Category Archives: yoga & meditation

hot dog performance art

the last installment. part v of why meditate, thoughts on my two 1-week back-to-back meditation retreats: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, & part v. An abridged version for moderns exists at Shambhala New York.

And that was it. After lunch there was a banquet to close the week, and a bit of a talent show with poetry, songs, skits, and the like performed after the meal. As I enjoyed my desserts, Seth asked (snarkily) when I was on. “I thought you were going to share something with us.”

“Hmmm? What do you mean. I already did. You missed it?” I snarked back.

NewYork_2009-11_statenisland_060

“Oh, you mean at lunch? The bawling over your hot dog?” As if his words weren’t enough, he brought his hands to his mouth, grasping an imaginary whole foods organic hot dog with caramelized onions and nori, rounded his shoulders, closed his eyes, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and snapped his diaphragm up (he’s obviously done some yoga) which bobbed his torso and head a bit to mimic that ungodly heaving that accompanies a big cry.

My gawd.

It was pretty funny.

We laughed. I’d never met Seth before but, as always happens on retreat, by the end of a week I felt like I’d known the people around me forever, even though we’d never spoken. I was thinking about this on the first day, when everyone felt so strange to me, which I wasn’t used to at Shambhala. I was used to knowing people. But it had been a while. I wondered then how these strangers would quickly unfold as we sat together in silence. And they did. It is like magic.

NewYork_2012-06_SummerNY-38When the festivities and the retreat were over, I went home and emailed Zka, telling her more or less what I’ve told you. I cleared my schedule completely for the next days, and we had dinners, coffees, drinks, and walks over three boroughs in her last days in NYC. I took her to JFK and we sat quite near a NEW YORK HOT DOG stand while we chatted before her flight. I didn’t cry.

A few times I’ve had to explain to people that because I felt sad about Zka’s leaving does not mean I’m defined by it, or that I’m depressed. As a culture we are so against sad that we’ve forgotten that to feel sadness and let it pass is a fine, healthy thing to do.

It is almost fall now, and I’m more able to stay inside and get things done. I still angle for the sunny spots on the sidewalk because the sun feels so good, but a part of me is relieved by the cooler air and the softer light. See? Even summer girls can adapt.

So, that’s why I meditate. It’s one thing to get it intellectually. And it’s another thing to sit. You really, really have to sit. There’s a great story about the Venerables Mahakasyapa and Ananda, about why the Buddha chose Mahakasyapa to succeed him rather than his cousin Ananda. (Ananda didn’t practice!) Yes, this is a myth. There’s some argument over who succeeded the Buddha, and this story seems more popular in Zen traditions. That’s not the point though. The point is, you have to practice.

The story is pp 123-125.

why meditate, thoughts on my two 1-week back-to-back meditation retreats.
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv.

zka

Part iv of why meditate, thoughts on my two 1-week back-to-back meditation retreats:
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, & part v. An abridged version for moderns exists at Shambhala New York.
Zka & A

A few days earlier, while making tea at home and fighting with myself about how to deal with the situation, I thought, “No, I’m not cancelling my plans last minute. Next time.” My quieter, more aware voice silently pressed at me and I knew it was the wrong thing. “Next time. Next time I will deal with it differently,” I said, as if the next time I was in a difficult situation with a friend it would be any easier to take the gentle route. As we know, next time is never now. But I am stubborn.

I find that when I’m having this sort of argument, forcing myself to do the right thing is not really a better option than doing what my ego wants, because until my stubborn ego softens and wants it too, I’ll just be angry, bitter, and annoyed. Canceling my plans for Zka’s last minute change would probably just piss me off more if I forced myself to do it.

And that’s where the meditation comes in. Things shift when you sit on a cushion and watch your mind. When I was up at the first retreat, there was a woman in the next room who clearly wanted the door to my shared room open. It wasn’t even her room, but she kept coming in and opening the door. I wanted privacy, especially as the men at the ashram were more predatory than I’d have liked, and I was trying not to let this woman get to me. That I was clearly getting to her did somewhat soften the situation for me. Though I was in silence and not really talking to anyone at the ashram, she didn’t seem to notice this, and took that I wasn’t chatting with her quite personally.

