Blame it on Rio

I have been very fortunate during the Covid 19 crisis.

 
I know don’t jinx things and it is a little like the guy who jumped from the Empire State Building and as he was passing the 50th floor someone yells how is it going and the falling man screams back “So far so good.”

 
So let me re-state, my opening sentence. I have been very lucky during the Covid 19 crisis. So far.

Before this crisis even got started, my wife and I had the opportunity to travel to Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Hong Kong and Macau. A trip that is impossible to take now or for the foreseeable future.

 
I have been able to visit my oldest and best friend who is desperately ill in North Carolina. He is not expected to survive until the travel bans are lifted and being able to spend some quality time with him before everything shut down is a blessing that I will always be grateful for.

 
When my wife was unable to travel to the United States as planned in early March, I was lucky enough to have the time and the means to be able to come to Brazil to be with her. Shortly after I arrived in Brazil the excrement hit the rotating blades and travel between the two countries ground to a stop. Had I not been able to come when I did, we both would have frozen in place without each other. While Skype and Zoom are helpful, hugs and midnight squeezes are far better when the heebee jeebees over Covid 19 hit. Her presence gives me strength and I hope I do the same for her.

 
We are well equipped to whether the onslaught of the pandemic. While no one can really ensure that they remain healthy during this time we can do more than most to stay healthy. We are surrounded by 2 sets of walls that allow us to practice social distancing easily. We have lots of soap. We have ways of getting food and groceries with a minimum of contact from the outside world. Should we get sick we have access to high quality health care not only here in Brazil but from the USA as well.

 
We live comfortably in a lovely home within a lovely community where everyday I find something new to marvel at. Our house is large enough so we don’t bang into each other constantly but not so big that we must go looking for each other. We have wifi that allows us to keep in contact with the outside world and as importantly download books, stream videos and the like that provide distraction during the tedium of self-isolation.
We have the means, at least for now, of surviving the financial crisis that the pandemic has created.

 
As I stated at the outset. I have been very fortunate so far.

 
My good fortune (so far) has allowed me time to ponder and think about the future. A sort of late middle age “What do I want to be when I grow up?” I have enjoyed my career in publishing and advertising. Not only has it put bread on the table but allowed me to experience the world in a way I don’t think that I could have fully imagined when I graduated from college. It has also allowed me to meet some of the finest people I know. But the advertising business, especially the internet side of that industry, is ageist where silver backs like me are more likely to be relegated to the scrap heap than prized for our experience and skillsets. But as my industry has shut down for the duration, and I have time to think, considering what I want to do with the next phase of my life seems to be a good idea.

 
Pondering what comes next has an additional benefit beyond just mapping a new course. It allows you to block the dark thoughts when they come. What if I get sick? What if Elaine gets sick? What if President Trump/Bolsonaro says/does something stupid again (likely). Is Rosie all right? Did I wash my hands enough today? Do I have enough water, TP, food, Ben&Jerry’s? When can Elaine and I make it back to the United States? What about Naomi (dated television reference)

 
All those things that go bump in the night can be replaced with what is next for me and for us. Don’t get me wrong those answers are not easy to come by. In fact, speaking personally, they can be excruciatingly difficult. But like all good problems that require significant brain sweat to solve, they also act like a balm that drives away the negative and allows us to embrace the positive.

 
Being able to think and contemplate the future is the greatest good fortune of all.
As Zadie Smith said “The past is always tense, the future perfect.”

I came down with a serious case of puppy fever in the spring of 2016.

 
It was not my fault. I had really done what I could stave off the illness for a long time. I already had a wonderful dog, Yankee, whom all agreed was, ironically, the cat’s pajamas. He was well behaved, friendly, obedient, loving and understood more words of English that most Trump supporters. He was more than a companion. He was my best friend.
Also, my wife, whom I had married only a few years before, was not a dog person. She was a cat person. In fact, our home in Rio in addition to having a cat named Alice was decorated with 100’s of representations of cats. Everything from some statues to pictures to photographs with my wife petting Cheetahs. Even though she adored Yankee, although admitting that he was the first dog that she had ever loved, it was clear that one dog was more than enough for her.

 
So where did I catch the contagion? How did I let it seep into my blood and eventually overtake me? Like many things in my life, I blame my sister. Prior to that spring she had been spending a lot of time on animal rescue sites considering adding a dog to her family. Eventually, on Fluffy Dog rescue, she had come across an adorable black dog with a white blaze on its chest and she had fallen in love. Eventually the dog would be named Bosco (a thoroughly adorable name) and my sisters’ family eagerly awaited his arrival with Bated (my sister’s married name is Bates) breath.

 
Their enthusiasm was hard to ignore. It reminded me of the period of time between Yankee’s birth and his arrival in New York City. How I had arrived home from work each day to watch endless shows on dogs and vets. How I had consumed book after book on dog training and would constantly stop dogs and their owners on the street to coo at the dog and ask questions about local vets of its owners. How on the fateful day that Yankee arrived in New York how it had been love at first site and how they first night I slept on the floor next to his crate so he would not be frightened. And the smell. The glorious smell of puppy came flooding back to be and it is then that puppy fever took me over.
I had to get a puppy. I required a puppy. Without a new puppy my life would be shit.
I knew the first obstacle I would have to overcome is my wife’s reluctance to add another dog to her life. Considering her feline proclivities, it would be very difficult for her. I knew I needed to provide her with a rational that was both logical and emotional. It did not require any stretch of the imagination to come up with a convincing argument. Yankee at the time was nearly 14 years old. I explained to her that he was very elderly in dog years and that the likelihood was that his decline, when it did happen, would be quick and that the thought of a household without a dog filled me with dread. On top of which, Yankee being such a superior dog, could help me train the pup and be a comfort to him.

