Confessions of the World’s Oldest Hippie
No graceful aging for this 92-year-old. Not when dating, dining out, and salsa classes in her city of choice continue to beckon.
By Gertrude Faust Berger
My foolproof philosophy, whenever anything untoward happened, was “Fugedabouddit.” This was my version of Nietzsche’s claim that we’re all limited by our own perspectives. So when the pavement under my feet suddenly had more potholes, when traffic lights changed too fast, and clocks had to be reset after it seemed I had just done so, I felt only subliminally uneasy. It even seemed inconsequential when I walked into a room and wondered why I had gone in there.
It was a bus driver who really unnerved me. I had always been asked for an ID when I slid my half-fare Metro Card into the slot, but the request came to an abrupt stop when this man took one perfunctory glance at me. Two young men offered me their seats, and I rationalized they were from another culture where it was the custom to be gallant to ladies. I couldn’t help wondering why the steps had been lowered for me. I was energetic and in great shape, far better than the obese driver. When an elderly lady holding a free ugly Medicare cane insisted that I deserved the vacated seat, I took it because I wanted her to feel good. Nothing was stopping me from living la dolce vita. I was busy shopping for one of those ubiquitous flouncy skirts. I had loved them decades ago and was happy to see they’d made a comeback, despite my daughter’s usual dictum: “You’re not the age and you’re not the size.”
Closing in on my 90th year, every mirror I passed called for a face inspection. After reading an article by Joan Rivers, I decided to visit a plastic surgeon. It didn’t take him long to explain that I wasn’t a suitable candidate. (Did I look too good or too bad?) But, handing me two business cards, he recommended that I visit two of his friends – a dentist who would make me a cheerful new set of the now popular bulky dentures, and an Alexander-technique fitness trainer who would correct my posture and improper gait.
A sensible solution, it seemed to me, was going to my neighborhood gym, though I’d never stupidly climb those fake steps that led to nowhere. I loved my tailored routine, moderate but exhilarating, and when I was finished the neighborhood bar lured me in with its smiling happy-hour sign. The two gentlemen already there were beyond disappointed to see me – not exactly a young leggy blonde with V-neck blouse cut down to the navel. It didn’t matter that I was charming and bright – even able to discuss sports and steroids – and had already paid for my Cuba Libre.
I don’t know how other women feel about being addressed as “ma’am” or “madam” but it incenses me. It sounds patronizing, condescending, and worst of all, a reference to my age. So when a clerk in the upscale store where I bought a headscarf pelted me with: “Yes ma’am, no ma’am, and ma’am, we do not carry polyester,” I lost my cool. I had wanted the headscarf not only because they were very much in vogue, but also what a boon for bad-hair days! “Tell me, my dear sir,” I said, emphasizing “my dear sir” as the “ma’am” equivalent, “is there a required age for one to be addressed as ‘ma’am’? Would you call my granddaughter ma’am?” He looked at me stolidly and nonplussed, and I felt a queasy victory as I left with my prestigious little bag. Fugedabouddit. A bottle of Clairol and a pair of tweezers to evict the hairs that had migrated down to my chin would be my next purchases.
The next morning I woke up with severe hip and back pain. Were the fabulous fitness machines to blame? Maybe God was punishing me for being nasty to the scarf salesman. After the usual rest, useless X-rays, and painkillers, I forced myself to attend a salsa class because I had already paid for it. Miraculously, it cured me.
But deep inside I started to feel less immortal. For one thing, I had given up traveling solo. It was my last trip to Gondar that was responsible. I had already traveled the world and could truly say: “Been there, done that.” But I was determined to see the Falasha Jews in Gondar, Ethiopia. They were a lost tribe of black Jews who were living as they had 2,000 years ago. Having not made a hotel reservation because doing so seemed too restricting, I found myself room-less. Who would have thought the only two small hotels in Gondar would be fully occupied by Japanese and German tour groups?
The solicitous cab driver who took me to see the Falashas drove futilely around before depositing me with considerable reluctance in front of a ramshackle structure. The derelict-looking “concierge” took me to a lock-less room and said I could pay when I left. It must have been a shelter, because all night long there were knocks at my door. I piled my luggage against that door and sat on it as I heard men importuning me to let them in. I prayed until dawn, at which point I was exultant to see a parade of bearded old men in white sheets, walking their camels.
