I’ve officially become a pandemic cliche: most days, I can’t remember what day of the week we are currently trudging through. Instead, I’m clinging to time by celebrating bigger chunks of it, like years. On October 1, we celebrated our one-year anniversary in Nashville. Needless to say, for the past seven months, most of our explorations of the city have been muted. In this little bubble in-between the humid days of summer, and the approaching winter (yup, we do have winters here) I’m spending as much time as I can walking around the streets of Nashville. I’m going to share with you some of what I have noticed. When I’m out walking, I can’t help but think about this children’s book I loved as a kid. For those of you who don’t know the story, a little boy named Marco takes a walk and fantasizes about all the strange vehicles and creatures he sees so he will have a good story to tell his Dad when he gets home. You get the impression Marco is a habitual teller of tall-tales. A boy after my own heart. Brace yourself for a few of my minnows becoming whales.

A year ago, we were treated to a warm welcome here. A very warm welcome. It was 97 degrees for the first few days of our new lives in Nashville. After a summer-long drought, everything was very brown, and the fall was dull, at least as far as tree colors were concerned. So it came as a surprise when this fella on our front lawn started blushing in early October this year. That’s one good thing 2020 has brought us. I’m making sure to celebrate even the small victories this year.

A song for those of us who are muddling up our days and months. “There ain’t any use in pretending. It could happen to us any day.” How long has this been going on?

I started off thinking I wouldn’t mention either Covid or the election as we walk together through Nashville. But then I realized if those topics were off-limits, I would have next to nothing to say. So mention them I must. Now, off we go.

This week, I marched myself downtown (in my car, of course - I’m trying to be a real Nashvillian) to hand-deliver our mail-in ballots to the Main Post Office. Nope we don’t have any of those mail-in ballot boxes that most other states are providing to make voting by mail more reliable and more accessible. However, while Tennessee is deepest, darkest Red-Republican, Nashville - along with Memphis - is a bubble of blue inside that red. I realize that living in a bubble keeps me from confronting the harsh reality of what broad swaths of our country believe, but let me enjoy it, please. I’ve been through enough recently. A bubble is all I can handle.

Here’s a shot of a largely-deserted downtown Nashville. The streets were gussied up with lots of signs announcing the presidential debate. Although tourists were sparse, there were some. Most wore their masks like necklaces around their necks. I fel… — Here’s a shot of a largely-deserted downtown Nashville. The streets were gussied up with lots of signs announcing the presidential debate. Although tourists were sparse, there were some. Most wore their masks like necklaces around their necks. I felt a little sorry for Nashville. It had been looking forward to this prom (the debate) for almost a year. The actual event was a dud. No crowds of staffers and reporters eating hot chicken and listening to country music. Just a few hearty folks cheering on the candidates as they rushed from their cars into Belmont University.

Here are some of the signs I’ve spotted during my walks in our heavily Biden-leaning bubble.

It doesn’t get more All-American than this display beside the white picket fence.

I’d like to tell you there are no Trump signs here at all. There are certainly not many, but they do exist. I have my own very mature (albeit passive-aggressive) way of addressing those voters who disagree with me.

When I pass by the house pictured on the right, this song comes to mind.

I wish we could predict the outcome of the election based on the lawn signs in my little bubble. But I don’t want to get my hopes up. Four years ago, I set my alarm for 3 a.m. (that was 9 p.m. for those of you on the East Coast in the U.S.) and walked over in the pitch-dark to celebrate Hillary’s victory with some American friends. Champagne and a special Italian dessert wine, Vin Santo, were at the ready. Well, you know how that all turned out. I should have known. I grew up during the 70’s when we celebrated Jewish holidays and superstitions with equal fervor. That included saying “Rabbit, Rabbit” on the first of every month, first thing in the morning before you uttered another word; carrying a rabbit foot on your keychain - I’m just now realizing how wrong that fad was. Sorry! - and “knocking on wood” before you said something you didn’t want to jinx. The Jewish equivalent is to say, “Kinehora” after you say something you don’t want to ruin by celebrating too soon. “You look really healthy. Kinehora.” If you don’t say it, the person might be instantly struck down by some dreadful disease. You just never know. “I don’t want to give you a canary,” is the de-Yiddished version of that phrase. Stevie understands this superstition business.

I guess we didn’t add enough “Kinehoras” to the end of our sentences that began, “When Hillary wins…” four years ago. So many family members and friends texted us when the Florida, Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania results came in. We consoled each other, but let’s face it: when you are living abroad, it’s like expressing sympathy for someone who lost power during a blizzard. Sorry you are going through that, but I’m glad I’m over here in Amsterdam with lights and heat and a safe distance from the U.S. Now that we are here in the U.S., we are the ones who are preparing for the blizzard.