I came in the room in the mid-afternoon to get something, and she’d left the door open again. As I was about to leave, I wanted to close the door. But something in me stopped myself and left it open, as she’d have wanted it.

ZkainVermont
Zka & OH’s Jewbaru on road trip to Vermont

Yeah, it’s a little thing, but it’s an example of acting from a deeper place than ego. When I was in the foyer putting on my shoes, I heard her stomp out of her room to go open the door again, only to find it open. I felt a bit sorry for her, and for myself. It’s all in the mind, these dramas. And yes, at retreats, little things like this are amplified, as we don’t have the larger dramas of our daily life to engage, and you really face the reality your mind creates and own up to it.

Sitting the last morning of the retreat, centered, there, all of the sudden an image of Zka’s little blond head bopping in the waves popped into my mind and my eyes welled up. Though I’d been stoic all week, ignored emotions come up when I just shut up and sit. Frustration, anger, fear, anxiety, loneliness, annoyance, sadness, everything. It’s a gamut. I wasn’t teary all week, or the week before. Pretty solid, with a bit of everything mixed in. If I was asked a week or two ago what would upset me, what would hit me hard, I’d have thought a few things. But I was totally wrong. Out of nowhere that morning, Zka’s little bopping blond head just knocked me open. She was the best swim partner ever. I’d look for her when we swam, always nearby but not too close. She always swam about forty feet seaward, close enough to see, but far enough to give space. Sometimes we stopped and came closer, playing in the waves. But usually she was a bit off and I’d stop once and awhile to look for her blond head, then resume swimming.

Then, all the things I love about Zka streamed into my mind, and the tears flowed. I cried because we might not swim together again. Because I had the best summer with her and it went too fast. Because there is no beach in Paris. Because we were the odd couple, and we were over. She’s a night person, and I’m a morning person. Each day this summer when I got up for yoga, the first thing I’d see would be Zka’s email on my phone when I turned off my alarm, which I’d read on the train en route to practice. While most are overwhelmed, Zka was amused by the million emails and texts I sent each day, and knew she was free to answer, only supposed to answer, what and when she wanted. This was usually in a long email written at 2am, which I read by 6a and replied to by noon. And then some.

Vermont_2012-07_JessieWedding-73Zka likes my German jokes. While I love to drive, she doesn’t know how. A German who can’t drive! (I’ve always been partial to German automobiles, though I may never have admit that to her.) She likes cats. I prefer dogs. (Doggie!) She is a dismal scientist (in training) and I am a happy guru. But we are similar in the ways that matter. Zka likes to swim, to roadtrip (chauffeured of course), to eat, to walk, and to talk about the deeper things in life. Zka likes and supports my energy, and I hers. This, perhaps, is the very definition of a friend. Someone whose presence picks you up a bit and makes you happy not only to be alive, but that you are you, and that she is Zka. Though she makes fun of Germans herself, like me, she is definitely more Germany than Greece. She is willing to tell me when I am being dumb (not easy. I bark) and is also patient when it is clear I need to be dumb a bit longer. This is vital in the girlfriend relationship. She is secretive with her heart, and reminds me too much of myself in that way. And while we could always be friends, we would never have this gorgeous summer together again.

What bothered me the most, though, and kept the tears flowing, was not that she was leaving, but that we were shoving each other away. We were both crafting stories about the other to make the loss easier to bear, instead of facing our sadness about the change. We’d both lost parents and loved ones earlier than most, and our fears and pretended strength around loss and sadness were painful and ugly. The walls were tall and hard.

As all of this went through my mind, I did keep going back to my breath, but the thoughts and the tears kept coming. So I let them. She’d be a proud German. I was discreet about it, and no one, even the people around me, knew I was crying all morning. “But I had snot running down my face,” I said later to Seth who’d been sitting behind me all week.