The Falashas themselves seemed disappointingly primitive. The women sat cross-legged on the ground making injera, their bread, which resembled a gray rubber pancake. They looked at me with wary eyes and covered their faces when I took out my camera. There was a miniscule room in which four or five children were reciting Hebrew. Since their teacher spoke only Amharic and Hebrew, my visit was useless.
What I miss most about traveling are the summers spent years ago as an escort for “Teen Tours Abroad.” I almost lost my first job when the kids read my name, “Gertrude,” which conjured up images of a crabby old crone. They even went so far as to call the tour agency to complain, and there might have been some validity to their concern since I wasn’t too far from collecting Social Security. Some of the brighter ones remembered that Gertrude was Hamlet’s mother, which didn’t help my image. But my dangly earrings and unconventional attire at the pre-tour meeting extinguished their anxiety.
Lest anyone think I now accept graceful aging, fugedabouddit. Jeffrey is my new travel mate. He was one of the kids on my summer teen tour, 1972. His mother distanced herself if not totally abandoned him on account of his sexual preferences, and he has been my close friend ever since. He doesn’t mind traveling with me and my folding cane, and I adore going with him. He loves shopping and eating, and greatly appreciates the benefits we get from my knowledge of foreign languages. We recently visited Djerba, Tunisia, the homeland of Jews who had settled there centuries ago. Their synagogue, the oldest in the world, was in the news after being bombed.
My last romance (I hope the word also means latest) began in a health-food shop. An immaculately dressed gentleman younger than myself politely asked me to read the list of ingredients on a vitamin bottle. He apologized for his macular degeneration. After an amiable chat about the pros and cons of organic food, he invited me to dinner. Somewhat surprised, I happily accepted, especially since he preferred ethnic restaurants, as do I.
Shortly after we arrived at the Rosa Mexicano, Abe went to the bathroom. He made the same trip several times. Outspoken as I am, I asked whether it was the spicy food or his prostate that triggered such frequent visits to the john. He explained that it had been all the water his doctor told him to drink after his stent-implantation surgery, at which point he whipped out a highly organized pill-container and popped a baby aspirin.
During our courvoisier, Abe put his arm affectionately around my shoulder and told me I was the kind of woman he was looking for. A retired architect who was financially solvent from a large inheritance, he suggested a weekend trip to the Bahamas. All I could think about was my long-forgotten CPR course and the availability of Bahama bathrooms. I confessed that I liked him a lot and would love to be “friends,” adding that I was a great holistic and ethnic cook with an unusual collection of music. I gave him my phone number and never heard from him again.
Recently, by simply filling out a card, I attended a free dinner sponsored by an investment firm. The dinner was superb – but not the subsequent phone calls from financial counselors. Feeling guilty about refusing them, I agreed to a visit from a representative of a well-known funeral home who had spoken about the advantages of pre-paying one’s own funeral. Well-dressed, bejeweled, and upbeat, he enumerated from his stack of papers all the benefits I would receive from the E.R. to the Resurrection. Feeling sick and chain smoking, I emerged from my daze at his mention of the bargain price – $7,000 – which includes neither the digging (of the hole) nor the tombstone. Appalled, I managed a few words: “I’ll think about it.” Then he was off, not so upbeat now. The only burial I wanted was for his stack of stupid papers.
When I sit on my wonderful high-rise toilet seat, which my late friend Mildred gave me when I complained about the horrible new low ones my building installed to save water, I am reminded of how she always used to call me “The World’s Oldest Hippie.” I didn’t mind a bit. But when she asked me what I was trying to prove by “acting young,” I didn’t feel quite so openhearted.
These days, I’m a tourist in New York City with its UN of restaurants: Chinatown, Little India, Moscow in Brighton, Little Italy, Koreatown … Where will I have dinner? Despite my gracelessly aging knees, it ain’t gonna be any 4 o’clock early-bird special. That’s cocktail time.
