The Peripatetic.

Simon at the Piano

Sitting in a vacation home some five hours from Bogota (though it was only supposed to take three).  A house filled with two groups of old friends, only some of whom I knew before coming here. Bunk beds and my little cot on the floor.  We’re almost in the Hawaii part of Colombia, but not quite; there are plenty mosquitos at this altitude

And yes, I’m tired.  I’m hanging somewhere between half-way normal and half-way insane.  It’s normal, well, because I’ve been doing this for so long, and because everywhere I go there are old friends.  Insane because, well, I’ve been doing this for so long.

I just want a home base. Home.  I’ve been living out of a suitcase since July 1st of last year.  It’s funny, because my whole life our house was a free hostel, of sorts, but all the guests were friends we loved.  Even in Beijing, I never got a roommate because there was always some friend crashing in the spare room.  It’s strange taking hospitality so often, but then I’ve been blessed with the best hosts on the planet, no exaggeration. I haven’t lacked for anything, ever, really. But conversations with one of my favorite Aunties is for another time.  For now . . .

The airport fetish is less a fetish than a necessity at this point. New York is home, by all accounts, when I’m not in Haifa.  It’s the only city where I feel alive every day, and not just at great events or with great friends.  But rent is high, the internships unpaid and jobs nonexistent or hard to get.

Bogota was a $350 ticket away from NYC, round-trip, and $200/month in rent.  It’s cheaper than a Spanish class in the city.

The normal part?  Ever since going to school in Tel-Aviv, my friends have gone back to their homes and I travel the world finding them.  In Bogota, I found Simon.

We’d been out of touch for 11 straight years, neither by phone nor email. Nothing.  Until I saw his sister, Estafania — Nia — walking out of a big event at Columbia (the university) and amidst the crowd pouring out I yelled out, “Are you Simon’s sister?”  She said yes. We both had to run. She had no clue who I was.  I added her on Facebook and we didn’t talk again until she saw that I’d be in Colombia in my status update. She gave me his number. I called him the day I got to Bogota.  Go Facebook.

Now Simon’s asking for a copy of the Hidden Words he used to set to music the days soon after his mother died and his world collapsed.  She was stabbed by his schizophrenic half-brother when the rest of the family went out to a concert.  His father, much older and with nearly-grown children from his first marriage, checked out of life. He told Simon and his sister that they were old enough to know what was right and what wasn’t.

They finished high school in Israel. Nia went off to study in the U.S., and Simon returned to Colombia, and vowed to never leave it again.

Simon's brother, back on the right meds and the sweetest man you'll ever meet

Last month he graduated from music school.  An 8-year undergrad in classical piano.  That is where all his grief eventually went.  Slowly. Painstakingly.  His graduation concert left standing room only in the back of the auditorium.

Simon said he started the concert thinking about what he ate that morning for breakfast, and what he’d have for dinner.  His hands played by themselves. Then his conscience came back down and he realized, “I’m here already.”  His hands continued until the last song, dedicated to his mother.  Someone had given him a handkerchief with talcum powder right before he went on stage, and the keys slipped under his powered fingers.  Then he started to cry.  He could no longer see the keys.

The piece ended.  He couldn’t distinguish anything through the tears, much less the audience from the center of a well-lit stage.  By the end, though, he could hear them, the audience, crying with him. Sniffling well after he hit the last key.

I talked to Simon’s friends the day we went to his country house, an old mansion frequented by the renowned Simon Bolivar in the 18th century.  All of them had cried, and all of them said it was the best concert they had ever attended.

Now Simon is tying up things in this country’s capital before heading to Cuba “to learn popular music.”  He leaves next month.  Before he goes, we’re taking a trip to Cali to see FUNDAEC and two old Baha’i friends from our international school days.  His passion has become ways to develop Colombia.  When Simon and his sister graduated high school in Israel and then came back, Simon struggled, as every single one of us had, with repatriation. Eight years later, however, he’s more committed than ever to stay here.  What FUNDAEC seems to be doing with the sciences Simon wants to do with music.

He also has a touch of primogeniture working for him — his uncle was the president, his father — before checking out of reality — was a consummate diplomat, Colombia’s ambassador to Israel.  Everywhere we go, there seems to be a cousin or a great-something-or-other who was Colombia’s foremost architect or Bogota’s reason for this thing or that.  Simon wants to raise up his own section, like leaven in bread.

Simon