Refugee

We closed on the sale of our St. Louis home on Thursday. Aside from a few remaining odds and ends we have now severed our material ties to the place that was our midwestern home for a happy year and a half. As the sale approached and ever since I've experienced a flood of images of St. Louis and McKinley Heights, the neighborhood where we lived. Merry is feeling much the same sense of loss. We miss our house and the garden we built from scratch. We miss the neighbors who live in the house next door and have lived there almost all their long lives. We miss the places we grew to love: the Arch, the River, the Botanical Garden, City Garden, the incredible parks, our favorite restaurants and their friendly owners. We miss the wonderful people, including those I worked with at ODAR and especially our niece, Megan.

The fact that we're very happy to be back in Syracuse does not diminish the sense of loss a bit. I suspect only time will do that.

Earlier this week I had a brief conversation with a Bosnian translator who had just helped with a hearing in Utica. I asked her when she immigrated to the U.S. She told me she came with her son after the war in 1999.

“I kept thinking that if we waited and survived the war that things would get better in Bosnia, but I was wrong, things didn't improve, so we had to leave.”

They first moved to Columbia, MD where she found work. She became a US citizen but Maryland didn't suit her.

“It's so busy, so many people. Life moves fast there. It's flat and humid. I would drive around in the country but no place reminded me of home. Then a friend invited me to visit Utica. I'm from central Bosnia. It's very hilly and rural there. When I got here, the land reminded me of home. I decided I needed to move here.”

I asked her how she liked it in Central New York now that she's lived here for a while.

“Well, many Bosnians here say that the Americans are prejudiced against us. I tell them, “How can you expect the Americans to understand us? The Americans have not been in a war or had to flee their homeland. How do you expect them to know what life is for us?”

She told me she urges the other Bosnians she meets at the Refugee Center to talk to their American neighbors and try to tell them what it's like to be an immigrant forced from a way of life and a home where their family has lived for generations.

“I'm an American now, but I'll never stop being a refugee.”

I pondered this conversation as I drove the 50 miles back to Syracuse. I have never been forced from my home. I have never lived in a war-torn country. How can I hope to understand the life of someone who will live the rest of her life as a refugee?

My only thought is to rely in part on our experience of moving to St. Louis. We moved there because the government decided that was where they would place me. We had to move in a hurry, with only a little more than two months to try to settle our lives in Central New York. It was chaotic. Decisions needed to be made without the luxury of time. When we left we didn't know whether we would ever be able to move back. We didn't know a soul in St. Louis and very little about the midwest. We had to rely on our own wits and the kindness of strangers.

We were not refugees. We got to take all our household goods and our beloved dog with us. We had decent financial resources. We speak the language [although not the midwest dialect].

Even with all our advantages we experienced a profound sense of dislocation. I felt a pervasive numbness for the first three or four months. It was the anesthetic I needed to deal with the stresses of the new. Gradually this numbness wore off to be replaced by the excitement of discovering a wonderful new place and getting to know a whole cast of new people. Who knows how long this numb feeling would last if I didn't have all my advantages? I can easily imagine it could last years or even never completely go away.

To even begin to understand Bosnian-Americans you then have to add the grief resulting from a horrible civil war with the express purpose of committing genocide, time spent in refugee camps and often the inability to resume any known occupation once resettled. Using all my experience I can catch only the most fleeting sense of the refugee experience, the reality defies my imagination.

Round Lake Ski Trail

It's always rewarding to take time to explore the Adirondack Park. Over the past twenty years Merry and I have traveled, hiked and paddled extensively in the Adirondacks but we have largely overlooked the Tupper Lake area. A few years ago we visited the then new Natural History Museum there affectionately called “The Wild Center.” http://www.wildcenter.org/ It's definitely worth a visit with its interactive displays, a tank of graceful river otters and a beautiful setting along the Raquette River. When we realized we would be in nearby Canton, NY last Friday afternoon, 4/9/10, we decided to make a return trip. Oops. We forgot that nobody goes to the Adirondacks in the early spring. The Wild Center is closed until May 1.

But as I was saying, it's always worth exploring. By the time we realized the Wild Center would be closed we had booked a cabin for the weekend on the south shore of the lake. Moody Cabin is a gem. http://www.tupperlakeinfo.com/moody_cabin.htm It's set back from the main road with a nice view. It has it's own little beach across the road with a lean-to that holds chairs and paddling accessories. The owner's house is next door, but the cabin feels very private. It's small, so it fit us well. It's nicely furnished, is tastefully decorated and has a fully functional kitchen. Perfect.

One of the reasons few visitors come to the Adirondacks in April is the unpredictable weather. Friday afternoon was fairly warm. When we arrived in Tupper Lake it was partly cloudy and in the 50s. When Joli and I stepped outdoors before sunrise on Saturday there was a quarter of an inch of snow on the ground with more coming down hard. It was still just below freezing at ten o'clock but the sky was completely clear with a stiff breeze. By noon the snow was completely gone.

We often rely on Barbara McMartin's wonderful guidebooks called the “Discover the Adirondacks” series. Outdoor opportunities throughout the whole giant park are described in detail in eleven volumes. One nice thing about these guides is that they cover both hiking and canoeing. They also include nice introductory sections on each geographic area. The maps in the book are not great, but that's made up for by the fact that the books are clearly written and updated pretty frequently. Even though McMartin died back in 2003 the work she started continues thanks to a corp of dedicated outdoor enthusiasts.

