sunny, sunny. But as soon as Nat flees the North Sea grey that the Dutch call summer, the weather here changes to rain and more rain. So, being masters of the pivot, we headed for the city of dreams, where neither of us had been since early COVID. Mindful of a tendency to repeat past traditions and thereby potentially hamper our experience, we approached the visit with open minds. But how could we not take our seats at the Rein's counter for mushroom barley soup, a bialy, a double serving of half sours and mustard on saltines (don't ask)? And of course we had to make sure the Hardware Store for Women (jewelry store) sign was still there, and naturally we'd at least circle past the consignment shop we used to love before it had only clothes adorned with large roses.
Next, it was another counter with twirly chairs, the Oyster Bar and then a walk in the drizzle to MoMA, where we saw many cool things while we fought off Italian teenagers and people who take photographs but forget to actually look at the original image. So many important pieces, furniture, installations, photographs, the actual building, all good, all exciting, inspiring. And that red, brown and black by Mark Rothko? My fave.
We couldn't begin to contemplate going back to our hotel in midtown, which is essentially a prison at night, so found a bar and settled in, and then wandered over to 8th Avenue, which for the professional people watchers we are, is the most perfect place to land on a Thursday evening. Biggest takeaways were that leggings are back in NY, and the significant amount of delivery guys (yes all men) on electric bikes, hooked up to their phones, with their raincoats and big temperature-retaining boxes on their backs. They embody the hustle that is NYC, as do the African vendors on Canal Street who seem to have won the Louis Vuitton war over the older Chinese ladies. Hard to imagine how that played out.
The next morning we decided to take a wander down Lex to Union Square green market, which keeps getting better and better. What does this say about us that of all the things we could have bought for a snack, we chose a small piece of beautiful cauliflower, two varieties of tomatoes and ground cherries? They were all delicious and kept us going in the obscene humidity until we could get to Dim Sum Gogo in Chinatown/East Village for some chive and shrimp dumplings and spinach dumplings. Never disappoints.
I ducked into a store that, newly opened, sells clothing and trucker hats that have a logo similar to Bass Pro Shop, but says something else. Whatever. Like the Chinatown ladies, they have a secret, windowless room where there are knockoff goods for sale. Really I stayed because I was the only visitor and the guy who worked there was earnest and sweet, introducing me to the taxidermied deers with large antlers while he petted them. Also, they had good air conditioning.
Nat rode a blue bike uptown to catch a bus on the west side to go to DC and I walked back via the High Line, which I was kicked out of because, due to the wind, pieces of glass were falling out of buildings. OK, that seems reasonable. 13 miles, my dogs were tired.
It was tempting to go to Fotografiska the next day, but instead I opted for a blue bike in Central Park, which it turns out is hilly. More sweat. But it's a nice ride around and there was a welcome gentleness after the prior day of humidity and noise and grey and Chinatown crowds and smells. Going back through Grand Central, I was struck by how the diversity of people in the big hall were sorted by the three train lines, sending I don't know who on the Hudson and Harlem lines, but anyone with golf clubs and/or blonde hair ended up on Track 16 for the New Haven line.
Turns out old habits die hard. But they still bring joy.
Next, it was another counter with twirly chairs, the Oyster Bar and then a walk in the drizzle to MoMA, where we saw many cool things while we fought off Italian teenagers and people who take photographs but forget to actually look at the original image. So many important pieces, furniture, installations, photographs, the actual building, all good, all exciting, inspiring. And that red, brown and black by Mark Rothko? My fave.
We couldn't begin to contemplate going back to our hotel in midtown, which is essentially a prison at night, so found a bar and settled in, and then wandered over to 8th Avenue, which for the professional people watchers we are, is the most perfect place to land on a Thursday evening. Biggest takeaways were that leggings are back in NY, and the significant amount of delivery guys (yes all men) on electric bikes, hooked up to their phones, with their raincoats and big temperature-retaining boxes on their backs. They embody the hustle that is NYC, as do the African vendors on Canal Street who seem to have won the Louis Vuitton war over the older Chinese ladies. Hard to imagine how that played out.
The next morning we decided to take a wander down Lex to Union Square green market, which keeps getting better and better. What does this say about us that of all the things we could have bought for a snack, we chose a small piece of beautiful cauliflower, two varieties of tomatoes and ground cherries? They were all delicious and kept us going in the obscene humidity until we could get to Dim Sum Gogo in Chinatown/East Village for some chive and shrimp dumplings and spinach dumplings. Never disappoints.
I ducked into a store that, newly opened, sells clothing and trucker hats that have a logo similar to Bass Pro Shop, but says something else. Whatever. Like the Chinatown ladies, they have a secret, windowless room where there are knockoff goods for sale. Really I stayed because I was the only visitor and the guy who worked there was earnest and sweet, introducing me to the taxidermied deers with large antlers while he petted them. Also, they had good air conditioning.
Nat rode a blue bike uptown to catch a bus on the west side to go to DC and I walked back via the High Line, which I was kicked out of because, due to the wind, pieces of glass were falling out of buildings. OK, that seems reasonable. 13 miles, my dogs were tired.
It was tempting to go to Fotografiska the next day, but instead I opted for a blue bike in Central Park, which it turns out is hilly. More sweat. But it's a nice ride around and there was a welcome gentleness after the prior day of humidity and noise and grey and Chinatown crowds and smells. Going back through Grand Central, I was struck by how the diversity of people in the big hall were sorted by the three train lines, sending I don't know who on the Hudson and Harlem lines, but anyone with golf clubs and/or blonde hair ended up on Track 16 for the New Haven line.
Turns out old habits die hard. But they still bring joy.
- Published on
It's been a few weeks of keeping my head down, doing repetitive and draining work without too much of a break, days had become too predictable. So it was a welcomed message I received when I sat down on a bench at the reservoir, to wait for Laura. "Take a breather" was clear as day (what does that mean, anyway?). Once we got moving we talked about expressions; "Dry as a bone" (presumably in Death Valley or some such place). Laura mentioned one her grandmother used which I'm determined to pepper my every day commentaries with: "Dumb as a haddock", though there will be some stressful decision-making between it and my long-time favorite "One taco short of a fiesta plate" . After, I went down the google rabbit hole and discovered more, many of which involve animals and most of which were raunchy (and funny):
Writing about anything serious seems out of place on such a beautiful summer morning, so here's a smattering of random.
OK, time to go and sieze the day. Hope it's a good one for you.
- Like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs (which means the same thing as one my mother used to use: "like a bull in a china shop")
- Chew the fat (seriously, I can't even)
- If a frog had wings, he wouldn't bump his ass hopping
- Well, I'm not here to fuck spiders! (apparently Australian)
- Eat crow
- The cat's pajamas
- Can't afford to even pay attention
- Can't find their way out of a paper bag
- Madder than a bag of ferrets
- Couldn't hit a dartboard with a hedgehog
Writing about anything serious seems out of place on such a beautiful summer morning, so here's a smattering of random.
- I don't usually buy any prepared foods at Costco, but the Ponytail Radish kimchee looked so good I had to try. And it diidn't disappoint. I like this better than any I've tried and have been learning about the importance of eating fermented foods, so will be going back to get another jug of the stuff.
- Our local bookstore, Brookline Booksmith, is a treasure, with new books and now enough gifty sorts of things to support their book business upstairs and used books downstairs. Many authors visit, sometimes filling the theater across the street. I love photo and art books so usually amble downstairs to see what's available, and this was yelling at me, not usually the kind of book I'd pick up. The author was a federal prosecutor and somehow befriended this guy, getting a shocking amount of detail about the life he led and where and how the Teamsters and Mafia were interconnected. Also, some mind-blowing revelations about the allegiance of these two groups and politics on the global stage. Well-written and a compelling read. Happy to lend it out.
- It's natural that entering a beautiful little bookstore in the shadow of the Domtoren, one would be compelled to pick up a few with a Dutch theme. Not to mention the lovely image on the cover, which captures Dutch light so well. But let the urge pass, my friend, unless you need to dial down your happiness a bit. They're well-written, but....The first two sentences from Funeral Rights, by Belcampo: "By two men who did not speak his language but who could clasp his arms in an immovable grip, he was chucked down the stone stairs into the darkness. There he lay and bled. With a booming blow the iron hatch slammed shut above him". And it gets worse from there. Then there's one about a chipper pig who makes everyone happy by among other things, enlisting all the pigs in the pen in a scheme of banging into the fatest pig, which they all love, except for the fattest pig, who mysteriously always disappears.My theory is that the North Sea is responsible for everything dark and grey in the Netherlands.
- This is my favorite photo book right now, garnered from the Brookline Booksmith basement. I love his sense of color and many details in his photos. When having a look, it takes every ounce of commitment to not get in my car and go.
- I was recently turned onto Desert Island Discs, which is a lovely way for famous and not so famous people to be interviewed a bit less formally, they tell you the 8 tracks they would bring with them to a desert island, and intersperse that with stories from their lives. Listening to one of Professor Tim Spector, I was turned on to his Zoe podcasts, which are about health and fitness, which drearily, the time has come for me to pay more attention to.
OK, time to go and sieze the day. Hope it's a good one for you.
- Published on
In case you missed my last few missives, I sent out a survey to people who play tennis, and promised results at some point, and here they are. For you non-tennis people, this likely won't be interesting, I'll be back at opining and storytelling next Saturday.
