Reflecting on Tuesday's attacks

The past week has seen Strasbourg in grief. You can feel it in the streets, see it in people's faces and sense it as they tell you where they were when the attacks happened. It reminds me of 9/11, where I was and how it affected me but the difference is Strasbourg is tiny compared to New York, my neighborhood back home, Jamaica, Queens, has more inhabitants, to give you an idea.

It's the size of the city that makes a difference. I've been living here nine months and, even though it hasn't even been a year, I still run into someone nearly every time I go out, even in unlikely places. It's like a big town where it only takes two degrees of separation to know your connection. As a native New Yorker, it's a bit unsettling at first, I would crave anonymity but I've come to embrace it. It's this sense of community and how it's been shaken up is what is really jarring.

Tuesday night for me was any normal night. I went to work, taught my classes and was excited that I would be finished an hour earlier than usual. Armelle was going to have dinner ready and then I could watch Barcelona host Tottenham in the Champions League, a good night nice and toasty at home. After dinner, Armelle headed to her tertulia (a discussion in Spanish at the nearby Maison de l'Amerique Latine) and I began to look for streams online. Twenty minutes into the game and one spectacular Dembele goal later, I received a message on Messenger from my friend Morgane. She wrote, "Stay indoors tonight, don't go out or get inside if you can, there are police and emergency services all over the center". Honestly, I didn't think much of it, I thought it was either a joke or an exaggeration. It turned out to be neither.

That's when more and more messages started coming and that prompted me to do a quick Google search of Strasbourg on my phone. As I read about a shooting or shootings I got a phone call from Armelle. She was worried and wanted to make sure I was home and would not go out, though she was still at the tertulia with some friends. At this point, I also notified our couchsurfers to get indoors somewhere and avoid the center. No one really knew what happened or how bad it was, just that there'd been multiple shootings around the city center, near the cathedral and Place Kleber (our main square). Our couchsurfers came back and told us that the city was on lockdown, you could leave the center island but couldn't come back in. They got out on the wrong side and had to walk back along the perimeter. Later on, I went to go pick up Armelle and accompany her home from the tertulia, which was only a couple blocks away and had a chance to see how things were looking. Even though there were people outside the security checkpoints, there was tension in the air.

I forgot to mention, Strasbourg is famed for its Christmas market. People from around the world come to our little Alsatian town to walk along our streets & canals and drink vin chaud (mulled wine) while munching on bretzels (pretzels) and other Alsatian fare. So many people come that our population triples, the city center, already swarming with tourists on any given day, is brimming with them during this time. The center of Strasbourg is an island and so every bridge and entry point is cut off by security checkpoints, big concrete blocks funnel cars into a neat line and only residents can enter, semi's are parked across the road preventing car attacks like the ones seen in Berlin, Nice and Barcelona and security guards check your bags before letting you enter. As it's my first winter living here I have to pass these security checkpoints multiple times daily, seen the chinks in the armor and knew that something like this could happen because it really would be easy to bypass the security measures. For starters, these checkpoints are only active from 11 am to 8 pm, meaning if you wanted to avoid them you could just enter early or wait until 8. Secondly, the tram bypasses the measures and stops in the city center, meaning folks on the tram aren't screened. It seems like more of a show than a pragmatic approach to safeguarding our city and it worried me, to begin with.

The following day more news came in, the gunman was born and raised here, had lived most of his life here and had done a prison stint in Germany (where he was supposedly radicalized), in addition to a long, violent rap sheet. It was the kind of news that's baffling, how could someone that's from here shoot innocent passersby. He killed two people and severely injured several, as of the time of this writing 13 more were injured and there may be more deaths. He did this with a pistol, a six-shooter, from the 19th century, the kind of weapon collectors buy. After his rampage, he commandeered a taxi and headed back to his neighborhood of Neudorf in the south of Strasbourg, a stone's throw from the city center. His name was Cherif Chekatt and he will be remembered as Strasbourg's murderous son, the coward who pulled us out of our Christmas daydream and replaced it with this fever. This Tuesday our little, idyllic city was left battered and bruised but if there's something positive to come of it, it's that I hope people look at how the city has come together, how random strangers sheltered people in their homes  during the attacks, how we're really all one, big community and how this isn't Islam, isn't Muslim, it has nothing to do with religion. The shooter was French, he was Strasbourgois, and he was a product of this country, something that should make us reflect on our society.