We were looking for a fairly short hike. We settled on #105, the Bog-Round Confluence. McMartin describes this as an unmarked path on old logging roads. We knew it headed into an area that the state had only recently acquired, so it was inviting and untraveled. There is no marked trailhead. There is a place to pull off the highway by a culvert that you can easily spot if you know exactly where to look. We have driven right by the spot dozens of times without notice. Once you're off Rt. 30, it's fairly easy to see where the old dirt road enters the woods.

A short way up this old logging road we came to an intersecting trail and a surprise. High on a tree someone has nailed metal circles, made from the lids of a #10 can, nicely painted and marking the trail ahead as the “Round Lake Ski Trail” and the side trail as a connector to another trailhead. From here on we found these homemade signs about every quarter mile.

The trail narrows after first climbing to the shoulder of a ridge. The open hardwoods are full of big glacial erratics covered with moss, ferns and lichen. Frequent small streams cut across the path as it passes through a glade of old yellow birch. A little further along the rushing Bog River comes into view downhill on the right. Merry and Joli scrambled down to the river to take a look at the rapids. A bit further along we came to the confluence of the Bog River and the stream that flows from Round Lake. We continued up the Round Lake Outlet until we emerged at a disused gravel road that used to lead to some hunting camps. Here more homemade signs mark the trails to Round Lake Dam to the left and Winding Falls to the right. On the immediate right is “Halfass Bridge”, a substantial old bridge directly over the lip of a beautiful waterfall.

We rested in the warm sun here for a bit. The sound of falling water and a few birds were all we could hear. Then we turned back the way we came. Along the trail we saw abundant witch hopple (Viburnum lantanoides) just opening and starting to push up its flower heads. Trout lilies and trillium were up everywhere but not yet flowering. Since there were no leaves on the trees the woods were nicely sunlit. There were no other hikers. The temperature was perfect and there were no bugs.

The next morning I described this hike to Mary, our host at Moody Cabin, and told her of my surprise at finding the trail markings. “Oh, that's Scott, my husband. He likes to poke around in the woods.” We then spent about half an hour talking with Scott about the other “unmarked” trails he has worked on throughout the nearby woods. In his view you can grow old waiting for the DEC to do trail work. His deep love for the woods is evident. We plan to come back to check out more of his handiwork soon.

Paris Cafe

NPR runs an occasional fiction writing contest. The last one just ended. The idea was to write a very short story of 600 words or less that can be read aloud in three minutes. For the March contest the story had to be based on a photograph of an empty cafe table topped with an open newspaper. The judge was Alan Cheuse, author and NPR book reviewer. I decided to enter a story based on a real event from our visit to Paris two years ago.

There were over 3000 entries. I didn't win. Nonetheless I found the exercise interesting and fun.

Here's my losing entry.

Paris Cafe

Ed stumbles off the RER dragging his suitcase. The directions emailed by a landlord he has never met direct him to use the Place de Notre Dame exit. Arrows lead further and further down a deserted platform. Water drips from the tunnel ceiling. He comes at last to stairs, then an escalator, the exit turnstile, finally more stairs into the blinding sunlight. At eight o’clock on a Saturday morning the famous square in front of the Cathedral de Notre Dame is deserted.

He walks shivering alongside Notre Dame. Ancient buildings on the opposite side of the cobblestone street glow soft gold in the morning light. Shopkeepers are just opening tourist stalls hawking tee shirts, model gargoyles and postcards. Behind the cathedral a wide pedestrian bridge crosses to Ile St. Louis.

Rising from the middle of the glittering Seine is a solid block of 17^th century limestone houses, each five or six stories high. Iron balconies on the second and fifth floors overlook the river. The ground floors facing Ile de la Cite are devoted to shops and cafes.

Hungry, tired and disoriented after the overnight flight from Dulles he has two hours before he can pick up the keys to the apartment. The St. Regis is the first open café after the bridge. Half a dozen men standing at the bar glance up as he enters, then quickly turn back to their papers and coffee.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour.”

The waiter indicates a tiny window table and raises an eyebrow. Ed smiles and sits. The waiter returns and drops a used copy of today's Le Monde on the red enamel table.

“Merci. Café et un croissant, s’il vous plait.”

“Café ou café aux lait?”

“Café aux lait, merci.”

Across the narrow side street a waiter is setting up tables and chairs on the sidewalk even though the temperature is just above freezing.

His coffee and flaky warm croissant arrive. The large blue cup of strong coffee with frothy milk is very hot. Perfect.

Every minute or so a new customer comes in, says hello, has an espresso delivered at the bar, speaks a few words to his neighbor, glances at the paper and leaves. Only one other person sits at a table. Ed leafs slowly through the paper trying to get the gist of the news from the pictures and the few French phrases he knows.

A man comes in with a Jack Russell terrier. He reaches down and unfastens the dog’s leash. The man takes his place at the bar but the dog trots over to the service entrance at the end of the bar, cocks his head and waits expectantly. On his next trip the proprietor spots the dog in his path.

“Bonjour, ma petit chien.”

The dog wags its stubby tail.

“Nous voudrions un petits gateau?”

The dog immediately sits and looks up expectantly.

The proprietor turns back to the kitchen and emerges a second later with a little cookie.

The dog daintily takes his cookie, returns to lay at his owner’s feet and eat it. A minute later the man finishes his coffee, re-leashes his dog and they leave.

During the next half-hour essentially the same thing happens twice more, once with a bulldog, once with a miniature poodle. Brilliant, the proprietor has trained neighborhood dogs to bring their owners to his café every day.

It's time to seek out the owner of the apartment.

“L’addition, s’il vous plait.”

Ed leaves the paper open on the table and walks out into his first Paris morning, smiling.