Foreigners Like Us

One of the great things about taking a vacation is getting lost in another culture.  Some of my favorite memories are of sitting in an outdoor café and watching the people go by, or finding a small local market to see another country’s version of Corn Flakes, or Ketchup.   It is interesting to see the Greek widows who, after losing their husbands, dress in black for the rest of their lives.  Or the hipster twenty-somethings in the Paris metro with their pointy, colored hair and ultra-cool mix-and-match fashions.  I love to hear the local language all around me on a bus or on the street while I try to discern what a mother is saying to her child, or what two young teenagers are jabbering about. 

This is why I find this trip to Italy so disconcerting.  Since arriving in Rome earlier this week, and subsequently in Venice, I have heard and met more Americans than locals.  Normally, a European hotel is filled with travelers from many lands.  It is exciting to come downstairs for the “breakfast included” morning ritual just to take inventory of the countries represented.  But on this trip, our downtown Rome hotel was filled with Americans.  The wait staff in the dining room did not even bother to great us with a gratuitous “buon giorno”—they went right to “good morning.” 

Exasperated, I was anxious to board the train for Venice, hoping that the retreat to a less metropolitan area would equate to more down-home Italian authenticity.  Finding my seat on the train, I popped open the lid on my laptop to polish off a blog or two.  As I emerged from my “writerhead,” I began to tune into the conversations around me.  Once again, the familiar sounds of my native language dominated the airwaves!  I stood up, deciding that a trip to the restroom was a good pretense to walk the length of the car.  Amazingly, the fully booked coach was packed with Americans.

After checking into our Venice hotel, we did what most tour books recommend: we got lost in Venice.  Walking up and down tiny alleys until the sun set, we waited until the lights came on in the various ristorantes and trattorias.   We shunned any establishment looking out onto the Grand Canal as too touristy, trekking instead up the most unlikely alleys and taking every conceivable turn.  At last, we came to a sign hanging in the alley with no English menu or queue of Americans outside.   We were greeted by a polite Venetian who wished us a buona sera before leading us through several grotto-like rooms to a small table for two.  We reviewed the menu, happy to find an assortment of native seafood and fish not available at the Cambridge Summer Shack.

As we awaited our appetizers I glanced around the room and counted eleven tables.  All were full.  I looked from table to table, tuning in to the conversations and gestures.  There were the three college-age girls taking photos for Facebook with wine glasses raised.  There was the well-dressed couple beside us who ordered the whole fish but wanted only the fillets served to them.  There was the elderly couple who struggled to pull the tiny cockles from their shells onto the plate of pasta.  The British couple in the tweedy, uptight attire.  The man who looked like Ed Asner but had a very low voice.   The old man with the young bleached blonde companion.  The newlyweds.  The wine guzzlers.  The vegetarians.  The complainers.  And us.  Every word spoken in that dining room was English. 

At some point, my husband and I began to contemplate whether there are locals in these towns doing the work of everyday life.  Understandably, tourism is a big part of Venetian life, and I imagine that the slump in the American economy must have taken its toll on a place like this.  But Venice is such a gorgeous place.  It is a tragedy to think that so many people who live here do so in service to us. 

A Religious Experience

For me, a trip to the Vatican was not a pilgrimage of faith; it was the fulfillment of a lifelong journey of learning and discovery.  I have longed for the opportunity to visit the treasures that were commissioned for this place by those with the power and resources to do so.  Specifically, two of my most favorite works of art live here:  Raphael’s School of Athens and Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling. 

It is interesting that neither of these is Christian in subject.  It was a great surprise to discover how much of the art adorning the walls and halls of the Vatican properties was not Christian-themed.  It was also interesting—if not historically significant—to learn that while Michaelangelo and Raphael are well-represented, Leonardo daVinci is conspicuously absent in the Vatican.  Anyone who has read the daVinci code need not wonder why.

I had to force our tour guide to change her plans in order to see the Raphael rooms.  The flow of tour traffic is strictly regulated by guards throughout the Vatican.  Given where we entered, we could not easily incorporate Raphael into our circuit without trading it for “the ancients.”  It was worth it.

Raphael and Michelangelo were said to be competitors in their day.  There is much to suggest that Raphael had the opportunity to glance at the Sistine Chapel during the completion of his frescos.  What he saw overwhelmed him and pushed the quality of his art.  School of Athens is the beneficiary of this effort, as it is dramatically superior in quality than the frescos in the adjoining rooms, many of which are believed to be completed by others from Raphael’s workshop after his death at the tender age of 37.

