postcards from geneva

I wandered down the two lane road, cars whipping past me in the hot Swiss sun as postcard clouds hung low over the mountains. Children ran in the tall grass, playing hide-and-seek. I smelled the sickeningly sweet scent of rotting irises.


And here, I find the slow curve of a bar and a cold draft of the local beer. Half gas station, half brasserie. The flat sun across my face, the smell of you on my fingers from last night, your perfume in my shirt. Long buses are pulling away.There is a tangle of wildflowers in a window box. The mechanics drink rosé in short, round glasses, beads of sweat dripping down onto their fingers. Fat, sunburned faces. Loose French tumbling from their mouths. A woman with a giant nose is biting her nails.

There is no sidewalk here, close to this attic room. There are red rooftops outside my window. A clock is clicking terribly loud.

At breakfast the next morning, I make a sandwich from fresh bread and a sort of chicken mortadella with pistachios in it. One bite, and I flash on my childhood. Eating cold turkey loaf sandwiches on rye bread by the swimming pool, mayonnaise and the chlorine taste in the back of my throat.

The next night, sitting in the center of the city with Kosmos. His magnificent Nigerian face beams at me. He struggles to take his tie off, slurping on more of that local beer, Cardinal. He buys me round after round, sitting at the Los Angeles Cafe. It's the closest thing to sitting at Planet Hollywood, and they only have some miserable looking pizzas to eat. The tables from the next restaurant boast fondue Bourguignonne and laughing couples on Friday night dates. Kosmos is pushing religion on me, complaining about the cost of living, complaining about how quickly he got old. His wife keeps calling him. He asks me if I am hungry, but I'm in the mood to sit alone somewhere and drink a lot of red wine and see if I have a few sentences of my second book in me. Kosmos tells me he only has leftover spaghetti in the fridge to eat, another complaint. I let into him, explaining that if I had some leftover spaghetti from the woman I love, and if she was my wife right now  - well, that spaghetti would probably bring me to tears. "You have no idea how lucky you are." I told him, slurring through my most recent, giant beer.


His great eyes close slowly, a sort of apology.
"I must take you home now." He tells me.


Struggling with the GPS, we wove through the streets missing turns and laughing at the computer voice that told us to go back and turn again. He came up to the room and peed all over the place before he left. I set out to grab some late and fabulous meal. It was just after ten, and knowing the places only opened at seven I imagined a quiet table with my name on it. And the closest place was closed, and in the next one the giant French lady was mopping the floor already, turning chairs upside down on the tables. And in the last place people were smoking and eating and laughing but they said the kitchen was closed.


I wandered down the highway, wondering if I was crossing into France. I gave up and went to a gas station, but even it was closed. I spotted a vending machine, and searched my pockets for change. I planned a four course meal - paprika flavored chips, a linzer torte, some gummy bears and the Swiss equivalent of Yoohoo. I sat down on the curb to eat, and people shouted from a car passing me. Better to shovel this stuff into my face in the hotel room, I decided.


Across the street I saw some graffiti that read "FUCK DIESEL".
I began to laugh to myself.

3 chords and the truth

My daughter sings with me sometimes, I think for the same reasons I do. Happiness multiplies when it is shared, and sadness fades when you find yourself strumming and warbling away, especially with company. Inspired by the most fundamental elements of her life, E improvises lyrics about playgrounds and the tulips, about the wish for a little sister. She takes pictures with my cameras too - self portraits, blurry snapshots of her toys, leftover wrapping paper from her birthday party, a scraped knee, her favorite pants. 

I used to sit next to my father in his studio, a stump of charcoal in my hand, learning to draw. Learning to draw the light, not the objects I thought were there. Draw what you see, he told me. It was so quiet there. Maybe the dog would be sniffing around or sleeping heavily. Just the scratch of the paper, the tinkling sound of his paintbrush in water, or turpentine. The light would just hang there, tiny bits of dust drifting around in the afternoon light. I was never tired or bored or hungry there, in the attic with him.

she goes to sleep

then she wakes up

she colors her hair

and goes to school

she wears red shoes

and every time she wants

she goes to the playground

I find it fascinating she sings about this other girl, although the details are all from her own life. There is a big difference between, "I go to sleep," and "She goes to sleep." E is singing about the routine of life, and all that is familiar to her.

