Marking Territory

Our balcony is no longer safe.

The woman whose fire escape looks over our garden keeps plants on the rickety stairwell. She waters those plants in the late afternoon. And, as we recently found out while trying to watch Jon Stewart one sticky evening, she waters those plants topless. This is not a once in a blue moon occurance. She climbs out through the window, waters the plants topless, disappears--perhaps she realized she was wearing too little--and reappears... topless. Inside, out, through the window.

Should I be surprised?

I am simply horrified for the poor children in the gardens below. And annoyed that my nighttime tv is interrupted by a fire escape show.

ICTY in NYC

In a throwback to my Hague days, I joined other international criminal justice enthusiasts on Tuesday night at the Human Rights Watch Film Festival to take in a documentary featuring updates on Ms. del Ponte's famed prosecutions.

Carla's List tracks the Prosecutor's careful and impassioned search for those accused of war crimes in the conflict that acted as a catalyst for the break-up of the former Yugoslavia. Apparently, the List is down to four--an amazing feat, given that Carla's team has no police force to round up indictees. This lack of teeth is not uncommon in the world of international institutions, but it may be the only way through which to encourage states to become party to these organizations. The International Criminal Court has begun to feel the burden of this mode of enforcement with its outstanding arrest warrants for five members of Uganda's Lord's Resistance Army, a Sudanese rebel leader and Sudan's Minister for Humanitarian Affairs.

Two of the four on Carla's List are considered big ticket items; Mladic and Karadzic are charged with orchestrating and carrying out the Srebenica massacre in 1995. Milosevic passed away in his cell before he could be convicted. So these two Most Wanteds are Carla's current hope for a high-publicity, international norm-shifting trial.

Sitting in the Walter Reade theater at the Lincoln Center for the Arts in New York City, thousands of miles away from where these crimes were allegedly committed, I only wish that the film delved deeper in to the lives of the victims, the consequences of international negligence and complicity--and the way the world could be changed should international law be followed and enforced by the great powers.

A Bocce Bar

Nearing summer, we, in New York City, found ourselves with more hours of daylight than expected. And after that moody winter, it was about time. Broadway called. Frank Bruni reviewed a new restaurant every week. And the quaint bars of Brooklyn begged to be discovered. We gave in.

Our first challenge: choosing where to go.

In honor of Little Matt's 33rd birthday, we took to the streets of North Park Slope, a hip, gentrified, pram-laden neighborhood named for its incline up to Prospect Park, arguably the heartbeat of the borough. We had our choice of chocolate cafes, hot dog bars, and dives specializing in Australian grub. From a long list, Little Matt chose Union Hall. Why? Perhaps for its tall glass façade or its close resemblance to a library. (Yes, a library—with candles and beer.)

Shelves of biographies—which Fonda is that?—and encyclopedic volumes lined each inch of wall not taken up by the bar. As we slid into upholstered armchairs, I tugged at a blue leather-bound book. “Solving terrorism in 1974.” Well, I guess it’s an age-old problem.

New York City and its institutions define themselves by their quirks, so the academia-inspired ambiance did not throw us, but the constant miniature oddities sure did. As we clustered around the mahogany table, we examined the menu, and the boys were stoked to see canned Tecate on the drinks list. (I believe “Sweeeeet” was the exact response.) I ordered a cider, but not without contemplating the cookies and milk option. Little folding TV dinner tables rested in the corners for those who did choose to indulge.

Behind us, commanding about a third of the clientele’s attention, were the bocce courts. I first was exposed to the revival of bocce in the United States when my parents signed up to compete in the Danville league, and when new sand alleys were opened at Sycamore field. But the revolution’s existence and reach was realized when it became the object of affection of high-heeled darlings on a Saturday night in New York City.

Another third of the clientele could be found downstairs, where live music is performed and where live music must be kept (don’t wake the neighbors!).

And when a third of the clientele seemed to stand between us and the bartender, we headed out, stopping only outside the restrooms, where we laughed at the welcoming sign taped to the door. “Both. Think: airplane.”

Last Night

Somebody somewhere was setting off fireworks. I could hear them through the open screen door and wondered what exactly was being celebrated on the sixteenth of June. Perhaps it was only thunder? It definitely rumbled.

It stopped soon thereafter. Maybe it was a fire and my ears just wanted to hear glory instead of terror. I walked around the block to make sure I wouldn't perish foolishly in my sleep. "But she knew!" they'd say, "And she didn't leave the apartment!" Tragic, I know. My block seemed safe. The pouty sky hung overhead, a few persistant stars were visible if you squinted at just the right moment. And the campanile, the armory, guarded the end of the street, the stone statue of some soldier from some war frozen in front of it. That statue of a soldier, that shadow with a gun.