 
I am not saying that convincing her was easy. It was not. She is after all a lawyer by training but eventually after a lot of back and forth she agreed. I contacted Yankee’s breeder and asked her to reserve a puppy for me. That I didn’t care what sex nor color although Red would be ideal. On June 4, 2016 I received the news that I wanted to hear. Our puppy had been born and the breeder wanted to know what I wanted to name the puppy. This was complicated. Yankee had been named because he was a doodle who was born on the 4th of July. Even a Red Sox fan such as myself had to name the dog Yankee but I had sworn that after years of taking shit from Yankee fans about the name of my dog, my new puppy was going to be named for my beloved Sox. Many names were considered. I was very partial to the name Fenway, but my wife could not relate to the name. So we added the name Rose for her color and we agreed upon Fenway Rose or Rosie.

 
The next 12 weeks were among the longest summers I have ever spent waiting in anticipation for the new addition to our family. We would celebrate every update, every photograph, every video of Rosie we could get. One video I recall was on one of Rosie’s first outside playdates with her litter mates. The breeder sat on a blanket with the puppies surrounding her as she cooed for each by name. When Rosie’s name was called she just stared at the woman who called her name for a second as if deciding it was worth while responding and then seeing another puppy jumping onto the breeder’s lap she galumphed her way to the woman, pushing the other puppy out of the way, demanding the earned love from the breeder.

 
Rosie arrived at Newark Airport on September 4 and from the time I saw her black nose sticking out through the grill of her shipping case I was totally in love. She smelled like puppy. She wagged her whole body not just her tail. She smelled like a puppy. And she wanted nothing more than to be loved by you.

 
But two truths became self-evident early on. First, that owning two dogs was not as simple as I thought it would be. Second, that Rosie was a very different dog than Yankee.
The first is best illustrated in housebreaking. The nature of being a puppy is that mistakes happen. Often when you are not looking. This results in a small mess or puddle that needs to be cleaned up and de-scented and a more vigilant eye. The problem is that when you have a male alpha like Yankee who is trying to teach this little bitch who is boss a mistake made by her is often covered by him and thereby compounding the mess and reinforcing to the little girl it is okay to piss on the floor.

 
That they were different became apparent on the first night. I had arranged for Rosie to have a crate separate from Yankee’s. I thought that it would be better if, at least for now, that they would sleep separately. I was as I had with Yankee been quite willing to sleep on the floor next to her as a comfort to her in this new place. I expected that she would respond as Yankee had. That is, after a few minutes of whimpering she would calm herself and would fall asleep near my proffered fingers. She did not. She cried all night. This didn’t disappear. I used to be able to leave Yankee the whole day in his crate without any problem. I could not leave Rosie for 10 minutes without receiving angry calls from our neighbors. It was months, after lots of consulting, aggressive training and frustration that we hit on a solution: putting Rosie and Yankee in a crate together. It seemed that our little girl hated to be alone.

 
A new pattern was soon established in our home. Yankee became the reluctant older brother to a very bratty sister who required all the attention. If any affection was shown to Yankee it needed to be immediately shown to her. If that love for Yankee lasted anything longer than the bear minimum Rosie would place her body in between you and Yankee suggesting that she needed to be the center of everyone in the known universes attention. She even had her own theme song. Alexa Ray Joel’s notice me whose chorus was.

 
Notice me, notice me, notice me, notice me
Face it, baby, you need me, don’t pretend you don’t see me, baby
Notice me, notice me, notice me, notice me
You can be the one to please me, honey

What was also apparent to everyone who met her was that she was a joyous dog. She loved people. She loved other dogs. She loved to play and was easily trained in most regards. She especially loved going to day care where she would the spend the whole day exorcising her inner puppy and come home to sleep her energy depleted.

 
She, along with Yankee, were great office companion. As I often worked from home and would spend the vast majority of my days without seeing and sometimes talking to another living soul, this was quite comforting. When I would work at my desk she would often go to sleep on my feet in the well of the desk. Or if I were reading or think very deep thoughts while horizontal on my couch she would often petition to be added to the bio mass already reclining.

 
Then one afternoon in March of 2018, Rosie inadvertently stepped on Yankees rear leg. His howl let me know the seriousness of his injury and I rushed him to the Vet. He was diagnosed with bone cancer and the next day we had to let him go. The devastation of that day is hard to describe but even two years later it is impossible to write or think about without tears.

 
The loss was hard all on of us and no doubt Rosie suffered. But she also saw how I suffered. She was a constant companion demanding that we love her and showering us with love. She would, while I was sitting on the couch, often jump up and lick my face furiously or when she would find me staring vacantly into space place her head on my knee to remind me she was there and she cared. She had figured out how to comfort us while comforting herself.

 
Over time, our days became routine. Just at or just before dawn I would wake and take Rosie for our early morning tramp. She being a late sleeper did not easily get out of bed but once outside she, like me, would revel in participating in the breaking of a new day. Me, enjoying the suns relighting the world often in vivid pinks and oranges and her exploring all the scents that had been left over night and re-establishing her dominance over the world by leaving reminders of her presence.

 
After breakfast we would retreat to the study, where I would endeavor to work, and she would endeavor to find the most comfortable position on a couch often twisting her body into impossible positions with little care that it was unladylike. Noon would bring another walk, usually a different route than the morning where she reasserted her dominance and challenged other dogs to play or signaled them that she was the toughest bitch in town.

