Sunday, March 27, 2011

A long journey hoome

With Delta's gimpy knee, it was a very long journey back home from India. It was torturous to watch him hobble along slowly, navigating the airport crowds through his pain. I grimaced in sympathy. Not knowing exactly what was wrong, both of us were nervous about where this would lead. Just a bit of recoup? A more serious surgery? I kept a panicky eye on each tentative step.

And then I said (apparently) the most offensive thing any wife could say to their husband. "Delta, do you think you should get a wheelchair? It might be - "
His look cut me off.

From the fact that he gave me the silent treatment for the next few hours of our journey, I gathered that I had threatened his manhood. The infraction was so grave that I might as well have driven the car of our relationship off a cliff.

Speaking of threatened manhood, we, erm, noticed that the security guards in Amsterdam's Schipol airport wear European shoulder bags. Far be it from me to criticise cultural peccadilloes, and gawd knows I have some of my own, but honestly - aren't security guards supposed to look at least somewhat tough-ish? I hate to judge on appearance (and yet I will), but when the security guards sashay around the airport with european shoulder bags, it doesn't quite inspire the confidence it's perhaps meant to.

But I shouldn't criticise them too much. They did serve the purpose of uplifting Delta's mood, what with his sense of masculinity being instantly restored.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Compatriots

After eighteen hours of arduous travel, our flight finally landed in Bombay, exactly on time. It took us about seven minutes to clear immigration and pick up the bottles from duty free that my father had given us explicit instructions to buy. And suddenly we were released out into warm, moist air of the city beyond, to a warmly welcoming set of parent.

For the first couple of days, Delta and I coccooned ourselves on the verandah, enjoying the peaceful oasis while the city bustled, teemed, banged and clanged all around us below. Then on our second afternoon, we decided to shake the inertia and go to the gym for an invigorating workout.

But barely fifteen minutes into the workout, Delta jumped off the speeding treadmill with a yowl. His knee had, all of a sudden, buckled under him. He hopped around the gym in pain while I stared on frozen in horror, not quite sure what to do. His knee had been a bit vulnerable ever since a bad accidental sprain a couple years ago. But nothing like this. He gingerely tried taking a couple steps, but his knee gave way again. And again. We looked at each other in fear, and he grimaced against the pain. There was nothing to be done but to hobble cautiously, tenderly back to the apartment, where he sank onto the bed and popped a couple Alleves gratefully into his mouth.

Since then, we've been back to passing away gentle hours on the verandah, Delta confined to hobbling about with his knee securely bound in a support.

Then this morning, a pigeon landed on the verandah next to our table, as we finished the last dregs of our coffee. It hopped about tentatively, and at first we didn't notice anything unusual, until all of a sudden, I pointed out, "Delta look! It's wounded, the poor thing! There's something wrong with it's leg!". And so it was. The poor bird was nursing an injured leg, and hobbled about slowly by itself in a corner, shunned by the other, fitter pigeons around.

Delta, in his own state of crippled vulnerability, immediately felt a bond for the pigeon. He started throwing small nuts and dried fruit towards it, that it might get some food. They cautiously eyed each other, man and bird, sizing up each others ailments.

In this wild, aggressive city where everyone and everything's fighting for survival, bound by circumstance, this pair of unlikely compatriots.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

A note to my Unc

My uncle left me a voicemail the other day, just before Delta and I jumped on our flight to India. In typical uncle fashion, there was no preamble, no wasted time on senseless greetings or terms of endearment. Straight to the point, just like I like it.

"Hey Ficali," it said, "I noticed you haven't been blogging much. If you're out of topics, I think you should write about me. Just sayin'." Click.

And so, Unc, I'll call your blog post exhortation, and raise you a family reunion invite.

We, erm, noticed that we haven't yet heard when this year's family reunion is taking place. Milwaukee? August? I thought as much. Just that Delta and I were a bit surprised that we haven't received the official word yet, that's all.

