Remembering Pakistan

I've been following the news coverage of Benazir Bhutto's return and the chaos consuming Pakistan with interest. You see, I lived in Pakistan from 1988 to January 1991, leaving on a 747 packed with American and Canadian evacuees the day George Bush the Elder started the first Gulf War.

Growing up in the Foreign Service, I heard a lot of talk about how "home" is where your family is, it's a feeling of belonging, not a town where you put down roots.

But I never felt like Islamabad was home.

I was a boy-crazy middle schooler when we arrived in the country, and the first week we were there the U.S. Ambassador and the President of Pakistan, Zia, were killed in a suspicious helicopter crash. We couldn't tell anyone we were Jewish. I turned 13 without having a bat mitzvah. We had a chowkidar, an armed guard who was stationed at the end of our driveway. The skinny guy in a shalwar kameez may have made us safer, but I hated him for throwing rocks at our dog.

Occasionally my sister and I would venture to the local market alone, but even dressed in modest local clothing, we were always gawked at, leered at, hissed at.

Outside of Islamabad, it was even worse. I was overwhelmed by the poverty and disease that surrounded us. There were so many people with so little, and it was always a crowd, a crush of humanity. I still remember the smell, ripe with the scent of rotting mangos, chicken blood, slaughtered sheep, unwashed bodies and open sewers. And everywhere, the smell and haze of burning trash. Even the more inviting smells of fresh chapatis, fried snacks and curry couldn't compete. I began to think women wore shawls to cover their noses when they went outside.

Just outside the capital, children with wide, kohl-lined eyes and filthy, tattered clothes would bang on our car, crying baksheesh, baksheeh, begging for rupees. Flea-ridden dogs dug through open piles of trash, but even the open sores on their backs and bellies couldn't keep us from scratching their heads.

There are good memories too. I loved seeing the elaborately decorated buses and trucks along the otherwise terrifying highways. I remember the blare of music that invited me into yet another stall of pirated cassette tapes. I recall glimpsing Pakistani women at an in-home hair salon, dressed to the nines, gilded with gold jewelry and elaborately made up.

But mostly I remember a country teetering on the edge of chaos. A crowded place where the young male policemen held hands and demanded bribes. And where being born a girl is a curse.

Happy 3rd Birthday, Z!

Dear Z,

What a year! In November of 2006, you were a doll, but you were still sleeping in a crib and pooping in your pants.

Now you've moved into a big girl bed, said goodbye to diapers and thrown your sippy cups to the wind. You've ridden a trike, become a big sister and started preschool. You finally started using fluoride toothpaste.

And you've become quite the conversationalist. You remember names, places and our plans for the week. You tell jokes. You even lie once in a while (but your face gives you away).

You love movies. In addition to the Disney Princess greatest hits (Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast and Sleeping Beauty), you're a fan of Toy Story 1 & 2, The Jungle Book, Mary Poppins, Alice and Wonderland and The Muppet Show.

You like to play with dolls and act out scenes from your favorite fairy tales and our own lives. Sometimes it seems like every sentence you utter begins with "Pretend." As in, "Pretend I'm the mommy and you're the little girl and you don't want to go to bed," or "Pretend I'm the Cinderella and you're the Prince and we're marrying. Where's your ring?"

You collect small treasures and squirrel them away around the house. Acorns, pennies, plastic spider rings and ugly rocks you find along the sidewalk--you horde these little items, inventory them and... then usually forget about them a week later.

I could go on and on, but I'm returning to work tomorrow and I need my beauty rest. This past year has been a joy, and I've loved being home with you and your little sis for the last four months of it.

My Martini Grandma

That's what my friends call Grandma Lorraine. She earned her nickname for her particular love for martinis--not the trendy vodka 'tinis of my generation, but the old school gin and vermouth martinis. Served in a stem glass. And garnished with olives. Wait staff who got it wrong got it sent back.

She expected a martini at 4pm (cocktail hour), and if you let her have more than one, you'd better stay out of her way. I don't think I ever saw her drunk, but I've seen her get feisty and belligerent about the issues she cared about (she's a fierce defender of liberal politics and Israel).

Grandma Lorraine turns 88 today, but it's looking like this will be her last birthday. She's dying of cancer and has been in and out of hospice care this week.

Growing up, I celebrated most of my birthdays with Grandma L. Our birthdays are only two days apart, and we spent a lot of summers visiting relatives in Omaha. Birthdays with Grandma Lorraine meant dressing up for a restaurant dinner (usually in an over-cooled Italian restaurant with a salad bar) and a shared cake. The parking lots were always blisteringly hot.

I know she's ready to check out, but I can't quite get my head wrapped around the fact that Grandma likely won't meet her latest great-grandchildren. But like the brown cigarettes she used to smoke (were they Mores?), she's forever burned into my memory. And I'll share those memories with my children.

She drove tank-like American cars (although her last car was a Toyota). She favored leisurewear, clip-on earrings and chunky necklaces. Her homes were decorated with original art, which ranged from strikingly contemporary to pop-art to clown sculptures. For many years she rode motorcycles with her husband, my Grandpa Bob. She campaigned for Governor McCarthy and spoke out against the Vietnam war. When Grandpa was dying from prostate cancer, she shocked the preteen me by telling me now much she missed their "very active sex life." After he passed away, she had boyfriends, no easy feat when the women outnumber the men 10 to 1.

She didn't just play bridge, she won at bridge. She kept her brain engaged with crossword puzzles and Sudoku. She was into yoga long before it was trendy, and I doing headstands on beach towels next to her king size waterbed.

Grandma Lorraine wasn't a milk and cookies grandma. In fact, I never liked her cooking. But I have many fond memories of playing cards with her or letting her give me a manicure (she had an enormous toolkit of polishes, files, cuticle potions and lotions).

Happy Birthday, Grandma. And cheers!