But I know she has never seen a lemon tree. That's the part that blows my mind. I see her processing sadness and disappointment, turning it into something to share with the world. I see her joy, the small freedoms she feels and how these are there too. And I think she knows all of this.

If you could read my mind love

I've got Johnny Cash playing on a Monday morning. The sun is banging into the quiet side streets. The scent of old lilacs is heavy in the breeze. There is a fly buzzing around on its back, dying on the windowsill behind dirty glass and fingerprints.


If you could read my mind love
What a tale my thoughts would tell
Just like an old time movie
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
With chains upon my feet
You know that ghost is me.

I'm still working through the same dilemmas, gnawing the same bones. The summer sun has come and I don't feel it sometimes, still convinced it is winter and I'm just walking wounded. Pinch me, I think.


Just like a paperback novel
The kind that drugstores sell
When you reach the part where the heartache comes
The hero would be you
Heroes often fail.


We made a pineapple upside-down cake for your birthday, but four days late. You slicing butter into a giant bowl, mashing it with the sugar. Me cooking sour cherries, you stealing a few. Checking our masterpiece in the oven as it quickly grew brown, tall and puffy. The kitchen began to smell exotic, and we sat satisfied and quiet as the sun went down so incredibly slow - ten at night and it looks like five. And we watch old movies, curled up on the couch as the cat marches around fighting more of those flies. I feel like a human again, because of you. I can jump into the shower and surprise you. We can brush our teeth together, making faces in the mirror. You constantly forget things at my place, like your watch or a jacket or a book.

Late at night, birds sing outside the window. No chirping or tweeting, these are long slow sounds that jungle birds make. You turn in the covers, your chin on my shoulder. I lay awake, studying your face, the pucker of your lips, the measured pulse of your breathing, the shifting eyelashes. I brush your hair from your face, and hold your cheeks in my hands. This is how you save me.

the rowers

Being a single parent in a foreign country like Russia is a complete burnout scenario. 95% of the time, I feel like I'm just holding the walls up and putting healthy food on the table by some kind of miracle. It's humbling as hell. I am proud to have a tabletop or little square of floor remain clean for more than four hours. My priorities are all about survival, about treading water in an ocean of expenses and the emotional weather report of this five year old girl.

By some bizarre luck and a lot of effort I have been able to keep my sense of humor, which is especially useful when dealing with a little girl that is full of anxiety, a girl who cries in her sleep when she stays with her mother, a girl brought to tears by the wind. I feel like we're recreating some of those scenes from Kramer vs. Kramer when we look for her socks in the morning, already a bit late for school. My french toast is much better, though. There is something fundamentally ridiculous about our situation, and I usually find myself laughing instead of getting angry. Well, Sisyphus is one of my heroes and that book by Camus left a lasting impression on me. In an absurd world, the hero laughs.

But today I took E from school, and she ran to me on the playground knowing we were going for a ciao bimbo ice cream cone, knowing there would be no school for three days. We named the birds that flew around us in a number of languages. Her tiny hand sweaty in mine, we navigated through crowds of people and entered the European shopping center. The girl behind the ice cream counter is stingy with the sprinkles and then pops the spoon into her mouth, eating them herself. E's face fell in disbelief. Those were her sprinkles, and she has new questions for me to answer somehow, about the random cruelty of the world.

And then crossing the street she announced it was time she had her first happy meal. We go to McDonald's very rarely, and I do believe a drop of poison builds your tolerance to large doses. Scarfing down hamburgers, sitting outside in the bright sunlight I felt my breathing relax. E got a pair of penguin binoculars as her surprise gift. She stared at, and commented on people passing us. There were groups of young women in those freakishly high heels, toppling along in tight white jeans and sequined tshirts. Young men in pairs smoked cigarettes and eyed up the girls, flipping phones open, squinting like cowboys in the bright sun. As usual, E speaks very loud in English and calls attention to us, so the tables close to ours inspire a lot of ambitious eavesdropping. Mothers and reckless children run in circles, stopping and glaring at us, then running back to their french fries. Women in giant white sunglasses smoke cigarettes and sip from tall soda cups. They stare at us, then whisper to each other. I smile at them, and nod to see if they act guilty. No, just that traditional icy look - like we are some flies buzzing around the garbage cans.

