Yellow and Blue

We had an amazing morning yesterday -- crisp and cold, with a cloudless blue sky. (As I overheard one woman say into her telephone as we passed on the sidewalk: "It's beautiful, but it's FREEZING!") I took Olga for a long walk through the neighborhoods north of us, up past Cricklewood. We wound up at the rather unfortunately named Clitterhouse Playing Fields, a wide-open expanse of grass littered with stray fireworks wrappers and sparklers and other remnants of Guy Fawkes Night (which was Saturday).

We also found a peculiar little park by the railroad tracks called Millennium Green, with seemingly random pieces of wooden sculpture placed throughout. I'm sure they serve a purpose but I didn't stop to figure out what it might be. (I think they're benches.)

Olga was really wired, I suspect because she didn't get a walk on Saturday, and we walked a long way. There was a lot of Kong-chasing, too.

We got back home about 11 a.m. and Dave and I went to the high street for brunch. Unfortunately, all of West Hampstead had the same idea, so it took us a while to settle on a place that wasn't packed. We finally went to Moment, a vaguely Israeli-themed cafe where I had a good old-fashioned English breakfast -- except that it was vegetarian and came with a bagel.

I Skyped with my mom in the afternoon -- she's been incommunicado for several weeks because her computer (specifically, her computer cord) has been on the fritz. So finally we were able to have a conversation. She said her friends chide her for not being more responsive to e-mail and phone messages, and I told her, "Well, they're right!" I'm glad I'm not the only one who has trouble getting ahold of her.

Last night we watched "How to Marry a Millionaire," from 1953. You have to overlook the retrograde politics, but the team of Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe and Betty Grable is pretty hard to beat. Lots of exotic dresses (gowns by Travilla!) incongruously paired with an overall celebration of the common man -- just in time for the Democrats to win on Tuesday.

Memorial Day Flashback

This is not my picture. It was taken by my friend Suzanne, and in fact I'm in the picture, resting my hands on the legs of two of my friends. This was back in 1989 or 1990, on Memorial Day weekend, when a group of us rented a condo on the beach in Florida. I love the easy companionability that this shot conveys.

I was in touch with Suzanne on Facebook a few days ago and she mentioned that she was scanning old photos. I knew she'd taken pictures on this Memorial Day trip, but I wasn't sure I'd ever seen them. So I asked her to send me some. She forwarded 19 shots, and it was so great to look through them. Some of the people who came with us on that weekend I haven't seen for years. Like, decades. A few I'm not even in touch with on Facebook. I have no idea where they are these days.

I remember those shorts I'm wearing, comfy baggy cotton ones with gray and pink squares. I think I got them at Marshalls. I'd completely forgotten about that tank top with the graphic design, but now that I see the picture I remember it, too. Very '80s!

Anyway, what a trip down memory lane!

Yesterday was a whirlwind. French class went well, and I got some laundry done, too. I also took all our sheets and blankets to the laundromat and had them washed. There is nothing better than a clean bed.

Dave and I had a little celebration last night, a dinner at Alain Ducasse with our friends Gordon and Donna. It was ostensibly to thank Gordon, who works with Dave, for covering for him during his illness and surgery last spring. But it was also for my birthday and, well, whatever other reason we could come up with! This was our second trip to Alain Ducasse this year. I think we've broken the bank.

A Wrecked Shoe

Last weekend, Olga and I came across this battered athletic shoe discarded on Hampstead Heath. It looks like it lived fast and hard, like James Dean or Edie Sedgwick. I like how whoever repaired it with tape at least thought to color-coordinate.

I'm having a bit of a busy morning, trying to get my French homework done before class, get the dog walked and get myself appropriately groomed to leave the house. Thanks for all the thoughtful comments on my post yesterday; I'm sorry I have to leave my followup, for the moment, to just this cursory acknowledgement because it is a complicated subject.

