In transit.
That’s where Dottore Gianni finds himself. In transit literally since 7 May,
and figuratively a good bit longer than that. He’s more than ready to be out of
it – out of transit, that is; settled, relaxed, retired. Forward progress is
slowly being made, but it’s accompanied by a series of setbacks that I’ve
identified as comedies of errors in general, but more specifically as a pattern
of incidents, transactions, miscalculations and so on that prompted me to
define a large portion of my time in transit as a sort of sorry dance – I’ve
never been much of a dancer – “one small step forward, two giant steps
backward.” It’s an interesting but exhausting and not often pleasant sort of
foxtrot that seems to catch me up in its odd maneuverings regularly these days.
Examples of the dance (sorry, no videos available) follow.
A little
history/backstory is in order. You might say that my time in transit began a
few years ago, when I realized that I should leave Ithaca College, for several reasons:
the department was beginning to drive me crazy, I felt that I was falling
slightly from the top of my game as a teacher (to quote Miss Jean Brodie,
“Sandy, I think I’m past my prime...”), and I was getting tired of Ithaca
itself – a city a bit too hip for its own good (or at least for my own good);
and a city whose weather in the winter…well, let’s just say I was “over”
driving/sliding in all that snow and ice. I stayed as long as I did only
because of a deal: if I kept teaching until age 65 instead of retiring at age
62 I’d be rewarded at the end with a year at our excellent Ithaca College
London Center to cap my teaching career.
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| Ithaca College London Ctr |
It wasn’t until the winter break between semesters that I felt a substantial change, beginning with a note from Bruce Halverson, my former chair and the man who hired me at IC, that there was an apartment complex in downtown Greenville where I was going to live and where Bruce lives now, just going up that was geared towards artists (!) and that was subsidized by the government to get artistic types into the center of town. I had planned to live in…well, where I’m living now,
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| Entrance to my apartment building |
a lovely complex also downtown, a mere five to twenty-five minute walk away from
nearly anything I’d need and many things I’d want. However the price was right
at the top (in fact somewhat over the top) of what I’d planned to spend on
rent: a tiny studio for $1,080 a month. The subsidized apartments, on the other
hand, were large units of two or three bedrooms each for less than $700 a
month. I immediately went to work trying to get into the subsidized complex,
but I was in Budapest when I got word from Bruce, just at the start of a
ten-day trip in Central Europe, and I needed to put money down immediately to
hold one of the units. They would not accept a credit card and I had not
thought to bring my checkbook along on the trip, so, long story short, I missed
the chance by days, after spending, immediately upon my return to London, £50
to overnight the check – and having that get lost in the mail! It depressed me
deeply at the time, and while I’m very happy where I am now living I dread the
monthly bills and the rise in costs when the first year’s lease is up. So that
was a blow, and perhaps the first in the pattern of the “one small step
forward, two giant steps backward” foxtrot. Cha-cha-cha!
By mid-January I
could feel the difference palpably. Part of the reason for this was time.
Simply put, I had less time still to go in London than I had already spent
there. Also I began to feel a real money crunch, and I had to deal with
Medicare and Social Security. Securing Medicare was easy, but securing Social
Security (securing security?) was another matter entirely. I filled out the
on-line form and received a message that within 5 business days I could check
on line to see my status. But well after the five days, when I checked, and
every time after when I checked, I received the message “We cannot process your
package at this time, please call thus and such a number…” I did and got a
person who was unable to answer any of my questions specifically, but was reasonably
sure that things would work out, and that at some point I should get a letter
from the agency. Great! This sort of nonsense went on and on, and I grew more
and more nervous about getting checks from Social Security in a timely manner.
One of the first calls I made from Newark Airport upon my return to the States
was to the Social Security Agency, and I got another person who was also
“fairly certain” that my checks would begin to arrive at the time I’d
requested, in mid-July. In fact I didn’t get complete satisfaction until well
after I arrived in Greenville in mid-May. They had been holding up my paperwork
because I’d not been in the U.S., and would now begin the process. I finally
received a letter about a week ago saying that my first check would be coming
to me around 19 July.