Having only seen this masterpiece in art books, I was astounded by its scale.  Covering a large wall in a room that was used for dining, and positioning its focal point well over the heads of the occupants, the work is larger than life.  Depicting a debate between Plato and Aristotle—the former gesturing to the heavens while the latter looks to the Earth—it is set in an incongruously Roman setting with sharply defined architectural details.  Like many works of Renaissance art, this one holds many secrets.  The image of Plato is a portrait of Leonardo daVinci (ironic that he finds himself as a surprise guest at the Vatican); the others in the gallery depict notables from Raphael’s time.  Even Raphael himself is portrayed as a witness to this improbably scene.

While Raphael’s opportunity to cover the walls of several apartment rooms would have been a lucrative commission, it is regrettable that this was destined as a private space—never to be seen by the public.  Imagine the blow to the artist’s ego when he discovers that his painstaking masterpieces are to be sequestered in the plastered walls of a remote residence!  Michelangelo, by contrast, was given the ceiling of a chapel—a building that would be used by hundreds of people on a regular basis.  Initially, the two men were unaware of each other’s works, but when Raphael discovered Michelangelo’s good fortune, it fueled his jealousy and pushed his art.

I was unprepared for the impact of Michelangelo’s ceiling.  The Sistine Chapel is not a large building; nor is it particularly grand architecturally.  And by comparison to the overadorned, art-encrusted buildings throughout the Vatican, it is simple and understated.  Other than tours, the only use for this space is during conclave, when the College of Cardinals meets to choose the next Pope.  But for this highest of all purposes, they have saved the best of the best. 

Michelangelo was not a painter; he was a sculptor.  It is said that he was unhappy to have been pushed into accepting the chapel ceiling commission, but times being what they were, he was unable to refuse.  The irony is that his work does little to discount his worth as a painter—and this he does by revealing his sculptor’s eye, creating figures so three-dimensional they could have been carved from stone. Each body possesses such form and weight, a feat accomplished by the most skillful blending of pigments, that they seem in high relief against the background.  These are not the crowded, detailed, graphic Roman scenes we saw across rooms and rooms of frescoes and tapestries.  These are simple Biblical stories bathed in holy light.

I have seen the beautiful scene of Creation a thousand times in print:  Adam’s lifeless index finger about to be charged by the spark of G-d.  I was surprised to discover how much more this panel told me in person (once I put on my glasses so I could see it at its great distance from the floor.)  Michelangelo was a remarkable storyteller.  As Adam was created in G-d’s image, so this Adam is the very reflection of G-d.  Adam’s splayed out leg is parallel and exact in form to G-d’s own, their toes identical on identical feet.  Even through the draping of G-d’s figure, you can see that his physique is the model for Adam’s, his facial features clearly reflected in Adam’s younger countenance.  I can go on and on.

What impressed me most in Michelangelo’s tableau was the elegance and restraint.  Clearly he had access to the finest materials and pigments, but they were not shown off  by superfluous ornamentation.   These panels had the simplest of backgrounds while the subjects were focused and clear.  And like the sculptor that he was, he communicated everything through the figures themselves—through composition, gesture, expression, and pose.   The approach had a mixed media effect, clearly distinguishing it from anything that had come before and also from everything that has been accomplished since.

I found myself standing in the chapel in a kind of trance.  Despite the buzz of the crowd, I heard only angels singing.  Tears flowed uncontrollably from my eyes.  It was the emotion of having finally fulfilled one of my greatest dreams—a high entry on my personal bucket list.  I was awed by the genius of the sculptor as painter, by the physical and creative capital expended in the making of art, and by the enduring beauty and relevance of the resulting masterpiece.

There have been several efforts in modern times to digitize great works of art, making them “accessible” to all.  Seeing and studying an important painting online may be useful for educational purposes.  But for a truly religious experience, visit the great masterpieces of the world up close and personal.

Pasta Perfecto

I am a serious foodie.  I love to cook, I watch Food Network, I shop specialty food stores, and I read cookbooks as if they were novels.  Interestingly, although I have eaten many delicious foods in many lands, I cannot recall more than a few where the memory of the flavor experience has lingered to this day.   Sure, I can name my favorite burger joint, or my favorite dessert confection.  I love a good New York bagel, the traditional Ottoman foods in Istanbul, the cake-like pitas and hummus in Israel, and good Memphis barbeque.  And yes, I have been known to take a $40 taxi ride uptown in Manhattan to buy black-and-white cookies at Nussbaum and Wu. 