Afternoon, when I could work no more, I retreated to the couch to take a nap. She seeing her space was taken would contemplate the situation and then crawl up over my body and find a nook I had not occupy to fall asleep. Often, I would go to the gym late in the day and leave her in the crate while I sweated the toxins of the day away. On my return she would never fail to give me a piece of her mind reminding me clearly that she didn’t enjoy alone time. This often produced a late afternoon walk where she fiercely defended me against the affections of other dogs letting them know I was her man beast.

 
When I cooked dinner she was my assistant in charge of anything that happened to fall on the floor. She assiduously watched me eat my supper even though her evening meal had been prepared at the same time until I gave her a treat.

 
After a relaxing evening there was one last walk where she again marked her territory letting any who cared to know that this neighborhood was protected by her. Once I made it to bed, and if Elaine was in Brazil, she would wait until just before I fell asleep to place her front paws on the bed to signal that I had the obligation to pick her up and place her in the bed. I almost always acquiesced which would result in an unwanted session of face licking until she would find her 2/3rds of the bed and fall asleep.

 
She became over time, as good dogs do, mans best friend. My best friend.

 
When I would travel, either for work or to visit Elaine at our home in Brazil, I would send her off with her good friends at “The Farm” run by the wonderful Jessica Valentino and her staff from Wonder Dog studios. There Rosie would revel in the open fields and the chance to play to her hearts content. Jessica would send me photos of a happy dog dashing about with other dogs literally having the times of my life. Instinctually, I knew that she would much rather be playing with her friends than with hanging about with me but whenever we were reunited, she never failed to show much joy and happiness at my arrival. That is before she went and found the couch and passed out from her exhausting time at the farm.

 
I left for Brazil almost a month ago with the strictest intentions of being home ten days later. But the world intervened on my plans and like so many Americans Covid 19 trapped me far away from those I love and cherish not the least of which is Rosie. My man’s best friend with whom I spent almost everyday over the past 4 years. I miss our walks. I miss her hogging the couch and the bed. I miss her bitching about leaving her alone. I miss her facials even when her tongue gets in my nose. I miss the sense of peace I get when she falls asleep with her head in my lap.

 
Considering all the things that are going on in this world, the 100,000’s of deaths, the millions made ill, the multitudes of un or underemployed, the nations and continents that are under protective stay in place orders why I am spending so much time talking about a dog who, considering the outstanding time she is likely having at the farm, may not be missing me at all. Because the greatest gift Covid 19 has given us is time.
Time to spend thinking and evaluating all we hold dear. Time to spend contemplating all things we value. Or as Queen Elizabeth stated so eloquently yesterday to take comfort that while we may have more still to endure, better days will return: we will be with our friends again; we will be with our families again; we will meet again.’

 
It is time to be grateful for all of the things we have in our life…even if it happens to be a bitch.

There is an old expression that says that the only two things that we are certain of in life are death and taxes.

 
This is no doubt true in a modern society where we live in collective communities where we make contributions to the common good. But I think that there are still parts of the world that don’t have taxes. I am sure that in parts of the Amazon the natives pay no tax although their contribution to the collective by hunting, fishing or farming might be a form of taxation.

 
The odd part of this expression to me has always been what was left out of this saying. The great irony of life is that one of its certainties is uncertainty.
And these days, of Covid 19 pandemic where all of the things we have grown to rely on from personal safety and health to free movement and propinquity to food supply and faith in government institutions are no longer certainties, uncertainty plays a greater role than ever.

 
I guess we could rail against the uncertainty in our lives. Especially these days. Or we could look at as what it is: A gift.

 
After all, It was certainly uncertainty that brought my wife into my life. As she and I have discussed many times it took many uncertainties for us to meet. It took me leaving a job, a ship being wrecked on rocks in Italy, two fathers struggling in their last months, a persistent sister and many other uncertainties for us to appear to each other at just the right time, in just the right frame of mind to fall in love.

 
The great joy of us, an aura that surrounds our love, is in the unlikelihood that it would happen.

 
It is also one of my life’s great irony is that a relationship that was born out of the uncertainties of life is one of the only things in life I can fully rely on. Even in the uncertainty of the world today.

 
Perhaps the “blessing” the uncharted territory of a world changed forever by a tiny bit of protein and fat called Covid 19 is it the gives us a chance to see the things we often take for granted with new appreciation. Things like:

 
• Our families. Mine are far away and the chance of my seeing my sister and her kids and even my brother and his family any time soon is remote. I worry about them and miss them and it has made me contemplate what life without them would be like. Which in turn has made me love them more and put into the attic any annoyances and squabbles we have ever had.

 
• Health care providers. I don’t know about you but even though I appreciated what physicians and nurses did, I took seeing them for granted. They were their to help me. Seeing how they have stepped up by putting their lives on the line for us and the devotion they have shown to find a cure for this evil piece of biological flotsam has demonstrated what heroes they are. I don’t think I will ever be able to see them without wanting to hang a medal around their necks.

 
• Health care workers. The lowest paid workers in the health care system often populated by immigrants and others who have a hard time finding work elsewhere are now helping make sure the world is saved. I want to thank everyone of them and when it is safe to do so again hug them. I want them to get a raise.
• Grocery Store workers. Underpaid, and almost never thanked before this crisis these folks are making sure that people don’t starve while sheltering in place. They allow us to survive while they literally put their health and wellbeing and that of their families on the line all while earning a minimum wage. They are on my hug list as well.

 
• The folks that deliver to me Ben and Jerry’s here in Rio. Really I would be lost without them but my admiration really go out to all the food delivery people who help feed us because lets be honest we have been doing a lot of stress eating.