“Yeah, I thought it was sinuses. Whatever.” He replied.

I’m fairly accomplished in the silent cry, because like my friend Emily once said, “You can’t schedule grief.”

When we got lunch, my subtlety ended. I went to Whole Foods and saw a woman grilling organic hot dogs (we chatted. She was an ashtangi). I pretty much had to have one, even though I knew they’d giggle back in the meditation hall. There we ate in silence at long tables. I was in between two guys and across from another. On my right was Vito, a very earnest Austrian with a German accent (oh no). He was a meditation instructor. On my left was Joel, who’d practiced at the center at least as long as I had (years) and was also a meditation instructor. Across from me was Luke, who’d sat to my right all week, and to his right, Seth, who’d been behind me. Then, eating my hot dog, the tears came over me again. Because now people were facing me, it was harder to hide, and then harder to stop.

So, I bawled and bawled into my organic hot dog with carmelized onions and nori. The guys around me were very gracious (all had meditated a lot) and just kind of held the space. They weren’t uncomfortable at all, which was impressive and nice. I cried more on the break after, with tea bags on my eyes at home. It was a lot of sadness. And a little unexpected, I will admit. I had thought I would just get used to Zka being away like everyone else who comes and goes. But that is what meditation is about. Seeing what’s there. What’s really going on, what’s really important. There was not one tear for cave man or ping. Some anger, yeah, but no tears.

Next and last installment of why meditate: hot dog performance art.


 

better, happier, more centered

Australia_2009-12-07_TheGap_022

This was not the only thing going through my head during the retreat, mind you. In fact, it wasn’t even near top billing. Each time I came around to the fact that my attention wasn’t on my breath, but in any of all sorts of places, maybe only 2% of the time on the Zka annoyance. I found myself thinking about clients, about my dream schedule, about how to get more of what I like and less of what I don’t, about which photos to frame should I ever get around to printing them, about if I could make it to the Vietnamese sandwich shop and back before lunch, about if I should frame photos at all if I’m going to move to [somewhere warm], about my broken sofa bed, about how many beach days are left this summer, about my favorite person in the world maybe visiting soon, about the fabulous trip to Vermont, about OH’s incredible generosity, about an old friend I’d treated poorly, realized (shame), apologized, and am glad to have back in my life, about the nice things I might like to do to  for said friend, about how I will ever fit my yoga, sitting mediation, writing, and other centering stuff into my daily schedule every day not just most days, about whether my meditation instructor believed I was really taking an afternoon off to spend with Zka, about if I were going to lie wouldn’t I think up a better one than hanging out with a friend!?, about how I find no honor in getting up at 5am for yoga this week or ever and think that even my usual 5:45am is less than ideal, about my grocery list, about my projections and authority issues and maybe my MI totally did believe me but just thought it was a stupid reason to skip out, about running home for a nap at lunch, about if I can find a good mysore teacher who starts at 7a or 8a, about getting Angela’s package to the post office in time for her to get it before she leaves, about a trip to Paris, about the tremendous power of projection at play in romantic love and how else to harness it, about the possibility of romantic love without projection, about why I have to have a muse to be at all productive, about my best friend from Berkeley, about a trip to Maui, about the amazing retreat I did here about a month ago with a teacher I thought I’d hate but adored. You get the idea. Zka wasn’t dominating center stage, and I won’t thrill you with the knowledge of what (or who) was. It doesn’t matter.

There was space between all of this, understand, and a thousand times dragging attention back to breath. The spaces were sometimes large and sometimes small like claustrophobia. But they were there.