As you’ve
already seen in one case, concerning the subsidized apartment I lost, a major
reason for my discomfort was mail. The U.S. Postal Service (USPS) will not
forward mail to overseas addresses. Linda Ellis at our theatre department was
heroic in weeding out what I’d probably want/need and sending mail regularly to
me from my old address in Ithaca at Northwood apartments tome in London. But in
order to get the mail to IC USPS needed to send it to this address:
Jack Hrkach
Department of
Theatre Arts
226 Dillingham
Ithaca College
953 Danby Rd
Ithaca NY 14850
However, USPS
felt the need to shorten the address to:
Jack Hrkach
953 Danby Rd
Ithaca NY 14850
Thank you very
much USPS. This abbreviation, which had me living in very roomy accommodations
(any of the dorms I might choose) with a library, athletic facilities,
performing arts facilities etc at my disposal, understandably stymied the IC
postal workers, and though they began to see the light at some point, I’m STILL
not certain all the mail that was sent to me during my year abroad was actually
received. In fact I’m convinced that a huge bonus check I deeply deserve is
lost perpetually in the U.S. Mail (heh heh). But there you have it! Dancing
again!
The literal part
of my transit, beginning with my flight out of London on 7 May, was a helluva
ride, although admittedly the flight itself was pretty smooth until we passed
over the coast of Maine, after which turbulence ruled and the ride became very
shaky. An evil omen? The shape of things to come? Not sure, but next there was
the five-hour wait at Newark International Airport for my connecting flight to
Ithaca. That was rough in a figurative manner and hardly the best way to be
re-introduced to the U.S. of A. Finally the flight to Ithaca was mightily bumpy
– that little turbo-prop hadn’t a chance against the winds – but we set down
safely and even a bit early, thank the gods.
In the midst of
all the mad dances , there were admittedly lovely interludes. I was met at the
airport by the wonderful and kind Johnny Kontogiannis. He had kept my car for
me the entire time I was in London, and was waiting for me outside the
terminal. I rewarded him with, all he asked for, a very fine, certainly very
powerful, single malt scotch! And we had a nice chat as he drove me back to his
place.
I then got into
the driver’s seat of my faithful Toyota Corolla for the first time in 10 months
(should I get into how much I loathe driving these days? Probably not), and
took a very tentative drive to my residence for the next five nights, the
Hampton Inn on Route 13 in Ithaca, nice but overpriced. Why is it that I
managed to find good hotels in Paris and other great European cities for less
than it costs to spend a night in a Hampton Inn in Ithaca NY? Ah well and once
again, another variation in my dance! After I checked in I made a quick run to
the Hess Station nearby to pick up some beer and crisps – sorry, make that
chips – which I consumed just before falling into a deep sleep.
There were several
reasons that I spent a little time in Ithaca before making my way down into the
American South. There were people I really wanted to see: my pal Claire
Gleitman, the TenEycks, and some of my students and colleagues
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| Max, Lucy, Gabby, Sarah Jane, Claire and Dottore Gianni at the Mahogany |
(with all of
these I had a great time, and I’d like to have seen even more. While I won’t
miss Ithaca’s weather there are some people I will miss in Ithaca), but I also
HAD to do several things in Ithaca in order to get to the next stop on the
journey of my life. As you can guess from reading above, my car, with a trunk
jam-packed full of my stuff, was located there. And Mary Scheidegger had kindly
agreed to store several boxes and suitcases of mine that would be stuffed into
the back seat of the increasingly crowded Corolla. I also had to meet with HR
at IC, to pick up my mail from the theatre department, and to meet with the
terrific Alicia Brady from TIAA-CREF, who took me through the mighty amount of
paperwork needed to start my retirement checks from the college coming.
Finally, I needed to see my doctors while I was still on my health insurance
plan from work.
So, bright and
early Tuesday morning I made my way to my ophthalmologist Dr Arleo’s office,
where I received an unexpected medical shock – didn’t take long, did it? Arleo
found that my left eye was in a good bit worse shape than it had been a year
ago, and he insisted that I head up to Syracuse immediately to see a retina
specialist. There was no way that I could do that, as I was completely booked
with other Ithaca doctors during the short period of time I had allotted in
Ithaca. So Arleo insisted that we find someone in South Carolina and that I
should see that person immediately upon arrival in Greenville. He wanted me to
get advice on the phone from the Syracuse specialists, but thanks to Google I
found a group of doctors very similar to the upstate NY group right in
Greenville. So Arleo made a referral and by my third day back in the U.S. and
still very much in Ithaca, I found myself booked with a retina specialist in
South Carolina! More on the upshot of that later.
