This Week in Its Briefs - Heat Wave Edition

1. This recent heat wave has sapped me of the will to live. Not literally, but I find myself pre-occupied with staying cool, enjoying fleeting moments of actually being cool, and various other body temperature exigencies. Imagine how marvelous it is to start one's day standing on a subway platform, essentially a tunnel dug under the street which is already sweltering at 8:00 am, feeling the tell tale rivulets of sweat inching down one's spine- delightful! One's cool shower seems ever so remote.

2. As my patience with the heat has disappeared in a thin strip of haze at the horizon, so has my patience with the assorted office Cupcakes. One could be charitable and expect that their reactions to the scorching temps might mirror one's own, hence the shortness of tempers, but one is far too occupied with matters of weather (see #1 above) to cut the boss any slack. Besides, we all know who will be first against the wall come the Revolution, eh Comrade? (I've been reading far too many spy novels lately.)

3. The G8 Summit - just when you think our very own PresiDolt couldn't possibly behave any worse, he finds a way to raise (lower?) the bar. Talking with his mouth full - unaware or perhaps uncaring - that the microphones were still on; goobering with Blair as if they were shooting the shit at the local saloon rather than discussing matters of prime importance; the deeply egregious shoulder massage of German chancellor Merkel, which has provoked a worldwide collective shudder - I could go on, but it's already been beaten to death blogwide and I'm not in the avant garde report-wise. Still. Talk about Jesus wept.

4. On Monday I'm off to a Muslim country for two weeks - yay! I say that sincerely and with no sarcasm. Algeria is an absolutely beautiful country - I was stunned last summer by its natural unspoiled abundance and expect to be so again. It's not a place one barges into, at least not as an American - I am observant, decorous, and respectful, traits that go a long way in mitigating our country's recent sorry reputation abroad. Some people who know me in real life may find it hard to believe that I can behave that way, as it is quite opposite to my natural inclination, but I'm a firm believer of turf superiority, and I play by other rules when I'm not on home turf.

Sayonara for now (spy novels, I know).

When I Was Mugged

I've lived in New York since 1984, save for three years when I lived upstate. In 19 years, I've only been mugged once.

Kew Gardens, Queens, April 1989. The month before I had been caught in a corporate downsizing, the first of my career, and was cheerfully enjoying some much needed leisure before I looked for a new job. Because I wasn't working, I was spending more daylight hours in my neighborhood than usual. Kew Gardens was then, and remains, a very desirable section of Queens. Surely there were then and perhaps are now a few isolated dicey pockets, but overall it's a very nice place to live.

I was coming into my apartment building's vestibule around 1:00 pm, having just thrust a load of laundry into one of the washing machines in a nearby laundromat. Fumbling with mail and purse I entered the elevator with a nicely dressed black man who was preoccupied with shuffling various business cards, as if on his way to an appointment in the building. This set off no warning bells for me at all - I didn't know most of my neighbors and it was entirely possible that one of them worked out of their home.

I was surprised out of my complacency when the elevator went up to the 3rd floor then abruptly down again rather than continuing to my apt on the 4th floor; surprised again to find the black man wielding a knife (not really long but in retrospect perhaps long enough) and harshly asking for my bag.

The crazy reaction, and a pure New Yorker's reaction, is that I argued with him. He asked for my watch - I retorted that my watch was worth nothing, as it was an antique men's watch (true). He wanted my ring - the ring had cost me $1.50 at the Seaport, and I told him so. He wanted my cash - I had $40 dollars, which I gave up willingly. Next he went after my wallet. I had irreplacable photographs of my father in that wallet, yet I eventually gave up my wallet and purse with their contents entire. As he pushed me out of the elevator into the building's basement I shouted that the credit cards I had wouldn't net him enough money to get out of Queens. Thankfully I still had my apartment keys and once I got in the elevator and in my apartment the first thing I did, before even calling the police, was cancel the credit cards - yet another seasoned New Yorker's reaction.

After the credit cards, the police.

I was connected to and picked up by detectives working the Senior Citizens' Crime Unit. Apparently this man or others in his circle had been targeting elderly women in my neighborhood in exactly the same way and at the same time of day I had been accosted.

The detectives were initiaally alarmed to learn that their perp had changed his MO so abruptly to target a younger woman like me, and then of course they were overjoyed; their previous victims had all been fuzzy about the specifics of the perp due to their impaired faculties - the dear detectives were beside themselves knowing they had a young person available to finally give them a clear descripton.

I spent a long while in the Forest Hills police station poring through mug books, then was firmly requested to take a drive with my new found friends into downtown Manhattan to One Police Plaza, where we traversed many corridors and elevators to end up at the desk of a police sketch artist.