This Wednesday I took my bike to work, crossed the security checkpoint and began my meandering path through the center and over to Place du Corbeau. As I started down rue Sainte-Helene I noticed that the street was blocked off by police tape and by police standing watch. I had just passed down this same street the night before, apparently missing the attacks by an hour. And with that, it hit home. That could've been me lying on the ground in a pool of my own blood or lying unconscious on a hospital bed; wreaths, flowers and photos the only evidence of my passing. That could've been me ...

Éclair au chocolat

Today we decided to have breakfast outside because it was sunny and reasonably warm for autumn weather. Armelle wanted to sit at a sidewalk café  but La Rive Gauche stopped serving breakfast at 11, so we opted for grabbing something from a local bakery and sitting on a park bench. I ordered a chocolate eclair as I wanted something special, not just another croissant.

As I sat there and stared down at my eclair, I thought about eclairs in my life. How my mom would buy packs of them at the supermarket, probably the Entemmann's brand. I then thought of how those eclairs were fabricated at a factory; thousands baked, rolled, filled, rushing down assembly lines into a neat, white package for mass consumption. How many millions are produced in a year? In a month? In a week? And here I have an imperfect, fresh eclair made at this local bakery, the taste delectable.

As I thought about eclairs my thoughts drifted to cronuts. About that American pâtissier that crossed a croissant with a donut. That small invention at that tiny bakery in SoHo became the breakfast toast of the town and as the bakery would produce a limited amount each day, something curious happened. Long lines developed outside the store before the bakery would open. High-powered execs; people with cash to burn, would pay people to stand in line, order their cronuts and have them delivered to their respective homes in TriBeCa or Chelsea or any of the other wealthy enclaves strewn about the city. All for the latest trend in pastries. All this led me to think that sometimes the market really does dictate the opportunities. In this case, a friggin' cronut caused people to stand in line in lieu of others so they could cash in on the laziness and exorbitant wages they earn in order to make a living on that. Can you imagine? Some people were paying 35 bucks a cronut (and I imagine more if they were hand-delivered to your home).

The sun, warm, bright, kissed our skin and brought me back as we finished our breakfast and made plans to go to the doctor. That eclair was really delicious... and it only cost me €1.80.

More painful than dying, more loving than fear

I like to obsessively watch YouTube videos from time to time. Sometimes it's football games that I missed. Sometimes it's videos about historic battles. Sometimes it's top tens or Looper. My morbid curiosity led me to watch a Top Tenz video about the worst ways to die. Sure, there was the guillotine, medieval torture devices, the electrical chair, etc. Do you know what the worst way to die is? Dying from old age.

When you're old your body begins the slow process of decline. Your joints creak each time you move, old injuries become excruciating and crucial organs start malfunctioning. Your memory starts to fade. Your vision becomes blurred, cataracts develop. Your hearing becomes muffled, like listening to the world while wearing ear plugs. Your bowel movements are no longer under your sway and diapers become a daily reality. High blood pressure. Diabetes. Everyday ailments turn into life or death battles. This slow process can take years, decades even. Your final moments may come while surrounded by strangers, health-care professionals, who may or may not give a shit about their patients. You may die alone. Honestly, that's scarier than any Rob Zombie flick.

Right now, my dad has been passed out for hours, practically since I came. When I first walked into his hospital room on Tuesday it was his appearance that struck me; he looked gaunt, jaundiced, there was a rash over his left cheek, pocks, scratches and sores all over him, his hands were swollen like two fleshy softballs. The feeding tube down his nose was causing him to speak in gargles, like punch-drunk boxer after three knockdowns. When he looked at me I got the sense we were ephemeral figures of his consciousness, this morning my sis told me that he addressed her as the "vieja bola" (in English that means a drunk old woman, "bola" is Salvadoran slang). Yesterday, when I asked him who I was I just got a blank stare and more incoherent gargles. This is his and my reality.

I tell myself that I've been here before. That I've been at his side when he had his first stroke. That I carried him to a taxi on Sutphin and brought him to the emergency room when he had a diabetic attack. That I cleaned him, wiped his ass, when he was incontinent from a case of diarrhea. I tell myself that he's strong, that he's a fighter, that he survived Hell's Kitchen in the 70's and worked long hours to provide food & shelter for my four siblings and I. I tell myself I can handle it, that hopefully he'll pull through. The reality is, I haven't been here before. We haven't. And I can hardly stomach seeing him like this, in so much pain, weak, each breath a lifetime in purgatory.