The only good
news about the visit to Dr Arleo was that he gave me the worst medical news I
would receive that week in Ithaca. The same afternoon I saw my excellent
dentist Dr Richards, who pronounced my teeth in good shape, so that was a
relief! And the next morning I saw my fine GP Dr Darlow, who LOVES the theatre
and knows quite a bit about it. In fact my only fear when visiting the good
doctor Darlow was that he might spend too much time on what was going on in the
theatre and not all that much on what was going on in Dottore Gianni’s body!
Thursday was actually a doctor-free day (though it was the day I had to get to
International Programs and HR, so it was a busy one), and then on Friday
morning I saw Dr. Bael the oncologist, who also noted very little change in my
condition, and who recommended a fine oncologist in Charlotte NC – seeing him
in November. Finally on Friday afternoon I saw my urologist, Dr Vohra, who
performed that awful but necessary procedure called a cystoscopy, but saw
nothing of concern in my nether parts.
While I have had
busy weeks with doctors in the past, I think I may have set a personal record
those four days in May, but all in all you could describe it as a decent step
forward in my transition dance.
Then I got in my
car and, as Ithaca receded in my rearview mirror, headed south.
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| Ithaca and Cayuga Lake in my rearview mirror |
Not far
south on Saturday, as I was stopping in Bethlehem PA to stay with my cousin
Sandy and her husband Gene, and to see (at Sandy’s that evening) almost all the
aunts and uncles on my mother’s side of the family. What a wonderful evening!
They are all getting on, but most of them are getting on rather well,
considering their years. We ate and talked and laughed a lot, and it was a
grand reunion. How many times will we be able to meet again, I wonder?
Sunday was the
big driving day, and I wanted to get an early start, so after a short chat with
Gene and Sandy I hopped back into my packed Corolla and drove far, far into the
south and past the point of no return into my transition. It was a good day for
a long drive, if there is ever a good day for a long drive, as it was Mother’s
Day and I came across surprisingly little traffic until well into the
afternoon. I drove farther than I thought I would, so much so that I thought
about making it all the way to Phil and Kara’s place just outside Greenville
that day. But traffic picked up, I grew tired and began searching in earnest
for a place to sleep.
I found it in
another Hampton Inn in North Carolina, pricey but much less expensive than the
one in Ithaca. As soon as I’d brought my bags into the room I went out again in
search of food and drink, found different bits of it in several places – no
alcohol as it was Sunday – got back into the room and settled in for the night.
I was in no
great rush to leave the motel the next morning, as I had only a three-hour
drive to my destination, but almost as soon as I began the final part of my
drive I started to regret that I had not tried to finish the trip on Sunday. It
had started to rain and continued to rain hard for two-thirds of the drive,
stop-and-go-traffic in a near tropical downpour. What had been an easier drive
than I expected on Sunday had become a nightmare on Monday. I hadn’t driven a
car in ten months – bliss! But now I was reminded about just how much I loathed
driving (don’t worry, I won’t harangue you with details), particularly in
traffic, particularly on long trips, CERTAINLY in a deluge. It was not until
Spartanburg, only an hour from Greenville, that the rain abated and the
pressure eased for Dottore Gianni! A small step forward after two large steps
back.
In this manner
the good doctor arrived in Greenville, South Carolina, retrieved his keys from
the office at McBee Station, surveyed his tiny new domain, and little by little
emptied his overstuffed Corolla and filled up his new apartment. Off next to
Phil and Kara’s place – for those of you who don’t know, Phil is my much
younger brother. He and Kara had been urging me to Greenville for some time,
and because of their persistence and sweetness, that’s where I landed -- for
supper, good chat and rest.