For those of you that will never experience recreating a criminal's face with a seasoned NYPD sketch artist (and that will be practically all of you) you can thank all the gods now that I did so you will never have to. It's mentally excrutiating, physically exhausting, and time consuming. At the end the artist and I, as it is a hugely collaborative process, rendered an excellent facial representation of the mugger.

At one point during the three hours I spent with the sketch artist I thought of the fate of my poor laundry, forlorn and unattended in the laundromat.

The story concludes in the manner of most New York stories, with a small peep rather than a bang. The mugger was never caught, my boyfriend at the time was furious that I assisted the police and was adamantly opposed to my helping them any more than I had already done (he had decided they were "using" me).

My purse was never recovered. I still miss the watch. The ring was never replaced. I got a new wallet and new credit cards, but the photographs of my father have whooshed into limbo and are above all what I most regret losing.

For a few months after this incident I was diligent in my personal surveillance - I was haunted by what I might not have noticed and paranoid about the future. But that diligence too, faded, as it invariably does.

I've told this story to some people over the years and they all focus on the moment when the mugger brandishes a knife over his head and shouts demands to me about what he wants, and I calmly argue with him over the relative value of the objects he intends to steal from me. I agree - perhaps I would have been in great danger, but it was a judgement call and I think I made the right one.

He was frustrated by his victim debating each and every object's choice. But at the time it seemed to me perfectly reasonable - what mugger with any self-respect at all will take a coral ring worth $1.50? Puleez.

The Tall Blonde In Spectacles

In less than 2 weeks Mr. Fresh Hell and I embark for our vacation in Algieria. This trip will be an interesting one, I suspect. We'll spend much of the time in Algiers, and we'll have 4 days in Oran, a fascinating city located in the west of the country - birthplace of several prominent folks, among them Albert Camus, Cheb Khaled, Mami, and Yves Saint Laurent. Oran has a long history of Spanish influence, and is known for some excellent architecture, churches, mosques and beaches.

However, featured foremost in the merriment of our trip will be the wedding of one of Mr. Fresh Hell's legion of nieces. His family produced its fair share of boys during Mr. FH's generation, but there are scads of girls in the succeeding one.

It was initially terribly surprising to me, naif that I was, to learn of the lack of prohibition in North Africa against marrying one's cousin. Second cousins or even third cousins still raise eyebrows in the West, and first cousins are considered far too close relations to seriously consider. Not so in North Africa - marriages between first and second cousins are common.

One of Mr. FH's sisters married her first cousin; their children are all perfectly normal, quite good-looking, and exceedingly bright. I have no idea whether this is the norm or the exception, and perhaps it doesn't bear mentioning. After all, would I confess if the offspring are profoundly odd, ugly, and unbearably dull?

I digress because the Niece will be marrying a man who is a distant cousin of hers, a man Mr. FH and I have known very well for many years. The Groom even lived with us for three months when we were first married - he was desperate for a place, and my overgenerous and kind-hearted spouse invited him in as a quick fix, with an unspoken caveat that it would be for the very short term only.

The first year of marriage is difficult enough without introducing another person into the menage, so to speak, and when Groom didn't adhere to the "short term" aspect of our arrangement quickly enough for my taste I took matters firmly into my own hands, initiating a difficult confrontation with him which unfortunately turned into a full blown fight.

Groom found his own place (in the apartment right below us, oh the irony) and since then he and I have been on the best of terms. He subsequently moved to L.A., where he still lives, in somewhat of an extended household with his brother, sister, and her family. He told me later that the push I gave him to establish himself was exactly what he needed - in his words, "The best thing that happened to me."

He'll bring his new bride to California and her part of the adventure will begin. Groom has lived in the States for 16 years, and while she visited New York 6 years ago she'll be coping with a new country and a new marriage all at once. I wish her well and in the same breath foresee some sticky times ahead. She's extremely well-educated, though, so I hope her assimilation into American culture won't take too long.

Groom's brother is also marrying the same day and they'll share a reception, which will make this wedding doubly interesting for me to attend, pun definitely intended. I don't understand spoken Algerian that well - most of time, especially if it's a complex discussion, I comprehend the topic rather than the words themselves. When the conversation is simple, I understand the words. What I often end up relying on is body language, which has to be parsed through the culture as much as anything else; it's not always reliable, and sometimes I get it completely wrong, but in many instances that's all I have.

So wish me luck, dear readers, as I maneuver (the only American who has married into the family) through potential minefields of family relations - well-meaning widows, octogenarians of both genders who after nearly 10 years of marriage to Mr. FH aren't entirely sure who I am, shy yet endearing children, cousins, aunts, and uncles I've met before yet can't seem to remember, and the inevitable language difficulties that await (thank the Gods for French - it will only take me a few days to get more comfortable with speaking, and my comprehension has soared due to daily soaking with French TV).

If you need to identify me in the crowd, I'll be the tall blonde in spectacles.