At times, he'll cough inexplicably, stare off into nothingness only to smile suddenly, laugh at a joke only he heard and groan and grimace with each movement. I think back on dad when I was younger, how we'd play catch with a handball while waiting for mom to get out of work. About watching the Knicks or the Yankees and losing his shit each time they won a game or even just scored, how we'd play catch with a basketball in the living room during commercial breaks. I think about how he'd take me everywhere with him in the yellow Buick station wagon, the one with the wooden panels like the one in Adventures in Babysitting, I would ride shotgun and even give him directions at an early age (I think that's the reason why I'm so good at navigating, I grew up in that car). I think back on my memories of dad, the good ones, and try to reconcile them with the present.

I wonder, is this life? Is this health-care? What is it all for? Is it for us or for him?

My dad; big, strong, powerful with his loud laugh, wide smile and terrifying roar, reduced to bed sores and sponge baths and incoherent spurts of life. I want to cry seeing him suffer like this, I want to cry now as I write this. What my tear glands won't allow me to do I'm hoping my writing will, these are a son's tears.

Un Million de Petits Éclats

La vitre brisée en un million de petits éclats,
Il l'a rencontrée au boulot,
Elle portait un t-shirt Batman pour son interview,
Son maquillage sombre et ses cheveux noirs contrastant avec sa peau pâle,
Lumineuse,
La prunelle pourrie de mes yeux,
Au début je la détestais,
On a travaillé côté à côté,
Son sens de l'humour ironique un appel de sirène,
La mer est lunatique,
La marée ne pardonne pas,
Peu a peu j'ai nagé vers elle,
(Je ne savais pas nager alors)
Bientôt je ne pouvais plus voir la terre

Son étreinte était un été à Séville,
Ses bisous goût de bière pas cher et de cigarette,
Ses courbes dansaient avec les vagues,
La mer m'a fait bourré,
J'ai me sentir lourd,
Les vagues ne sont plus douces,
L'été était fini,
L'automne était un souvenir,
Il n'y avait que du froid,
Ses mots étaient une tempête :
"Je ne t'aime pas, j'aime quelqu'un d'autre"
La marée m'a tiré,
Camarade d'Odyssée,
J'ai navigué sur les canaux de Bushwick,
Les étoiles mon salut
Un million de petits éclats répartis sur les pavés .

Sous les pavés, la plage

Sous les pavés, la plage
Un monde souterrain, souterrestre

La marée arrive avec la nuit
S'infiltre dans les crevasses
Ça porte la saleté, la crasse, la merde
La ville jette
La nuit, une tempête quotidienne
La plage accepte sans conditions

La marée repart avec le matin
Le soleil pourchasse son gibier
A travers le sable, le pavé
Dedans les ruelles
L'ombre est notre seul rappel de ce qui était

Sous les pavés, la plage
Un monde souterrain ou je reste .

A moment in calle Montera

I ordered a jarra of Cruzcampo at the 100 Montaditos and began to watch, to take it all in.

A black woman, probably African, dark jacket, blue jeans, large 'fro, earphones connected to her phone as she punches away at it, a hooker on Calle Montera, a common sight.

A man in red jacket and sweatpants skips along, erratically hopping to and fro, he zig zags along eventually walking "normally", all the fittings of junkie yearning for a fix.

A construction site, the whirring of saws, the dumping of materials, the clank and bang and ding, a song of destruction and renewal. Supermarket carts outside, presumably gypsies looking to scrape up scraps of metal for some cash or their own projects.

Tourists walk by by the thousands, speaking German, Polish, French, English and a myriad other languages I can't recognize, they traipse along with their kids in tow, with their baby carriages, snapping their smartphones and stopping for glimpses.

Madrileños walk past in blur, construction workers with spotted uniforms, young folks and their H & M duds, lesbian couples nuzzling and kissing as they shuffle past, checking WhatsApp, conversing, the city shifts with a bit of sun and return of cloudy, balmy weather.

Panhandlers carry signs, cartons with messages scrawled asking for change, I say "lo siento" and ignore their gaze, years of New York conditioning.

It doesn't stop, it never does, just as a grain of sand won't remain in the same place for long.