Hall Full/Half Empty Glasses

A few lifetimes ago, I made the first of many visits to Bernardsville, N.J., childhood home of Sarah, one of my college roommates. Despite all of her impressive horse memorabilia, my eyes went immediately instead to a postcard taped to her wall, written in a six-year-old's chunky handwriting. The words on the postcard went something like this, "I have had a great summer. Except something terrible happened to me. A seagull peched [sic] my brother." I immediately loved that postcard, with its perfectly placed misspelling and self-centered viewpoint. Over the years, that postcard sentiment has made its way into many Drucker-Vine conversations. To me, it sums up the autobiographical way most of us have of seeing the world: even when a seagull pecks at our brother, we can only see it the way it affects us. So it's a tragedy for us, too. Things might not change much when we are older and wiser. Hopefully we are a tad more empathetic in our old age, so we actually do feel personally attacked when those seagulls go after our friends and family. It's in that spirit that I write this week about some friends of mine. 

First, a bit of history. Like many of you, we spent years of our lives on the sidelines of soccer and baseball fields. In the process, we made some great "sideline" friends. By that I mean, we spent hours and hours chatting with other parents, but we didn't always take the next step to go deeper with those friendships. Somehow, all of us were content to have those relationships stay in those places: the sidelines and bleachers next to the fields. One big difference now that we are expats is that we don't have the time to keep relationships on the sidelines for very long. Most of us are are only here for a few years. Also, we don't have the luxury of the huge pool of potential friends we had in the U.S. (O.K., huge may be exaggerating things just a bit. There were many. Alright, some. But they all spoke English when we were together). So maybe that's why when we meet someone we think we might like, we have to go deeper much faster. There's just no time to keep things on a sidelines level. Before you know it, someone could be moving back to the U.S. or on to Kuwait. 

On the other hand, it's never too late to go deeper. One chance we expats have to do this is when sideline friends come to visit. The people who come to visit may not have been our closest pals, but when someone is in town, you can spend some quality time together. It's a way to compress a lot of friendship into a short period of time.

Enter Arthur and Janet into Amsterdam last week. One thing you need to know is that there are other connections between us, beyond just the sidelines. Arthur is a photographer. He took our son Ben under his wing when Ben started a photography business of his own at the ripe old age of fourteen. Then there's the Amsterdam connection. Arthur's father was born in Amsterdam, and has one of those Holocaust-survival stories that sounds Hollywood-created, except the story is both real and terrifying. His cousins still live here. When Arthur heard we were moving here, his face lit up, he launched into Amsterdam love stories, and he promised to visit. 

Arthur has one of the most generous spirits you will ever encounter. His smile can reach in and grab you and make you skip along with him. He's the kind of person who looks like he would literally be up for anything. And his wife Janet seems like the rare breed who can handle whatever comes her way, in a quiet, no-nonsense way, without fanfare and definitely without needing any applause. 

Here's Arthur and Peter at one of our favorite neighborhood joints: Oud Zuid. That's also the name of our neighborhood. And sadly, it's one of the hardest phrases for my American mouth to pronounce. I say it differently (and probably incorrectly) each time I try.  

Another thing you need to know about Arthur is that he has ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis). The next thing we usually say when we hear those initials is "Lou Gehrig's Disease". Now we also think, "The Ice Bucket Challenge". Or we think about Stephen Hawking. Eddie Redmayne's performance in the movie The Theory of Everything brought us face-to-face with how this relentless disease can unravel a family.

I have to admit that when Arthur told me in August he and Janet were visiting Amsterdam, I was worried. How would they manage all the cobblestone streets, the tall curbs, the confusing maelstrom of bicycle, car, motorbike, pedestrian traffic? Or endure the plane ride, which takes me a week to recover from? (I get seriously grumpy nowadays when deprived of even a night of my beauty rest). Thank goodness they didn't give in to any worries they, too,  may have harbored. Last week, I got to see a side of Amsterdam and the Dutch I hadn't seen before. Because Arthur was traveling around Amsterdam in a wheelchair, I saw the kindest and most helpful face of the Dutch people. In a restaurant in our neighborhood, a waiter helped Arthur up the tall steps at the front door. At the photography museum, FOAM, they also met us at the door and ushered him inside. Another visitor insisted on holding his arm and escorting him down the stairs when we finished touring. Each time, Arthur flashed his smile and thanked his Dutch helpers. It's easy for expats to rely on the stereotypes we hear about the Dutch: they are independent and self-sufficient. I haven't noticed much concern about passers-by. I once saw a young woman skid and go flying off her bike. No one else stopped to ask her if she was hurt or if she needed help. She looked surprised when I helped her get her bike upright and off the tram track. Yet I have to be careful about drawing conclusions about an entire country based on one bicycle mishap. It might be considered rude to ask a perfect stranger if he or she needs help. Anyway, those stereotypes came crashing down like the girl's bicycle when Arthur and Janet were in town.  