Many of my favorite food memories are not just about the food; they are colored by the occasion, or the ambiance, or by the company of my companions.  So when I tell you about an incredible meal I had last night, please believe me that I have tried to separate the food on my plate and the way it lingered on my tongue from the incredible circumstance of its presentation.  It is true that last night was my first night in Italy.  I was near exhaustion from a long day and night of travel.  Upon our early morning arrival we began a pre-arranged tour that had us firing our reserve engines.  We were already on sensory overload from unexpectedly discovering Michelangelo’s Moses in the unassuming Church of St. Peter in Chains.  Practically brain dead from nearly 24–hours of activity, we took our tour guide’s recommendation and headed for a small trattoria off the Piazza Barberini e Fontana del Tritone.

At 7:40pm, we were the first people seated in this small establishment.  Inside the entrance a small host stand was stacked with menus and a giant bowl of prepared, marinated whole artichokes a la Romana.  The waiters wore cream-colored dinner jackets, which caused them to disappear against the cream table linens.  When we were shown to our table, I noticed that nearly every one had a small placard declaring “Reserva.”  

The menu offered straightforward Italian fare featuring an attractive yet predictable selection of appetizers, pasta courses, meat and grill dishes, and desserts.  But ‘tagliolini e tartufo bianco’ (egg pasta with white truffles) jumped out at me from among the other selections.   A bowl of this pasta with a glass of wine was all I needed.   And it did not disappoint.

With little fanfare, my simple bowl of pasta arrived.  The pasta took on a lemon-yellow hue, looking so delicate and fresh I would believe it was mixed and rolled and cut to order.  The parmesan was nicely incorporated, probably tossed in the pan with a little pasta water until it infused the noodles with salty cheese flavor without leaving behind any chunky residue.  Then, over top, was a sprinkling of white truffles sliced as thin as gossamer wings.  Whereas many restaurants douse their pastas with odorous truffle oils, it was a treat to get the real thing.  There was no skimping on this shy fungus; it declared itself the main ingredient with a bold whisper.

Like all great meals, my dish caressed my nose long before the promise of its flavor reached my tongue.  I prefer white truffles to black ones, their glorious flavor is assertive yet softer on the palate.  The delicate pasta was the perfect platform for its aromatic star, accented by the briny parmesan sauce.  Rolled on my fork, the trio came together for the perfect bite.  My tongue wanted to possess it always, but my throat fought greedily for its share.  Little by little, the treasure-adorned pasta disappeared until it was nothing but a memory.  I dreamed of it all night.  I awoke still tasting it on my lips.  At today’s lunch, I pulled up its photo on my iphone, and then somewhat ashamedly flipped to pictures of my children. 

This was no ordinary bowl of pasta.  It was the pasta of my heart.  For me, it will forever be that legendary love that many girls find on their first visit to Italy.   I was not looking for this kind of love, and I am somewhat relieved that my husband didn’t mind.  In fact, I let him share it with me.

To Rome, With My Love

Give in at last to sacred pilgrimage!

A journey to reveal what books ignite,

My feet can’t wait to tread upon the bridge

To ancient ruins, bathed in Roman light.

Here, Caesar came and saw and conquered all--

A mighty empire stretched across the land,

Carrera marble figures deck the hall,

As Renaissance reshapes the painter's hand.

So woven with the past, the here and now,

Boasts culinary feasts of food and wine--

What better place to celebrate our vow?

As star-crossed love is bent to realign.

I go with grace, adventure far from home,

To taste, at last, the splendor that is Rome.

The Horowitz Steinway

(This blog was written on October 1, 2012, which marks the 109^th birthday of legendary Russian-born pianist Vladimir Horowitz.)

I am of a generation of pianists that grew up worshipping two great legends:  Artur Rubinstein and Vladimir Horowitz.  Rubinstein stopped performing publicly while I was a teenager, but I was fortunate to see Vladimir Horowitz perform twice in my life.  Horowitz made many recordings during his lifetime—many of live performances—but none capture the electricity of seeing him perform live on stage. 

Horowitz came to Miami while I was in high school to perform a solo recital in the Dade Country Auditorium.  The tickets were very dear, but my parents allowed me to use the money I had saved from babysitting to purchase a single ticket.  Calling the box office, my mother procured a seat for me that turned out to be in the last row of the balcony, four seats off the aisle.  She dropped me off in front of the auditorium and I found my way to this nosebleed section where, as it turned out, all the starving students were sitting.  The diminutive figure of the artist was a tiny speck from such a distance, but when he sat down to play on the huge Steinway, the room filled with velvety fireworks of color.   I did not need a front row seat; the music touched me as if it were played for me alone.  I only regretted that I could not see the gymnastic hands that defied all I ever learned about finger technique.   Surely he was touched by an angel to be able to play such demanding works without a perceptible movement from the rest of his body.