NewYork_2012_CellSnaps-116Thursday, the second of last day of the retreat, I left at lunch to go to the beach with Zka for the last time. I wanted to keep silence, just to see how it’d be, and so I could swim in silence. Swimming is very calming and meditative for me, and I wanted to fit it into my retreat somehow. But Zka didn’t show. She said she didn’t get the text until late that afternoon. It was fine, and maybe for the best. When I realized she wasn’t coming, I thought, “Should I go back to the retreat?” But that felt weird as I’d already asked out. And even more, my centered self said, “Go to the beach anyway.” I’d done enough long meditation retreats to not feel I had to prove to myself or anyone I could do the whole thing. I needed to do what felt best to me, even if it’d be a little sad going alone. So I went. I hadn’t been to the beach alone all summer, and I usually went with Zka. So, being there alone, still in silence after almost two weeks of retreat, was, well, even more meditative than sitting on my ass on W22nd Street for hours at a time.

I got iced tea. I set out my stuff. I swam. I dried in the sun. I read a meditation book. I noticed how I felt. I swam again, and felt my breath. I used my discipline to go farther than I wanted to swim. I kept going. I enjoyed being alone. And I missed Zka. I people watched the nutballs. I thought of the stories I would tell Zka about them. It was my usual afternoon at the beach, but alone. I like being alone. I know this and I noticed it again. But I also very much missed Zka. And I was a little bit annoyed by that. So I went back to enjoying my solitude.

I arrived home at about the same time I would have from the retreat. The next day was a new moon, which meant I didn’t have to get up early (there is no mysore on moon day). That was nice. I relaxed a bit before I walked to Shambhala. That last morning of the retreat, after skipping out the previous afternoon, I really settled. I felt better, happier, more centered than I had in the last two weeks (months, years?).

And then came the tears.

This is part iii of why meditate, thoughts on my two 1-week back-to-back meditation retreats:
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, & part v. An abridged version for moderns exists at Shambhala New York.

 

to cut through the nonsense of mind

capelegrand

Last time I left with some of the emotional process that has come up for me in meditation, specifically loneliness. This is not why I meditate, exactly, to get in touch with these emotions. In one way it is, because if I ignore them altogether, they fester and cause problems in other ways (just ask my friends). But when I pay attention, my emotions are like anything else. They shift, change, and go away. The title of this post comes from a quote by Bhante Henepola Gunaratana which I posted previously: “Practice [meditation] is an ongoing investigation of reality, a microscopic examination of the very process of perception. Its intention is to pick apart the screen of lies and delusions through which we normally view the world, and thus to reveal the face of ultimate reality.”

Apologies for such a cheeseball example, but in the photo above, from an incredible park in south western Australia (Cape Le Grand National Park), the clouds are pretty daunting. But check out the clear blue sky in the middle left. That clear blue sky is behind the storm clouds, too. This is the mind. Clouds of emotion come over us, and if we identify with them, we are those emotions. We are a bad luck day at the beach. We can get stuck here pretty easily. But if we take the clouds as transient, and understand that the calm is there behind them (awareness), we just see and watch the clouds for what they are in that moment. Clouds. Which serve a purpose like everything else in the ecosystem.

bird-capelegrandI often tell people that crying fits are quite normal on retreats—especially, I’ve noticed, among older men. (Or maybe it’s more memorable coming from older, unemotional men. Though it’s also possible they have more to grieve, if they shoved it away way back when, as society expects of them.) Out of nowhere, patches of long repressed emotions spring up to be faced. I’ve had my share of these over the years, and while I don’t always have a good cry, certainly sadness springs up. When I went upstate for the first retreat, I thought I might have to face hurt and pain from various happenings of late. I had stories around them and I was expecting it, maybe even preparing myself in some way.

Things played out differently. My mind was fairly calm, when it wasn’t agitated. (Haha.) First, it was agitated by a few annoying people around, who didn’t want to leave me alone on my solitary retreat. Worse, it was agitated by events that did not exist in real time. Stories about all sorts of things. One, for example, about a dear friend who was moving back to Europe a week after my retreats ended. She did this. She did that. Well, I would just to do this. And fine, that. Well, I see. Okay, then. You know what? I can just let this friendship go. She’s leaving. I don’t need her. I have plenty of friends.