And then we walk through the park that will bring us home. Dotted with fountains, bridges and modern sculptures the place smells of fresh cut grass. E runs ahead of me to a playground overflowing with children. She joins the swirling flow of trips down the slide, the shuttling swings, the sandbox full of wet sand that forms into perfect cakes. And somehow, invisibly - we have passed into a moment of peace. I look at her running with her hands by her sides and she is just like the other kids. Her face is not asking impossible questions. The dark cloud in her eyes has passed. She plays with children from India, a half-French boy, a tiny Russian baby learning to walk. The hours pass, as her black Mary Janes are full of sand as her face is laughing and growing tired, as her pony tail disappears inside a jungle gym and then she takes the yellow slide one more time. I feel a sense of accomplishment, as if all the work holding the walls up was worth it - more than just rowing against the current, maybe we're finally getting somewhere.

chaos and horseradish

The House of Scientists on Prechistinka has a cafeteria. I plunk down my 15 rubles to enter the great house, asking the odd little woman with fake red-stained hair if the "stalovka" is open today. She stares at me fiercely, telling me we are "in the center of the city" and that the S-T-A-L-O-V-A-Y-A is open. Big difference was my thought, but this is a culture that holds tiny details precious, especially the generations that lived on both sides of the great experiment. Stalovka/Stalovaya - like I was confusing a Dodge Dart with a Porsche when I asked if I could get some lunch.

You need to give your ticket to an old woman standing five feet away who tears it precisely in half and hands you the stub no one will ask for. You leave your coat with another woman who hangs it slowly and carefully. If it requires a coat hanger you must pay a ruble.

Upstairs, beyond floor-length Austrian drapes and mysterious portraits, long red carpets and empty rooms is the Stalovaya. The tables are jammed with people from the offices nearby, eating methodically, wiping mayonnaise from the corners of their mouths. I see a terribly old man alone at a table and ask to share with him. He nods yes, his skin pale and translucent. He looks like those mice that live underground and never see light. Another man joins us, in a tattered sport jacket and a tie like my high school principal wore. He orders the same as me  - soup harcho, pork roast, pureed potatoes and compote. He looks more like a turtle - his bald head and fringe of hair a sort of mess, hairs sprouting from his ears, his nose. He is smashing the food into his mouth, clumps of potato puree hanging from his face. The pork roast is a bit bland, so I order some horseradish, which causes the two old men to freeze, staring at me in some kind of horror.

Later, I learn that in asking for horseradish sauce "sovs hren" I told the waitress to suck my dick.

She didn't bat an eye, and a boat of fiery horseradish appeared a few minutes later.

And then minutes later both of them are waving her down, all dark hair and a giant frown. She announces what they owe, no check  - just  conversation. Neither of them leave a tip, shuffling off into the warm afternoon. I savor the last bits of compote and chew at the fruit at the bottom of my glass.

The next day, I return and somehow sit at the same table with the turtle-faced man in the green sportcoat. He speaks a bit of English, and tells me he is from St. Petersburg. He is a theoretical physicist.

We both order a soup with tiny meatballs in it call frikadelik, and beef stroganoff.

My friend is smiling and laughing to himself. "Moscow is always some kind of choas." he explains, pronouncing choas like "cowwos".
"What do you mean?' I ask, not disagreeing with him.
"This new skyscrapers for example." He says. "They are in complete conflict, complete disharmony with the State Buildings."
"You mean in the new city on Kutuzovsky?" I ask.
"Exactly." He nods, soup splashing on his shirt.
"It's where I live - in one of the old buildings." I say.
He smiles, slurping up the last of his soup. "It is a city that is so foolish. No plan, no order or harmony...just random ideas."

He stands up abruptly, leaving his money on the table. There is a brief silence, as I clean my plate. I thought to tell him about the half-built skyscraper with the giant red balloon lit up, pulsing like a heartbeat and how you could not see this anymore. Even this was random.