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| My brother Phil, Kara his wife, and Cameron |
The next
morning, on his only day off for some time, Phil took me all over the area
looking for furniture, and as planned I bought and ordered as much as possible
on that same day – it wasn’t all that difficult to pick and choose, as there
wasn’t much room in my tiny dwelling to put things. The very first purchase was
a television and blu-ray player from best Buy, a stand for that from World
Market, then a love seat (both sides reclining – lap of luxury time) and
mattress from a furniture store, and also several items from Target, including
a storage unit that needed to be built, a torchiere lamp and also an Eiffel
Tower lamp. Phil helped me to unload it all into the apartment and back we went
to his place.
In the course of
the next several days I gradually moved in. Having arrived on a Monday I slept
in my new place on Friday. Despite having ridiculous difficulties putting
together several units, tables, and such (many steps backward, few steps
forward) I had most of my apartment furnished in the first week and a
half.
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| Part of my walking route in Greenville |
I also began what would become a
routine – early morning walks, at least three, usually four, once five miles to
begin each day except Saturday, when I took the five minute walk to Main Street
and shopped at the farmers’ market. I also learned where important places were
located and began to know the town.
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| The Saturday Farm Market in Greenville SC |
Not so bad, yes?
A change in the pattern of the dance, perhaps? Ah, but obstacles arose from
many unexpected sources. The first was establishing a bank account. In fact I’d
already done so, or so I thought, at the nearby SunTrust Bank, so I certainly
wasn’t expecting this to be an obstacle. I’d applied on line from London, so
that I’d just have to walk in, deposit the $5,000 bank check from HSBC in
Ithaca and begin depositing and withdrawing funds in my new home. Imagine then
my surprise, when on Wednesday of the first week I turned up at the bank, and
was told by the teller that my account had been rejected. Rejected? REJECTED!?!
I demanded to see the manager and found myself talking to an attractive
middle-aged blonde who tried to explain to me, after searching around on line
for a good bit, that I had seemed suspicious to one of the bank’s operatives,
and had been investigated. Investigated? INVESTIG…well, you get how I began to
feel. For what? For fraud. FRAUD!? It seems that when one attempts to start an
account in a U.S. Bank (at least at SunTrust) from a foreign country, some sort
of alarm goes off. Another goes off when “odd” amounts of money are deposited.
The amount in question was $501. I had chosen this amount because I wanted a
joint savings/checking account the minimum deposit for which was $500. As it
grew clear to the manager that I was probably not an enemy foreign agent or a
thief, she became less suspicious and told me that she’d look into all of this
and get back to me early the next day.
She did not.
Instead, late in the day, I called her and she finally returned my call,
explaining that she had spoken to her supervisor, who needed the manager’s
signature on a form that would OK my application for an account. She had done
this and next morning would take it to her supervisor who would also sign and
I’d be welcomed into the SunTrust family. But the next morning I heard nothing
from her, called again in the early afternoon and was told that that supervisor
would also need approval from a higher supervisor. This was becoming ridiculous
so I began to search for a new bank and an exit strategy from SunTrust, which I
now thoroughly despised. I went to a bank even closer to my apartment, the Bank
of North Carolina (aka BNC -- yes friends, it has a few branches in its
south-of-the-border sister state too). This little bank welcomed me with open
arms! The woman at the front desk welcomed me. The head teller welcomed me. And
the manager took me into her office immediately and my account was started. I
was beginning to get more than a little trepidacious, following my encounter with
SunTrust, that my credit rating had been slashed and hashed and that NO bank
would ever have me. BNC did, however, happily, and the manager even gave me a
cookie on the way out! I phoned the manager of SunTrust and broke all ties with
them.
Success? Yes,
finally, but the business of Dottore Gianni, aka Dr Jack, aka Jack Hrkach (aka
several others depending on his/my mood), secret foreign agent, defrauder of
(what? Not sure) and public enemy number 501 is just one example of the “one
small step forward, two giant steps backward” syndrome that that continues to
seem the rule during my time in transit.
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| DJ in his eye patch |
The following
Monday (precisely one eventful week after my arrival in Greenville) I saw Dr
Peter Goodwin, the retina specialist referred by Dr Arleo just before I left
Ithaca. I was hoping that Dr Goodwin would have a look at the left eye (the one
that Arleo put in question), acknowledge problems, but remain in monitoring
mode. And in fact he did! However, in the RIGHT eye he discovered a tear in the
retina (that’s pronounced “tare” not “teer” and means a rip, not a droplet of
liquid) which had to be treated immediately. And on Friday of my second week,
accompanied by Phil (for I was to have a large patch on my right eye at the end
of it and could not drive myself home), I was operated on – a simple operation
really, performed by a laser in Goodwin’s office, sitting up, with the eye
numbed. It was a success and a detached retina was avoided. Dr Goodwin (and the
operation was a good win in my opinion) wanted to see me again to have a
further look at the left eye in about ten days.
