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Author: Anne Cassidy

Mall Walking

Mall Walking

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It wasn’t premeditated, I swear, but when I found myself at the mall last evening with weather too dark and foggy for outdoor strolling, I thought … why not?

I turned around in the hallway, swung by Sears and the CVS. Before I knew it I was striding past Hollister, up and down the short Macy’s hall, then out again into the main space where Santa sits. I passed the Apple store, the Talbots and the Williams and Sonoma.

It wasn’t exactly Fifth Avenue, but I was speeding through what passes for commerce and public space in my part of the world.

How strange to fast-walk halls so often clogged with window shoppers and pre-teens. It was empowering. I had no intention of buying anything. I was, in a strange sort of way, beating the system.

Is this what all mall walkers feel? If so, bring it on!

Unsaid Words

Unsaid Words

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Thinking today about words I wished I’d said. Phrases more pithy and promising that any that could be uttered in the moment. Where do these words live?

Do they float in the ether, always just out of grasp? Do they settle in the soul like a stone?

They aren’t much help; I know that. They’re not there when you want them and hang around far too long when you don’t.

I need to reimagine them, to take away their power. To see them as a pleasant landscape or as old books on library shelves, friends we don’t yet know but hope to meet someday.

Nutcracker, Redux

Nutcracker, Redux

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Suzanne took me to the Nutcracker at Kennedy Center yesterday, and what a Nutcracker it was! A fizzy, funny production with tumbling sprites, flying Drosselmeyer and a stunning pas de deux.  There was enough of the traditional ballet to suit purists but enough site gags (a leaning cake, two harem dancers fighting over their man and silly prancing poodles) to keep the audience guessing — and laughing.

When Suzanne and I went to the Nutcracker years ago, I would be in the audience and she would be on stage in a progression of roles — mirliton, polichinelle, party child — as her ballet skills improved.  We reminisced about those days, about personalities in the ballet studio, including the earnest Mr. Ben, husband of the studio owner, who was pressed into service each Christmas as leading man and whose lifts looked ever more shaky as the years wore on.

And there were stories behind this production, too; we just didn’t know them. We were, instead, caught up in the illusion, a gasp as the curtain rises, a sigh as it descends.

(Above: The Nutcracker’s original performance in 1892.)

Stairway to Paradise

Stairway to Paradise

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I wake early on normal days, even more so since the Asia trip. Trying to catch up with the other side of the world, giving up sleep for quiet time, plunging into a new morning that vanishes like a puddle on a hot sidewalk.

Time and place. In a long-distance flight they come together. Not in an elegant, theory-of-relativity way, but in a stuffy, jarring jumble of humanity; torn wrappers and crushed water bottles; headphones and paper slippers.
Here we are, defying time and gravity, and all we can think about are what movies are being offered and whether we’ll be seated next to a crying baby.
There’s a message here somewhere; I’m sure of it.
Adding and Subtracting

Adding and Subtracting

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So what does the non-shopper do on Black Friday? It’s a question I ask myself every year.

Today, there’s an ironic answer. I’ve already spent an early hour or two tabulating final expenses from the Asia trip, trying to remember where I had dinner on November 17 and hunting down receipts for various Perrier with limes.

While this is for reimbursement purposes, it strikes me that adding up expenses might not be a bad way to spend a day devoted to shopping.

Putting on the brakes before pushing the gas pedal.

Seeing how much has gone out — before sending even more in its wake.

Domestic Details

Domestic Details

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Travel, like any other intense experience, becomes even more valuable upon reflection. For me, the reflection began on the return trip, when I settled down into Seat 44H with my journal and pen and wrote for the first hour of an (unfortunately bumpy) 13-hour flight from Seoul to Washington.

But for now, it’s a return to routine, to more typical duties — writing and editing  — and to domestic ones, too — unpacking and doing laundry.

And then there’s pie-baking. Luckily, the girls are taking care of this Thanksgiving. Suzanne and Appolinaire are hosting with an assist from Claire and Celia. I’m only supplying a pie. Ah, this is why we have children, isn’t it?

But still, the pie must be baked, which means the ingredients must be purchased, which means the grocery store must be tackled. At least I’ll understand what I’m buying and how much it costs. No more rupiah or kyat.

I can’t help but think about the domestic duties and supplies of the ginger farmer I just visited, though: two barrels of water, tin plates and bowls, alfresco kitchen and bath — a simpler (though by no means easier) life.

Around the World

Around the World

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In many ways the Asia trip itinerary was completely crazy, packing way too many appointments into way too little time.

In one especially intense stretch, we worked a full day in the U.S., then took an evening flight to Doha, connecting to Jakarta, with a 10-hour layover there before hopping aboard a Garuda Indonesia flight to Kupang, West Timor. We had about four hours of sleep before getting up at 4 a.m. for the puddle-jumper to Waingapu and a full day of work on the island of Sumba. That was three days on 10 hours of sleep.

But in one important way the itinerary worked, because it took us around the world. Heading east, easter and eastest … or something like that.

Twelve days, 14 flights — and a complete circumnavigation of the globe.

Yangon at Night

Yangon at Night

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A nighttime trip to downtown Yangon: banana peels and melon rinds, the detritus of the day.

Impromptu teahouses on the sidewalk, tiny plastic chairs, metal teapots. Wizened old women sitting on crates, couples embracing on the pedestrian bridge. And everywhere, the half-ruined colonial buildings of long-ago Rangoon.

I had hoped to see all of this in the daylight, but an after-dark viewing was the best I could do. Still … I saw them. And I’m so glad I did.

Kalaw Market

Kalaw Market

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On a weekend trip to Shan State, I walked down the hill from the Pine Hill Resort to the Kalaw market, a multi-block extravaganza featuring everything from chili peppers to sewing machines. There were melons and limes and shiny dried beans.

I focused on the ginger, since we had interviewed a ginger trader only hours before. 
But I could just as easily have zeroed in on the fresh chicken or the fish heads or the pans of rice a child was playing with, running her hands through the grains.