Algerians - Heads Like Rocks, I've Always Said

Sadly, Les Bleus did not win the World Cup last Sunday. It was a curious and fun experience for me, as I watched the game with fervent Algerian fans transplanted to New York, all of whom have closely followed the fortunes of the team as a whole and also the career of Zinedine Zidane. Much has been written so far this week about the headbutting episode.

Our first reaction, I admit, was shock, awe and laughter. Whatever it was or wasn't, it decisively knocked the Italian flat on his ass. (The you tube footage has 1,754-odd views at the time I'm writing this.)

I always joke with Mr. Fresh Hell that Algerians are so stubborn that they have heads like rocks - who knew how prophetic the jest would be?

Word on the net is that Materazzi said something egregiously foul to Zidane - that Zizou was provoked beyond his patience - at a time, we can all admit, when his patience was probably remarkably thin. Still, Zidane appears at the moment directly before the headbutt quite calm and composed, which makes the ensuing violence so surprising and unexpected.

I haven't decided how I feel about it. Lip readers have been employed to decipher what Materazzi said; sports journalists and soccer fans worldwide have been weighing in with written opinions pro and con.

A lot of folks have written that regardless of what Materazzi said, Zidane could have (and the should have is implied) dealt with it later, outside the confines of the World Cup final. Those of a condemnatory nature have written that it debased Zidane's final career game. Some people have defended his action, claiming that he was provoked beyond endurance, that soccer is a passionate game and often not clean, certainly not built for pansies, and that there has always been a thuggish quality to the sport. Zidane is guilty on occasions during the course of his career of a few violent responses.

Did Italy play a clean game in the final? I personally don't think so. The shin-clutching flop was way too much in evidence during regulation play to lead me to believe otherwise.

But until Zidane publishes a definitive statement - which I predict will be carefully crafted by his agent to dispense a reasonably bland explanation which will in essence explain nothing - we'll not really know what happened.

We may never know - but everyone who saw that game won't forget it soon, will they? Won't we always remember the final of World Cup 2006?

He's Just Not That Into You

I have been working on some future posts but have also been mucho distracted-o by the highly engaging World Cup. It's been great fun to follow and hopefully, "les vieux"*** will prevail and France will win.

Curiously, though, as I've been talking with fellow soccer fan friends and colleagues, everyone seems to automatically frown when I express my hopes for the French team's victory. I thought the whole "we hate frogs" movement died out some time ago, along with idiocies like Freedom Fries, cheese eating surrender monkeys, and ceremoniously dumping bottles of wine. (To this day, I still don't get that. Nor could I persuade anyone to dump an expensive bottle of wine anywhere in my vicinity. Le Sigh.)

Well, the Anti-French movement is alive and well and present in New York, which seems to me the least likely city to harbor this sort of bigotry. It seriously confuses me. A friend actually told me today that he hates France because the French hate Americans. This is patently untrue. The average French citizen doesn't hate Americans. They ignore them, perhaps, or refuse to kowtow to the absurd notion Americans hold that they are suited to rule the world, but the French don't actively hate Americans. Perhaps they hate loud obnoxious uncouth dolts who routinely mangle the tiniest word in their language and falsely malign their culture and history, but that's a specific sort of loathing aimed at a distinct sub-set of person least likely to ever set foot in their country. But a general, consuming type of Insta-Hate? I think not.

To hate someone or something presupposes that one cares deeply about him/her/it, in one way or another. Hate isn't the absence of love; it is love's polar opposite. Both are emotions meaningfully felt; both are emotions in which one's inner life and outer energies are actively engaged. It's nearly as exhausting to hate as it is to love.

What I suspect the French (and most of the world who, when seen from looking out of the fishbowl of this country, appear glaringly hostile) feel for Americans is indifference. Perhaps also annoyance, too, at this country's insistence on expressing sentiments in the global arena such as Me First Always, or If You Have Stuff We Want We'll Take It, With Force If Necessary, and other petulant whining more suitable to toddlers than nations.

Yet indifference is easy. No emotions are engaged, because one just doesn't care that much.

During my travels, I've often been the recipient of this type of indifference, and amazingly, I've lived to tell the tale with my ego and sense of self intact. I never expect to be universally loved when I travel abroad - in my opinion that's a simplistic view to take.

At times I feel as if I'm under a microscope, where the smallest of my actions is being filed away under Typical Behavior, American and on occasions my nationality has been a burden I'd prefer to confer on someone else - it's not easy being a representative of a currently difficult nation.

Overall I'm relieved to be pleasantly addressed - a smile is icing on the cake.

To avoid eventual heartache, the best advice I can give my countrymen in their dealings with the world at large is to always remember: He's Just Not That Into You.


***Les vieux translates into the old guys - most of the French team is older, and quite a few of them will retire after this season. In my opinion, all the more reason for them to win the World Cup and go out in a blaze of glory.