Lahiri versus Eisenberg (and some other things)

Just one more day. Tomorrow at this time I should know a little more about my condition, and hopefully have a date for the colonoscopy. This is what I am waiting for---why I have simply hung out around the apartment biding my time---letting the time pass---as I wait for tomorrow's appointment.
   So with that in mind, once I had finished whatever morning tasks that I had, the plan was to go to nearby Riverside Park and read, read, read. First book to accompany me: Under the 82nd Airborne, the excellent book of short stories written by Deborah Eisenberg. Took my seat a little north of 79th street in the park, but found my thoughts dominated by memories of the play Six Degrees of Separation, by John Guare. Went through the whole play in my head, fantasized about directing a production with high school students, isolated certain moments in which I would make certain choices. When over, reached out to Ms. Eisenberg's stories, but found myself not wanting to enter her milieu---the world of her stories, usually populated by bright, stalled somewhat entitled people. Also her laconic style that leads one into the situations she so carefully writes about, was not where I wanted to go. So I returned to the apartment, and chose a story from Unaccustomed Earth, a great group of eight shorts stories by Jhumpa Lahiri. Ms. Lahiri's style and the world she creates--full of longing and sensitivity seemed much more suited to my reader's needs then Ms. Eisenberg's.
   The story that I read has the same title as the collection. Its central character is Rumi, born Indian but raised in Pennsylvania, about 38, who has just moved to Seattle with her three year old child and her wasp husband who works for a hedge fund. They had previously lived in Park Slope Brooklyn (of course!) Adam, the husband, is traveling on business, and Rumi is visited by her father, a widower, who stays with her and Akash (the three year old) for a week. This is enough to let Rumi think through her memories of her parents---Indians who saw marriage as a task more than a romance.  A strong sense of obligation permeated those relationships, and Rumi remembers the disparate aspects of her mother and father as they raised two children in America to be American.  Lot of memories, lots of evaluations---Seattle, for Rumi is the unaccustomed earth she must navigate, just as her parents had to navigate the America they settled in and raised their children. The writer captures Rumi's isolation perfectly, there is a sense of sadness and gentleness that goes through the long (about 60 pages) short story. It drew me in completely.
   Back to the present---tomorrow at 1:30 is the appointment with the doctor who will perform the colonoscopy. When it is over, will have much to report.