 
• My friends. They have always been my rock and they still are. They pick me up when I am low, they are kind when I need a lift, they make me laugh often when I want to cry. I have always appreciated them, but this crisis has reminded me of the love I have for them and how vital they are to my happiness.

 
• What I have. Here in Rio my wife and I live in a beautiful home separated from the rest of the world by two walls. But just beyond our gates are favellas or institutional slums where folks live in squalor. We can afford to hunker down and wait for the pandemic to pass but those in the favella’s must work and put themselves in harms way every day. Should my wife or I become ill we will have the best medical care possible. They will have to wait on long lines and receive medical care that is inadequate and underfunded. I know I will eat and eat well. They don’t

 
To name just a few things that I appreciate more today than I did a month ago.

 
We can continue to fear the uncertainty of our pandemicized world. I think that is reasonable. Clearly there is a lot to fear. But we can also embrace the uncertainty knowing that it will give us gifts and new appreciations.

 
For me, every time I look at my wife I see the joy life’s uncertainties can bring so it is easier for me to embrace the positive. But I hope you can too.

Dear Pops:

 
You left us 7 years 9 months ago to go on that ultimate adventure.

 
I knew at the time there were not going to be any postcards. That it was highly likely you would not visit. That any conversations that we had would likely be ones where I did most of the talking and you did all of the listening.

 
Even after all this time I want to call you every time I sit down in an Admirals Club, or each time I see something that intrigues me and know it will fascinate you as well. I still hold onto hope that I will miraculously get some “minor memorandum” or story from you in my email. I am, like you, an optimist so I still look. Everyday. It just means that instead of calling you, I think of you. It means that instead of looking for your stories I write some with you in mind. It means that you are in my thoughts nearly every day and wrapped around my most heartfelt moments and yours whose spirit I rely on when I need courage the most.

 
It is why I decided to write you this note. A postcard to the edge you might say. Because it has been 7 years 9 months and a lot has happened in that time.

 
Remember that girl I introduced to you from Brazil. The woman I met on that cruise. Well I married her 6 years ago in our backyard. It was a real family affair. Cate was maid of honor and Oliver was my best man. Marissa catered the event. Mark bucked me up and made me laugh when he called me “pussy galore” in his best James Bond voice as he wanted to snap me out of sappiness because like you, I get emotional when my heart is full of joy. It was the singular best day I have ever had but I am sure you know that as both Elaine and I thought we spied you sitting on one the branches of an oak tree overhanging the yard.

 
Speaking of Cate and Oliver, you would be so proud of them you could not help but kvell. Cate is an accomplished equestrian who has gotten so tall and so pretty. She is funny, fun, and such a nice person. I have no doubt the two of you would sit and talk forever. Oliver too has grown and looks so much like you. He is a love muffin and fascinated by how things work. He is considerate and always willing to help. A hug machine who loves to take Rothkopfian challenges. He recently won $100 from me after winning a challenge inspired by our trip to Juarez so many years ago. He managed to sample a hot sauce with a rating of 2,000,000 scovils and not have anything to drink for 5 minutes. He and Cate would be a worthy companion on any adventure.

 
Marissa and Mark are also doing exceptionally well. Mark is COO of Victor Insurance. Marissa is taking after you and is a professor at Montclair State and is still writing. They just finished a major renovation of their house including a new kitchen/family room, bathrooms etc. It is gorgeous and has come in so handy in the past few weeks but more about that later.

 
I guess you already know that after 52 years the house on Rotary Lane is no longer ours. The house was too big for Elaine and I, didn’t fit David’s lifestyle and the Bates are firmly entrenched in Montclair. Getting the house ready for sale was a major chore and Marissa did an excellent job guiding that ship. So many details. The toughest part for me though was going through the attic and find all the ephemera of our family going back over a century and a half. Seeing how a family was created and blossomed and all the love that went into its creation. It made me understand, in a way I never had before, the love that was the foundation and the sustenance of our family. The memories so dear that you and Mom preserved them. They made me wish I had asked you both a million more questions before you decided to go on holiday.

 
All these memories captured in photos, trunks, scrapbooks and cardboard boxes also gave me strength to know even though the house you and Mom nurtured our family will no longer be ours it will endure because of the love you created for all of us.
And perhaps it is all those memories that has made it impossible for me to drive by the house since it was sold. I don’t want any memories of that house that have anything but Rothkopf’s in it.

 
The saddest news that I have to report is, sadly, the world is at war again. This time we are not fighting fascism. We are not fighting communism or totalitarianism. We are fighting a far more insidious foe. A virus call Covid 19 that has spread around the world killing 10s of thousand and infecting in just a few short months over a half million.
We should have been better prepared for this war. But the President of the United States decided to rely on hope instead of science, wishes instead of facts, bluster instead of honesty. Did I mention his name was Donald Trump.

Sorry, I know. We let down everyone from the greatest generation and elected a man not worthy of the office. Who could not lead us in a time of crisis because they only person he really cares about leading is himself.

 
Sorry for the outburst but he makes me angry.

 
The result of his inaction and reliance on everything but science is the US now leads the world in Covid 19 infections and soon to top the world in deaths from the virus. Almost the whole US is under shelter in place rules where you are not allowed to leave your home except to shop for groceries or other essentials, go to the Drs or other essential movement.

 
You would have been proud of me Dad. I had and have had survival supplies at the ready. It was something that you taught me to do. So I was ready with water, food (freeze dried), essential supplies like bleach, toilet paper, and even masks among other things so that we would not have to leave home for a month. But like you taught me, man plans and god laughs. When the excrement hit the rotating blades and the lockdowns ordered, I was caught in Brazil with no way to get home.