Certainly the demographic corresponds with my demographic as it was sent to people I know and play with who are of a similar age, but this survey wasn't supposed to be a well thought-out science experiment, more a way for me to be legit nosy, to understand what goes on in the heads of others. In case you're not aware, a study came out a few years ago reinforcing what we tennis players already know - that it's a game that leads to longer and better life expectancy.
Here's a synopsis of the results of this quirky survey:
We're old (yet don't have so many injuries), we've been playing tennis a long time, most of us loved it immediately and continue to derive serious joy from it. Despite being veterans, continuing to master the sport keeps us on the courts, as does socializing. Most of us struggle with focusing at some level (though there was one robot response who manages to focus 100% of the time). When we're unfocused, we mostly think about food and what we need to do next. Most of us are able to handle questionable line calls though they may grate on us and about half of us spiral at least some of the time.
All the charts and details are below if you're interested in reading. The comments are particularly lovely as they illustrate humility and struggles, the vulnerability, effort and love you contribute to the game. I hope you find this as reassuring as I did. Your comments make me so incredibly grateful for this game and for you, my tennis compadres.
In case you don't read everything below, I wanted to highlight my favorite "good tennis story" (it has been edited slightly to remove identifiers):
Comments about reasons people play:
What do you think about when you're not focused on the game?
How do you focus before a point?
Who do you compete against? Yourself, your opponent or both? Responses were appx 1/3, 1/3, 1/3, slightly more competing against themselves.
What is your reaction when there's a line call you, ahem, don't agree with?
Do you have a way of climbing out of a spiral?
How much do injuries adversely affect your game (1= not at all, 5 = a lot)
Injuries
Stories
See you on the courts.
Certainly the demographic corresponds with my demographic as it was sent to people I know and play with who are of a similar age, but this survey wasn't supposed to be a well thought-out science experiment, more a way for me to be legit nosy, to understand what goes on in the heads of others. In case you're not aware, a study came out a few years ago reinforcing what we tennis players already know - that it's a game that leads to longer and better life expectancy.
Here's a synopsis of the results of this quirky survey:
We're old (yet don't have so many injuries), we've been playing tennis a long time, most of us loved it immediately and continue to derive serious joy from it. Despite being veterans, continuing to master the sport keeps us on the courts, as does socializing. Most of us struggle with focusing at some level (though there was one robot response who manages to focus 100% of the time). When we're unfocused, we mostly think about food and what we need to do next. Most of us are able to handle questionable line calls though they may grate on us and about half of us spiral at least some of the time.
All the charts and details are below if you're interested in reading. The comments are particularly lovely as they illustrate humility and struggles, the vulnerability, effort and love you contribute to the game. I hope you find this as reassuring as I did. Your comments make me so incredibly grateful for this game and for you, my tennis compadres.
In case you don't read everything below, I wanted to highlight my favorite "good tennis story" (it has been edited slightly to remove identifiers):
- My husband and I were in the finals of a mixed tournament. We had lost the first set and were down 2-5 in the second set. My husband wasn’t playing up to his regular game, so I took him aside and told him that if he could turn the match around right here, I would give him “special time.” He then turned that match around on a dime and we won 7-5, and 6-something in the third set. It was hilarious.
Comments about reasons people play:
- Connection to my dad, feels disrespectful not to play (love this one)
- Its fun and makes me feel good
- An activity with my kids
- Is fun to be outside and relatively low overhead (mmm, not a Longwood player)
- Mental acuity
What do you think about when you're not focused on the game?
- Food
- What I need to do next
- Schedule, work, kids, who is on the court next to me, etc.
- Çoñditioning
- Gratitude
- Energy level, work stuff, how hot and thirsty I am, how my body is feeling, the porch/cocktails post match:)
- Am I fun to play with?
- Food
- Work
- Dinner, lunch, dog, work
- What I'm going to eat or drink when we're done
- What I'm going to do after. Lunch
- Why I can't keep my eye on the ball
- What I need to do later, politics, replay conversations I’ve had.
- Who knows
- What I need to do after tennis.
- You name it, I’ve thought about it.
- Errands
- Things I need to do the rest of the day/week
- Family and other responsibilities
- Strategy (this must be the robot who was 100% focused)
- What am I doing later in the day or tomorrow or .... why is that person behaving like an idiot
- Lunch or cocktails
- People walking by, the other games around me, literally anything else I've been thinking of that day. things i see that remind me of other things
- My to do list
How do you focus before a point?
- Mantra just this point
- Think about watching the ball
- Remind myself how badly I want to win
- Watch ball
- Ha! I don't! I just play.
- Breathing exercises and I try to slow myself down
- Mantra: “keep it simple”
- Bounce the ball
- Clear mind, look at player with ball
- Getting lower
- Look at the nature I'm surrounded by, remind myself that outcome doesn't matter, presence does. If I'm serving, I visualize the. perfect serve.
- I keep telling myself to watch the ball off the hitter's racquet
- A little foot fire and mental pump up.
- Ball back in play no matter what
- Tell myself to focus and really try to do it.
- I think about where I’m going to hit the serve or return. It helps if I move my feet around to get ready.
- Try to set up next point
- I try to just focus on watching the ball with a tentative plan as to where I want to hit the first shot
- Could be better at that! Try to look at the server and figure out what's coming my way
- Watch the person who is about to serve, watch the ball. Use a mantra.
- Connect with my partner on strategy and excitement
- Watch the ball, feel athletic
- Tell myself to focus and try to split step
- A little ball bouncing pre-serve. otherwise, I don't really
- Use my breath to focus
Who do you compete against? Yourself, your opponent or both? Responses were appx 1/3, 1/3, 1/3, slightly more competing against themselves.
- I just like to prove to myself that I'm still competitive/in the mix, despite having so little time that I play much less than all the women I play with.
- Both as I'm hard on myself and have high expectations for how I want to play and in a competitive match am competing against my opponents
- Neither, I'm not really sure how to compete, just try to get ball back
- I try to do it against myself, but that's not always easy
What is your reaction when there's a line call you, ahem, don't agree with?
- We all make close calls..try not to think it's intentional
- Depends on the day and the match
- Immediately, I'm bothered, but I tell myself to move on and usually do within a few points
- Cheater
- Too bad
- Don't react and let it go unless it's a pattern and then say something
- That ball was definitely in. So unfair. Don’t say anything. Let it go. Get even. Move on.
- I know what I saw
- Try to ignore. I know my eyes are going and try to give everyone benefit of the doubt
- It depends how egregious the call is
- I try for compassion
- Depends on the stakes. Did it happen during a key point in the match?
- Seriously?!?!?
- I don’t really care
- I try to ignore it.
- I get irritated. I sometimes ask if the opponent is sure about the line call. I used to get upset but I’ve learned that it is counter productive for me.
- Move on
- I get annoyed but just try to remind myself that everyone makes bad line calls at times and in the end that call won’t make or break the match
- It upset me, but I’ve learned to let it go and figure it comes out in the wash...it doesn't happen too often and I try to give people the benefit of the doubt, sometimes it's really hard to tell...I am more annoyed if people question my calls
- May or may not ask “how close was it?” but only in a match, unlikely to even ask in a social game. Then just move on fast and forget about it. Mostly say to myself everyone is calling lines the best they can.
- Oh well, but others are usually super cranky, which turns me off about tennis women.
- Try to dismiss as unimportant
- Let it go
- Haha. I tend to move on.
- Poopoo on them. if it happens more than once i might unintentionally disengage with the game a bit. Otherwise, I try to move on.
- Part of the game.....move on. most people are trying to be fair
- When I don’t agree with line calls I try to move on. I’m not there to get in an argument - just there to have fun!
Do you have a way of climbing out of a spiral?
- Try to move more and focus on the ball
- Try to focus on one point at a time
- Shift focus to feet
- Back to basics
- Maybe encouragement from partner that it’s ok and that I can relax, so I don’t get more uptight about letting her down with my errors. Breathe.
- Refocus
- Not really, I check out
- Getting mad at myself
- Move my feet
- Try to focus on one element of my game
- Rationalize where things are in the match - score/how I’m playing.
- Remember tennis is just a sport
- Focus
- I think about other times I’ve played well. I try to focus and hit high percentage shots.
- Focus on the ball not the other player
- I try to find one shot that’s working and keep doing just that till I can get a rhythm back again
- Taking deep breaths, try to relax arm (which isn't as easy as it sounds), look at seams of the ball
- Every point is a new chance! I try to remember my footwork and just basic strokes, don’t try anything fancy until I’m back on track.
- Think strategy, connect w partner
- Tell myself watch the ball, move my feet, keep it simple
- Stay positive
- Usually just spiral out of control and happy when it’s over.
- Trying to play like i'm doing a drill (very measured, focused on footsteps and followthrough).
- Mindset
How much do injuries adversely affect your game (1= not at all, 5 = a lot)
Injuries
- Hip
- Back and shoulder
- Tennis elbow, tight calves that have resulted in achilles tendonitis in past seasons
- Rotator cuff tear, hairline fracture in shoulder, arthritic knees
- Cranky lcl (back, inide of knee)
- Foot, sometimes knee, sometimes back.
- Arthritic knees
- Many
- I am sore because I don't stretch. My right big toe hurts.
- Neck/upper back pain.
- Just had a patrolmen replacement and feeling great!
- Slightly sore back and knees
- It is a sport that involves injury and recovery, that’s for sure. But, usually worth it to play.
