Friends Absent Speak

The worst taxi conversation yet

2009-07-22T07:31:00.002-04:00

Actual conversation with cab driver yesterday.

Us: Hello. Hadda Street Please. Do you know it?
Him: Um...sure!
Us: (unsure) Ok. Yalla.

Him: HONK. HONK. HONK HONK HONK HONNNNNK HONKhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk

Us, to each other: Well, that's just unnecessary.
Him: HONKhonkhonkhonk. HONK.
Liza: Seriously, this guy...

HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK

Me: So excessive with the honking!

HONK HONK honk honk honk honnnnnnk honk
He slides through an intersection, gesturing to the traffic guard that he has TWO WHITE GIRLS in the back of his taxi, which in his world, gives him right of way.
Honkhonkhonkhonk HONK HONK HONK honnnnnnk honk

Liza: Excuse me, I have a headache, could you please stop honking?!"
Him: Of course, I am just trying to drive through all this crazy traffic! It's so crazy! Look, crazy!
Us: *nod*
Him: How many years have you been in Yemen?
Us: A month and a half.
Him: ...You mean, a year?
Us: A MONTH and a HALF.
Him: Like, ten years?
Us: A MONTH AND A HALF.
Him: Are you Lebanese?
Us: Americans.
Him: You mean, you are from America?
Us: WE ARE AMERICANS.
Him: Not Arabs?!
Us: NOT ARABS. AMERICANS.
Him: But you speak Arabic!
Us: *silence*

15 minutes later

Him: How many years have you been in Yemen?
Us: ...um...what?
Him: How many years?
Us: A MONTH. AND. A. HALF.
Him: And you're Arab?
Us: AMERICAN.
Him: Your nationality is American?
Us: OF COURSE.
Him: Drivers here are crazy!
Us: *silence*

We arrive at our destination

Us: This is the place.
Him: Is this the place?
Us: Yes, just turn here and we'll get out
Him: Straight, or turn?
Us: TURN HERE. LEFT.
Him: Left or right?
Us: LEFT. TURN. LEFT. HERE.
Him: Turn?
Us: OMG TURN.
Him: You can call me anytime, I can give you a ride anywhere, anytime, just call me! Here, let me give you my number!
Us: Bye!

Yemen, Week One

2009-06-09T08:48:00.003-04:00

While I was making my summer plans, I heard many conflicting reports about Yemen. Some said it was very, very dangerous. Some said it was very, very boring. Some guaranteed that I'd get kidnapped. Some said I would have to wear the niqaab. Some said I wouldn't have to wear the niqaab. Some said that Yemeni schools were inaccessible and my efforts would be wasted; some said the program looked great, and what better place to get experience with development. As week #1 draws to a close, I thought I'd share some of my first impressions. These are subject to change as my experience here develops, but I thought I'd address first the major pre-trip concerns expressed by friends, family, and mostly, me. Arranged in order of frequency.

It is indicative of the people with whom I associate that we talked more often about the food than the real possibility of kidnapping...

1. Isn't Yemen Really Really Dangerous? Don't Terrorists Hang Out There? They Totally Do! OMG!

I guess they do. On a daily basis, though, we don't encounter them. Nor do, I imagine, most of the Yemeni population. Everywhere in the world is dangerous these days, and maybe there are more al-Qaeda members per capita than some other places, and there might be more firearms per capita than most places (except the US) but daily life is just normal. Boring, even. People take taxis and call their friends and go to the supermarket and buy mangos. At night, the streets get quiet at around 9. If you are picturing Sana'a as a hotbed for political activity, or similar to Beirut circa 1985, or with a City of God style gun battles, then I'm afraid you've been misled. The streets look like this:

All the time. Is it more dangerous than, say, Des Moines? Maybe. So is Washington, DC, though.

On a similar note, we live and work within about a five block circumference. We take reliable taxis and have everyone's phone numbers in our mobiles, which are always charged. We're not chewing qat in the mountains with al-Qaeda.

2. Dude, You Will Have to Wear the Niqaab.

This is a picture of me in Yemen.

Most women do wear the niqaab here, and if they don't, they wear the hijab, and I've seen a handful (exactly three) without a veil at all. I dress modestly in long shirts and loose pants and I don't feel uncomfortable in Sana'a without a scarf. I keep a scarf in my purse just in case. We work with clever and responsible Yemenis who advise us on our dress code, and I imagine some of our travels will take us to less liberal towns in the Yemeni countryside where the niqaab will be mandatory.