 
You will be happy to know that Elaine and I wash our hands at least 15 times a day. A habit you drummed into whenever and wherever we traveled.

 
The good news for Elaine and I is that the virus has not taken hold in Brazil the way it has in the US. We have self-quarantined for 17 days and are healthy and well stocked. Which is good because the bad news is that it is only going to get worse here as the President here is even stupider than Trump.

 
Marissa, Mark, Cate and Oliver are doing well. The newly renovated kitchen/dining room/living room has become a lifeboat for them. From what I can tell from them they are doing their best to keep the negative noise that is constantly appearing on social media, the internet and broadcast at bay by watching shows like “Hot Ones” and others that can distract from the horrors transpiring just beyond their windows

 
From the limited correspondence that I have from David and his wife Carla (Did I mention he got remarried? ) although they live in the epicenter of the US outbreak, NYC, they are following all precautions and doing well as our Joanna and Laura.

 
I have to tell you Pops that this crisis makes me miss you more than ever. You always made your children feel safe, like nothing could harm them if you were nearby. It would be a very comforting feeling to have you close right now. We could use your wisdom and your knowledge. Your scientific mind and with your copious consumption of information regarding the crisis I have no doubt would provide all of us with thoughts and guidance that would allow us to navigate this crisis with less fear, and far more knowledge and hope.

 
Which brings me to my ulterior motive in writing this note. Would you mind staying close for a little while. And if you can’t, if you have a big adventure you cannot put off, would you leave a forwarding address.
Because even though I know I will do all the talking and you all the listening knowing you are nearby will help. And maybe someday you might even whisper back.
NBL
DBZ

Last night, in the middle of the night, as my wife lay sleeping, I left our marital bed and silently padded down the stairs to the kitchen.

 
The reason for this early morning sojourn was a nightmare that I had. No, I was not dreaming of Covid 19 although when my wife had coughed a few hours earlier it had scared the shit out of me. (She is fine. Something went down the wrong way.) No Donald Trump did not invade my dreamscape. And no it was not a replay of the night Aaron Fucking Boone ruined my evening with a home run.

 
My dream was that I was at McDonalds. I had waited in a social distancing line and order a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, an order of fries and a chocolate milk shake. What made this dream so frightening to me is that I never go to McDonalds. Don’t really like their food as it sits in my stomach like a grease bomb whenever I, albeit irregularly, visit the golden arches.

 
I guess that I could blame my sister for this nightmare. After all, earlier in the day she had taunted me, via Facebook post, that Goldbelly would now deliver an 8 pack of Shake Shack’s fine burgers to your home. Her tease “I’d get this for you…. if you weren’t in Brazil….” Don’t get me wrong. My sister was not being mean. She genuinely would have sent me the 8 pack were I not in Brazil. And our family often uses teases to express deep and undying affection for each other.

 
No, the reason I blame my sister is that it sent me into a spiral of thinking about American Food. Specifically, about the American Food I miss.

 
Please don’t get me wrong. I am not food deprived. I have been eating very well here!!!!Perhaps even a little too well. But even after 8 years of visiting this country the food is very different. Farofa is not something that most people in the US have ever heard of. (Farofa is a toasted cassava or corn flour mixture and adds a rich sandy flavor to any meal in Brazil.) Feijoada, which is almost as much fun to spell, as it is to eat is a rich black bean stew that is traditionally served on Saturday’s so that you can have Sunday to recover. Then of course is the famous Brazilian Churrasco or BBQ where waiters circle the restaurant with roasted meats, Cupim ( the hump on a cows back that also means termite) sausages, chicken hearts, and the like which is currently unavailable to us because it doesn’t deliver well.

 
Even when, as an indulgence to me, Elaine agrees to order American style food, it is not the same. Pizza here, I am very sad to report, is just not that good. The crust is universally not crusty, the sauce not plentiful enough. and the toppings do not resemble American toppings. It goes well beyond Calabrese sausage being substituted for pepperoni or Italian sausage. One restaurant advertises a “frango Catupiry” pizza or a chicken with cream cheese pizza which is a sin (in my opinion) against the gods of pizza.

 
I guess we could order things like Burger King here but honestly, I cannot get used to the names of the sandwiches. Mega Stacker doesn’t seem as poetic as Whopper and while I know why you call something Rodeo instead of BBQ as it would be confused with Churasco but to this American it just sounds weird.

 
Ironically, the place that is most likely to send me American style food is Outback Steakhouse. That is right, a place that pretends to be Aussie is the place where I am most likely to get food that tastes like home. From there I can order wings which, although they call them Kookabura, look like finger licken, spice loving, blue cheese endorsed American version. Or ribs with American Style BBQ and Burgers with Australian names (Ned Kelly) but styled in an American Kitchen. They even have, wait for it, Ranch Dressing.

 
Here is the problem. Every time we have tried to order from those Mofo’s they have been closed.

 
Which brings me back to why my sisters post had so disturbed me that I had to have dreams of golden arches and special sauces with sesame buns. I am deprived. Deprived of the sustenance on which I was raised. Pizza with good crusts and normal toppings. Italian food that has gravy like Nonna used to make. Wings that are so spicy that your lips numb, and your only solace is blue cheese dressing. Not to mention Pastami, Lox, Bagels, and NJ Sloppy Joes.

 
Which brings me back to why I padded downstairs. While for most nightmares, like Covid 19 and other things that go bump in the night, where there are no cures, I thought I might have a cure for this one.