- Knee
Stories
- Strangest tennis story is when my son who was 10 was playing a match and the opponents Father wouldn't stop coaching and fighting with the referee. He ended up in the back of a police car.
- My husband and I were in the finals of a mixed tournament. We had lost the first set and were down 2-5 in the second set. My husband wasn’t playing up to his regular game and I took him aside and told him that if he could turn the match around right here, I would give him a “special time.” He then turned that match around on a dime and we won 7-5, and 6-something in the third set. It was hilarious.
- "Life is like playing tennis"
- When I was young, there was a kid who was really good, but a brat. Once, he got mad, threw his racquet, which hit the court sprinkler system, breaking a pipe and flooding the court. Another time when I was a teenager, there was a guy who I could tell was trying to impress. He tossed the ball, but somehow first whiffed it, then it bounced on his head..
- I now look back and realize how lucky I was to watch Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova play in the Virginia Slims tournament in Boston in the 70s. I do not remember the year but am amazed to have attended one of their first of so many matches.
- Less talking, better I play. However, I enjoy chatting with friends on the court.
- I have two favorite stories. The first one is about the time I had to play in a USTA match after a “terrible day at the office “. I was living in NYC and I got to the match which was on the upper east side indoors. My teammates told me that I was set to play “the human backboard”. We had 1.5 hours to play the match and after a little over an hour, the hb was beating me 5-0. We were playing moon ball and I was only half concentrating. Finally I said to myself that it was ridiculous to play moon ball because tennis was as supposed to be fun and that I should play smarter. I also said to myself that in the grand scheme of things, winning a tennis match was not that important. After I had this conversation in my head, I started going to the net on every point and ended up winning 6-5. I think I’ll save the next story.
- I have lost the first set 0-6 and then won the match.
- We were down 8-1 in the tiebreaker, playing against a women who we knew well and she was very good and particularly unpleasant to play against. We didn’t give up and kept fighting and saw her just make mistake after mistake. We played fine but she fell apart and we won 10-8. It helps me remember that anything can happen and never give up.
- Lots of great tennis memories - watching a tournament (at LCC) in the '60s with my grandfather, being on the court with my dad, many fun games with friends, the opportunity to meet so many interesting people that I would never cross paths with otherwise...feel very fortunate that my parents encouraged me to play...
- I got to watch the American dream team play in the Davis Cup. Agassi, Sampras, McEnroe & the Jensen Brothers.
- None that I want to share
See you on the courts.
- Published on
Cambridge has changed quite a bit since the demise of the Wursthaus, now a CVS, which tells you everything you need to know about the evolution of Harvard Square. Nevertheless, I love crossing over the Charles and invariably ask myself "Wait, why don't I live here?" and then get distracted by something before I can answer the question.
The same sentiment arises when I see my Asphar cousins, who you'd think lived in Lithuania, for all the frequency we see each other. Invariably, I wonder why our lives aren't more connected and make a promise to myself to change that, then get distracted by life.
Perhaps 15 years ago, back when Facebook was the boss of me, I came across a woman named Clara Tait from Adelaide, Australia. I can't remember whether she contacted me or came up as a friend suggestion, but we got to corresponding and learned that our grandparents were siblings in Malta. Not too long after, Clara, being an Aussie not shy of a walkabout, came to Boston with her sister Catherine and we had a lovely time together. She was immersed in family lore, among other things, and I was running picture life books, a company that created coffee table books containing photos and interviews with individuals about their lives and family histories. So we had some crossover there and made great plans to collaborate on a book about a history of the Asphars, who were originally from Syria, moved to India for a generation or two, and ended up in Malta, where they had only stopped on their way to England to warm up. Clara completed the history without my help, due to a shoemaker's daughter sort of situaiton, but I thought of her often and was happy to be connected. So it was with pleasure I learned that Clara was returning for another visit, this time with her beau, Clayton, and that we'd have the opportunity to meet up in Connecticut.
When I was in the wicked awkward teenage phase, I held my older cousins in the highest of esteem because they set their hair around orange juice cans and had all the right clothes, making my hard-won irregular Levi's with the upside down tag seem like the potato sack they were. That Barb had a rapidiograph pen she used to make really cool drawings and calligraphy moved her into the another realm. She was always a size negative zero and at that particular time, sported some killer high-waisted pants. Kind person that she is, she handed me down a pair, white super high waisted with fat cuffs that were beyond the most fashionable piece of clothing I'd ever had. That I could maybe have buttoned them around one thigh didn't come up as an issue as I was determined to fit into them by the end of the week. She of course said nothing about the size being a bit off. Over some years, those pants moved around from drawer to hanger to, at one point, a ladder that I kept open in my bedroom to display my most favored clothes (I know), Needless to say, they never graced this body, but seeing them among my things made me feel a little less awkward and ever so grateful for having such a kind cousin.
Well, she hasn't changed, this time giving of her and her always-smiling husband Brad's house and garden for our get-together. I knew from the last time this talented man had fed me that we would be eating well, haunted as I still was by that white cake with whipped cream and blueberries he created some years back. I'm not doing the meal the other day justice telling you it was a pasta with aubergine and just a bit of tomato and ricotta but trust me when I say, it was sublime. And a salad so good I could have put my head in the bowl and left it there until there was nothing left. Looking at the chunks of tomato, which he approached differently than I would have in a salad, I mourned not having had the opportunity to watch his skilled hands at work, so comfortable with their tools and materials, fluid in their actions, creating visual and flavoral (yes, I made it up) beauty.
Everyone there was special, from my cousin who, when we were kids, had a bedroom that was blue and green that made me ever so jealous, to my other cousins with whom I share an English and Maltese heritage. And then there's my eldest, beautiful cousin who I love talking and listening to, reminding me as she does of a fully leafed tree, gracefully bending with the wind, yet solidly in the ground. We sat outside at a beautifully laid table that was cleared in minutes when the rain began, only to stop minutes after we'd moved inside. Greg, who had been my parents' architect, told me stories about working with them, helping me understand how others perceived my parents. Clara told us a story about our ancestors who had a 10 year courtiship because the groom was gay but couldn't cop to it (they had two kids).
Having a priviledged, British, stiff upper lip, stop complaining and get on with it mother and an id-focused, living for the moment, magnetic and peripatetic father was confusing and as a younger person, felt like an either/or. As my father was often away, I identified more as English. But as I get older and the tip of my nose gets rounder, and am lucky enough to spend time with these warm and loving relatives, I embrace the Maltese in me. Though ever eating timpana again is 100% out of the question.
The same sentiment arises when I see my Asphar cousins, who you'd think lived in Lithuania, for all the frequency we see each other. Invariably, I wonder why our lives aren't more connected and make a promise to myself to change that, then get distracted by life.
Perhaps 15 years ago, back when Facebook was the boss of me, I came across a woman named Clara Tait from Adelaide, Australia. I can't remember whether she contacted me or came up as a friend suggestion, but we got to corresponding and learned that our grandparents were siblings in Malta. Not too long after, Clara, being an Aussie not shy of a walkabout, came to Boston with her sister Catherine and we had a lovely time together. She was immersed in family lore, among other things, and I was running picture life books, a company that created coffee table books containing photos and interviews with individuals about their lives and family histories. So we had some crossover there and made great plans to collaborate on a book about a history of the Asphars, who were originally from Syria, moved to India for a generation or two, and ended up in Malta, where they had only stopped on their way to England to warm up. Clara completed the history without my help, due to a shoemaker's daughter sort of situaiton, but I thought of her often and was happy to be connected. So it was with pleasure I learned that Clara was returning for another visit, this time with her beau, Clayton, and that we'd have the opportunity to meet up in Connecticut.
When I was in the wicked awkward teenage phase, I held my older cousins in the highest of esteem because they set their hair around orange juice cans and had all the right clothes, making my hard-won irregular Levi's with the upside down tag seem like the potato sack they were. That Barb had a rapidiograph pen she used to make really cool drawings and calligraphy moved her into the another realm. She was always a size negative zero and at that particular time, sported some killer high-waisted pants. Kind person that she is, she handed me down a pair, white super high waisted with fat cuffs that were beyond the most fashionable piece of clothing I'd ever had. That I could maybe have buttoned them around one thigh didn't come up as an issue as I was determined to fit into them by the end of the week. She of course said nothing about the size being a bit off. Over some years, those pants moved around from drawer to hanger to, at one point, a ladder that I kept open in my bedroom to display my most favored clothes (I know), Needless to say, they never graced this body, but seeing them among my things made me feel a little less awkward and ever so grateful for having such a kind cousin.
Well, she hasn't changed, this time giving of her and her always-smiling husband Brad's house and garden for our get-together. I knew from the last time this talented man had fed me that we would be eating well, haunted as I still was by that white cake with whipped cream and blueberries he created some years back. I'm not doing the meal the other day justice telling you it was a pasta with aubergine and just a bit of tomato and ricotta but trust me when I say, it was sublime. And a salad so good I could have put my head in the bowl and left it there until there was nothing left. Looking at the chunks of tomato, which he approached differently than I would have in a salad, I mourned not having had the opportunity to watch his skilled hands at work, so comfortable with their tools and materials, fluid in their actions, creating visual and flavoral (yes, I made it up) beauty.