Push, slam, shove away the pain of impending abandonment. That’s what I did in my mind, over and over again. I knew on some level what I was doing. We’d even discussed it on a different note earlier in the summer. I recall her saying that she and her father fought, always, just before she left home. What is tremendously painful and humbling is that I know what I am doing, and I still do it. And this is where meditation comes in.

sf-brightonWhen I came back home from upstate, I read some of my emails at the start of the second in-city retreat. Zka (all of my friends have nicknames), my about-to-move friend, had emailed announcing that she wouldn’t leave the week after my retreat, but almost the day after. As in, no more time with Zka.

“Well, I see. That’s just fine then. Seems we are done.” Her excuse for early departure was so long and over-explained that it could not be true. And I had a birthday party for another Z the night before she left. “See how little I need a Z? Hmmm? You got that?” I asked her in my head (albeit not quite that directly) over twenty-five times. So it seems we’d barely get to see each other at all. That’s. Just. Fine.

If you are at all aware of the inaccuracy of the stories you tell yourself, or you have ever been left by a dear friend and you have very stubborn defense mechanisms, you can imagine the things that were going though my mind. How I might reply to her email. How I might do this. How I might say that. How I didn’t need her anyway.

On one lunch break I stepped into an Indian gift shop on 23rd Street, looking for a beach blanket like O’s, which ever-delinquent Kapil did not bring me back from Bombay (Zka on the make-do-for-now blanket at left). Instead I saw a pretty silk scarf that said Zka all over it. The heart in me that burned through my defenses while sitting on my ass all week, going back to my breath every time I noticed I was elsewhere (plotting, conniving, defending against imagined insults), marched me over to the register to buy it. My hurt gave way and I temporarily forgot that I’d written her off. I smiled. I had a pretty scarf for Zka. I was happy.

And then I was mad again. I was beginning to fight with myself because I knew what I should do (clear my schedule and spend time with Zka) vs. what I wanted to do (not rearrange my schedule to suit her last minute change). This was a nice back and forth that went on for a few days.

Okay, enough for tonight. God. I have to sit now. I’ll finish the story next time.

This is part ii of why meditate, thoughts on my two 1-week back-to-back meditation retreats:
part i
, part ii, part iii, part iv, & part v. An abridged version for moderns exists at Shambhala New York.

 

why meditate?

lake-1

I had promised myself I’d do a meditation retreat back in May, when I’d finally have some time. But, May is a festive time for university people and I had a lot of celebrating to do. Then it was June and I am a summer girl. I couldn’t dedicate a week or more to sitting on my ass inside, pining for the sunshine outside. So, I waited. By August it got cool and less sunny and I pretty much had to do it. My psyche was pressing me. There was an in-city retreat at Shambhala, where I’ve sat the most, in my neighborhood, so I could go to yoga in the early morning and be there to sit at 8:30am. Easy.

It’s nice to remind myself why I didn’t sit a retreat in May, because I’d felt a bit delinquent for not. Had I the clarity sitting brings then, I would have handled some stresses of the last few months differently. But I also would have missed my sunshine and swimming (Sveikiname to Rūta Meilutytė. Yeah, you knew I was going to get that in somewhere. My favorite stroke!), and honestly, this was one of the best summers ever. I’m not going to put in a for a change.

I did two retreats back to back. The first upstate, solitary. I read, wrote longhand, sat (meditated), did my yoga (Mysore, before breakfast), swam, and hiked. After, I took the train from there straight to the Shambhala Center for the in-city retreat, without stopping at home. This was with people, some I knew. But it was, for the most part, silent.

lake-yoga-legs“Why do you meditate?” people ask, and it’s not the same people who ask why I do yoga. For whatever reason, I feel that the meditation question is much less loaded than the yoga question. But it’s more difficult to explain. The practices aren’t separate, in my mind. They are, and they aren’t. For me, one isn’t possible or complete without the other, and their histories are bound up in one another as well. Perhaps I’m avoiding the question here.