You know. Just sayin'. :)

Sunday, March 20, 2011

HR bods live life on the edge too, dammit

Last weekend, being the responsible denizens that we are, Delta and I regrouped to do our taxes. As turbotax walked us through step after step of our financial confessions, the conversation quickly degenerated, as it does each year at this time, into an overall lamentation of the state of our financial affairs.

We were glancing over all our numbers, when one particularly leapt out at me.
"Hang on a sec!" I exclaimed, grabbing Delta's arm. "$200 a month for life insurance?!! Two hundred??!"
"You're right, that does seem a little high," Delta agreed, puzzled.

Momentarily distracted from our taxes, we started meandering down the tunnel of life insurance instead. And here's what we found:
The $200 we pay each month is broken down into:
- Delta, $196
- Ficali, $4

I get why Delta's is so high. Being a pilot and flying internationally and frequently flying to Africa and ... I totally get it. He's high risk. And we're happy to pay in acknowledgement of this.

But really, $4 for me? Just $4? Was that kind of slap in the face really necessary?

"Well, erm, I don't think HR is considered to be, ah, a very high risk profession..." Delta ventured tentatively, trying to tread the dangerous line between life's practicalities and a happy wife.
But I was non-plussed.
So what if I spend my life plugged into my laptop and my greatest threat is the risk of carpel tunnel? I live life on the edge too, dammit.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to pay any more (thank you). I just a little acknowledgement that HR bods are like the Jason Bourne's of corporate mediocrity. Is that too much to ask for?

Friday, March 04, 2011

A quick jaunt across the pond (and then some)

Last weekend, Delta and I went to Jordan. For several years now, we've been talking about going to Petra. And then all of a sudden last month, we decided it was finally time. Delta bid it as a trip, and I tagged along as his partner in crime.

Jordan itself was wonderful. The country is modern and extremely clean, the infrastructure is impressive, the people are incredibly warm and welcoming, and above all, the food is just wonderful.

But one of the most enthralling parts, by far, was actually being right there in the Middle East during Ghaddafi's first speech. Jordan itself feels stable. Delta and I never felt personally unsafe. Rather, it was as though the country was spellbound by a trill of tension, closely following all their neighbours on the telly. A mood of electric exhilaration was pervasive. When Ghaddafi came on to give his first rambling speeches, it was aired in arabic. But one of the Jordanians standing nearby instantly took us under his wing, translating the highlights for us. The nation was stupefied. Riveted. Frozen. All around us, history was in the making. And there we were, li'l ol' Delta and me, right in the middle of it all, shoving olives in our dumbfounded mouths like popcorn at the movies.

And then, of course, there was the spectacular Petra. Every bit as magical as it's reputation, and even much much more so. We were lucky: it wasn't yet high season, and we ended up having large stretches of the trail pretty much to ourselves.







Thursday, March 03, 2011

A whole new look

Last week, we gave our living room a facelift. And seeing as our apartment really only has two rooms, I guess I could say we gave half our apartment a facelift. We bought ourselves some new furniture - an armchair, a sleeper couch and a bookcase, to be precise.

As soon as the couch and armchair were in place, we noticed that skulking cat Queen Jaffa eyeing them from  her corner of the room, immediately sizing them up as good scratching posts. So Delta and I had to run out in panic and buy little plastic guards for the arms of the couch.

And let me tell you, nothing downshifts a facelift as much as plastic covers on the couch arms.

And then I noticed another new feature I hadn't seen before. How had I missed this in the showroom? Both the couch and the armchair are too big for me. Yes,  I kid you not. If I sit upright leaning against the back, my thighs are too short, and my knee joints don't quite reach the edge of the seat, so I have to sit with my legs sticking straight out in front. It's not the furniture's fault. The furniture is just made for  the normal human body. How could they have known I map to the height of the australopithecus afarensis?

So there you have it. A couch with plastic covered arms, and a girl with her legs sticking straight out. Like I said. We gave our room a facelift.

Laugh though you might - visitors, rest easy. Our guests now have a sleeper to rest their weary heads on. No more airmattress that keeps infinitesimally losing air throughout the night. No more having to patch the air mattress with bike tire seals.

Like I said. We gave our room a facelift.