 
You see despite the paucity of American style food here, Ben and Jerry’s delivers. I knew that a little Fudge Brownie would go along way to restoring my equilibrium and allowing me to sleep.

And it did.

I have been thinking about home of late.

 
I suspect that it is normal for someone who is currently 4,829 miles away from his home in New Jersey to think of home.

 
No doubt this is exacerbated, when you have been forced to self-quarantine for the past 14 days because of a raging pandemic whose end is a pin prick of light at the end of a very long tunnel. Or where your understanding of the native language is rudimentary at best.

 
Or wondering, during long walks and short naps, what the true meaning of the word “home” is these days as we are being challenged by a new reality that brings us near constant images of fear, death and despair.

 
It made me recall the black and white lithograph that hung about my mother’s desk. It depicted a war zone with an active battle going on but in the middle is a home on a hill surrounded by a fence with a happy family living a secure life without a care for the war raging around them. That was how my Mom viewed her role as a mother, grandmother and friend. To provide sanctuary, love and enough room to be yourself free of the war raging outside.

 
I always loved that lithograph even while my sister detested it. What we could agree on is my mothers idea of home. A place where you were always welcome, always celebrated, always loved, place of warmth and safety that existed until she died when I was only 744 months old.

 
I have been very fortunate. I have been able to be a part of or help create a number of homes as an adult.

 
I live most of the year and my wife part of the year in our town home in Chatham. It is a community surrounded by woods and bordered by a river close to wear I grew up. It has felt like home since we moved in and since then we have been blessed with almost all happy memories. It is a place where we have always felt safe, warm, celebrated and loved.

 
My wife lives most of the year and I live part of the year in our home in Jardim Do Itanhanga in Rio. It is a community surrounded by woods and walls both around the community but our home as well. It is infused with the Brazilian sense of hospitality and it is a place where my wife has always made sure that I felt safe, warm, celebrated and loved.

 
But this morning my thoughts of home were, like everything else, being shaped by the pandemic. It occurred to me that as my wife and I scrubbed ourselves clean after a short foray (the first in two weeks) to the outside world how fragile our sense of safety had become in our current reality. That as much as we would like to protect ourselves from Covid 19, as many measures as we can take, that nothing is fool proof and that we worry about exposure almost constantly. Our sense of wellbeing has been pierced and will likely never be the same.

 
I think that is natural when something you cherish or hold dear is damaged to try to figure out who is responsible for this loss. I also think that it is easy to see the missteps, blunders, gaffs, and ham-handed ways the Trump administration has handled this crisis.
When two years ago they ran a pandemic simulation and discovered we were ill prepared they did nothing.

 
When they fired the NSC staffers in charge of managing our response to pandemics it was clear they didn’t understand the threat it could played which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.

 
When the science community warned them to prepare for an onslaught from Covid 19 back in January they sat on their hands and said don’t worry which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.

 
When the intelligence community begged them to take it seriously in February then said don’t be reactionary and did nothing which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.
It was not to mid March that they began to take the virus seriously. But even then, their daily briefings were full of wishes not sciences, thoughts not facts, and self-aggrandizement instead of honest appraisals that could bring about positive action as opposed to back slapping which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.

 
I find it sadly ironic that the party that put family values first has done more to destroy our sense of home..the feeling of warmth and safety…than anything that has happened to us in the 244 years of the republic.

 
I realized the sense of homesickness I have been feeling these last few days has not been for our home in Chatham, although I miss it and Rosie profoundly, but I am homesick for the days when families could gather without fear and with love. A time where fear was not the constant companion and where you needed little courage to leave home.

 
I hope that we will return to that time soon. I hope that the American electorate sees clearly the choices in front of it and chooses to fire the guy currently occupying the Oval Office as he has destroyed our sense of home.

 
In the meantime, we can remember times like these.

And know we will overcome.

Every morning as I leave for my walk, I pass by an old Atlantic Forest Tree resplendent with hanging tendrils, and moss. It is also blessed by the most beautiful yellow orchid that somehow always seem to be spotlighted by the sun as I pass.

One of the blessings of the place in which we live is the abundance of beauty within our neighborhood. Both the Tijuca Forest and Pedra Da Gavea surround and border our neighborhood, both of which that I have written about in the past. Pedra Da Gavea is a work of God, millions of years old, and an old familiar face for me as I look onto it every day that I am in Rio. The Tijuca Forest is only 170 years old and comes from the hands of man as he reforested this area. As with my favorite mountain it is a familiar friend, I am greeted by it every day.

But as I was walking today looking off into the distance, I saw a dark rock outcropping that looked as if a huge block had recently been cleaved from it as it was jagged and lacked the smoothness time brings. To its left and highlighted in the sun was a waterfall spilling water into a crevice below.

I was amazed as many walks I had taken over the last few weeks. As many times as I have driven past this Devil’s Stone, I had never noticed these things. What was old and familiar became new again.

It made me pause, at least mentally as I needed to keep the heart rate up and see afresh the forest in which we live. There is something to be said for not seeing the forest for the trees. Missing the big because you are focused on the small. But there is always something to be said for seeing the large for its individual components. Staring up at the forest I could see that there were so many different types of trees. Dark green with long ovoid leaves; light green with fern type leaves; flowering trees with blooms of red, yellow and purple. If I looked hard enough, I could see the trees through the forest and it was a surprise to me that after all this time I could view something differently.