I meditate because it puts me in touch with me and what matters. Not me in the me me me sense, but me in the soul sense. In the deeply connected sense. In the meaning sense. Life is full of so many distractions that I forget very easily what is important. Sitting puts me back in touch. It brings up things I’ve avoided because they are difficult, hard, or unwanted. I face them, and they dissolve. This does not necessarily happen consciously. Though it can. Hatha (physical) yoga can do this for me, or start to do this, especially if pranayama is involved. But to really get anywhere, I have to sit.

When I went upstate for part one, there was a lot going on in my head. Lots of ideas to process, relationships to figure out. I also just needed to decompress from time in the city. I’d been crashing at a friend’s place for a few days, and relished having my own space again. I liked it up there and felt safely wrapped in the beauty of it. Being silent and alone (albeit with people around) brought back, at times, a feeling of loneliness I associate with traveling alone on long trips in my 20s. I don’t feel this loneliness when I go it alone at home, in my own city and space, even if I take days to myself. Perhaps this is because I rarely go offline for that time, or because of the familiarity of it and the distractions of home. My thoughts and feelings around this are yet to be explored. It’s part of a budding discussion with a friend who says that meditation is the only time, substantially, he doesn’t feel the void of isolation. He’s meditated quite a bit more than I have (as far as long retreats go), and he also experiences isolation and loneliness differently than I do. We’ve yet to see.

It’s heavy and achy, that loneliness, and I don’t like it. I usually try to push it away. When I don’t, I feel something underneath that I haven’t quite gotten to because as soon as I get near, it shifts into something else. Maybe this makes no sense to a non-meditator, and if not, I am sorry. Maybe I need to back up and explain from a non-meditator’s perspective. This is getting long already. So, next time.

This is part i of why meditate, thoughts on my two 1-week back-to-back meditation retreats:
part i
, part ii, part iii, part iv, & part v. An abridged version for moderns exists at Shambhala New York.

 

 

 

i will kick your ass at yoga. namaste

i will kick your ass at yoga. namaste.The best card ever. I saw this (and stole it off) insideowl’s flickr photostream earlier in the week when I was sick-miserable and needed a laugh. Yes, she’s an ashtangi, but anyone who does yoga knows this phenom inside and out.

Thank you for all the birthday love and wishes yesterday, especially those who braved my germs and came by. I had a wonderful day, and am feeling much better, finally. One thing I can say for facebook, it turns once-birthday-well-wishing-delinquents into merry makers. I see the magic every day and it brings me cheer.

I noticed, on walking to the store for some supplies yesterday, that the grin was still on. Not from the snow, and certainly not from the ten-foot puddles on every street corner. It was the birthday grin. Yes, I might be sick as a dog but still I love my birthday. And yours. It’s, for me, fundamentally a love of life, and age, and wisdom.

Happy birthday cousin Tony. And, of course, LeBron.

And do not forget: I will kick your ass at yoga. Namaste.

(If anyone knows where one might purchase this card, let me know and I’ll happily link there. I’d love a few myself.)

no decoration

This post gets no decoration. Plain text (on blogs) is seldom read, and because this bit is a blurb on a yoga moment, and people’s yoga moments tend to annoy me, it’s only right you not read it. I am posting it, though.

Yesterday morning, in Utthita Hasta Padangushthasana—perhaps my worst pose, because I suck in both standing balance and hamstring flexibility—the teach came over to lift my leg and support me, as he almost always does. When I lifted my leg, my standing leg wobbled. Ordinarily I’d stop and rebalance, but because I knew he was there, I kept lifting. I knew I’d recover balance because he was there.

“Oh. This is what it’s like,” I thought, “to be supported. To keep going even though you’re wobbly. To have the confidence you won’t fall flat, or have to be perfect before going up.”

One might argue, as I would because I’m like that, that I shouldn’t go up if I don’t have balance yet, or how will I find it on my own if he always helps? To that I reply: the body remembers and learns, and does so more gracefully without struggle.