Everyone there was special, from my cousin who, when we were kids, had a bedroom that was blue and green that made me ever so jealous, to my other cousins with whom I share an English and Maltese heritage. And then there's my eldest, beautiful cousin who I love talking and listening to, reminding me as she does of a fully leafed tree, gracefully bending with the wind, yet solidly in the ground. We sat outside at a beautifully laid table that was cleared in minutes when the rain began, only to stop minutes after we'd moved inside. Greg, who had been my parents' architect, told me stories about working with them, helping me understand how others perceived my parents. Clara told us a story about our ancestors who had a 10 year courtiship because the groom was gay but couldn't cop to it (they had two kids).
Having a priviledged, British, stiff upper lip, stop complaining and get on with it mother and an id-focused, living for the moment, magnetic and peripatetic father was confusing and as a younger person, felt like an either/or. As my father was often away, I identified more as English. But as I get older and the tip of my nose gets rounder, and am lucky enough to spend time with these warm and loving relatives, I embrace the Maltese in me. Though ever eating timpana again is 100% out of the question.
- Published on
First, a few updates. If you're a tennis player and haven't yet filled out my silly survey, I'd be so grateful if you did. And feel free to share with others. Replies come to me without any identification.
I promise a more interesting and engaging piece next week.
When to Hire a Search Firm
If you anticipate hiring a new leader for your nonprofit, there are many considerations that can help you shape how your search committee moves forward. I’ve compiled this to share some of the things I’ve learned over the last 30+ years in nonprofit search and HR. It's taken time and experimentation (and yes, some errors, for sure) to develop a nuanced understanding of the implications of how certain decisions manifest later on, impacting an organization’s future.
After working with board hiring committees, CEOs, staff and many, many candidates, I’ve developed best practices for my search firm that support productive leadership transitions, aligning candidate qualifications with organizational needs. Here are a few things I’ve learned:
Job Posting vs. Full Search
While it makes sense to rely on website postings for entry and mid-level openings, because the health and future of an organization will be shaped significantly by the next leader hired, a more strategic approach is called for. Measure twice, cut once, as the saying goes. For a successful hire to be made, there needs to be alignment, all kinds of alignment. Like Roger Federer, who appears to make his tennis look “effortless” yet has spent his life perfecting it, having all parts of your search aligned may seem obvious and straightforward, but achieving it takes knowledge, experience and a well-tested process to achieve.
Search committee members need to be aligned on what the priorities for the position are, anyone assisting with the search needs to be aligned with the committee, the requirements of the position and compensation need to be aligned with the responsibilities, the candidates presented need to have experience aligned with what’s required, and the candidate’s understanding of the position needs to align with the search committee’s. That’s a lot of aligning. When you hire a retained search firm, aligning is built into the process you would go through.
One of the things I do is get feedback from between 25 and 50 stakeholders, whether board members, donors, staff, volunteers, partner organizations or clients. Raising different viewpoints leads to important discussions and prioritizing. Inviting more people into the process earlier on also leads to better buy-in once a new leader is appointed.
There are of course other things we search people do: provide you with synthesized data about what your stakeholders think, create compelling job scopes, share compensation data you don’t have access to, advise about offer packages, research like organizations, cold call passive candidates and reach out to many many people, conduct efficient screening interviews, provide executive summaries, create interview formats with questions and assessment tools, schedule, negotiate, do reference checks, extend offers and provide structure for onboarding.
Hire A3 Search and Talent Management
Having a hiring partner who embeds themselves into your organization for the time the hire is being made provides you with a thought partner, project manager, advocate, advisor, scheduler and a corraler. As someone who has been both in-house and a consultant, has executive search and organizational development experience, I am well equipped to help you with your next search and would be happy to talk more about A3 Search and Talent Management’s services. Here’s a list of my current and prior clients
- Also, my friend's husband who was in the cardiac ICU is so well. Once out of rehab, he has worked like a demon to get stronger. He recently went back to visit the hospital and made his nurse cry, she was so amazed at how he was doing. His family and friends are so grateful for your prayers and good wishes.
- You probably think I spend all my time playing tennis, going on trips and taking photographs, right? Well sometimes I'm productive and this week I had to create something for work which was 400 times harder than my usual writing. The biggest challenge was not using beaten to death work phrases, but it's incredibly hard to avoid. . This project made my brain hurt so much that there was nothing left for a more fun piece, so I'm sharing what I wrote for my business, A3 Search and Talent Management. And as a neighbor in the old hood always says "I'm never too busy for your referrals"
I promise a more interesting and engaging piece next week.
When to Hire a Search Firm
If you anticipate hiring a new leader for your nonprofit, there are many considerations that can help you shape how your search committee moves forward. I’ve compiled this to share some of the things I’ve learned over the last 30+ years in nonprofit search and HR. It's taken time and experimentation (and yes, some errors, for sure) to develop a nuanced understanding of the implications of how certain decisions manifest later on, impacting an organization’s future.
After working with board hiring committees, CEOs, staff and many, many candidates, I’ve developed best practices for my search firm that support productive leadership transitions, aligning candidate qualifications with organizational needs. Here are a few things I’ve learned:
- The person you choose to hire will impact the organization's future, no matter who he or she is.
- No one candidate will be perfect. Understanding the organization’s challenges and a candidate’s growth areas ensures there won’t be significant holes.
- It’s rare that everyone agrees. Disparate viewpoints can mean engaged discussions leading to a better-informed hire.
- Weigh quicker ramp-up against longevity. While it’s possible to have both, in general there’s a question of how long someone with more experience will remain engaged, versus how much time would a hungrier candidate with less experience, need to get up to speed?
- Whenever a senior leadership position is open, staff tend to have increased responsibilities and are nervous about who their next boss will be.If at all possible, keep them in the loop and be aware of how much they’re juggling.
- Sitting on a board is a commitment requiring navigation of organizational oversight with a full-time job, often a challenge.
- While there is often an urgency to fill a position to alleviate staff overload and a leaderless organization, a well-executed search is worth the time it takes and is best not rushed.
- Letting go of a bad hire sucks time, money and energy, decreasing productivity and moving an organization away from mission .It’s also detrimental to staff morale and can lead to other departures.
- Setting up an onboarding plan that articulates Executive Committee expectations is an important part of a successful transition.
Job Posting vs. Full Search
While it makes sense to rely on website postings for entry and mid-level openings, because the health and future of an organization will be shaped significantly by the next leader hired, a more strategic approach is called for. Measure twice, cut once, as the saying goes. For a successful hire to be made, there needs to be alignment, all kinds of alignment. Like Roger Federer, who appears to make his tennis look “effortless” yet has spent his life perfecting it, having all parts of your search aligned may seem obvious and straightforward, but achieving it takes knowledge, experience and a well-tested process to achieve.
Search committee members need to be aligned on what the priorities for the position are, anyone assisting with the search needs to be aligned with the committee, the requirements of the position and compensation need to be aligned with the responsibilities, the candidates presented need to have experience aligned with what’s required, and the candidate’s understanding of the position needs to align with the search committee’s. That’s a lot of aligning. When you hire a retained search firm, aligning is built into the process you would go through.
One of the things I do is get feedback from between 25 and 50 stakeholders, whether board members, donors, staff, volunteers, partner organizations or clients. Raising different viewpoints leads to important discussions and prioritizing. Inviting more people into the process earlier on also leads to better buy-in once a new leader is appointed.
There are of course other things we search people do: provide you with synthesized data about what your stakeholders think, create compelling job scopes, share compensation data you don’t have access to, advise about offer packages, research like organizations, cold call passive candidates and reach out to many many people, conduct efficient screening interviews, provide executive summaries, create interview formats with questions and assessment tools, schedule, negotiate, do reference checks, extend offers and provide structure for onboarding.
Hire A3 Search and Talent Management
Having a hiring partner who embeds themselves into your organization for the time the hire is being made provides you with a thought partner, project manager, advocate, advisor, scheduler and a corraler. As someone who has been both in-house and a consultant, has executive search and organizational development experience, I am well equipped to help you with your next search and would be happy to talk more about A3 Search and Talent Management’s services. Here’s a list of my current and prior clients
- Published on
Sometimes when my partner is serving and I should be thinking strategically about how to move in and cut off a shot that I should be anticipating, I'm instead wondering if I'll have Guldens or Grey Poupon on my BLT, or why someone made a certain face when they were telling me something, or when my car's annual inspection is. It got me thinking about my relationship with tennis and why I play if I'm not even paying attention all the time, which made me wonder if something similar is going on with other people. And that led to wondering about other things....
So, I've created a survey I'd love for you to fill out if you're a tennis player. Funny thing, I don't know who is reading my blog. Yes, there's probably a way to know but that's not how I want to spend my time. If you are able to spare a few minutes to answer some of my questions about tennis, would you mind either replying at the bottom of this post with your email address, or sending it to anna.asphar@gmail.com? The more replies, the better. Gracias.
Once I get a bunch of feedback, I'm going to think about it and do a post or two.
No-one would see replies but me and while I have access to the email addresses who respond, I don't know which email says what (not that there are any questions that would be deemed confidential).
Also, if you know of anyone who might be interested in responding, send me an email address. Thanks again.
So, I've created a survey I'd love for you to fill out if you're a tennis player. Funny thing, I don't know who is reading my blog. Yes, there's probably a way to know but that's not how I want to spend my time. If you are able to spare a few minutes to answer some of my questions about tennis, would you mind either replying at the bottom of this post with your email address, or sending it to anna.asphar@gmail.com? The more replies, the better. Gracias.