At the end of the planned program the hall erupted in a frenzy.  The audience began chanting until the maestro returned, sitting down to extend the performance or to allow us to witness his warm down routine—I know not which.  He played some Chopin Mazurkas and some Scriabin, each piece an occasion for the audience to chant louder.   “Sousa!  Sousa!” they yelled, begging the artist to treat us to his signature encore—Stars and Stripes Forever in a piano transcription of his own design.  Eventually, he gave in graciously, beginning with the familiar call of the brass section that we all know from Fourth of July celebrations.  The roar was so loud that audience members instantly began shushing each other lest we miss the occasion completely.  It was a display of virtuosity that has been rarely equaled at any performance I have attended.

Years later, Horowitz came to Boston to perform a recital in Symphony Hall—on my birthday.  My husband of just three months surprised me with tickets to the performance.  If I wasn’t already smitten with his blue eyes and red hair and bound to him through all eternity, this one gesture would have pushed me over the edge.  I can no longer remember the detailed program except that Horowitz ended with the Chopin g-minor Ballade—a piece that was as prominent in my own performance repertoire as it was notorious in his.  The finale of this piece—two pages of sheer technicality configured unlike anything written for the piano—can make a pianist insane.  Horowitz’ performance made me cry—for the tempo, for the integrity, for the sheer brilliance of his mastery of the instrument.

Horowitz passed away in 1989.  I remember being struck by the knowledge that I would never again be able to witness one of his extraordinary performances in recital, the amazing performances caressing my ear and igniting my senses.  I wondered what a new generation of pianists would be like growing up as musicians but unable to experience a Horowitz concert in a live hall.  For me, it was the day the music died—a defining moment in musical history, the end of an era.

Not long after his death, word reached me through my Atlanta piano tuner that Horowitz’ own Steinway concert grand was on tour across the United States.   He put me in touch with the Steinway gallery owner who arranged for me to spend an hour before business hours playing this piano.  As it turns out, this piano—known only as CD 503—was custom made to Horowitz’ own specifications.  It was the only piano on which he played, whether practicing in his own apartment or on tour around the world.

I had a 3-week lead time before my rendezvous with the Horowitz Steinway.  I took time off from work to practice, not having played regularly for close to a decade.  I decided that I would play Chopin pieces that I had heard Horowitz play himself.  Of course, I had to resurrect the g-minor Ballade.  Early on the appointed Saturday morning, my husband and I set out for the Steinway store.  The piano sat prominently in the middle of the showroom while all the lesser models cowered in the corners.  The baby grands and uprights looked very much as if they were intimidated by this giant instrument, which was almost as legendary as the man who played it.

I sat down hesitantly, fingering a few notes.  The keys sprung to action under my touch like no piano I had ever played.  Instantly, I attacked the enigmatic opening of the Ballade, finding it easy to shape the phrase much as Horowitz had.  The quiet section that followed, so difficult in its simplicity to play without affect, again bowed to my command.  Easing into the body of the piece, I found it effortless to play—in fact, effortless to play LIKE HOROWITZ.  There was something about this piano—it fit my tiny hands, it responded to my out of practice fingers.

I later learned that this piano was indeed a special instrument.  It was constructed with keys that were imperceptibly narrower than a standard piano, allowing the fingers to grasp giant chords and passages with less strain across the hand.  The action had been optimized to perfection, making the barest pianissimo and the grandest fortissimo easily attainable.  If I had the opportunity to perform with such an instrument, and the means to carry it with me wherever I went, I, too, could have been a great artist.

As incredible as it was to have this private audience with this beautiful instrument, I have always had my misgivings.  It was a bit like discovering that the wizard behind the curtain was just a simple man from Kansas.  Nonetheless, it was exciting when Barbara, the gallery owner, came running out of the back room exclaiming that I sounded just like Horowitz himself.  And it was a rare thrill to know that as I played my beloved Ballade, I was running my fingers through the same paces in the same spaces as one of the greatest masters of all time.