It was a big moment, because it’s such an issue and theme in my life. The one I’ve been promising myself to write about, starting with that day back in Kazakhstan in 2004. I feel lucky to have had it yesterday, that little epiphany. The daily discipline of going there early and doing it every damn day, and coming to trust the teacher day after day, is part of what made it happen.

Last week a friend was talking about climbing a fence and stealing fruit off of trees when he was small. “We didn’t do it because we needed it. We just wanted to do it. It was fun. Nothing ever happened to us even if we got caught. You know, the poor kids didn’t do it though. They never did.”

His point was that they didn’t do it because they needed it, they did it because it was fun. But I heard something else, and replied, “Yeah, because if the poor kids were caught, that’d be the end.”

“Yeah, it’s true. We were just given over to our parents, but for them it’s another story.”

All this is what I mean by the psychology of having and not having, and the risk taking you can do when you feel the world is a safe (enough) place.

new york custom & an (attempted) pickup

xerxbathroomI suppose any city that requires its citizens interact constantly (as opposed to being shielded inside cars) has its share of hilarious attempted pickup stories. Though I also suppose that these are numerous and uninteresting in bars the world over. I don’t know, I don’t frequent them. I remember once when I was a teen walking my mother’s dalmatian in the park, a guy with a dalmatian tried to convince me to give him my number so our dogs could play together because “dalmatians need dalmatians.” Good grief. Ever since, I’ve wanted to compile hilarious and creative pickup stories (success irrelevant. sorry, this is not a how-to), so if you’ve any good stories to share, comment below.

Yesterday, walking to the train after yoga, a guy asked me if I knew where a deli was. I raised an eyebrow, as there’s one on every block. He said, “I know we just passed one, but they don’t have phone cards. I need a phone card.” Even in the Skype age, I happen to know a lot about phone cards.

“Hmm.” I said, as we were on a stretch without delis. “Sixth Avenue will have some. If not, I know they’re sold in the train station.”

“The train station?” he laughed. “Where are you from?” he asked, with, I finally pinpointed, an Arabic accent.

I ignored his question and said, “The subway station. In the kiosk.”

“How do you know all this. Do you work in the subway?” he asked.

“Ah, no.” I replied.

“Where do you work? I am from Egypt. I work in hotels and design.”

“Hmmm.” I said. “Salaam Alaikum.”

“Wa Alaikum Salaam,” he laughed, “How do you know this?”

I shrugged.

“My people have something called Ramadan right now.” he explained.

“Already? So early this year!” I replied.

“How do you know these things? Where are you from that you know this?”

“I travel a lot.”

“Have you been to Egypt? What else do you know? You must know habiba, too”

I claimed I did not know habiba (babe, beloved, sweetheart, etc), hoping he wouldn’t translate. I explained I had been to Egypt, but had spent more time in non-Arabic speaking Muslim countries, like Iran, Central Asia, Pakistan.

“You’ve been to Pakistan? Did you dress like that?!”

“No,” I smiled. “It was too cold.”

I was wearing a not-that-revealing yoga tank and yoga pants, as I’d just been to yoga. It was 80º in New York. There were plenty wearing far less than I was, weirdo. This isn’t Cairo.

“I’ve just arrived in NY. I got here last week. Where have you been? You look like you have been at the beach.”

We were almost to the train station at this point. “I was at yoga,” I explained.

“At work?”

“At yoga.”

“Oh, yoga!” He threw his head back and laughed. “I thought you said work. Yoga! You New Yorkers have such strange customs!”

That made me smile. Yes, I suppose that we do. We passed a kiosk and I pointed it out to him as a place to get his phone card. He looked at it, then at me, then back at the kiosk. “Would you wait for me while I buy it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Would you have a tea with me? My people are very generous and we have this custom…”

“Yes, I know,” I replied, “and I’m sorry to refuse your kindness, but it’s not possible.”

“Can I have some way to contact you?”

“Nope. Sorry. Not possible” I smiled, as I waved and departed down the steps of the subway station. Strange customs indeed.