Now let's go back inside FOAM, the photography museum. The exhibit the Cohens particularly wanted to see was about an almost-extinct photography tool: the contact sheet. You had the chance to see various contact sheets and the notes the photographer made, giving you a window into the decision about which photo best encapsulated the subject. Going through the museum with Arthur, my portable professional photographer, was a wonderful treat. Arthur tapped out his spot-on comments on his phone. It's sometimes hard to understand his voice, which must be frustrating for him. So he has turned into an expert on authoring haiku-like observations. I learned so much from him at the exhibit. Most times, I could only guess which option on the contact sheet was the best, and why. Arthur seemed to get each and every one. 

Needless to say, this shot was his idea. For those of you who didn't figure it out, there was a mirror at one end of the elevator. I never would have thought to shoot into the mirror. That's why I am a teacher, not a photographer. I love that Janet was the only one ready for the actual shot. 

Right before Janet and Arthur arrived, I woke up to an email from them with the subject line "Emergency". I gulped and read the email, not sure what I would find. Happily, the "emergency" was that their daughter Tess, who is studying in Prague this semester, was arriving in Amsterdam one day before they would, and had no place to stay. That was a happy emergency! Tess and I had dinner together on the town and then she stayed at our place. One terrific by-product of moving to Amsterdam is that you are suddenly cool in the eyes of your kids' friends. Had I stayed in Maplewood, N.J., I certainly would not have been dining with 20-somethings the way we have been called upon to do here. Yes, I know that if you offer a meal to them, they will come. But a girl can dream, can't she?

The giant smile and half full glass attitude are clearly in the genes. Tess is hoping to land in the movie/T.V. world after graduation. She's funny, smart, and hardworking. Want her resumé?

It's not easy for me to write about friends who are dealing with a tough hand of cards. It's easy to get sappy really quickly. On the day the Cohens arrived in Amsterdam, an article appeared in the New York Times about two friends, their journey to watch the Red Sox play, and one friend's struggle with ALS. Coincidence? How about the fact that the author, Dan Barry, comes from Maplewood, our home town? I realized after reading the article that the process of writing can help you sort out your own complicated feelings: about loss, about unfairness, about feeling powerless to help. Thank you, Dan Barry. Driving up to that baseball game with his friend was something Dan Barry could do. Using my big feet to help push Arthur's wheelchair up and over the huge curbs in Amsterdam was something I could do. Riding Janet on the back of my bike so she could have an Amsterdam biking experience was also something I could do. Listen carefully for her, "Uh oh," followed by her self-calming, "O.K." in the video she took, below. She told me this was one of the highlights of her trip to Amsterdam. There is something about a bike ride - even one on the crowded streets in the center of Amsterdam - that makes you feel like a kid again. After all that Janet has been through these last months, I'm glad I could give her some joy, or at least joy mixed with sheer terror. Maybe the joy was at least as much mine. Happily, we made it safe and sound (and quickly) to the Portuguese Synagogue, where Arthur's cousin Bas gave us a tour, full of insights I never would have learned just from the audioguide. Thank you, Bas.

You can't help but feel grateful for your health when you see how fragile good health can be, and how it can be snatched away from you in a blink. Just a week before the Cohens came, I found out that a teacher-friend from N.J. lost her long battle with cancer. Joanne was an expat years ago, in Moscow, and in France. When she heard we were agonizing over the decision to move to Amsterdam, she marched into my classroom and told me there was just no way we could pass on this opportunity. She was dealing with her second recurrence of cancer, and every day looked like a struggle. Imagine being a teacher when you feel like crap. Putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward is what teachers do best, and Joanne often had to do this when she was moving with pain. Yet when she talked about her life as an expat, her face lit up. She texted me from time to time over this year to let me know how much she was enjoying my blog. "Travel as much as u can," she wrote earlier this year. She died two days before her birthday, and left four children and a husband behind, along with many family members. It's hard to be a friend who is left behind. You feel like your grief pales in comparison to the family's, so you try to keep quiet and move forward. It's tough. 

That's Joanne, in the red dress, with some of her peeps from Seth Boyden School. Talk about a smile and a half full glass philosophy! I'm always going to remember Joanne, that spectacular smile and her advice about traveling. She knew how to enjoy each day she had on this earth. I just wish she had so many more.

In another coincidence (or maybe not?) a dear friend, Kelly - who also lost her breast cancer battle many years ago - was an expat back before most people knew what that term even meant. In fact, her son Nick was born in Japan. Our kids were young together, and I admired Kelly for the way she just rolled up her sleeves and made the best of the rotten deal she was dealt. I know she would have been proud of us for taking the plunge and moving to Amsterdam. I thought of her when we were going back and forth over the decision. I could imagine her listening to me read my Pros and Cons list, and then laughing loud and long. "You have to go, you know? You're going to love it over there," she would have said. And she would have been right. On November 2, it will be eighteen years (did I get that right, John?) since Kelly died. I love that we have had the chance to watch her kids grow up, and to see her husband John find happiness with Susan, a Rock of Gibraltar for those kids. I see glimpses of Kelly in all three of her kids, and seeing them makes me happy. She would be so proud.

