Paula Span

For This Diner Waitress, It’s a Long Day’s Journey into Lunch

January 4, 2021 by Paula Span

3:45 AM: Amal “Molly” Kaydouh gets up in the dark. Padding around her North Arlington apartment on this Tuesday morning, she reaches for one of her five identical red shirts appliqued with the Nevada Diner’s logo, along with a black apron, leggings and, crucially, non-skid shoes. She brightens the ensemble with sparkly earrings and painstakingly applies makeup, because appearance counts.

Driving to the diner in Bloomfield, she stops at a Dunkin’ Donuts for an espresso and smokes a single Salem menthol in her car. By 6 am she’s on the job, cleaning every surface in the back room—tables, booths, saltshakers. She makes pots of coffee and restocks bins of ketchup packets and plastic Cream-O-Land containers.

And then she waits.

My gym is closed because of Covid-19. I’m doing bicep curls with jars of gefilte fish.

January 2, 2021 by Paula Span

The exercise studio I’ve patronized for 30 years had to shut down, of course. So I switched to 40-minute walks through my suburban neighborhood and around the perimeter of the nearby park, since the park itself was also now off-limits.

That would provide the necessary cardiovascular workout, but what about keeping my core firm, my finicky back unclenched, my flexibility intact? I unrolled a yoga mat on the bedroom floor and added a daily 20-minute hodgepodge of crunches, knee bends, asanas, balance poses and, um, improvisations.

When Retirement Comes Too Early

January 2, 2021 by Paula Span

Joey Himelfarb estimates that in his 25 years in sales, hawking everything from Hewlett-Packard computers to cars and swimming pools, he has been laid off or downsized at least a half-dozen times.

The most recent occasion came in April, when he got a call from the chief executive officer of the start-up in northern Virginia that had hired him 10 months earlier. The company sells systems that extract data from video. Mr. Himelfarb worked remotely from his apartment in Belle Mead, N.J. “I was working my tail off,” he said. “We were busy.”

But now, the boss told him, because of the coronavirus pandemic, the company could no longer afford his mid-five-figure salary.

Progress in Kidney Care Starts at Home

January 2, 2021 by Paula Span

Come January, there may be many more people like Mary Prochaska.

Ms. Prochaska, 73, a retired social worker in Chapel Hill, N.C., has advanced chronic kidney disease and relies on dialysis to filter waste from her blood while she awaits a kidney transplant, her second. But she no longer visits a dialysis center three times a week, the standard treatment. There, nurses and technicians monitored her for four hours while a machine cleansed her blood.

Instead, she has opted for dialysis at home. “It’s easier on your body and better for your health,” she said. “And far better than exposing yourself to whatever you might get from being in a group of people” at a center during a pandemic.

First Sleepover at Bubbe’s

January 1, 2021 by Paula Span

Preparing for my granddaughter’s first solo sleepover at my apartment bore a certain resemblance to welcoming a head of state or some other V.I.P.

At the supermarket, I laid in provisions: the breakfast cereal she liked, cocoa for hot chocolate on a cold afternoon, ingredients for baking projects. I’d been buying secondhand books and toys for a while, but now I ordered additional art supplies and a simple board game.

What else could help occupy a 4-year-old over 24 hours? Bulbs! We could plant daffodils in the still-soft dirt outside the front door and watch them produce flowers next spring. I drove to a garden center.

TINKER, TAILOR, SOLDIER… TOURIST

January 1, 2021 by Paula Span

On my first British morning, a dank one like all that followed, I took the tube to Leicester Square and walked up Charing Cross Road. It was surprisingly quiet, the rush hour over and the musty bookstores along Charing Cross not yet open for business.

In five minutes, less, I reached Cambridge Circus, one of those disorienting agglomerations where several London thoroughfares converge and then meander off again. And there it was on the right between Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue, a sturdy-looking Edwardian edifice, red brick garnished with beaded stonework.

Naturally, no sign or nameplate identified the place. The Circus is so sensitive a location, its creator has written, that its occupants never allow their taxis to pull up at the entrance. They disembark in front of the ornate theater across the street instead, or at Foyle’s bookstore a block north. But I had spent weeks reading and taking notes and poring over detailed street maps. I had also, after a series of transatlantic and domestic faxes resulting in a phone call at a certain time on a certain day, consulted with John le Carre.