This is me in August when we had a tornado warning. The alert told us to grab bicycle helmets and go to an interior room without windows. In our house, this bathroom is that safe spot. You may find me here on Election Night as well. In case you were… — This is me in August when we had a tornado warning. The alert told us to grab bicycle helmets and go to an interior room without windows. In our house, this bathroom is that safe spot. You may find me here on Election Night as well. In case you were wondering, no tornado actually touched down that day. I hope we get that lucky on Election Day.

Tornadoes, smoke, Covid. Lots has been written about the plagues we have endured down here in Tennessee and in other parts of the U.S. One plague I wasn’t prepared for was the Southern bugs. They are huge. They literally knock against the window trying to get into the house. And sometimes they succeed. If you have watched horror films to help you forget your troubles these days, you may enjoy seeing the photo, below. It shows you a kind of bug which visited us more than a few times this summer. Try finding one of these crawling back behind your bed one night, and you will know what true horror is.

For those of you who need to know, he was about as long as my pinky finger.

I’ll make a quick transition here from the horror of that bug to the election. Anyone tune into the last debate? I didn’t last long. Aren’t debates for people who are undecided? And who, on God’s Green Earth, as my 6th grade math teacher Mrs. Conroy liked to say, could possibly still be undecided in this election? David Sedaris has been a real salve to my soul for the past few weeks. I love how he uses humor to tackle even the darkest subjects. I couldn’t help but think back to what he wrote in this essay Undecided, which appeared in the New Yorker in 2008.

“To put them [undecided voters] in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?” To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked. I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?” You hit the nail on the head, Mr. Sedaris. Just order the chicken, folks!

I can feel my (and your) election anxiety setting in. Time for some music. You may have noticed I’ve been enjoying the duets of the past. In recent posts, I gave you Sonny and Cher and The Captain and Tennille. Here are some words of wisdom from two of my faves, Carly and James:

“And if that piece of mind won't stay
I'm gonna get myself a better way
I might rise above, I might go below
Ride with the tide and go with the flow.”

That’s easier said than done these days, my friends.

I finally found a political use for my nice teacher’s handwriting: writing postcards to voters in battleground states. Here is the voice I want my postcard receivers to hear in their heads when they see this tidy “teacher’s handwriting”: “This is your 4th grade teacher Suzanne. You need to vote. For Democrats. Do it today.” (Said with my “teacher’s voice”, and that “teacher’s look” only teachers can conjure up). Are you getting all that from this simple postcard?

Our system for picking a president is certainly ripe for change. This whole Electoral College business is not working for us. We’d be better off with a bright-line test like having dogs decide the election. Just put a bunch of dogs and the candidates in a room and see which one the dogs run to. Using that method, Joe Biden would win by a landslide. Dogs know a good boy or girl when they see one.

I ran into these signs after I had already shared with you my brilliant idea about having dogs decide the election. I’m not ready to elect one, like these folks. Now that’s just crazy talk. But dogs voting? Definitely.

I know Casey would have supported Joe and Kamala. I wonder what he really thought about Hillary. It’s hard to tell from this photo.

That photo of Casey makes me miss him even more. He would have known just the right thing to say to help me feel less worried about the world. And missing Casey makes me miss Amsterdam. I’m still seeing reminders all around town.

Most bikes here belong to kids. Do you think they would ride with me?

Delft tile in Nashville.

What about garden-variety yard work says Vermeer is needed for the job?

My thoughts also flew back to Amsterdam when I recently read guitarist Eddie Van Halen died. He was born in Amsterdam and lived in the Netherlands until he was seven. Even if this era of rock and roll isn’t your thing, you have to appreciate the guitar genius on display when he plays. Eddie was no youngster in this video clip (note the aging rock star’s get-up) but his fingers still move the way they did in his prime. In another sign I am turning into a pandemic cliche, I recently bought a used guitar and have started taking lessons. Watching Van Halen’s fingers move across the guitar is like watching a Kenyan marathoner run. I’ll never be able to get anywhere close, but I can at least appreciate the beauty. My fingers are currently running the equivalent of a twelve-minute mile on those guitar strings. As essayist Samantha Irby - like David Sedaris, she’s a master of humor that cuts close to the bone - wrote, “Why has age made me better at so few things?”

Back to our walk. Were there always so many political signs growing on our front lawns? Did this all change over the five years we lived abroad? Or is the lawn decoration surge something unique to this year? As I walk around, I also can’t help but notice the Halloween game has been significantly upped this year. Skeletons are very big in Nashville. Is this a comment on the possible demise of the Affordable Care Act? Or a protest against the lack of a national plan to combat Covid?

I’m also noticing a lot of those blow-up plastic decorations. There is often a very loose connection to the Halloween theme. For example, what does a shark have to do with Halloween? A pirate ship? I think I’m missing something here.