Last night, Dave and I watched Michael Moore do a standup show in Ohio called "Michael Moore in Trumpland." We got it on iTunes. It was entertaining but it seemed apparent to me, after a while, that although Moore specifically invited Trump supporters, most of the people in the audience were not! Maybe it's unrealistic to expect Trump supporters to attend a Michael Moore comedy show. I enjoyed it, but I think Dave expected something with a more documentary flavor. Just think -- four days from now, this election will be over! Whew!

Oh, and Dave and I got some shocking news last night via e-mail. Remember our disagreeable dog boarder? The one we stopped using because she kept badgering us to buy things? Well, apparently she died unexpectedly and the business is closing. I have no idea what happened. Even though we'd stopped going there I'm sorry to hear that dramatic news.

Getting to Know You

You may remember John, the guy who sells used books near the West Hampstead railway station. I've photographed and written about him before. I always wave when I pass him, stationed on the sidewalk with his crates of books and his three-legged dog Sugar. I don't often buy books, though. (I'm surrounded by plenty of those every workday!)

The last few times I've talked to John he's come right out and asked me for money. As it happens I didn't have any on me at the time -- I rarely carry cash these days. But a few nights ago I finally stopped and gave him £4, and asked him how he was doing. We chatted and he gave me a hug when I left. I don't know anything about the guy, but he definitely hasn't had such an easy life.

Mr. Pudding wrote on his blog yesterday about the death of a man in his community who collected spare change from passersby. His description of the man made me think of John. Mr. Pudding pointed out that it's easy to unfairly demonize panhandlers as drug abusers and alcoholics without knowing anything about them.

I'm sure John has his problems. Don't we all? The point is, he's an individual, with a unique history -- as was Mr. P's Brett.

It seems to me we get into trouble whenever we generalize about any group of people. The homeless, or an ethnic or racial minority, or gays, or Republicans, or liberals, or Catholics, or Mormons or whatever. It's easy to speak in blanket terms about a large, amorphous, faceless group. But when I think of the Republicans (for example) that I know -- and I touched on this yesterday -- my hostility levels diminish because I see them as people, with names and histories that somehow align with my own. This is why opponents of gay rights soften their position when someone in their own family comes out as gay.

I suspect it's also why people in rural areas, generally speaking (and there I go, generalizing!) tend to be much more conservative than people in cities. They are exposed to fewer people of different backgrounds. Thus, for them, the "other" has no individual face or identity. They can't easily see the humanity of the men and women in that faceless group.

This is true all over the world. How many Muslim extremists hate "infidels" without ever having met one? (Or having only met "infidel" soldiers carrying guns -- not a circumstance that leads to cross-cultural awareness.)

The solution to becoming a more peaceful world is getting to know each other individually. That's why the Peace Corps, for example, works as a program -- it gives Americans a face in other parts of the world, and helps Americans see individuals of other nationalities more clearly. Rather than fighting off Mexicans or Syrians or Afghans, or passing laws against homeless people, or ranting about Republicans or liberals, we ought to find our common ground with them.

I don't mean to sing "Kumbaya" here. I'm not saying it's an easy process, and I am certainly not perfect myself. Humans are hard-wired with tribal instincts. But this is the only way forward. Don't you think?

(Photo: The view out the window from my desk in the library.)

Birthday Aftermath

I just got done thanking about 120 people on Facebook for birthday wishes. Facebook can be a source of angst when people are talking politics, but it's also a really great reminder of how many terrific people I know, from so many different times in my life. Seriously, it's overwhelming. Lots of good friends who I'd be in touch with anyway, but also friends and acquaintances from past jobs and college and high school. That girl who used to sit behind me in 10th grade geometry -- we would laugh and laugh! It's so cool to hear from all these people now.

A couple of them are even Trump supporters. (That issue didn't arise in their birthday greetings, naturally.) I'm terrified of what might happen in this election, but it helps to keep in mind the individuals I know who support the opposition. They are not demons. I don't agree with them, but they want what's best for the country too.

