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Once, when I came back from a “walk”with my elbows scraped and my knees grass stained, Jed said, “It’s her Samoyed nature. She thinks you’re a sled, and she wants topull you. Let’s forget about teaching her towalk. Why don’t we just get a cart that youcan sit in and have Coco pull you around?”

But I didn’t want to be the neighborhoodcharioteer. And I didn’t want to give up. Ifeveryone else’s dog could walk, why couldn’tours? So I alone took on the challenge. Following my books, I led Coco around in circlesin my driveway, rewarding her with pieces ofchopped steak if she didn’t pull. I madeominous low sounds when she didn’t obey, and high reaffirming sounds when she did. Itook her for walks down half a block that lasted forever because I had to stop short andcount to thirty every time the leash wenttaut. And finally, after all else failed, I took atip from a fellow Samoyed owner and boughtan elaborate harness that pressed againstCoco’s chest when she pulled.

Around that time, my glamorous friendsAlexis and Jordan came to visit from Bostonwith their elegant sable-colored dogs, Millieand Bascha. Sisters and Australian shepherds, Millie and Bascha were the same ageas Coco but smaller and sleek. Millie andBascha were amazingly on the ball. Obviously herding dogs, they worked as a teamand kept trying to herd Coco, who looks a bitlike a sheep—and around Millie and Bascha, acted like a sheep. Millie and Bascha are always looking for an angle. They can dothings like unlock doors and open spaghettiboxes—things that would never even occur toCoco.

“Wow,” I said to Alexis that evening overdrinks. “I can’t believe Millie and Bascha gotthemselves water by turning on our gardenhose. That’s impressive.”

“Australian shepherds are like Border collies,” Alexis said. “Maybe because of theirherding background, they’re supposed to bereally smart, at least according to the rankings on those Web sites, which I’m not sure Ibuy.”

“Rankings? What rankings?” I poured myself another glass of wine. “How doSamoyeds rank?”

“Oh. . . I can’t remember,” Alexis said uncomfortably. “I think the whole idea of ratingdogs by intelligence is silly anyway. Iwouldn’t worry about it.”

The moment Alexis and Jordan left, Irushed to my computer and did an Internetsearch for “dog intelligence rankings.” Themost hits were for a list of the “10 BrightestDogs,” produced by Dr. Stanley Coren, aneuropsychologist at the University of British Columbia. I scrolled down the list, frantically looking for “Samoyed” to appear. It didn’t. I found an expanded list. Samoyedswere ranked #33 out of 79—not the dumbestdog (that honor went to the Afghan hound)but definitely average.

I felt nauseated. I did further research, more targeted. To my enormous relief, I discovered it was all a mistake. According toevery Web site about Samoyeds by Samoyedexperts, they were extremely intelligent. Thereason they didn’t tend to do well on dog IQtests is because those tests were all based ontrainability, and Samoyeds are notoriouslydifficult to train. Why? Precisely becausethey are exceptionally bright and thereforecan be obstinate. Here’s a very clarifying explanation by Michael D. Jones:Their intelligence and strong independent nature make them a challenge totrain; where a Golden Retriever, for instance, may work for his master, aSamoyed works with his master or notat all. Holding the dog’s respect is a prerequisite to training. They learn quickly;the trick is teaching the dog to behavereliably without hitting his boredomthreshold. It is these characteristics thathave earned Samoyeds. . . the appellation “nontraditional obedience dogs.”

I discovered something else. FridtjofNansen, the famous Norwegian explorer—and Nobel Peace Prize winner—whoalmost made it to the North Pole, had conducted extensive comparative dog researchbefore his 1895 expedition. His findingsshowed that “the Samoyed surpassed otherbreeds in determination, focus, endurance, and the instinctive drive to work in anycondition.”