Once I get a bunch of feedback, I'm going to think about it and do a post or two.
No-one would see replies but me and while I have access to the email addresses who respond, I don't know which email says what (not that there are any questions that would be deemed confidential).
Also, if you know of anyone who might be interested in responding, send me an email address. Thanks again.
- Published on
From the time Nat was very little, we would go to Newport, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with others. I can remember her as a young toddler on First Beach conducting serious sand business with a kitchen fork and spoon while seagulls that outweighed her circled around assessing whether she'd make a good snack. It was the perfect place to go as there was never much traffic, the water was warmer, there were waves, bathrooms and amenities, and parking was close by. I say we, but I suppose it was I who developed the ritual of going to Newport Creamery after for a chocolate Awful Awful that we would "share". I'd get.a sip sometimes.
Perhaps one day we wondered what all the commotion was across the street? Honestly, I don't remember, but by the time Nat was 5, going to the men's ATP tournament at the International Tennis Hall of Fame was a much loved tradition, which was only broken during COVID, when the tournament wasn't held.
It never occurred to me to adhere to instructions about visitor parking at some far away spot that would demand taking a not-on-my-personal-schedule trolley that would most certainly limit our freedom of movement. Instead we'd park two blocks away on Edgar Court, at a housing project, then stroll on over. Our first stop was.usually Empire Coffee and Tea for a pre-tournament beverage, after which we'd cross Bellevue to the beautiful main entrance, only to get our annual suprise that outside drinks are't allowed inside, resulting in a quick slurp with no enjoyment.
Once inside, there are only three choices; watch at the practice courts, follow the matches on the two courts next to each other, or sit in an assigned stadium seat. As we would always go early in the week to watch more, the stadium matches, which featured seeded players, were lopsided and uninteresting, often with big servers like John Isner or Sam Querry. So we'd watch the up and comers duke it out, or fast-paced doubles, and enjoy seeing Lleyton Hewitt practice with his tow-headed toddler son roaming around the court.
Lunch is always back across Bellevue at A Market, and for me it's the same thing because it's so very delicious and happens to be healthy as well. Then back to the tournament with often a sit in the stadium because we've perfected scoring good seats in the shade, which are a welcomed relief by then.
After the matches are done for the day, it's over to Pasta Beach for dinner, where players can be seen with their coaches and families. We once watched Sam Querry, shortly after he'd lost a match, struggling with his toddler and trying to eat at the same time.
It's quitting time after that, but we're never quite ready to leave, having a feeling of wanting a little more, which we sometimes capitulate to by stopping at First Beach for a walk or once, staying over for a second day. In all, it's a most predictably perfect and wonderful day that has been important enough for both of us that we've cancelled meetings, moved schedules around, changed flights, gone with little sleep in order to maintain the ritual.
So when Nat told me months ago that she'd be in Europe this July, it was with a feeling of happiness for the fun things she'd be doing to expand her world, and a loss not unfamiliar to the mom experience over the years, reminding me of the first time she didn't want to hold my hand on our walk to school. Even though I'd had a good thing for a long time and knew the party was going to end at some point, there arose a poignant feeling of being happy for her confidence, strength and independence and then sadness about what would never be again.
While there was always the option of asking a friend to attend this year, it somehow didn't seem right to just fill the void, so I chose to go alone to the qualifiers, particularly as the biggest names in the main draw weren't too exciting. There were certainly fine things about the day: being on my own schedule, that regular parking spot waiting for me, being in Newport in general, cushy chairs in the shade replaced sitting on the sunny steps, my new friend Kim with whom I spent a lot of the day, great people watching and an iced coffee stand inside the tournament. But overall, there was a feeling of mehness which could have been just me, but I'm not 100% sure about that. The tradition was over, yes, but the tennis wasn't great, and not in evidence was a feeling of something close to sanctity that perhaps comes when the likes of Andy Murray show up. When I learned that it was the last year of the tournament, it seemed like the perfect fizzle of something that could be no longer, in more ways than one.
Perhaps one day we wondered what all the commotion was across the street? Honestly, I don't remember, but by the time Nat was 5, going to the men's ATP tournament at the International Tennis Hall of Fame was a much loved tradition, which was only broken during COVID, when the tournament wasn't held.
It never occurred to me to adhere to instructions about visitor parking at some far away spot that would demand taking a not-on-my-personal-schedule trolley that would most certainly limit our freedom of movement. Instead we'd park two blocks away on Edgar Court, at a housing project, then stroll on over. Our first stop was.usually Empire Coffee and Tea for a pre-tournament beverage, after which we'd cross Bellevue to the beautiful main entrance, only to get our annual suprise that outside drinks are't allowed inside, resulting in a quick slurp with no enjoyment.
Once inside, there are only three choices; watch at the practice courts, follow the matches on the two courts next to each other, or sit in an assigned stadium seat. As we would always go early in the week to watch more, the stadium matches, which featured seeded players, were lopsided and uninteresting, often with big servers like John Isner or Sam Querry. So we'd watch the up and comers duke it out, or fast-paced doubles, and enjoy seeing Lleyton Hewitt practice with his tow-headed toddler son roaming around the court.
Lunch is always back across Bellevue at A Market, and for me it's the same thing because it's so very delicious and happens to be healthy as well. Then back to the tournament with often a sit in the stadium because we've perfected scoring good seats in the shade, which are a welcomed relief by then.
After the matches are done for the day, it's over to Pasta Beach for dinner, where players can be seen with their coaches and families. We once watched Sam Querry, shortly after he'd lost a match, struggling with his toddler and trying to eat at the same time.
It's quitting time after that, but we're never quite ready to leave, having a feeling of wanting a little more, which we sometimes capitulate to by stopping at First Beach for a walk or once, staying over for a second day. In all, it's a most predictably perfect and wonderful day that has been important enough for both of us that we've cancelled meetings, moved schedules around, changed flights, gone with little sleep in order to maintain the ritual.
So when Nat told me months ago that she'd be in Europe this July, it was with a feeling of happiness for the fun things she'd be doing to expand her world, and a loss not unfamiliar to the mom experience over the years, reminding me of the first time she didn't want to hold my hand on our walk to school. Even though I'd had a good thing for a long time and knew the party was going to end at some point, there arose a poignant feeling of being happy for her confidence, strength and independence and then sadness about what would never be again.
While there was always the option of asking a friend to attend this year, it somehow didn't seem right to just fill the void, so I chose to go alone to the qualifiers, particularly as the biggest names in the main draw weren't too exciting. There were certainly fine things about the day: being on my own schedule, that regular parking spot waiting for me, being in Newport in general, cushy chairs in the shade replaced sitting on the sunny steps, my new friend Kim with whom I spent a lot of the day, great people watching and an iced coffee stand inside the tournament. But overall, there was a feeling of mehness which could have been just me, but I'm not 100% sure about that. The tradition was over, yes, but the tennis wasn't great, and not in evidence was a feeling of something close to sanctity that perhaps comes when the likes of Andy Murray show up. When I learned that it was the last year of the tournament, it seemed like the perfect fizzle of something that could be no longer, in more ways than one.
- Published on
Disclaimer that a lawyer would tell me to write: The stories I tell happened eons ago and no longer reflect the BSO of today.
My BSO compadres and I used the slang "Sympathy Hall" because we were in our twenties and our currency was what we imagined wit. That we would slip up, saying "Sympathy" instead of "Symphony" at inopportune times was predictable and laughed about over drinks at the Pour House on Thursday, the new Friday, evenings. We were under-financed, but shared a passion borne of our good fortune to be working in the performing arts.
On my first Friday afternoon, I had to get something signed near the second balcony, where I had not yet been Upon entering, I was assaulted by a reception desk splattered with pink goo and the sounds of a blender churning out strawberry daquiris. Stained pink teeth and tongue of an overserved senior manager pressured me to join. A far cry from the law office at which I'd been temping the prior week
Symphony Hall was funded by the man responsible for creating much of the culture in Boston, Henry Lee Higginson. His largesse lured Mead, McKim and White, who had by then designed the Public Library in Boston, along with many substantive buildings in NYC, to create what "remains, acoustically, among the top three concert halls in the world (sharing this distinction with the Amsterdam Concertgebouw and Vienna's Musikvereinsaal), and is considered the finest in the United States"*. Now, you're likely wondering "How is that even possible?". As was oft quoted, Symphony Hall is a shoebox within a shoe box. I realized the other night that it's actually three shoe boxes; the exterior walls, the offices, bathrooms, library, kitchen, supply closets and other rooms that abut the exterior walls keeping external street noise at bay, and finally the interior wall that separates the concert hall from the corridors surrounding.
I tell you this because when I first started my two week temp job that extended to thirteen years, my office was in a recently converted supply closet adjacent to someone who had installed a driveway mirror above her desk so she could see when it was safe to lay out the lines of coke she needed to get through the evening. My friends in Sales and Marketing hung their hats in the newly reconfigured ladies room, which still had two swinging red leather doors with oval windows at head height. Yes, the toilets were gone.
Despite or maybe because of the slightly chaotic environment, I couldn't have been more delighted to be interacting with (mostly) men who sometimes came in with their instruments, wearing tails or Friday black suit. That they might have been eating chips or a sandwich at the same time seemed incomprehensible, a clash of refined European heritage and crass, American eating and walking un-culture. It was similar to the confusion elicited by the "pilgrim" at Plimoth/Patuxet who was texting while his grape and squirrel stew was cooking. As I got to know the musicians better and saw how excited they were for the Costco benefit, it became clear they had never inhabited their tails, rather wore them as a uniform.