Having said that, I'm dismayed to see Hillary's likelihood of winning slipping on The New York Times web site. It's down to 87 percent now, from a high of 93 percent last week. I'm hoping that this burst of recent FBI innuendo, and her diminishing popularity, will actually get people to the polls who support Hillary but might otherwise have fallen into complacency. It could actually help her, maybe.

All I know is, it would be a freaking miscarriage of justice if the behavior of Anthony Weiner, of all people, derails her candidacy. That would be a feminist catastrophe.

Anyway, how did I get on that subject? The birthday was wonderful, thanks. I had two classes of fifth-graders sing to me at my desk, and I got some amazing pastries from my boss and some brownies and cookies from my co-librarians. We had a little gathering in the back office to celebrate. No candles, though. Didn't want to set off any fire alarms.

After work I walked home listening to my podcast -- season two of Serial, about Bowe Bergdahl -- and Dave and I had a quiet night in. We ate scrambled eggs for dinner and watched a BBC show about nightmare rental tenants and an old Hawaii Five-O rerun. I know, it all sounds impossibly glam.

(Photo: A building on Holloway Road, North London. Here is a close-up of the stencil on the building front. See comments for the man's identity!)

A Half-Century!

Well, this is it. As of today, I am officially 50. I guess to be completely accurate I'd have to mark the specific hour of my birth, which I can never remember -- I think it was 6-something, but morning or evening I have no idea -- and with time zone changes and whatnot, well, it's just way too complicated! So let's just say I'm there.

Not that it feels any different from being 49. In fact I've been thinking of myself as 50 for a while, rounding upward, so it feels good to have finally crossed the line. I remember telling people when I turned 40 that 40 was nothing, but 50 would be SCARY. And it's not.

So far, anyway. Ask again when the results of the U.S. election come in.

Last night I had a rare opportunity to get together with my friend Susan, who in another lifetime hired me and was my supervisor at The New York Times. She's in town with her husband, on her way to a family wedding for which she went hat-shopping. (She bought a feathery fascinator, which is a very British thing to wear to a wedding!) I hadn't seen Susan in at least six years, and a lot has happened in the interim -- she had some serious and dramatic health problems that involved an organ transplant and a lengthy recovery. But she looks great and it was wonderful to be able to show her a bit of our lives in London. Being a blog-reader, she especially wanted to meet Olga, and brought her a new American Kong and a Donald Trump chew toy, which Susan hoped Olga would eviscerate before our very eyes. Olga, however, is unsure what she's supposed to do with Donald. In the photo above, she looks a bit terrified of him. (Aren't we all?!)

Stink Bomb

I finished most of my library weeding yesterday. We all marveled at some of the books I found on the shelves. One of them was a novel about a computer, published in 1983 -- and you can imagine what the computers in the jacket illustration looked like. A kid nowadays wouldn't even recognize those things. (Which is probably among the reasons why it hadn't been checked out for about nine years.)

A few things I grudgingly put back, because they'd been requested by a teacher years ago or they were connected somehow to the school, even though no one appears to be reading them. I guess I shouldn't be too grudging, because my own photo books are in that library and would surely fall into that category!

Not much else is going on. We had a quiet evening here. No trick-or-treaters, thank God. (Which is fortunate, because -- no candy!) On Sunday we went off British Summer Time, the UK's equivalent of Daylight Saving Time, so it now gets dark at about 5 p.m. I'm now walking home at night.

Fireworks have been going off around the neighborhood the last few nights. We think they're for Diwali, but it's also almost time for Guy Fawkes Night. Either one is possible! Fortunately, the fireworks don't seem to faze the dog. She notices them, and sort of looks around, but doesn't get unduly nervous.

Speaking of the dog, she got home from her walk yesterday smelling none too fresh. I think she perfumed herself with fox urine. Bleah.

(Photo: Crouch End, North London, a little more than a week ago.)