Happy Halloween!

Halloween in the US is a cross-cultural experience in itself. For those of us born elsewhere, the idea of dressing up in experimental costumes that reflect an idea, super heros or former selves is not a very adult thing to do. But oh well, I have comfortably grown into the idea thanks to my awesome friends who vigilently throw wonderful costume parties and do not take in anyone who remotely resemble their natural ways. After spending so much time begin serious, focusing, (grinding teeth even), it's quite liberating to be silly.

This Saturday, I stayed on my couch in PJs amidst layers of winter catalogues, New York Times sections and pillows trying to gather the energy to get it going. When the church bells rung six times, I gathered it was time for some strong Turkish coffee and heavy-duty Halloween make up. I put on white tights, a simple skirt and an orange T-shirt bought from the Village that read "Hello...." I pasted my face in white, creamy paint, dipped my nose in yellow and pulled three black whiskers on each side of my face. Hair pulled back, bunny ears folded to cat-size, and a ribbon aptly decorating the left ear.

Confident that there would be other people in costumes, I grabbed my metro card and started my journey from Carroll Street to Forrest Hills - first party location. Until the subway reached Delancey, I got nothing but weird looks; as I was the only non-human looking creature in the car. One guy walked up to me and asked: "Are you a bunny?" No, I replied disappointed that my costume was not understood. "Are you a kitty cat?" Sort of I thought, but just said yes to get out of it. "Are you frisky?" he tried one last time to get my attention. "No," I said and cut him off.
I buried my face in the paper and ignored everyone else until the train got to Queens.

I got off at the 75th street stop and followed my friend's cryptic instructions. Hang a left, cross, look above, see sign but turn the other way... The streets were desolate, but well lit. I saw a mom and her two little daughters approach the intersection hand-in-hand. As they came close enough to see me, the girls started jumping up and down with joy and screamed "Hello Kitty!! Mom, look Hello Kitty!"

I knew I had it down.

Visits from Grandpa

Memories of those who left come back unexpectedly. Their spirit spring from a box cracked open, covers pulled off a pile of old clothes, or even a room not visited before.

I checked into my hotel and took the elevator to the 12th floor. Slid the card in the door and pushed my luggage in. I threw everything on the second bed and made my way to the bathroom to wash up. After several trials, I found the right switches and turned on the lights. My eyes scanned the place - the tub, the sink, the shower and there seemed to be a second shower. How lavish... or is it for something else?

I stepped into the grand shower room, thinking it was bigger than my little alcove at home. Then I noticed the handicapped seat and bar to assist those who might be in a wheelchair.

The last time I had seen a set up like this was when my grandfather was in the hospital. He could not walk, he could not eat. Moving to take a bath was excrutiatingly painful for him. He was almost finished.

I turned off the lights, pulled the bathroom door behind me and went back into the suite. I called my brother to let him know that I arrived. He picked up the phone in a good mood. I asked him how he was doing and he said "I'm making pickles." I thought of my brother's tiny studio in Montreal and his mock kitchen embedded in the wall next to his living area. "How in the world do you find the space to do it?" I asked, imagining him surrounded by gallons of water, salt containers and pounds of cucumbers and tomatoes.

"I am managing," he said. "Since Grandpa can no longer make them, somebody needs to continue the tradition. " I thought back to the large jars of pickles we would carry back from my grandfather's house to ours in Istanbul. They lasted a whole winter. We always made sure to have a bite before dinner as mom set the table and protested saying that we were not going to have enough appetite for the actual meal.

When I understood that my grandfather was not going to get well, I wrote an entry into my diary titled "No More Pickles." I did not know then, but I would get unexpected visits from him. In a hotel room, over the phone from Montreal...in an ever evolving time capsule.