In other words, contrary to “Dr.” StanleyCoren’s “study,” Samoyeds were in fact unusually intelligent and hardworking, withmore focus and determination than otherbreeds. My spirits soared. For me, this wasthe perfect combination of qualities. If theonly issue was a stubborn, disobedientstreak, that was nothing I couldn’t handle.

One evening, after another shouting matchwith the girls over music, I had an argumentwith Jed. While he’s always supported me inevery way, he was worried that I was pushingtoo hard and that there was too much tension and no breathing space in the house. Inreturn, I accused him of being selfish andthinking only of himself. “All you think aboutis writing your own books and your own future,” I attacked. “What dreams do you havefor Sophia, or for Lulu? Do you ever eventhink about that? What are your dreams forCoco?”

A funny look came over Jed’s face, and asecond later he burst into laughter. He cameover and kissed the top of my head. “Dreamsfor Coco—that’s really funny, Amy,” he saidaffectionately. “Don’t worry. We’ll workthings out.”

I didn’t understand what was so funny, butI was glad our fight was over.

14London, Athens, Barcelona,

BombayI guess I have a tendency to be a littlepreachy. And like many preachers, I have afew favorite themes I return to over andover. For example, there’s my Anti-Provincialism Lecture Series. Just thinking aboutthis subject makes me mad.

Whenever I hear Sophia or Lulu giggle at aforeign name—whether it’s Freek de Groot orKwok Gum—I go wild. “Do you know how ignorant and close-minded you sound?” I’llblow up at them. “Jasminder and Parminderare popular names in India. And comingfrom this family! What a disgrace. My mother’s father’s name was Go Ga Yong—do youthink that’s funny? I should have named oneof you that. Never judge people by theirnames.”

I don’t believe my girls would ever makefun of someone’s foreign accent, but maybethey would have if I hadn’t preempted it. Children can be terribly cruel. “Never evermake fun of foreign accents,” I’ve exhortedthem on many occasions. “Do you knowwhat a foreign accent is? It’s a sign ofbravery. Those are people who crossed anocean to come to this country. My parentshad accents—I had an accent. I was throwninto nursery school not speaking a word ofEnglish. Even in third grade, classmatesmade fun of me. Do you know where thosepeople are now? They’re janitors, that’swhere.”

“How do you know?” Sophia asked.

“I think it’s more important, Sophia, foryou to ask yourself what it would be like ifyou moved to China. How perfect do youthink your accent would be? I don’t want youto be a provincial American. Do you knowhow fat Americans are? And now after 3000years of being skinny, the Chinese in Chinaare suddenly getting fat too, and it’s becausethey’re eating Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

“But wait,” said Sophia. “Didn’t you sayyou were so fat when you were little youcouldn’t fit into anything in stores and yourmom had to sew you clothes?”

“That’s right.”

“And you were so fat because you stuffedyourself with your mom’s noodles anddumplings,” Sophia continued. “Didn’t youonce eat forty-five siomai?”

“I sure did,” I replied. “My dad was soproud of me. That was ten more than hecould eat. And three times as many as mysister Michelle could eat. She was skinny.”

“So Chinese food can make you fat too,”pressed Sophia.

Maybe my logic wasn’t airtight. But I wastrying to make a point. I value cosmopolitanism, and to make sure the girls are exposedto different cultures, Jed and I have alwaystaken them with us everywhere wetraveled—even though, when the girls werelittle, we sometimes had to sleep in one bedto make it affordable. As a result, by the timethey were twelve and nine, the girls had beento London, Paris, Nice, Rome, Venice, Milan, Amsterdam, the Hague, Barcelona, Madrid, Málaga, Lichtenstein, Monaco, Munich, Dublin, Brussels, Bruges, Strasbourg, Beijing, Shanghai, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Manila, Istanbul, Mexico City, Cancún, Buenos Aires, Santiago, Rio de Janeiro, SãoPaolo, La Paz, Sucre, Cochabamba, Jamaica, Tangier, Fez, Johannesburg, Cape Town, andthe Rock of Gibraltar.