The Yeah, Yeah Sisterhood

While attending a baby shower for a young friend, it was a bit disconcerting to realize that I was among the oldest women in the room.  Although my youngest will turn 20 in a few weeks, I still think of my kids as children, remembering their entrances into the world as if they occurred only yesterday.  Surprisingly, I was not depressed by this realization that I have now logged so many years; I was merely amazed by the persistence of nature and tickled by the joy that life brings as it renews itself.  Mothers know, as no man could, that this rhythm of life is our immortality—a continuous sisterhood that reaches across the globe.

It was surprising to see how much has changed since I was a young mother.  Many of the gadgets and devices upon which I depended to sooth, comfort, cradle, and rock my children have now been struck down as unsafe.  We strapped our babies into tight carriers of thick cotton—an outer womb, of sorts—sacrificing our backs as the little ones grew to toddlers.  Now, these products come in breathable materials with ergonomic features and back support.  But despite all the new technologies and wonder-fabrics, a pair of hand-made booties still brings us all to our knees.  Nothing conjures the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ as the mental image of one experienced mother working her needle to feather a nest for an expectant grandchild.  With each stitch, we feel not only the promise of love for the next generation, we recognize the continuity from generations past—a magic thread that connects mother to child and mother to child.

The lovely brunch was an interesting counterpoint to a new BBC showed that premiered on PBS later that night.  Call the Midwife is a fascinating chronicle of a young girl, set in the East End of London during the 50s, who has recently completed her training as a midwife.  She is sent to what she thinks is a hospital, only to find herself—an Anglican—living in a convent.  There, she and a few other young midwives, serve the fertile women of this socioeconomically-strapped community. 

Through the young midwife Jenny, who rides her bicycle through the fog and squalor, we are shown the power of women to overcome their circumstances.  Featured was a beautiful Spanish woman, Conchita, who was a souvenir of her husband’s tour of duty in the Spanish Civil War.  She speaks no English and he no Spanish, but this has not stopped then from producing 24 children—the current pregnancy making 25.  Jenny attends her labor after Conchita falls and suffers a concussion—forcing her into labor at 30 weeks.  Another young mother of three (her son pisses on everything because he has no pants) discovers a special gift from her husband—a large syphilitic lesion that spells disaster for the baby she is now carrying. 

Every home these midwives visit is strewn with sheets and diapers, suggesting that in addition to feeding their broods, these women are enslaved by the endless chores that surround the children they must bear.   It is interesting to note the prevalence of cigarette smoking among these young mothers, a detail that adds to our sensory overload as we imagine the layers of dirt and practically smell the pervasive odors (remember the child who pisses on everything).

As we admire these young midwives for their strength and their calling—a gift of the National Health Service, we are told—we are encouraged not to think of them as the heroes of the story.  It is the mothers, they tell us, who are the real heroes.  These women, who make the best of the domestic situations they are dealt, endure the wills of their husbands and the limits of their finances to bring forth life under the most challenging circumstances.  They are inexhaustible, radiant lights in the lives of innocent children, doing for them what no others would accept wages to do.  It is this strength, found uniquely and magically in motherhood, which keeps the world going.

Wireless Has Its Wires Crossed

Wireless service carriers seem to encompass an economy all their own, exempt of most standards of fair play.  I was an early adopter of portable phone technology, having been graced with a car-phone-in-a-bag as a present for a thirty-something birthday.  Over the years, these phones have become untethered, smaller, lighter, and smarter.  The one thing they have never become is cheaper.  Despite spiraling technological advances that make nanochips virtually free, the promise of “more for less” cannot seem to win a battle against the need to continuously increase corporate profits.

It started with nearly-free phones.   Wireless service providers care only about recurring service revenue streams, so they started to give phones away just to get people to sign service contracts.  Then a funny thing happened.  People stopped using the phone part and started flooding every available inch of bandwidth with texts.  The phone itself became an important personal appliance, multitasking so many of life’s trivial details.  Eventually, the phone became a platform, the competitive feature that distinguished service providers.  Consumers chose providers by the coolness factor of the phones that were compatible with their services.  Even Apple was forced to give in to Verizon, marrying the most sought-after phone with the most ubiquitous service carrier.

Then, the technology of phones began spiraling out of control, creating new “must-haves” every fifteen minutes.  The business shifted away from capturing new cell phone users and signing up new customers.  The market is now glutted with people who swear allegiance to a preferred carrier lest they suffer a $175 termination fee.  All we want is the latest and greatest new phone.  That’s when wireless carriers got cocky.  Phones are no longer incentives for attracting customers.  They are torture devices with which to abuse existing customers, causing us to jump through whatever hoops they throw in our path just to get our hands on the latest phone.  We have all become slaves to the “eligible for upgrade” date on our contracts, counting the months and days until we can renew ourselves with the latest “precious.” 