On that day he
described to me the problem with the left eye and explained my choices:
medicated drops, expensive but probably ineffective as the least intrusive
form, a series of shots in my left eye which might take care of the problem
though he was dubious, and an operation, more serious than my recent one in his
office, which should provide some relief and maybe better sight in that eye. I
thought the drops a waste of time and Goodwin administered the first shot in my
eye that very day. I see him again on 13 July to determine if the shot did any
good. If it seemed to be working, another shot would be administered, otherwise
we would talk surgery. To be continued…but in this at least the dance goes on.
Meanwhile my
ongoing struggle with the Social Security Administration continued. I made yet
another call to a customer service person, who this time was much more helpful,
explained that from what she could see. I was slated for a check in July, but
that nothing had been done to expedite it yet. She thought it would be
expedited soon but very helpfully gave me the number of the office that was
doing the work on it. I thought I’d better call them to be sure, and sure
enough they WERE waiting for me to call them! Why could not the very first
person I spoke to in an expensive call from the U.K. give me that information,
or at very least the second, that I spoke to on my first day back in the U.S.?
It would have lessened my anxiety concerning that vital part of my retirement,
and would have been a large step forward with no steps backward. I begin to
have hopes that that part of the dance is winding down, but until I see the
first check deposited I will still be engaged in the forward/backward foxtrot.
This is a long
blog post, isn’t it, my readers? I know…and I can’t even offer many photos! But
it’s nearly finished – the post, not the transit! However I must also give at
least a short account of my dance with the DMV. This began as a not unpleasant
series of steps and maneuvers, as once again I had prepared, filled out
appropriate forms on line, and when I walked into the DMV for the first time I
thought I might finally be heading in a forward trajectory. However, some of
the instructions were not as explicit as they might have been, and left me
thinking that it would be at the DMV that I would pay the tax on my Toyota in
order to get the title changed to South Carolina, and that a letter from the
Social Security Administration with my current. Local, SC address on it would
suffice to prove I now lived in state– but as a song from Candide goes, “Ah! T’was not to be…” So my first trip was a wasted
one, as I had to run to another office in another part of town to take care of
the tax. And had to run to my new Bank (thank the gods I finally had one!) to
get a letter proving my residency. Determined to be forward-looking I did all
this in the same morning and was back at the DMV later in the day, when, rotten
to relate, a huge crowd had formed. So Dottore Gianni waited…and waited,…and
waited…and FINALLY, an hour and ten minutes later he was called to a window!
Hallelujah! All papers were in order, the process began, the good doctor’s hope
arose and then…he was pointed to a small machine at which I would take the eye
test.
Understand, I
have been through many eye tests recently, more than most of you have (at least
I hope so, given the state of my eyes). Well the machine they use looks like an
extended set of goggles. I have glasses with three different prescriptions in
one lens, so there is not a large area in which to see for distance, or for
reading, etc etc. I could not for the life of me to get my head cocked at the
correct angle to read line 2 of the test. The woman who was dealing me kept
repeating, robot-like, “line 2…line 2…line 2” and then I began to panic. Had I
remained in NY State, little as I wanted to, at least I’d not have been
pronounced unable to drive in it because of my eyes! I craned my neck in every
direction imaginable, began sweating profusely and finally turned from the
machine to the woman and told her that I could not see well enough to read any
of the letters on line 2. Long pause. She then said, well the alternative is to
get a letter from an ophthalmologist. I
said I thought I could do that, and she replies something to the effect of
“Well, at least you know you have all the paperwork done.” I’m not sure that
that was meant to help, but it didn’t much as I had only met Dr Goodwin twice.
I WAS to see him three days from that fateful day at the DMV (one small step
forward, to GIANT steps back) and left the DMV with a little hope, but with no
sense of confidence.