The four of us looked forward to our vacations all year. Often, we’d time our trips tocoincide with my parents and Cindy’s tripsabroad, and the seven of us would travelaround together in a giant rental van drivenby Jed. We’d giggle as passersby stared at us, trying to figure out our weird racial combination. (Was Jed the adopted white son of anAsian family? Or a human trafficker sellingthe rest of us into slavery?) Sophia and Luluadored their grandparents, who doted onthem and acted ridiculously unstrict in a waycompletely inconsistent with the way they’draised me.

The girls were especially fascinated by myfather, who was unlike anyone they’d evermet. He was constantly disappearing into alleys, returning with his arms full of local specialties like soup dumplings in Shanghai orsocca in Nice. (My dad likes to tryeverything; at Western restaurants he oftenorders two main meals.) We’d always findourselves in nutty situations: out of gas atthe top of a mountain pass or sharing a traincar with Moroccan smugglers. We had greatadventures, and those are memories we allcherish.

There was just one problem: practicing.

At home, the girls never missed a singleday at the piano and violin, not even on theirbirthdays or on days when they were sick(Advil) or had just had dental surgery(Tylenol-3, with codeine). I didn’t see whywe should miss a day when we were traveling. Even my parents were disapproving.“That’s crazy,” they’d say, shaking theirheads. “Let the girls enjoy their vacation. Afew days of not practicing won’t make a difference.” But serious musicians don’t see itthat way. In the words of Lulu’s violin teacher Mr. Shugart, “Every day that you don’tpractice is a day that you’re getting worse.”Also, as I pointed out to my girls, “Do youknow what the Kims will be doing whilewe’re on vacation? Practicing. The Kimsdon’t take vacation. Do we want them to getahead of us?”

In Lulu’s case, the logistics were easy. Theviolin was Lulu’s airplane carry-on and fitnicely into the overhead compartment. Things were more complicated with Sophia. Ifwe were going somewhere in the UnitedStates, a couple of long-distance phone callsusually did the trick. It turns out that American hotels are overflowing with pianos. There’s typically one in the lobby bar and atleast two in the various conference receptionrooms. I’d just call the concierge in advanceand book the Grand Ballroom at the ChicagoMarriott from 6:00 A. M. to 8:00 A. M. or TheWent-worth Room at the Pasadena LanghamHotel from 10:00 P. M. to midnight. Occasionally, there were glitches. In Maui, theconcierge at the Grand Wailea hotel setSophia up at an electric keyboard in the Volcano Bar. But the keyboard was two octavestoo short for Chopin’s Polonaise in C-sharpMinor, and there was a distracting snorkeling class going on at the same time, soSophia ended up practicing in a basementstorage room, where they were refurbishingthe hotel’s baby grand.

It was much harder to find pianos forSophia in foreign countries, and ingenuitywas often required. London, of all places, proved surprisingly difficult. We were therefor four days, because Jed was receiving anaward for his book The Interpretation ofMurder, a historical thriller based on Sigmund Freud’s one and only visit to the United States in 1909. Jed’s book was the #1best seller in the UK for a while, and he wastreated as something of a celebrity. Thisdidn’t help me one bit on the music front. When I asked the concierge at our boutiqueChelsea hotel (courtesy of Jed’s publisher) ifwe might find a time to practice on the pianoin their library, she looked horrified, as if I’dasked to turn the hotel into a Laotian refugeecamp.

“The library? Oh my goodness, no. I’mafraid not.”

Later that day, a maid evidently reportedto her superiors that Lulu was practicing violin in our room, and she was asked to stop. Fortunately, through the Internet I found aplace in London that rented piano practicerooms for a small hourly fee. Every day, while Jed was doing his radio and televisioninterviews, the girls and I would march outof the hotel and take a bus to the store, whichresembled a funeral parlor and was squeezedbetween two falafel shops. After ninetyminutes of practicing, we’d take a bus backto the hotel.