3. I am Warning You. Yemen is Really Boring.

I think the key to avoiding boredom is appropriate expectations. Sana'a is not Cairo, and it's not Paris, and it's not DC. There aren't crazy nightclubs. There's not a lot of alcohol. Women don't go out so much after 9 pm. There's no metro. It's hard to walk to the happening Sharia3 Hadda from where we live. It's quite provincial.

But the pace of life is nice and easy, and once you're friends with someone, you've a 100% chance of being invited over for the weekend, for the parties, for some qat, for some sheisha, to meet their sisters and friends and plan future parties. And at night, there's always Al-Jazeera, or your ab workout DVDs, or Arabic verb conjugations. In fact, one night I taught myself how to type in Arabic. So, yeah, it can be a little boring when it's Sunday night at 8 pm and sheisha is too far away and you can't occupy yourself by cooking because you don't have any ingredients, and you can't go shopping for ingredients because it's late for women to go out, and you can't understand what the heck they're talking about on Al Jazeera. But it's not like we're living on the dark side of the moon. There's always something to do if you adjust your expectations.

And if all else fails, spend all your money on international texts from your Yemeni phone. This can be endlessly entertaining.

4. The Food Is Great, Though!

The food is great. So far, we've enjoyed salta, fish, bint al-sa7n, Ethiopian food, kabab balady, tea with milk, sheisha (ok, it's not a food, but it might as well be, for as much as we smoke it), a homemade Yemeni feast, various assortments of salads, and of course, qat. Every meal has been delicious (although I am still out on the qat issue.) Maybe we got lucky and got all the best food in one week, but I think this is just a sample of pretty great, and distinctive, cuisine. I have started taking my camera to restaurants.

5. You Will Probably Get Kidnapped.

I want to get kidnapped. For the story and for the inevitable immersion Arabic lesson. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like that happens so much anymore, at least not around where we live. I'll keep trying, though, guys, don't worry.

6. No One There Speaks English.

This is sort of true. Arabic is by far the preferred language. But if all you want to do is buy your mangos, you'll get by with English.

7. It's Hard To be a Foreigner There, but I Guess Yemenis Are Supposed to be Very Nice?

If you've never been to the Middle East before, Yemen is maybe not the best place to dive in. It's relatively inaccessible, its closest neighbor is Saudi Arabia, and it just helps to already know your way around the culture and language a bit. In a more Westernized country (Egypt, Jordan...) you will probably find someone to explain the nuances to you in fine English, or you will be forgiven because they have experienced Foreigners Like You before. In Yemen, I'm not sure you would, unless you were living with a sympathetic Yemeni who understood where you are (literally) coming from and could guide you through social situations.

While Yemenis themselves are wonderful, warm, generous people, the city and infrastructure is not particularly tourist-friendly. A first-timer asking for help and/or explanations in English might find only confusion. Moreover, there are not a lot of good tourbooks about Yemen; I found one in Borders and the same one in Barnes and Noble and didn't buy it. It's really just better to get there and ask around when you arrive. This is, of course, intimidating and requires stamina, conversational Arabic, and lots (and lots) of patience.

But let me reiterate how wonderful Yemenis are. They're kind and generous and gentle. Once you're in, once you make friends, they'll take care of you and show you around and feed you and you'll never have to worry about anything. It's just a little harder than most places to get in. Unless you have a built in social structure, like work or school, it's hard to meet people randomly, particularly if you're a woman.

Stealth Moving

2009-05-30T14:17:00.000-04:00

I bought my ticket for Thursday, May 28th, Dulles to Doha to Sana'a. I had a week to prepare, which i thought would take approximately one hour. How hard is it to pack for a summer in Yemen? A few loose shirts, some sunscreen, some deodorant. One afternoon, max.

But then I heard that my landlord's "mutually beneficial" summer arrangement was not going to be so mutually beneficial. I thought he meant that his kitchen repairs, during which I would not be charged rent, would take 2 - 3 months. He thought that they would take 2 - 3 weeks and I would pay for the remainder of the summer. This is not mutually beneficial. There are many, many other things I can do with $2500.