A new season started a few weeks after I'd been officially hired, which meant it was a time when new orchestra members began their tenure after having survived a grueling audition process. Their initial step would have been submitting a tape of themselves playing, then if called back (few were), performing behind a curtain while the selection committee listened, and if that went well, joining a concert with the orchestra.
There were two guys who started when I did, and it was my job to sign them up for benefits and help a bit with acclimation. I was intimidated by them, never thinking to kibbitz the way I would with a new staff member. Maybe because they were single men my age, or because there was a clear line between the musician's union and "management". Or, it could have been a social awkwardness they bore that was the result of many hours in the practice rooms. In any case, I helped them out and during my tenure at Symphony Hall would chat with them from time to time in a way one might speak to a boss' boss. When I'd attend a concert, I'd watch them and think about how at the same age as me, they had a well-paid avocation and I, marginally a vocation.
The lustre of HR fell away quickly, but good friends, comp tickets, a great boss and the Tanglewood stipend kept me there. Until one day when I up and quit, and that was the end of that. I took a different HR job (don't ask) down the street at the Gardner, staying in touch with the people I cared about. Occasionally someone would slip me some comps and I'd attend a concert in Boston or at Tanglewood, happy to luxuriate in those rich BSO strings, among other instruments.
As well as enjoying the performance, BSO concerts became a time to see what was up; who was working backstage, how the ushers were doing, which ex-colleagues were in the house seats. But I'd also visually move around the stage while listening, checking out new faces, seeing who was missing and generally reviewing how various members I knew were faring. Attending as sporadically as I did made confronting the passage of time unavoidable. Good thing I myself hadn't aged a day.
When I'd land on the two guys, I noticed less of an inferiority feeling in me. My life had started to gain traction in various ways as I became aware of what was important to me. They too seemed more confident, having settled into their lives and roles, playing with more gusto, no longer the junior members. I heard through the grapevine that each of them married, moved to the burbs, had kids.
Then, for some years I didn't attend any concerts. When finally returning, I was shocked to see two middle aged men, one the color of the underbelly of a fish and slightly jowly, the other with aggressively grey hair and melancholy eyes. It was almost too much to bear, thinking about how young and green and open to our lives ahead we had been. My trusty life barometer was yelling so loud it was all I could do to listen to the music. Sigh.
Back at the Hall the other night, because it was not a BSO concert I couldn't scan the stage, but instead spent the break looking at the orchestra photographs in the corridor on the wall. There, I saw one venerable and vaguely familiar man who looked close to retirement. And no photograph of the other.
OK, turns out, his photograph was missing but he isn't. Still.
*From Wikipedia
My BSO compadres and I used the slang "Sympathy Hall" because we were in our twenties and our currency was what we imagined wit. That we would slip up, saying "Sympathy" instead of "Symphony" at inopportune times was predictable and laughed about over drinks at the Pour House on Thursday, the new Friday, evenings. We were under-financed, but shared a passion borne of our good fortune to be working in the performing arts.
On my first Friday afternoon, I had to get something signed near the second balcony, where I had not yet been Upon entering, I was assaulted by a reception desk splattered with pink goo and the sounds of a blender churning out strawberry daquiris. Stained pink teeth and tongue of an overserved senior manager pressured me to join. A far cry from the law office at which I'd been temping the prior week
Symphony Hall was funded by the man responsible for creating much of the culture in Boston, Henry Lee Higginson. His largesse lured Mead, McKim and White, who had by then designed the Public Library in Boston, along with many substantive buildings in NYC, to create what "remains, acoustically, among the top three concert halls in the world (sharing this distinction with the Amsterdam Concertgebouw and Vienna's Musikvereinsaal), and is considered the finest in the United States"*. Now, you're likely wondering "How is that even possible?". As was oft quoted, Symphony Hall is a shoebox within a shoe box. I realized the other night that it's actually three shoe boxes; the exterior walls, the offices, bathrooms, library, kitchen, supply closets and other rooms that abut the exterior walls keeping external street noise at bay, and finally the interior wall that separates the concert hall from the corridors surrounding.
I tell you this because when I first started my two week temp job that extended to thirteen years, my office was in a recently converted supply closet adjacent to someone who had installed a driveway mirror above her desk so she could see when it was safe to lay out the lines of coke she needed to get through the evening. My friends in Sales and Marketing hung their hats in the newly reconfigured ladies room, which still had two swinging red leather doors with oval windows at head height. Yes, the toilets were gone.
Despite or maybe because of the slightly chaotic environment, I couldn't have been more delighted to be interacting with (mostly) men who sometimes came in with their instruments, wearing tails or Friday black suit. That they might have been eating chips or a sandwich at the same time seemed incomprehensible, a clash of refined European heritage and crass, American eating and walking un-culture. It was similar to the confusion elicited by the "pilgrim" at Plimoth/Patuxet who was texting while his grape and squirrel stew was cooking. As I got to know the musicians better and saw how excited they were for the Costco benefit, it became clear they had never inhabited their tails, rather wore them as a uniform.
A new season started a few weeks after I'd been officially hired, which meant it was a time when new orchestra members began their tenure after having survived a grueling audition process. Their initial step would have been submitting a tape of themselves playing, then if called back (few were), performing behind a curtain while the selection committee listened, and if that went well, joining a concert with the orchestra.
There were two guys who started when I did, and it was my job to sign them up for benefits and help a bit with acclimation. I was intimidated by them, never thinking to kibbitz the way I would with a new staff member. Maybe because they were single men my age, or because there was a clear line between the musician's union and "management". Or, it could have been a social awkwardness they bore that was the result of many hours in the practice rooms. In any case, I helped them out and during my tenure at Symphony Hall would chat with them from time to time in a way one might speak to a boss' boss. When I'd attend a concert, I'd watch them and think about how at the same age as me, they had a well-paid avocation and I, marginally a vocation.
The lustre of HR fell away quickly, but good friends, comp tickets, a great boss and the Tanglewood stipend kept me there. Until one day when I up and quit, and that was the end of that. I took a different HR job (don't ask) down the street at the Gardner, staying in touch with the people I cared about. Occasionally someone would slip me some comps and I'd attend a concert in Boston or at Tanglewood, happy to luxuriate in those rich BSO strings, among other instruments.
As well as enjoying the performance, BSO concerts became a time to see what was up; who was working backstage, how the ushers were doing, which ex-colleagues were in the house seats. But I'd also visually move around the stage while listening, checking out new faces, seeing who was missing and generally reviewing how various members I knew were faring. Attending as sporadically as I did made confronting the passage of time unavoidable. Good thing I myself hadn't aged a day.
When I'd land on the two guys, I noticed less of an inferiority feeling in me. My life had started to gain traction in various ways as I became aware of what was important to me. They too seemed more confident, having settled into their lives and roles, playing with more gusto, no longer the junior members. I heard through the grapevine that each of them married, moved to the burbs, had kids.
Then, for some years I didn't attend any concerts. When finally returning, I was shocked to see two middle aged men, one the color of the underbelly of a fish and slightly jowly, the other with aggressively grey hair and melancholy eyes. It was almost too much to bear, thinking about how young and green and open to our lives ahead we had been. My trusty life barometer was yelling so loud it was all I could do to listen to the music. Sigh.
Back at the Hall the other night, because it was not a BSO concert I couldn't scan the stage, but instead spent the break looking at the orchestra photographs in the corridor on the wall. There, I saw one venerable and vaguely familiar man who looked close to retirement. And no photograph of the other.
OK, turns out, his photograph was missing but he isn't. Still.
*From Wikipedia
- Published on
So, there I was, sweat literally dripping off my brow and my lower back clammy as an Ipswich fisherman, my rental car half way into a tiny one-way street going the wrong way, stopped. Time after time after time, I'd try putting the gear in reverse by pushing down the handle, going as far to the right as I could, but nothing, just a recalcitrant revving engine refusing to do what it was being told to do. There was starting to be a backup of cars in the other direction, surely all wondering what this idiot was doing, stalled and blocking. Of course it was a woman. Probably a tourist.
The kid at the Budget counter, young enough to be my grandson, had urged a10€ per day upgrade to an automatic, much more room for your luggage and much easier to drive. I stood tough, it wasn't about the money, more a statement. And I was happy with my tiny Fiat that is the granddaughter of Lowly Worm's apple car. Driving wasn't a problem at all, it was the tiny roads, and the bloody reverse! I had followed directions accurately and found the garage, but had to pull to the side to look up how to get in, which put me close to a stanchion that would require backing up hill to get into the garage. Fearful of bonking the stanchion as I didn't know the clutch yet, I decided to pull out and go around the block. So around I went and somehow took this wrong turn and there I was, stuck in, if not my worst nightmare, certainly not any kind of good dream.
I decided I was going go pretend to be relaxing somewhere, when suddenly, I become randomly curious about how small manual Fiats reverse. So, I turned off the engine while my fellow drivers waited, and googled "fiat manual reverse". Turns out there's a little piece of metal under the gear handle that you push up and there ya go. To paraphrase one of my paddle buddies, "Save the cute for the cocktail party", Fiat. There was only a minor drama when I took the car down a parking ramp so steep I seriously worried it would topple over, head over heels, but I got it in, jimmied my stuff out, and regretted renting the apple car for a week when I didn't ever want to battle with it again!
