It happened in Saks
In New York, His Holiness stayed at the Waldorf Astoria in midtown -- ornate, expensive, a bit fusty and overstuffed. Our parents' or maybe our grandparents' idea of urban luxury. The visit team had rented the entire 32nd floor, with a several-roomed master suite for His Holiness and a few dozen other rooms for various and sundry lamas, rinpoches, Tibetan dignitaries, Seattle visit staff and a couple of burly body guards invariably dressed in the most conservative dark suits.
Over the weekend, I was assigned to three attending shifts with Ashe-la, His Holiness' sister, a lovely, shy young nun. One of nine children, she had been on a three-month pilgrimage to India when His Holiness fled Tibet for Dharamsala in 1999. Now, she lives there near him.
Passing through security, stepping into the hall that led, on the right, to His Holiness' suite, knowing I was becoming part of his household was quietly exciting. I love the domestic details: digging out silver trays, pouring tea, setting out food, watching out for whomever needed seconds, clearing up. Long ago, I remember, serving the Vidyadhara was a heightened and nerve-wracking experience. In a way, it was all very simple -- take the tray, enter the room, sidle up to him and set the glass or plate before him. He would, very likely, look up, catch your eye, maybe nod, maybe ask a question. It was all in the atmosphere, the full and exposed feeling of being there with him. Crossing the floor to get to him felt like crossing a bare, open stage. A friend remembers serving him once, and bringing out a tray with a plate of shrimp. His hand was shaking so much and jiggling the plate that a shrimp jumped right out onto the floor.
Friday morning, a week ago, His Holiness, Ashe-la and others explored New York. They toured the Met museum, the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art, the 9/11 tribute center, where His Holiness looked at photos of victims and, at the curator’s request, said some prayers.
The afternoon, however, was vastly quieter. It was raining and chilly. Ashe-la, feeling a bit sick, retired to bed. I kibitzed with the volunteers in the operations living room -- the kasung, the planners, the directors, the people in charge of the household, all gathering for intense little caucuses or sweeping off to fix something or buy something or check something.
I borrowed an umbrella and pushed my way up through the crowds on Lexington Avenue to buy Gatorade at a Rite-Aid, and, back at the Waldorf, called room service and insisted that even though it wasn't on the menu, they could, too, prepare her some fresh ginger tea. All it would take was grated ginger, boiling water and a teapot. And so the afternoon passed, the evening and the afternoon of my first serving shift. Sometime -- often -- nothing much happens at all.
***
On Sunday afternoon, Ashe-la went shopping. Banana Republic. Saks. Macy's.
At first, she wanted a mall. Even in Dharamsala, it seems, there are malls. But Manhattan has no malls -- just its confusion of streets and crowds and midtown department stores. The limo driver, an Egyptian immigrant and quintessential New York character who boasted of his travels to 38 countries and 45 states smirked a bit while explaining that Manhattan isn't like the rest of America, that malls don't exist here.
Ashe-la had a strong sense of thrift but an eye for quality -- she could spot an item rich in yun from several steps away. This was, furthermore, her first time in New York, her first time in big city stores with floor after floor of jackets and dresses and shirts and scarves and shoes -- rack after bewildering rack. She moved rapidly, gracefully, quietly through the welter of wearables -- peering intently and touching things lightly here and there. In Macy's, she passed among the dense clothes racks so quickly that Lama Tenzin and I kept losing her and had to call one another on our cell phones, to keep her in sight.
Lama Tenzin, young and immensely good-humored, followed her around the stores with a big smile. He wasn't buying a thing for himself -- but he was clearly having a great time just looking at the clothes, watching the people, grinning at the $2000 slips of silk on the floor with the designer dresses we passed through for fun. Everything about the shopping seemed fun to him.
New Yorkers, who are way too cool to stare openly at any celebrity or unusual looking person, instead gazed askance at Lama Tenzin in his monk's robes and Ashe-la in her more subdued long maroon chuba. "Are you here with the brown hat lama?" asked a man on the elevator. "Black hat," said Lama Tenzin. "Brown hat, black hat, red hat," the man replied. "I don't know which is which."
In Macy's, an elderly shoe clerk cornered Lama Tenzin to discuss the lives of Tibetan siddhas. He had never meditated, he said, and belonged to no dharma group. But he had been reading biographies of Indian mahasiddhas for years: Tilopa, Naropa, Marpa, Milarepa. "He knew all of them," said Lama Tenzin. "He was telling me about the trials of Naropa."
The highlight of the afternoon was Ashe-la's discovery of the perfect shirts for His Holiness. It happened in Saks. There they were, on a manikin deep in the men's ware section. She picked out three gorgeous shirt, all the same style -- with collars and short sleeves in a silk and linen blend. One was a subdued red, close enough to maroon to be suitable. The other two were quiet yellow -- lama yellow. They were loose and breezy looking, and while clearly excellent quality, they were not especially expensive. They were the kind of buy that makes an afternoon of shopping feel really satisfying. Shirts for the Karmapa! If I am lucky, I will someday see him wearing one.