The three days
passed…slowly…painfully…with only a glimmer of hope…and finally I saw Dr
Goodwin again and even before I did his assistant, to whom I gave the
appropriate form, assured me that the machines at the DMV were awful, and that
others had failed that test as well. When the doctor himself saw me and I
re-explained what the issue was and that I was panicked that I’d not be able to
get around he paused before he answered and finally said, “Well, there’s always
Swamp Rabbit Trail.” Another pause and then a chuckle. Swamp Rabbit Trail is
the lovely walking/biking path along which I trek every morning, along the river
and woods, but it wouldn’t get me to Trader Joe’s or Target, or Phil’s or…well,
you see what he was implying. But of course he was also joking. The form was
signed on Friday afternoon and early Monday morning I took it and the rest of
my paperwork to another dubious woman in the DMV who finally signed off on it
all. My ordeal at the DMV was over, I had a new driver’s license, a temporary
registration, and all I had to do was the ultra simple task of puttine my new
license plate on my Corolla. Triumph!
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| The Liberty Bridge and Falls Park is a part of Swamp Rabbit Trail |
EXCEPT that it
wasn’t simple to get my old tags off my car and the new on. In fact it was a
mighty embarrassing segment of the dance that was probably the most ridiculous
of any step patterns yet! When I returned to my apartment, euphoric from my
success, I decided I’d better change my license plate, so I went into the
parking area and set to work. Except that I could not get either screw holding
the rear plate on to budge. This was a potential problem as I was in a way
schizophrenic – South Carolina driver’s license, but NY State tags on the car.
If I’d been stopped by a cop I’m sure I could have explained the situation, but
I felt uncomfortable, so really wanted to do whatever it took to get the tags
changed. I went to a Sears looking for advice, and was going to buy WD-40, but
the fellow there advised me to find an automotive store as he didn’t think
WD-40 would do the trick.
So off I drove,
came upon an AutoZone store, and asked the manager there what would do the
trick. He recommended PB Blaster, so I bought some, took it out to the parking
lot, applied lots of it to the appropriate area, waited the appropriate amount
of time, and once again attempted to loosen the screws – not one iota of
difference! They would not budge. Whether the next move I made was smart or
not, I returned to the store and asked the guy what the next step was. He went
on for a while in language completely foreign to the ears of Dottore Gianni, so
I asked him that, for $20 would HE step outside a moment and try to loosen the
screws. That apparently WAS the wrong move for he regarded me witheringly,
perhaps suspecting that I had a screw loose myself, and said no.
However he did
call one of his staff, a huge guy with popeye-like tattooed forearms who came
out and had a look. This fellow proved very helpful, and after trying one or
two solutions tool out a wrench and managed with difficulty to remove both
screws. Of course by this time the screws themselves were stripped and useless,
so he threw them away, politely refused my offer of some cash to get a beer at
the end of the day, and went off.
I was fine,
because I had removed the front license tag easily on my own – in South
Carolina the only license plate is placed on the rear of the vehicle, whereas
in New York State plates are required on the front as well as the rear – and I
had the screws from my front plates, so no problem, right?
No. Problem. The
mounting on the front of my Corolla was different from the rear, and required
larger screws than the back. So I tried and I tried but could barely get the
screws in. I realized that there was a solution. Surely AutoZone sold
replacement screws of the right size. But whether it was the withering stare of
the store manager or just my embarrassment at my ineptitude, I was not about to
return to that store! Instead I tightened the screws as much as possible, then
crept at slow speed back to my apartment complex. It would have been quite the
capper, wouldn’t it, if after all the trouble with the DMV I had to return to
tell them that my license plate had dropped off my car while driving and I
would need another.
Fortunately that
did not happen, and the next morning I drove (slowly again) to a K-Mart, bought
the right size screws and successfully installed my tags! But seriously, is
there no end to the dance I’ve been doing? One small step forward, two giant
steps back?
I’m writing this
all from memory as I sit in my brother’s home in Florida. I return to
Greenville on Wednesday unless the tropical storm that is currently churning
around in the Gulf of Mexico takes a turn east, to move into a new phase of my
transition. More about that, more about the good side of the transition, more
about the inner turmoil that seems to be inevitable as I remain in transit.