Minutes later, there I was in my next idiot tourist scenario, dragging along two big suitcases on tony cobblestone streets, bumpity, bumpity, bumpity times 2 while poor, peaceful Aixios (or less commonly, Aquisextains) tried to ignore the racket and enjoy their lunches outside on a beautiful, otherwise quiet Sunday, café after café. Note to self: Give up on cities with cobblestones that you gravitate towards, find smooth and new. Or invent new suitcase that is quiet, make millions and retire.
Next was the gentle reminder that in France, deuxieme etage actually means third floor, not second. I first took up my heavy back pack, then came back for the lighter suitcase, somehow avoiding a myocardial infarction. In the flat, I was able to find a pretty big shopping bag, which I brought down, loaded up with 1/3 of my things from the larger suitcase to bring up. Went back down (in the dark, mind you), closed up the suitcase, realized it was still too heavy, went back up the stairs, emptied the shopping bag, brought it back down, filled it again, carried the goods up, then finally got the bloody suitcase and rest of the contents up. It had been time for some cardio anyway.
Only thing left to do was bathe some of the sweat and grime off me and then head off for provisions. There's nothing like the first hour somewhere new, when you really have no clue what is going on or where you are related to all other things. The visuals are always so sharp and lasting, everything is something to look at and take in, the brain curiously processing, making mental notes for places to come back to, photographs to take, and of course getting a general lay of the land. As it turns out, my place at Rue Jaubert is incredibly well situated, in the middle of the very scenic old city, home to many churches, squares, and Lordy help me, patisseries, chocolateries and confisseries. Not exagerrating, the smell of croissants baking wafts into my apartment every morning. How long will I be able to stomach vollkornbrot for breakfast? My intentions are so very good, they really are.
The flat is great, one huge room with huge windows, two couches and a big coffee table to put all my junk on, a bedroom and kitchen that both face south, floor to ceiling windows that can be shuttered, but that I have been keeping open as much as possible. On the south side, I overlook terra cotta rooves and the appelate court, on the north a Bang and Olufsun store that is across a very narrow street.
After the hurly burly of Bedford House and London, I was craving a little time alone to get priorities in order, but when I woke up yesterday morning, the feeling of not knowing anyone, acknowledging my pretty rusty french and no work to structure my days was unnerving, but I promised myself I'd sit with it until I either figured out what I wanted to do, or the feeling passed. I worked on several projects that I have been thinking about, but then got antsy, so took a roam around to get some groceries, walk by the Christmas fair and stop in one of the very old churches to use it as a place to get focused and relax. It worked. In the evening, I spoke to two good friends whom I love and miss and met my first person, Marianne, who looks after this apartment and was kind enough to come by to show me how to use the induction stove. She has invited me to coffee or lunch, which I'll certainly take her up on.
There is a Monoprix across the street which reminded me how surpirsingly uninspiring French grocery stores can be, and today it all made sense. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays are the big market days, with produce, flowers to almost rival Utrecht, fish, meat, cheese, nuts, olives, middle eastern, dried fruit, hats, and the ubiquitous provencal fabric, honey, lavender, olive wood sort of stuff. But there's also a daily market a block from my place that's not as big but with a very good selection, happening every morning until noon (the two markets are about a quarter mile from each other, which seems crazy). The highlight was the cheese man, who despite having an intimidatingly french bored air to him, was kind to me when I told him I wanted some cheese but didn't know which. He gave me two small chevres, one sec, the other creamy, 2€ each. I had the creamy for brunch and it was out of this world, so very goaty, and will do my best to practice restraint by saving the other until tomorrow.
Tomorrow, will be off to explore. Happy advent.
The kid at the Budget counter, young enough to be my grandson, had urged a10€ per day upgrade to an automatic, much more room for your luggage and much easier to drive. I stood tough, it wasn't about the money, more a statement. And I was happy with my tiny Fiat that is the granddaughter of Lowly Worm's apple car. Driving wasn't a problem at all, it was the tiny roads, and the bloody reverse! I had followed directions accurately and found the garage, but had to pull to the side to look up how to get in, which put me close to a stanchion that would require backing up hill to get into the garage. Fearful of bonking the stanchion as I didn't know the clutch yet, I decided to pull out and go around the block. So around I went and somehow took this wrong turn and there I was, stuck in, if not my worst nightmare, certainly not any kind of good dream.
I decided I was going go pretend to be relaxing somewhere, when suddenly, I become randomly curious about how small manual Fiats reverse. So, I turned off the engine while my fellow drivers waited, and googled "fiat manual reverse". Turns out there's a little piece of metal under the gear handle that you push up and there ya go. To paraphrase one of my paddle buddies, "Save the cute for the cocktail party", Fiat. There was only a minor drama when I took the car down a parking ramp so steep I seriously worried it would topple over, head over heels, but I got it in, jimmied my stuff out, and regretted renting the apple car for a week when I didn't ever want to battle with it again!
Minutes later, there I was in my next idiot tourist scenario, dragging along two big suitcases on tony cobblestone streets, bumpity, bumpity, bumpity times 2 while poor, peaceful Aixios (or less commonly, Aquisextains) tried to ignore the racket and enjoy their lunches outside on a beautiful, otherwise quiet Sunday, café after café. Note to self: Give up on cities with cobblestones that you gravitate towards, find smooth and new. Or invent new suitcase that is quiet, make millions and retire.
Next was the gentle reminder that in France, deuxieme etage actually means third floor, not second. I first took up my heavy back pack, then came back for the lighter suitcase, somehow avoiding a myocardial infarction. In the flat, I was able to find a pretty big shopping bag, which I brought down, loaded up with 1/3 of my things from the larger suitcase to bring up. Went back down (in the dark, mind you), closed up the suitcase, realized it was still too heavy, went back up the stairs, emptied the shopping bag, brought it back down, filled it again, carried the goods up, then finally got the bloody suitcase and rest of the contents up. It had been time for some cardio anyway.
Only thing left to do was bathe some of the sweat and grime off me and then head off for provisions. There's nothing like the first hour somewhere new, when you really have no clue what is going on or where you are related to all other things. The visuals are always so sharp and lasting, everything is something to look at and take in, the brain curiously processing, making mental notes for places to come back to, photographs to take, and of course getting a general lay of the land. As it turns out, my place at Rue Jaubert is incredibly well situated, in the middle of the very scenic old city, home to many churches, squares, and Lordy help me, patisseries, chocolateries and confisseries. Not exagerrating, the smell of croissants baking wafts into my apartment every morning. How long will I be able to stomach vollkornbrot for breakfast? My intentions are so very good, they really are.
The flat is great, one huge room with huge windows, two couches and a big coffee table to put all my junk on, a bedroom and kitchen that both face south, floor to ceiling windows that can be shuttered, but that I have been keeping open as much as possible. On the south side, I overlook terra cotta rooves and the appelate court, on the north a Bang and Olufsun store that is across a very narrow street.
After the hurly burly of Bedford House and London, I was craving a little time alone to get priorities in order, but when I woke up yesterday morning, the feeling of not knowing anyone, acknowledging my pretty rusty french and no work to structure my days was unnerving, but I promised myself I'd sit with it until I either figured out what I wanted to do, or the feeling passed. I worked on several projects that I have been thinking about, but then got antsy, so took a roam around to get some groceries, walk by the Christmas fair and stop in one of the very old churches to use it as a place to get focused and relax. It worked. In the evening, I spoke to two good friends whom I love and miss and met my first person, Marianne, who looks after this apartment and was kind enough to come by to show me how to use the induction stove. She has invited me to coffee or lunch, which I'll certainly take her up on.
There is a Monoprix across the street which reminded me how surpirsingly uninspiring French grocery stores can be, and today it all made sense. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays are the big market days, with produce, flowers to almost rival Utrecht, fish, meat, cheese, nuts, olives, middle eastern, dried fruit, hats, and the ubiquitous provencal fabric, honey, lavender, olive wood sort of stuff. But there's also a daily market a block from my place that's not as big but with a very good selection, happening every morning until noon (the two markets are about a quarter mile from each other, which seems crazy). The highlight was the cheese man, who despite having an intimidatingly french bored air to him, was kind to me when I told him I wanted some cheese but didn't know which. He gave me two small chevres, one sec, the other creamy, 2€ each. I had the creamy for brunch and it was out of this world, so very goaty, and will do my best to practice restraint by saving the other until tomorrow.
Tomorrow, will be off to explore. Happy advent.
- Published on
When wandering the outer streets of Bath, I came upon a used bookstore and couldn't resist picking up Altered States, by Anita Brookner. There is a protagonist who recounts anticipating, with magical, or at least lustrous thinking, things going in a way that could never be. I find myself similarly situated, as I laughingly remember intentions made when packing up to leave Boston, that after having fun with Nat and friends, I would go inwards to address deeper questions about life's next steps. But if you spent 10 minutes here, you'd know that it's not a place conducive to contemplation, rather one where domestic emergencies pop up, whether a need for a pointy cabbage, assistance ziplocking moth-eaten sweaters or stopping everything to run down two flights of stairs to see the amaryllis in full bloom. And then there's the river, which can have tides so high that you find the need to walk all the way around a very large block and call Josef to let you in the back entrance, hopefully he is at home. And most embarassingly, after years of resisting, I have given in to my aunt's enthusiasm for Strictly Come Dancing, watching tattooed midlanders wearing goofy yellow outfits with pointy shoes move their bodies in ways their eyes tell us they aren't comfortable with. All prompting some serious existential questioning on my part., but no deep diving.