I see a connection between the election signs, all the Black Lives Matter signs, and the Halloween decorations. I think because of Covid, our front windows and front lawns have become the way we communicate with each other. How else to explain the neighbor with the two large Organic Baby Spinach signs in her windows? Last year, she would have just told us she enjoys her spinach. This year, she’s had to resort to signage to inform us about her vegetable preferences.

I wasn’t going to include a photo, but I didn’t think you’d believe me without proof.

This neighbor is telling me all about her garden. I wonder if the Passion Vines are my relatives?

You can’t walk far here without noticing the various opinions about mask wearing. The photo on the bottom right is my mom and my sister Jennifer. Love that photo of them. I didn’t see see them on any of my walks in Nashville, but I really wish I had. Someday.

I don’t want to work myself into a frenzy about the folks who won’t wear a damn mask. I hear from friends still in Amsterdam that many of the Dutch are as mask-resistant as some Americans. This makes me think maybe this mask-stubbornness (hidden behind nonsense-talk about freedom) is part of our Dutch DNA. We also share with the Dutch the ability to have contradictions pour out of both sides of our mouths. Some Dutch people, for example, can tell you they believe in being healthy and working out. Then the end punctuation to the sentence is a puff of cigarette smoke. And some Americans can pontificate about the right to life while simultaneously endorsing the death penalty. We like to tell the tale about our English heritage, but I think Dutch blood runs more strongly through our stubborn veins.

O.K. Back on our walk we go. I ran into RBG the other day and was happy to see she had a fancy crown on. I thought back to how important she has been to our family. When Rachel had lung surgery in March 2018 to remove a nodule, RBG - who had had similar surgery - kept our spirits up. Thank you for that, RBG. We miss her so.

This is the song that brought Steven Colbert to tears when Dolly sang it on his show recently. Dolly has Supreme Court-level authority down here in Tennessee. She has donated 150 million books to children, and recently gave a huge sum of money to fund plasma donation for Covid patients.

We have some new murals in town. Thanks to these talented artists, I can get my art fix without stepping inside a museum.

“One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.” One of the all-time great songs. I grew up dancing to this in my friend’s basement. That explains a lot about me, right?

And, bless their hearts (I’m getting more proficient at speaking Southern, as you can see), some new restaurants and bars have opened in our neighborhood even during the Pandemic. I’m looking forward to trying the Bearded Iris (a brewery), Otto’s (a bar that opened in a former auto repair shop), and Otaku Ramen. Riddim and Spice (a Caribbean food truck that graduated into a restaurant) isn’t brand new, but it’s on my to-visit list whenever it’s safe. Please don’t burst my bubble by telling me exactly when that will be. Can’t a girl dream? So many great restaurants to try in Nashville. Someday.

“Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars”.

I had a nice early walk at Cheekwood Botanical Gardens one morning and saw the Chiluly exhibit. Is it just me or are some of these sculptures Covid-esque?

I think we have collected enough steps to call it a day. I’d love to keep walking until after the election, just to keep my mind from racing into the negative lane. Like many of you, I’m trying to stay hopeful while keeping some room in my brain for the possibility of disaster. I’d like to say we will drink that bottle of Vin Santo this year, but - knock on wood - I don’t want to hope. And even if the election turns out the way I want it to, there’s still the matter of the 40% of Americans who support T____.

To help solve that little problem of the 40%, I have an idea. It came to me a few days ago while reading Michael Pollan’s book How to Change Your Mind: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression, and Transcendence. I’m up to the chapter about studies in the 1950’s which used LSD to treat alcoholics. When I saw some of the quotes from alcoholic patients about the effects of LSD (“a transcendental feeling of being united with the world”, a new ability to “see oneself objectively”, “increased sensitivity to the feelings of others”) I began to think about a new use for the psychedelic. Maybe the folks in our country who are addicted to a leader who promised to Make American Great Again would benefit from some LSD. Years from now, when we study these projectile voters - who don’t think for themselves and just blindly drink and spew the Kool-Aid Trump poured - we may find LSD was a very promising cure. It’s at least worth a try, isn’t it? As soon as all the scientists get the vaccine stuff figured out, they can get right to work on my LSD-cure idea.

In the end, there was no need in this post for me to “turn minnows into whales”. When pressed by his dad about what he saw when out walking, Marco, the little boy in And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, leaves out all the wonderful fantasies that entertained him. He ends up telling his dad what he actually saw: a plain horse and wagon. I didn’t have to resort to telling you the imagined sights on my walks. 2020 has been unbelievable enough without having to invent a thing.

If you haven’t already, go vote. And if you need some inspiration and joy in the upcoming days, watch these folks dancing in the streets in Philadelphia while they wait to vote. Let’s hope the tales I tell next year about our 2nd anniversary in Nashville will have a happy ending. I hope I will be dancing in the streets of Nashville soon.