We did this kind of thing all over the place. In Leuven, Belgium, we practiced in a formerconvent. In another city, which I no longerrecall, I found a Spanish restaurant with a piano that allowed Sophia to practice between3:00 P. M. and 5:00 P. M., while the staffmopped the floor and set the tables for dinner. Occasionally, Jed got annoyed at me formaking our vacations tense. “So, shall we seethe Coliseum this afternoon,” he’d say sardonically, “or go to that piano store again?”

Sophia got mad at me too. She hated itwhen I told hotel people she was a “concertpianist.” “Don’t say that, Mommy! It’s nottrue and it’s embarrassing.”

I totally disagreed. “You’re a pianist, andyou give concerts, Sophia. That’s makes youa concert pianist.”

Finally, all too often, Lulu and I got intotedious, escalating arguments, wasting somuch time we’d miss a museum’s openinghours or have to cancel a dinner reservation.

It was worth it. Whenever we got back toNew Haven, Sophia and Lulu always stunnedtheir music teachers with the progress they’dmade away from home. Shortly after a trip toXi’an, China—where I made Sophia practiceat the crack of dawn for two hours before Iwould allow us to go see the 8000 life-sizedTerracotta Warriors commissioned by China’s first emperor, Qin Shi Huang, to servehim in the afterlife—Sophia won her secondconcerto competition, this time playing Mozart’s Concerto no. 15 in B-flat Major. Meanwhile, Lulu was invited to play as the first violinist in all kinds of trios and quartets, andwe suddenly found ourselves being wooed byother violin teachers, who were always onthe lookout for young talent.

But even I have to admit that it sometimesgot hard. I remember once we took a vacation to Greece with my parents. After seeingAthens (where we managed to slip in a littlepracticing between the Acropolis and theTemple of Poseidon), we took a small planeto the island of Crete. We arrived at our bed-and-breakfast around three in the afternoon, and my father wanted to head out immediately. He couldn’t wait to show the girls thePalace of Knossos, where according to legendthe Minoan King Minos kept the Minotaur, amonster with a man’s body and bull’s head, imprisoned in an underground labyrinth.

“Okay, Dad,” I said. “But Lulu and I justhave ten minutes of violin to do first.”

Everyone exchanged alarmed glances.“How about practicing after dinner?” mymother suggested.

“No, Mom,” I said firmly. “Lulu promisedshe’d do this, because she wanted to stopearly yesterday. But if she cooperates, itreally should just take ten minutes. We’ll goeasy today.”

I wouldn’t wish the misery that followedon anyone: Jed, Sophia, Lulu, and I coopedup in one claustrophobic room, with Jed lying on top of the bedspread, grimly trying tofocus on an old issue of the InternationalHerald Tribune; Sophia hiding in the bathroom reading; my parents waiting in thelobby, afraid to interfere and afraid otherguests would overhear Lulu and me bickering, yelling, and provoking each other.(“That note was flat again, Lulu.” “Actually, itwas sharp, Mommy, you don’t know anything.”) Obviously, I couldn’t stop after tenminutes when Lulu had refused to play evena single scale properly. When it was all over, Lulu was furious and tear-stained, Jed wastight-lipped, my parents were sleepy—andthe Palace of Knossos was closed for the day.

I don’t know how my daughters will lookback on all this twenty years from now. Willthey tell their own children, “My mother wasa controlling fanatic who even in India madeus practice before we could see Bombay andNew Delhi”? Or will they have softer memories? Perhaps Lulu will recall playing the firstmovement of the Bruch Violin Concertobeautifully in Agra, in front of an archedhotel window that looked straight out to theTajMahal; we didn’t fight that day for somereason—probably jet lag. Will Sophia recallwith bitterness the time I laid into her at apiano in Barcelona because her fingers werenot kicking high enough? If so, I hope shealso remembers Rocquebrune, a villageperched on a cliff in France, where the manager of our hotel heard Sophia practicing andinvited her to perform for the entire restaurant that evening. In a glass-windowed roomoverlooking the Mediterranean, Sophiaplayed Mendelssohn’s Rondo Capriccioso, and got bravos and hugs from all the guests.