It made me think. Walking is good for that. How for most of the people I know our world has gone from being incredibly large to soul numbingly small. How the world used to be our oyster and we were now surviving on a diet of oyster crackers. How many of the social media posts I have seen over the past few weeks have spoken of boredom, tedium, and loneliness due to social of quarantine. I understand it as something I live everyday even though the home in which leave is spacious and beautiful when you are frightened to venture beyond its wall the world is very small.
It occurred to me that one way to look at the world these days, a way that would make the world bigger instead of smaller is looking at the trees in the forest. To focus on the detail and see the waterfall instead of the mountain.
Not everybody has a mountain in their backyard. Or a forest. But we all have neighborhoods. We all have things that we see every day. Perhaps by looking at our surroundings through reverse binoculars we can make our world big again.
Which is why when I returned to our gate, I spent a while getting to know our orchid. It was beautiful.

On the morning of March 11, 2012 the Costa Pacifica pulled into Guanabara Bay and I saw Rio for the very first time. I was so excited. It was the first stop on an 18 day cruise I had booked and I was very much looking forward to seeing the city as it had been on my bucket list for as long as I could remember. As Rio was a 12 hour stop on the cruise and I had not learned any better yet I booked a 5 hour “Jeep Tour” of the city. The ships brochure described driving through the city in an open car so that you could get the full experience of one of the world’s most beautiful cities.

 
I could tell that the tour was not going to be exactly as described from the onset. The tour was not going to be conducted from the back of a jeep. Instead, the tour operator had outfitted an old pick up truck with wooden benches and rudimentary (not quite ropes) seat belts in which to secure yourself in the vehicle.

 
We needed the seat belts. I learned on that trip something that has been confirmed by later trips. Everyone in Rio believes they are the reincarnation of Ayrton Senna, the famous F1 driver. They believe in driving fast, cutting off drivers with millimeters to spare and terrorize pedestrians. This style of driving and the vehicle that was being driven had some major advantages. First, it got you through most of the city in one day. We went North Zone to South Zone, from Sugar Loaf to Ipanema, from Christ the Redeemer to Maracana and far more all in less than 5 hours.
There were really only two downsides: The constant fear for their life and the open top, and lack of preparation on my part, meant that I got one of the most intense sun burns of my life. One that literally left me red face when I met my wife to be a few days later.

 
The most impressive sight I saw was not any of those that I mention above. It was the Tijuca forest, a 3300 hectacre greenway that covers a good part of the mountains of above the city. Planted in the 1850’s by two slaves after the original forest had been harvested by coffee planters whose deforestation had caused a major disruption of the climate. Driving through the forest offered a huge respite from the sun, which I more than needed, and also a chance to see a dense variety of native flora and fauna including and much to the delight of us gringos, monkeys and cobras (generic name for snake in Portuguese)

 
The forest also had one thing many of our National Forests do not have: people. Along side many of the serpentine roads that run through the park are small communities and individual houses. Nestled in the forests and in notches in the mountain side they seemed almost an ideal place to live. In fact, I can remember clearly on one switch back seeing a house nestled within the forest and thinking to myself what a wonderful place it would be to live.

 
It was a great tour but I was relieved when we return to the ship. Not only had I become lobster boy but I had grown a little concerned over our drivers skillset when our tour guide kept mumbling prayers and kissing the gold cross that hung in a chain around her neck.

 
Walking back to the ship from where our driver had dropped us off I happened to spy a beautiful dark hair Latina having her picture taken along side the boat. Wow I thought if I could only meet a woman like that on this cruise. Two days later she was my dinner partner who laughed at my mispronunciation of Tijuca (Tea-Jew-Ca) as I pronounced it in Spanish (Te-wah-ca.)

 
8 years later we have a home in the foothills adjacent to the Tijuca forest and it has become the major backdrop to our exercise walks now that we have self-quarantined
Yesterday, we took a walk in the late afternoon and the forest was back lit and beautiful on the slopes of Pedra Da Gavea. Literally, it took your breath away although that could have been one of the steep inclines we encountered on our walk. It reminded me of a question that had been nagging at me over the course of the past 8 years.
I asked “My darling What is the difference between a forest and a jungle.”

She paused and said “I don’t know…”

 
Which of course led into a dialogue that lasted the next ten minutes of our walk and produced no definitive settlement on the issue. As a consequence, on our return, I went to my computer.

 
The word ‘forest’ is usually used to describe a dense growth of trees covering a large area of land. A forest often has a dry climate. However, there are tropical forests and rainforests. A forest has many tall trees and can usually be traveled through by humans.
The word ‘jungle’ is usually used to describe a tangled or overgrown mass of vegetation over a large area of land. A jungle usually has a tropical or humid climate and many plants on the ground between trees and larger plants. The thick vegetation on the ground can make it difficult or impossible for humans to go into or travel through a jungle.

As usual when I find an answer to a question another question popped up for me.
With the Covid 19 crisis are we in a forest, where, while there are many obstacles, we can track our way through it or are we in the Jungle where the undergrowth is so dense it would be impossible to transverse with out hacking our own trail?
I think it could have been a forest. I think if Trump had acted decisively and with leadership we could have navigated our way through this with relative ease. But because he hasn’t and can’t and relies more on gut that science, we are stuck in the Jungle.

 
Welcome to the jungle.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it’s cold outside
Every moment I’m awake the further I’m away

These Dreams-Heart
I suspect that many, if not all, of you are having the same experience that I am having. That is instead of our regularly scheduled dreams our programming has been interrupted by what I have labeled as quarantine dreams. Dreams in which the subject matter is related to the trials, tribulations, and challenges we are facing during our forced incarceration due to Covid 19.
Fortunately, my dreams have not been fever dreams. Those would have been a nightmare in every way conceivable.
My quarantine dreams have been much more benign. Not panicked. Not desperate. Just a steady release of built of sturm and drang as executed through my subconscious. While I am sure Freudian and Jungian psychiatrists would make a small fortune through analyzing my dreams to me, a mere BS in psychology, they seem fairly straight forward.

