It’s an odd time to be feeling rejuvenated. The federal police in military fatigues have been throwing people into unmarked vans; the war against science rages on, this time by the sidelining of the CDC; some Americans are railing against face masks as their countrymen die from a virulent virus. So I suppose it’s a kind of guilty rejuvenation I’m feeling.
Yet one wearies of anger and horror and pessimism. As Hasan Minhaj says, we wake up daily, look at our phones, and take an espresso shot of anxiety. Let’s just say I’ve had caffeine tremors of late.
Finally, last week, I did what Papa taught us to do: I grabbed my husband and headed to the woods. Just three days, two people, one mission: to commune with nature. Our daughters didn’t want to go. They needed a break from us. And to be honest, we, from them. Three teenage girls in one house, for months — it’s not for the faint of heart.
We headed to Kirkwood, a small ski resort perched at 8,000 feet in the Sierras, past Eldorado National Forest, where Papa used to take us camping. The camping trips — two, three per summer — became the excursions through which we got to know our American family and American ways. There in the campsites, my cousin Punam, a Girl Scout, taught us to do the hokey pokey and put the right body part in. After a naan-and-chana-masala dinner, we made s’mores and sang Hindi songs to the campfire and…