But a feeling of accomplishment has also been present, when the passport was finally sent off for renewal. After going to four different post offices, old pound sterling notes were exchanged for new ones, a gym has been found and used, wax was purchased to waterproof a coat. It seems that little things take much more time and that the only thing for it is a flexible and reactive aspect.
But it's been a great week. Was it you who told me about Time Left, the world's worst name for a fun idea? If so, thank you. I met up with 5 random strangers last Wednesday at a confusingly Italian named Asian restaurant in South Kensington. From an awkward beginning bloomed an almost raucous night of sharing bites and hopes, stories about our families and lives and at the end, NameDropping each other so that we could meet again, which has already been set. Was I particularly entertained because I was sitting next to an aging Bollywood star who lived in Holland Park near David Beckham and David Cameron, and called me Darling? Perhaps.
And how about this stroke of luck? A couple I know from Longwood happened to be here and fixed up some mixed doubles at Queens Club, situated absurdly in the middle of the city scrum, yet sporting grass courts and a very fine women's locker room. After playing four sets on a cold indoor court, we alighted to the bar and then the Real Tennis viewing room, where the quarter finals of the Nationals were being played. What an interesting and funny sport that makes clear its origins in a courtyard with many arcane rules and expressions. And as glam as some parts of the club were, I'll take our "corner of the earth" any day.
The two days in Bath had chilled me to the bone, leading me to regret leaving my puffy in Boston. I toughed it out for a week or so, but finally broke down and bought a coat worthy of a hockey mom, though the label reads Marks and Spencer, not Canada Goose. I was happy to have it when I went for a walk with two friends behind Hampton Court. An interesting configuration, there was a golf course that we walked right down the middle of, despite people playing, with no issue. There was something about this assumption that we could all be grownups and look after ourselves that made me understand why life on this side of the Atlantic makes me more relaxed. Less fuss, more faith it will all turn out alright. Along those lines, I was told by an Eton man that Donald Trump is a kidney stone that America has to pass, meaning "just get on with it and quit wingeing". A GP, he got to talking, in his unassuming, you might even say apologetic way, about what it was like to continue to practice during COVID. The PPE was "a bit of a bother" but he felt blessed, perhaps even a little guilty, to be one of the few people who was able to carry on his work normally. When I asked if there was any drama for him around vaccinations, he looked at me and said "Of course not. We're a practical people and understand what's good for us."
Back to the walk, my friend brought Clover along, by far the most well-behaved dog I've had the pleasure of meeting (Lenny, I'll always love you the most, but you're not a city dog). We'd cross big and busy roads and Clover would, without a lead on, stand next to her owner and wait to cross, even in a median. It was really quite astounding. So when the owner saw the dog show jumps near the golf course, she volunteered to show us what Clover could do. Despite energetic encouragement, the dog ignored her and went off sniffing, so to further encourage her, my friend jumped over the hurdle herself, while the dog ran the other way. It was clear that Clover was having a bit of fun with her owner. When the trainer of a small pug in designer clothes who was being put through the paces yelled at my friend for invading their highly disciplined space, we had a giggle and wandered off.
Saturday was blowing a gale called Bert, so I headed for London intending to take in the National Gallery after stopping in at the Saatchi, which can be hit or miss. It was the former and took my afternoon, with several really good photography exhibits along with paintings and fiber art by two African artists. When going to get on the Tube at West Kensington, there was such a crowd of people in a very small space that it looked like a crushathon was about to begin, so I turned around and hoofed it to the next stop. Hopefully everyone survived.
While we're on the subject of museums, a couple of weeks back, my friend and I went to the Museum of the Home, which is also worth mentioning as it's incredibly well done and engaging. We started in an 1800's tenement and worked our way up to a 2024 Vietnamese apartment.
A friend of Auntie's invited us to attend a Christmas Fair, which may not have been something at the top of my list, but going seemed the right thing to do. We ended up in the cozy kitchen of a country estate, having a most wonderful English lunch of potato and leek soup, salad and cheese, eight of us sitting around a farmer's table, making me wish I could take photographs. As well as renting out one of their halls every weekend for weddings and other special events, the family also earns revenue through their 100-year old rhodedendron park, the sale of Christmas trees, a tea room and the dreaded Christmas Market. I sat next to the matriarch of the family, who had inherited the property and has been resposible for turning it into the bustling business it has become. She explained that taking this multi-pronged approach was the only way they could maintain the estate. At 83, she and two gardeners maintained all of the 30-acre exterior. On the property were enough houses that three of her children, their spouses and kids, all of whom helped out in the family business, were able to live. I loved the matriarch very much when she said she wasn't going to join us at the market because "Really, how many smelly candles can one actually have?"
But a feeling of accomplishment has also been present, when the passport was finally sent off for renewal. After going to four different post offices, old pound sterling notes were exchanged for new ones, a gym has been found and used, wax was purchased to waterproof a coat. It seems that little things take much more time and that the only thing for it is a flexible and reactive aspect.
But it's been a great week. Was it you who told me about Time Left, the world's worst name for a fun idea? If so, thank you. I met up with 5 random strangers last Wednesday at a confusingly Italian named Asian restaurant in South Kensington. From an awkward beginning bloomed an almost raucous night of sharing bites and hopes, stories about our families and lives and at the end, NameDropping each other so that we could meet again, which has already been set. Was I particularly entertained because I was sitting next to an aging Bollywood star who lived in Holland Park near David Beckham and David Cameron, and called me Darling? Perhaps.
And how about this stroke of luck? A couple I know from Longwood happened to be here and fixed up some mixed doubles at Queens Club, situated absurdly in the middle of the city scrum, yet sporting grass courts and a very fine women's locker room. After playing four sets on a cold indoor court, we alighted to the bar and then the Real Tennis viewing room, where the quarter finals of the Nationals were being played. What an interesting and funny sport that makes clear its origins in a courtyard with many arcane rules and expressions. And as glam as some parts of the club were, I'll take our "corner of the earth" any day.
The two days in Bath had chilled me to the bone, leading me to regret leaving my puffy in Boston. I toughed it out for a week or so, but finally broke down and bought a coat worthy of a hockey mom, though the label reads Marks and Spencer, not Canada Goose. I was happy to have it when I went for a walk with two friends behind Hampton Court. An interesting configuration, there was a golf course that we walked right down the middle of, despite people playing, with no issue. There was something about this assumption that we could all be grownups and look after ourselves that made me understand why life on this side of the Atlantic makes me more relaxed. Less fuss, more faith it will all turn out alright. Along those lines, I was told by an Eton man that Donald Trump is a kidney stone that America has to pass, meaning "just get on with it and quit wingeing". A GP, he got to talking, in his unassuming, you might even say apologetic way, about what it was like to continue to practice during COVID. The PPE was "a bit of a bother" but he felt blessed, perhaps even a little guilty, to be one of the few people who was able to carry on his work normally. When I asked if there was any drama for him around vaccinations, he looked at me and said "Of course not. We're a practical people and understand what's good for us."
Back to the walk, my friend brought Clover along, by far the most well-behaved dog I've had the pleasure of meeting (Lenny, I'll always love you the most, but you're not a city dog). We'd cross big and busy roads and Clover would, without a lead on, stand next to her owner and wait to cross, even in a median. It was really quite astounding. So when the owner saw the dog show jumps near the golf course, she volunteered to show us what Clover could do. Despite energetic encouragement, the dog ignored her and went off sniffing, so to further encourage her, my friend jumped over the hurdle herself, while the dog ran the other way. It was clear that Clover was having a bit of fun with her owner. When the trainer of a small pug in designer clothes who was being put through the paces yelled at my friend for invading their highly disciplined space, we had a giggle and wandered off.
Saturday was blowing a gale called Bert, so I headed for London intending to take in the National Gallery after stopping in at the Saatchi, which can be hit or miss. It was the former and took my afternoon, with several really good photography exhibits along with paintings and fiber art by two African artists. When going to get on the Tube at West Kensington, there was such a crowd of people in a very small space that it looked like a crushathon was about to begin, so I turned around and hoofed it to the next stop. Hopefully everyone survived.
While we're on the subject of museums, a couple of weeks back, my friend and I went to the Museum of the Home, which is also worth mentioning as it's incredibly well done and engaging. We started in an 1800's tenement and worked our way up to a 2024 Vietnamese apartment.
A friend of Auntie's invited us to attend a Christmas Fair, which may not have been something at the top of my list, but going seemed the right thing to do. We ended up in the cozy kitchen of a country estate, having a most wonderful English lunch of potato and leek soup, salad and cheese, eight of us sitting around a farmer's table, making me wish I could take photographs. As well as renting out one of their halls every weekend for weddings and other special events, the family also earns revenue through their 100-year old rhodedendron park, the sale of Christmas trees, a tea room and the dreaded Christmas Market. I sat next to the matriarch of the family, who had inherited the property and has been resposible for turning it into the bustling business it has become. She explained that taking this multi-pronged approach was the only way they could maintain the estate. At 83, she and two gardeners maintained all of the 30-acre exterior. On the property were enough houses that three of her children, their spouses and kids, all of whom helped out in the family business, were able to live. I loved the matriarch very much when she said she wasn't going to join us at the market because "Really, how many smelly candles can one actually have?"