For example, last night I had two quarantine dreams. I was in an immense store. Aisles that were kilometers long (I am in Brazil…metric) and I am pushing an empty cart searching the near empty shelves for the things that I need to find the most. I am running and my companion, Elaine, is giving me instructions on how to find things she wants while I am skimming the shelves for things I think we need. The pursuit seems endless but finally we agree to make do with what we have and go to the check out line which is, of course endless.
This was the 2nd quarantine dream I had. The first was right after I had fallen asleep in the evening and was much simpler. I was in a car. The car was in a painted circle in a large parking lot. Within the circle there were areas where you were supposed to park. When a klaxon sounded all the cars moved to the next spot. No cars ever left the circle.
As I have mentioned previously, one of my superpowers is to solve the worlds and my problems in the middle of the night. (You are welcome world.) Needless to say that upon awakening after my dreams in the middle of the night I got to thinking about dreams.

I recalled that in the days and weeks following the attacks of 9.11 I had similarly themed dreams. Mine were mostly about my friend Todd Rancke who died that day. How when he left for work that morning, he was full of dreams and hopes the least of which was probably that he would make it home that night. His dreams died with him that day but I realized then that the dreams of many others had also died that day. Certainly, those of the nearly 2000 people who died that day but those of their relatives, loved ones, friends. Some of our country’s dreams and the worlds dreams died that day too but far less than those of us New Yorkers.
Last night in the dark of the Brazilian night with my love quietly purring next to me I had an epiphany. That the Corona 19 virus has killed or derailed the worlds dreams in a magnitude that is not fully comprehensible. Not only for the 10,000 who have perished but for the 100 of thousand who have contracted the disease. And for the millions whose daily lives, their ability to work and to thrive have been permanently altered.
No doubt there are lessons to be learned from this. Certainly countries and their leaders have made and are continuing to make horrific mistakes (fuck you Trump) but that is for another time.
We need to mourn the loss of those dreams. There were so many. To not acknowledge their loss would be not to acknowledge our humanity.
For everything has it season a time to cry, a time to laugh, a time to eulogize, and a time to dance. The world’s dreams deserve a eulogy. An acknowledgement of their existence.
We also need to appreciate the opportunity we have been given. For the millions of us caught in lockdowns, quarantines and the like we have been given the chance to re envision ourselves. To throw away the things that have held us down and to imagine the world that emerges from this pandemic and what we want to do with it.
In other words, I thought in the middle of the Brazilian night we need new dreams. So I rolled over and fell asleep to a dreamless sleep. Thankfully dreams were made to be created during the day.
These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another
These dreams that sleep when it’s cold outside
Every moment I’m awake the further I’m away

I have never been a great sleeper.
Well maybe never is an overreach. I was told that whenever my parents came to visit their preemie baby in the hospital, I would fall asleep on them. But suffice it to say that in my adult life I have spent many a night either unable to sleep, or unable to go back to sleep. I know the reason behind this. It is my personal dedication to the solving of my problems and the problems of the world during the course of the night. I believe, perhaps self-righteously, that if I devote my sleep hours to solving the world’s challenges and then scrupulously keep them to myself or a select group of family and friends that I am doing the world an immense service.
Donald Trump has not helped my sleep challenges.
Facebook and the posts of some of my more conservative acquaintances and friends have not helped much either.
And when I have finished solving the worlds problems I move on to my own. Perhaps I have my priorities off but I am an altruistic man. I believe in helping others first. Solving my own problems are not nearly as much fun as solving the worlds. They actually require action on my part. A note to a boss on what a horse’s patoot he/she/they are being. Calling the insurance company about a denied claim. A list of overdue errands. 6 across on today’s New York Times crossword puzzles. You know, the things that can only be solved between the hours of 2-5am.
Over time I have developed a number of aides in putting me back to sleep. Eating something sweet often works as it produces insulin which makes me drowsy. Vodka, frozen, have been used in cases of emergency as have a variety of products endorsed by Bob Marley. But the number one sleep aid and my chief ally in forgetting my and the world problems have been books. Reading allows you to tune out the rest of your brain and only listen to the narrative the storyteller is weaving. But even with this there is a rub. If the book deals with real world issues or raises issues with your personal flaws and shortcomings, then it is contraindicated.
And there in lies my challenge.
We are told, that in these halcyon days of quarantine and Covid 19 sleep is more important than ever. Sleep reduces stress which is an important part of maintaining a healthy immune system. Sleep allows the body to heal. Sleep allows you separation from the anxiety living in quarantine amid a plague produces.

he chocolate, I had stockpiled in the first week of quarantine. While I have a good supply of cachaca and other medicinal alcohols I have been told that while they may produce sleep they also wear on the immune system. Snoop Dog endorsed products are not generally available here in Sambaland.
So my only alternative to getting a good nights sleep is to find entertaining but escapist reading. I am looking for recommendations. I love great mystery writers like Walter Mosley, Dick Francis, and Dennis Lehane. I am a huge fan of historical fiction with writers such as Herman Wouk, Ken Follett, Leon Uris and the like. Speculative Fiction, Science Fiction and fantasy also entertain me especially writers such as Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, Greg Bear and Ben Bova.
Put me to sleep. Recommend great books for me to read. And while the world’s problems may not get solved at least I will have done my part in helping defeat the Covid 19 virus.