I let him know on Thursday that I'd be out in a week. We planned a Big Packing and Moving Day on Saturday and Sunday. On Sunday we rented a studio-sized UHaul and drove it up to the back of my first-floor apartment. My strong father began loading the biggest boxes into the UHaul using a very big, very practical dolly while my mother and I continued to pack or discard those random things that you tend to accumulate no matter how long you've lived in a place: random coasters, shoes that don't really fit, papers from five years ago that have somehow survived two previous moves.

Then there was a knock on the door. We opened it to find the very nice Sunday desk clerk with an apologetic smile. There's a policy against moving out on the weekends.

Us: What?
Her: Yes, there's a policy against moving on Sundays. I'm so sorry.
Us: Well...ok, we can just move tomorrow.
Her: ...but it's Memorial day which means that there won't be anyone at the desk, so you can't move out then, either.
Us: But we rented this truck and if we don't turn it in Monday by 3 PM, we'll get charged for an extra day.
Her: Well, um...did you schedule the move out with the front desk?
Us: ...no. Were we supposed to?
Her: Your landlord didn't tell you that?
Us: No...
Her: Oh, dear. Yes, you're supposed to schedule it so that they can put the padding up in the elevator.
Us: Oh! Well we're not using the elevator!
Her: Hmm, well, I'm not looking, but some people here care a lot about the rules, so ... just be careful. There's a fine if you move out on weekends or when there's no one at the desk.
Us: So we should move the truck?
Her: Well, I don't think the truck matters, but you shouldn't use the dolly. So, don't move boxes or furniture.
Us: What about suitcases and bags?
Her: That's ok, just no boxes or furniture.

Se we walked down to Astor Mediterranean and got some kebab. It was unacceptable to keep the truck longer than a day. And it was a stupid rule that we didn't mind breaking, but for the fine. We'd have to wait at least until the front desk lady left that night since she'd already warned us. What time during Memorial Day weekend was the quietest? Sunday night? Monday morning? So we came up with a plan: early morning, Memorial Day, we'd drive the truck up, pack it up as quickly as possible, and take off before anyone was awake. Meanwhile, on Sunday night we nonchalantly took out some pieces of furniture and bags of pillows, 30 minutes apart, just as casually as you'd please so no one would suspect, but this eventually seemed fruitless, painfully slow, and ultimately silly.

At 7 am the next day, four of us arrived with two thermoses of coffee, a little orange juice, a baguette, some butter and jam. The boys tackled the heaviest things first and wheeled them down the hall, down the stairs, through two heavy doors, up the stairs, across the parking lot, and into the UHaul. One of these doors sets off an alarm if it's open longer than 15 seconds. The other is at the bottom of a u-shaped staircase. They did it in absolute silence...well, practically. It wasn't until about 8:45 that we saw someone else up and around, packing their kids into the SUV for a beach trip. By then, we'd loaded up the vital things, the things for which we really needed the truck, so if anyone caught us we could feign ignorance, drive off, and come back later with the Corolla.

We finished just as the morning started to get going, around 9:45. As the garbage truck backed into the alley, we pulled out of it. The holiday morning crowds were just getting out of bed and out to Starbucks. Victory!

Unloading was not nearly so hard. We were done by noon, returned the truck, and never really told the superintendent that we were, or had, moved out. I'll leave that to my landlord, who should have told me about the no moving policy in the first place.

A poem dedicated to the Midnight Mug

2009-04-18T17:44:00.000-03:00

I am angry
about the latte
that I ordered
twenty minutes ago

and which
you have probably
forgotten about
in your lengthy discussion of Gossip Girl

Forgive me
but your coffee is expensive
so bitter
and so slow.

Inspired by William Carlos Williams

A Poem for my statistics professor

2009-04-18T17:41:00.000-03:00

I have not done
the regression
that was on
the syllabus

and which
you are probably
expecting
to receive next Thursday.

Forgive me
it was frustrating
so opaque
and so long.

Inspired by William Carlos Williams

Undergrads, Seriously, This is Just to Say

2009-04-18T17:38:00.001-03:00

I have glared at you
in the Dupont shuttle
as you talk on your phones
about last night's exploits

which you probably
think are clever
or hilarious
despite their obvious stupidity.

Forgive me
but you are immature
so vulgar
and so loud.

Inspired by William Carlos Williams.

An Open Letter to the Man Who Invented the Bell Curve

2008-11-12T20:36:00.000-03:00

Thank you very, very much.

