Hello from SO

South Orange NJ, ancestral home of the Orensteins, where we are being wined and dined with abandon. Our vacation was initiated by a delay into Newark airport, a familiar if inauspicious beginning. Sz and I picked up Benster from SIG (the "gifted" program) and then, after an interminable awards ceremony and Goodbye Video (in which Ben figured prominently to some serious applause from his fellow gifted ones) we went to the Adlers for a lovely breakfast. We had an opportunity to schmooze and see pictures of Cape Town, and Mike and Beth, courtesy of Jeremy, Beth's brother who had just been visiting. With any luck we'll be posting some pictures soon. The Adlers were, in the unforgettable words of Sylvia Orenstein, a port in the storm, when we dropped off Ben during torrential rain. We had a magnificent visit with them on the return jouney as well (part of it spent napping by Ben).

Yesterday I took Phyllis, an old neighbor from when we lived in SO, to get Food Stamps. What an awful experience for everyone. I understand the need to recertify. I even understand the need not to make it too easy or pleasant for some shirkers. One woman in a loud voice proclaimed: "This is ridiculous! I am going to go get me a job." But others expressed concern about being late for work. Clearly people can be working their hardest and still need the support of food stamps. Surely for Phyllis, age 80+ the hardship is inexcusable. She is entirely deserving. Worked all her life, served as a WAC in WWII, and she doesn't have enough money to meet her very modest basic needs. The individual workers were actually quite nice, but the set-up was something out of Kafka with the clear message that if you're poor your time is valueless. Time is money, but the important variation obviously is that time is money for people with money. For the poor, their time is cheap.

Going out tonight with Svetlana for Vietnamese food in the city. Not going to the Korean Ladies because laguage barrier might cause injury to my sensitive calfs. Below is the story of the Korean ladies, which I shared with some of you when I first encountered them.

I have a window of time to prepare for next semester and most importantly RELAX
before the onslaught of exam-grading and the start of fall teaching. My partner in pedagogy, Melanie, who’s very cool both as a colleague and a commuting companion (suffice it to say that not everyone would read me the letters to the editors of People Magazine adding witty commentary), remarked that I didn’t seem sufficiently celebratory at the end of the summer. I was not, in her words "enjoying the moment." I took her criticism to heart and went to this place whose ad I saw in New York Magazine. Two hours of crazy bliss in Little Korea was the result. It began with written instructions in my locker: "strip yourself and enter haven." Oral instructions: "Key, fuck it" ended up meaning that I was supposed to put the locker key in my pocket. The two hours ended with my caretaker’s pointing to the sign about tipping being customary. In between, I sat in a steam sauna, a dried sauna, showered numerous times and was thoroughly roughed up by my caretaker (I couldn’t get her name) who slapped me with some very hot towels and held onto a bar on the ceiling as she tread on my back. By far the best and most unusual part was the exfoliation, accomplished with a scouring pad. It turns out that the thing that has been making me so cranky this summer was the top layer or two of my skin. Next came the baby oil phase where I was so slicked up there was a constant worry of my sliding off the table. All greased up this way, I was pretty easy to push around as my head was positioned for the facial and shampoo. With the skin gone and the rest of me cleaner than I have ever been in my life, I really did feel relaxed and baby-soft. If I had time, I would have gone out to dinner afterwards to make the afternoon of indulgence complete. But alas, Szonyi was having some computer problems and I was needed at home. I cannot overstate what a great and wild experience this spa was. Who’s game to join for my next trip? All the events happen in a room that is best analogized to a Loehman’s dressing room in Waterworld. There is a real feeling of sisterhood. And I don’t think the women in charge are as angry as
they actually sound barking out commands in the very limited English at their disposal. Although the experience was intensely relaxing and pampering, I hardly
felt like the ugly American; the power dynamic was at best ambiguous while my
caretaker was barking out orders and hosing me down dressed in a black bra and
panties. (Spring 2003)