15Popo

FlorenceIn January 2006, my mother-in-law, Florence, called from her apartment in Manhattan. “I just got a call from the doctor’s office,” she said in an odd, slightly exasperatedvoice, “and now they’re telling me that I haveacute leukemia.” Just two months earlier, Florence had been diagnosed with earlystage breast cancer, but true to her indomitable personality, she’d gone through surgeryand radiation without a complaint. The lastI’d heard, everything was fine, and she wasback on the NewYork art scene, thinkingabout writing a second book.

My stomach tightened. Florence lookedsixty but was about to turn seventy-five.“That can’t be right, Florence, it must be amistake,” I said aloud, stupidly. “Let me getJed on the phone, and he’ll figure out what’sgoing on. Don’t worry. Everything will be allright.”

Everything wasn’t all right. A week afterour conversation, Florence had checked intoNew York Presbyterian Hospital and wasstarting chemotherapy. After hours of agonizing research and third and fourth opinions, Jed had helped Florence choose a less harsharsenic-based treatment plan that wouldn’tmake her as sick. Florence always listened toJed. As she liked to tell Sophia and Lulu, shehad adored him from the moment he wasborn, one month premature. “He was jaundiced and all yellow and looked like awrinkled old man,” she used to laugh. “But Ithought he was perfect.” Jed and Florencehad a lot in common. He shared his mother’saesthetic sensibilities and eye for good proportions. Everyone said he was her spittingimage, and that was always meant as acompliment.

My mother-in-law was gorgeous when shewas young. In her college yearbook, shelooks like Rita Hayworth. Even at fifty, whichis how old she was when I first met her, sheturned heads at parties. She was also wittyand charming, but definitely judgmental. You could always tell which outfits she foundtacky, which dishes too rich, which peopletoo eager. Once I came downstairs in a newsuit, and Florence’s face brightened. “Youlook terrific, Amy,” she said warmly. “You’reputting yourself together so much betterthese days.”

Florence was an unusual combination. Shewas fascinated by grotesque objects and always said that “pretty” things bored her. Shehad an amazing eye, and had made somemoney in the 1970s by investing in works byrelatively unknown modern artists. Theseartists—among them Robert Arneson andSam Gilliam—all eventually got discovered, and Florence’s purchases skyrocketed invalue. Florence never envied anyone, andcould be strangely insensitive to people whoenvied her. She didn’t mind being alone; sheprized her independence and had turneddown offers of second marriage from manyrich and successful men. Although she likedstylish clothes and art gallery openings, herfavorite things in the world were swimmingin Crystal Lake (where she had spent everysummer as a child), making dinner for oldfriends, and most of all, being with hergranddaughters Sophia and Lulu, who, atFlorence’s request, had always called her“Popo.”

Florence made it into remission by March, after six weeks of then, she was a frail shadow of herself—I remember how small she looked against the whitehospital pillows, like a 75% photocopy reduction of herself—but she still had all her hair, a decent appetite, and the same buoyant personality. She was ecstatic about beingdischarged.

Jed and I knew the remission was onlytemporary. The doctors had repeatedlywarned us that Florence’s prognosis waspoor. Her leukemia was aggressive andwould almost certainly relapse within sixmonths to a year. Because of her age, therewas no possibility of a bone marrow transplant—in short, no possibility of a cure. ButFlorence didn’t understand her disease andhad no idea how hopeless things were. Jedtried a few times to explain the situation, butFlorence was always stubbornly obtuse andupbeat, and nothing seemed to sink in. “Oh, dear—I’m going to have to spend a lot oftime at the gym when this is all over,” she’dsay surreally. “My muscle tone’s all gone.”