Over the weekend, I was assigned to three attending shifts with Ashe-la, His Holiness' sister, a lovely, shy young nun. One of nine children, she had been on a three-month pilgrimage to India when His Holiness fled Tibet for Dharamsala in 1999. Now, she lives there near him.
Passing through security, stepping into the hall that led, on the right, to His Holiness' suite, knowing I was becoming part of his household was quietly exciting. I love the domestic details: digging out silver trays, pouring tea, setting out food, watching out for whomever needed seconds, clearing up. Long ago, I remember, serving the Vidyadhara was a heightened and nerve-wracking experience. In a way, it was all very simple -- take the tray, enter the room, sidle up to him and set the glass or plate before him. He would, very likely, look up, catch your eye, maybe nod, maybe ask a question. It was all in the atmosphere, the full and exposed feeling of being there with him. Crossing the floor to get to him felt like crossing a bare, open stage. A friend remembers serving him once, and bringing out a tray with a plate of shrimp. His hand was shaking so much and jiggling the plate that a shrimp jumped right out onto the floor.
Friday morning, a week ago, His Holiness, Ashe-la and others explored New York. They toured the Met museum, the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art, the 9/11 tribute center, where His Holiness looked at photos of victims and, at the curator’s request, said some prayers.
The afternoon, however, was vastly quieter. It was raining and chilly. Ashe-la, feeling a bit sick, retired to bed. I kibitzed with the volunteers in the operations living room -- the kasung, the planners, the directors, the people in charge of the household, all gathering for intense little caucuses or sweeping off to fix something or buy something or check something.
I borrowed an umbrella and pushed my way up through the crowds on Lexington Avenue to buy Gatorade at a Rite-Aid, and, back at the Waldorf, called room service and insisted that even though it wasn't on the menu, they could, too, prepare her some fresh ginger tea. All it would take was grated ginger, boiling water and a teapot. And so the afternoon passed, the evening and the afternoon of my first serving shift. Sometime -- often -- nothing much happens at all.
***
On Sunday afternoon, Ashe-la went shopping. Banana Republic. Saks. Macy's.
At first, she wanted a mall. Even in Dharamsala, it seems, there are malls. But Manhattan has no malls -- just its confusion of streets and crowds and midtown department stores. The limo driver, an Egyptian immigrant and quintessential New York character who boasted of his travels to 38 countries and 45 states smirked a bit while explaining that Manhattan isn't like the rest of America, that malls don't exist here.
Ashe-la had a strong sense of thrift but an eye for quality -- she could spot an item rich in yun from several steps away. This was, furthermore, her first time in New York, her first time in big city stores with floor after floor of jackets and dresses and shirts and scarves and shoes -- rack after bewildering rack. She moved rapidly, gracefully, quietly through the welter of wearables -- peering intently and touching things lightly here and there. In Macy's, she passed among the dense clothes racks so quickly that Lama Tenzin and I kept losing her and had to call one another on our cell phones, to keep her in sight.
Lama Tenzin, young and immensely good-humored, followed her around the stores with a big smile. He wasn't buying a thing for himself -- but he was clearly having a great time just looking at the clothes, watching the people, grinning at the $2000 slips of silk on the floor with the designer dresses we passed through for fun. Everything about the shopping seemed fun to him.
New Yorkers, who are way too cool to stare openly at any celebrity or unusual looking person, instead gazed askance at Lama Tenzin in his monk's robes and Ashe-la in her more subdued long maroon chuba. "Are you here with the brown hat lama?" asked a man on the elevator. "Black hat," said Lama Tenzin. "Brown hat, black hat, red hat," the man replied. "I don't know which is which."
In Macy's, an elderly shoe clerk cornered Lama Tenzin to discuss the lives of Tibetan siddhas. He had never meditated, he said, and belonged to no dharma group. But he had been reading biographies of Indian mahasiddhas for years: Tilopa, Naropa, Marpa, Milarepa. "He knew all of them," said Lama Tenzin. "He was telling me about the trials of Naropa."
The highlight of the afternoon was Ashe-la's discovery of the perfect shirts for His Holiness. It happened in Saks. There they were, on a manikin deep in the men's ware section. She picked out three gorgeous shirt, all the same style -- with collars and short sleeves in a silk and linen blend. One was a subdued red, close enough to maroon to be suitable. The other two were quiet yellow -- lama yellow. They were loose and breezy looking, and while clearly excellent quality, they were not especially expensive. They were the kind of buy that makes an afternoon of shopping feel really satisfying. Shirts for the Karmapa! If I am lucky, I will someday see him wearing one.
posted by Chronicles of CTR at 12:07 AM
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