The confused language of cranes 26 Jan 2014 To get my mind off the carnage in Egypt, I decided to watch some TV. Just finished watching an episode of Frasier, the one titled “Hungry Heart” from back in 2000 -- the one in which Daph trips and falls down because she’d beceome overweight. Frasier, Niles and Martin then have difficulty in getting her up her. When they finally succeed, Martin says, “Hey Daphnie, I just thought of something funny. It took three Cranes to lift you.” I immediately thought of the following story, which is a true one. It is 1993 and I am spending a year in Nebraska Wesleyan University as a Fulbright scholar – or as a student of mine there, seeing that I have just received my degree from Oxford, decided that I was a “Full Bright Scholar”. It was a happy year. I relaxed after the grueling experience of writing my dissertation, traveled widely, and reconnected with many friends who lived literally all over the US, from coast to coast. But above all, it was the warmth and generosity of my colleagues in NWU that made a deep and lasting impact. The first person to greet me was the dean (or was she the vice-president?), Dr. Crane. Can’t remember her first name now, but I remember how professional and efficient she was. In our first meeting in her office she said how extremely pleased she was to meet me, and she immediately made me feel at home and at ease. She was in her mid-forties, I think. Always came to work in an elegant, even chic, suit. Sometimes she wore her hair high in a bun, which made her look considerably younger. She was of Brazilian background and spoke Portuguese and Spanish, if I remember correctly. She said that once I settled down, she’d be delighted to have me over and introduce me to her husband, who, I believe, was a banker. I hanged around with colleagues in the history and political science departments (I had a double appointment). And we saw each other nearly every day; mostly at home, entertaining. It was during that year that I learned how to cook much to the chagrin of my friends who resented being used as guinea pigs to my pretense at cooking Iranian food. One afternoon, Kim, who worked on China, Mary (Africa) and Elaine (France) passed by and said “We’re going over to see the Cranes, and we thought you’d like to come along.” I said, “Sure, just give me a minute to get ready.” I put on an evening coat, rushed down the stairs, and got in Kim’s car. “Shouldn’t we stop to get some wine on the way?” I asked. They all turned at me as if I had said something insulting. I knew that the campus was a dry one, being strictly Methodist and all, but I thought these rules did not apply off campus. I had already noticed, however, that the whole town was rather strict, with a very strong German, Protestant ethic hovering above it. “But Dr. Crane is Brazilian, for goodness’ sake,” I told myself. “Well, what do you know. You live and learn.” They were all in a jovial mood, and we spent the whole trip telling each other stories about our previous summers: Kim about her trip to Beijing, Mary about her adventures in Ghana, Elaine about her research in the Archives Nationales in Paris, and I about the marathon of writing my dissertation in seven months. I was starting to have questions, however, about this trip. I knew the Cranes lived in Omaha not in Lincoln, but the distance between both cities is only 40 or 50 miles, and we’ve already been on the road for more than an hour and there is no trace of Omaha, or any other city, in sight. I also had the impression that Omaha was somewhere to the North, but we were unmistakably heading West as the sun was straight ahead of us just above the horizon. But most strangely was all this talk about the Cranes and how excited my friends were to see them. Admittedly, Dr. Crane was a nice woman, friendly and approachable, but there was something distinctly irreverent in the way they talked about her and her husband, I thought. I was new to the city, and indeed to the whole country, it is true, but I am not that naïve in thinking that there is something wrong in being interested in the mating habits of our dean. Because this is what my three companions were all excited about: how long they have been waiting to see the Cranes, how this is the right time, given that it is the mating season, and how perfect the light at this time of the year was. Wait!! Mating season?!! We are visiting Dr. Crane and her husband to watch them mating? Is this why the three of them have their cameras and binoculars? In the midst of my utter confusion the car finally stopped in what I thought was the middle of nowhere. I got off the car-- in complete bewilderment, and they in all excitement -- to find myself in front of a small creek meandering its way through the prairies. Kim, Mary and Elaine got their cameras ready and started taking pictures of the creek, the beautiful golden sunset -- and what must have been thousands and thousands of birds. “They are lovely, the cranes,” they shouted in excitement. “What? Who? Where?” I answered in puzzlement. “The cranes!” they all shouted. “It’s their mating bonanza!!” Being a Cairene whose encounter with nature is limited to a few aging eucalyptus trees struggling to survive in the concrete jungle of the polluted city, I hadn’t known what these birds were called, in English, Portuguese or in any other language for that matter. In fact, I had no idea they existed in the first place. Later that week, I received a nice card that said “Mrs. and Mr. Crane request the pleasure of your company, etc, etc” This time, I put on a proper suit, got a nice bottle of wine and headed north, repeating to myself that I should say nothing about the previous week’s trip to watch the cranes in their mating season.
Posted on: Sun, 26 Jan 2014 18:56:29 +0000