This system works well enough for most people; but like all things in our society there is an oppressed minority lurking under the surface.  The moms of the world are suffering under a cell-phone-dominated regime.   Women like me, who anchor a share plan that extends to their kids, are exploited to their own detriment.  Until very recently, I carried an LG flip phone with 9-key texting ability devoid of smart features while my children sported iPhones and Blackberrys.  What could I do?  Their friends all drive Porsches!  

We had staggered upgrade dates on our phones, always anticipating an upgrade window in the near future.  Eagerly, I planned my ascent into modern times, hoping that when the next upgrade date arrived I could finally have a device with a colored screen and a full texting keyboard.  I always knew the exact date, counting silently and patiently as it approached and trying not to jinx it.  But without fail, when the date arrived, one of my kids would have a phone disaster:  this one had theirs stolen on campus, that one dropped theirs in the toilet.   My dreams were dashed, causing me to bury my dumb device deep into my purse with shame as I allowed my children to beam with joy at their hip new phones.  It was sad, but it was also my own fault.  There is nothing I won’t do for my kids.

Last year, as my baby was leaving for college with a cracked screen on her blackberry and intermittently-performing buttons, I called Verizon to see what was available.  All kids need to start college with a clean slate, I reasoned.  We were able to get a comparable phone for a reasonable price, but once again an upgrade slot was stolen from me, pushing out the next upgrade date deep into 2013.  Exasperated, I broke down, whining and whimpering to the sympathetic saleswoman about my dashed hopes and crushed dreams.  I so wanted an iPhone.  I had been a customer of theirs for 13 years, I argued, and I was still using a phone I acquired 8, maybe 9 years earlier.  I explained that every upgrade had gone to my children; while away at college I needed them to have capabilities that made it easy to receive frequent texts from me.  Surely I wasn’t the only mother in this predicament.  Surely they had heard this tune before. 

My pleas did not fall on deaf ears.  This sales person was a mother herself and she understood.  She put me on hold for a very long time, but when she came back on the line she told me that her manager had authorized an iPhone for me at the discounted price.  I was not entitled to an upgrade, but they made an exception.  The corporate giant had a momentary lapse into humanity.  I swore allegiance up and down as they explained that the new contract terms had upped the early termination fee from $175 to $350.  I did not mind the $30 per month charge for each smartphone on top of the $120 monthly service fee.  I paid an extra fee to buy unlimited text for us all.  I did not care what it cost; I wanted ‘happy’ and discovered that there was, indeed, an app for that!

But that was last year.  Now there is a new beauty in town and I want her number: “5”.  I bit the bullet and placed the call to Verizon to discover what fresh hell I must endure.  Whatever love I had for them a year ago was quickly forgotten as I was treated to a laundry list of can’ts and won’ts.  My existing contract, which I had agreed to keep until the next millennium, is no longer valid.  To get a new phone I must switch to a new plan with a new list of terms and conditions.  Gone is the unlimited text plan.  I must now purchase cyberspace by the gigabyte.  If I do not purchase a healthy enough plan, the cost for inadvertently exceeding the allowance is twice the price of purchasing the next level of coverage.  And now when you upgrade a phone on the allowed upgrade date, they charge a $35 “activation fee.”   This is basically a tax on exercising your right to purchase a new phone.  I guess Verizon figured out that while the hardware vendors were discounting the phones, the service providers were doing all the work of the upgrades.  And the most fascinating part of all is that while the discounted iPhone is only $199, they charge sales tax on the full retail price of the phone.

Choking down the remorse I knew I would feel and rationalizing that my birthday is just around the corner, I agreed to everything and ordered my new iPhone 5, determined to enjoy the status of having the best phone in the family (when it finally ships next month).  I added up the list of charges and considered what type of car such a monthly payment could secure.  I thought of the poorer neighborhoods through which I have driven, noting how often I see kids with better phones than mine.  What does it say about us as a society that we put so much emphasis on these little power boxes?  What power does technology wield to defy all reason, to upend priorities, to shift our human values?  It was then I realized that I do not need this silly toy.  I picked up the phone to cancel my order.  As I slid the lock open and searched the recent call list, I planned a graceful retreat that would restore order to my life and self-respect to my aura.

But just as quietly, I hit End before the call went through.  I shook my head, took a deep breath, and went back to work.