Photo credit to Rachel. Missing from second photo: my son Ben (center of top photo). He was in San Francisco, making the world safe for the instant delivery of medical marijuana at the time of the photo op. Missing from the original photo: Sam (center) John and Susan's wonderful son, who just smiles and puts up with his three older siblings. On the far left is Fenway (the dog, named after that unfortunate ballpark).

It's hard not to feel grateful by now about the good health most of us lucky ones have. So let's go back to Amsterdam. After the Cohens flew off to Prague, to continue what Arthur termed his "Second Act", we went to a concert at the Concertgebouw, Amsterdam's Carnegie Hall.

The acoustics in this place are considered perfect. You could hear every sound. I loved how everyone waited until the short breaks between movements to cough in unison. You could hear each cough perfectly.

What a a great way to spend a Sunday morning. Yes, you heard that right: Sunday morning. Even I can keep my eyes open and concentrate on the music on a Sunday morning, fortified by a few cups of coffee. When I listen to classical music, I sometimes struggle to stay focused on the music. I find my mind wandering off to things or places or people the music reminds me of. At this concert, I mostly stayed right there in the Concertgebouw. That is, until the second movement of the Mozart. Truth be told, it was the first piece. But I couldn't help but hear - in the way the violin and viola talked to each other - our friends Janet and Arthur. The instruments  sometimes finished each others' sentences, sometimes interrupted each other. At other times, one talked, and the other listened. And in the end, they played in graceful unison to a standing ovation. The audience - like any classical music audience in the U.S. - was mostly white-haired, and I felt young in comparison. When the piece was finished, I had tears in my eyes. Were they caused by the beauty of the music, by thoughts of Janet and Arthur, or some combination? I think you may suspect the answer to that question. Here's the music - with different musicians - so you can hear what I heard. For the first two minutes it's just the orchestra playing. To complete the metaphor, that's us: the friends. At minute two, you'll hear the "conversation" between the "couple" begin.

It's a shame we can't find some way to live each day remembering that some of our friends and family members would love to have just one of our so-so - or even our crappy days - for themselves. I think Janet expressed it best when she wrote to me, "Honestly, I don't think you have any choice but to plow ahead and make the best of the time you have. Arthur's attitude inspires me every day. Which isn't to say I don't cry a lot because I definitely do. But it's astonishing how humans can adjust to a new normal as shitty as the new normal is. Again what choice do you have?" Amen to that. If we do have the choice, let's choose to see the half-full glass whenever possible. Of course that is hard to do (and so much easier said than done) for our friends and family members whose mental health struggles are inside, where we can't even see them. That makes it even harder to know how to help. I tend to fall back on magical thinking: "Why can't they just find a cure of this?". But what if there is no magic at hand?

Arthur and Janet have put aside magical thinking and turned to real-life work. They created an organization called Pick-ALS. If you want to learn more, or even help out by buying Arthur's pickles, I'm sure they would be so grateful. It turns out he's been growing his own cukes and perfecting his pickle recipe for years. That's yet one more connection to add to the pile: I have always been a serious pickle lover. And Arthur's pickles are allegedly the best. Ever. And created with love. That is his answer.

You might call them coincidences: the little things that happen that make us think someone is pulling us around like marionettes. So I'll leave you with this "coincidence". I was finishing off this blog post and for some reason thinking about the theme song to the Netflix hit Orange is the New Black. The song is called You've Got Time. I really love it. What else has that singer, Regina Spektor, written, I wondered. And when I googled her, I came upon this song, called Reading Time With Pickle. I don't even know what most of the lyrics mean, but these stanzas stood out to me,

Has it always been this way?
Is it possible all this magic went unnoticed?
Maybe things will start to change
And life will turn a better page
No more rain

Singin': love is the answer.

But pickle jars are just pickle jars
And pickles are just pickles
Ingredients ... water, salt, cucumber, garlic and pickling spices

But love is the answer to a question
That I've forgotten
But I know I've been asked
And the answer has got to be love

So, love to Arthur and Janet, to Joanne, and to Kelly. And also to my dad, who I "coincidentally" think about so often while I roam around Amsterdam. Hoping that life will "turn a better page" for Arthur and co., that somehow, someway, someday soon, some medicine will be found and approved in time to help. A seagull pecked our friend, and we all want to continue to applaud his second act. So raise a glass of wine, or fresh mint tea, to anyone out there dealing with a disease that shakes up their lives and presents them with a "new normal". Let's all raise a half-full glass, and a pickle created with love, to the Arthurs in our lives!

Yet another reason to love Amsterdam: you can be wandering around thinking about a blog on friends and family who are sick or no longer even on this earth, and then you suddenly - like magic - look up and see something like this. It helps you remember they would be the first people to want you to cheer up and enjoy every day of your life.