This is Obama Country

2008-11-06T14:42:00.004-03:00

I watched the election results while eating pizza with my Georgetown classmates on O street. We cheered wildly when Pennsylvania turned blue. We rooted for our Virginia neighbors to push Obama over the edge. Ohio caused another round of celebration. We counted down to 11 PM when the West Coast polls closed: ...5...4...3...2...1...and the West coast lit up blue. Barack Obama is the next President of the United States of America.

It was explosive. There were tears and shouts and champagne. By the time the acceptance speech happened at midnight, the room had emptied a little ( I guess some people wanted to do homework on that night. Whatever.) Those of us who stayed through the speech felt so moved...that we had to, well, move. We went out into the drizzle and watched people pouring out of their houses at the same time, flooding into the streets. We collectively, instinctively pointed ourselves toward the White House.

When we reached M Street, Georgetown's main thoroughfare, the celebration escalated. Bus drivers were beaming. Taxi drivers were honking. A large white man in suspenders was standing triumphantly out of his car sun roof, arms above his head, screaming. A black waiter came out of a restaurant, hugged some of us, strangers, and went back to his shift. Everyone high-fived each other as we walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Everyone grinned. Everyone danced. People walked down the middle of the street and waved. People waved their Obama T-shirts in the air. DC votes 95% Democrat every election, which means that there were approximately 3 people here who voted for McCain--that we were all Obama supporters was a sure bet.

What striked me most was that it wasn't vengeful or bitter, despite the chants of "na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good byyyye" outside the White House. It was joyful. It was hopeful. Until I saw so many people in the same spontaneous celebration, pulled out to Pennsylvania Ave just because it was the most obvious place to go, I hadn't really bought the Hope/Change premise. Hope in what? Change in what? To what? I like hope and change just fine, but I hadn't understood how much we need it, how much we have invested in this vague idea. Hope. But what was in the streets wasn't hope to replace Bush. It was hope that we can be better than we are. That we can be a more perfect union. That you really can, if you work hard, do whatever you want in America. You can be a biracial man with a distant father, far removed from aristocracy, and get to the white house with nothing but merit, maturity, and ambition. We can't change the past, but was can mold the future. It's hard, but you can do it. Yes, we can. Yes, you can.

All of a sudden, we can talk about race. We talked about it before, but that conversation was tired; this is like adrenaline. The African-Americans that I see every day on the street as I go to class, now they are beaming. I hear black students being interviewed on the radio: "I realized that I can be anything I want! I am going to study hard, like Obama." My friend Lori teaches 6th grade: her students have a new role model. Stories abound of black great-grandmothers who have seen segregation, separate-but-equal, civil rights, Martin Luther King, Jr. They can vote now. They are represented. NPR did a story about a woman who is 109, saying, "Jones is the living link between the time when black men were owned as property and the time when a black man has been elected president of the United States." Another one, a 95 year old black woman with 13 children, finally inspired, voting for the first time in her Sunday best. This is incredible, no matter what you think about Obama's policies or politics.

This is what we celebrated in front of the White House: the fact that we can change. The fact that we can hope, even if the finish line is past the horizon. Without a vision, the people perish, and we have sorely lacked any sort of vision over the past 8 years. No matter who you voted for, this is cause to celebrate. We get another chance. We were thirsty, and now we know there is a stream. I love America.

Maybe Obama will be a totally mediocre president; it's possible. But what a thrill it is to think that he might not be, that he might be great. Whether he's great or not, the people have been reinvigorated, and democracy is about the people. We forgot that under Bush, but president-elect Obama reminded us. Let's not forget again.

An open letter to Mr. Obama

2008-10-30T22:18:00.003-03:00

Dear Barack Obama,

I have enjoyed getting to know you-albeit via the media, and not face to face- over the past--how long has it been? 21 months? Wow. It's been a while! I feel like we could be best friends now! You are on my radio every night, and your pictures is everywhere, even on my neighbor's jack-o-lantern. That is how you know you have arrived. When you are the subject of a carved pumpkin. Congratulations!

Barack and Joe, I am glad that you are doing well in the polls and that you are trying to offer people hope and change. I love hope and change! But do you know what I don't love? Spam.

I do hope that you beat McCain/Palin on November 4. Unfortunately, I am not available, nor do I intend to be available, to call people in swing states, plaster DC with OBAMA posters, e-mail my friends, begin Facebook political debates, or donate money. Especially donate money. But your e-mails to me revolve around this topic! You mention hope and change a little, but mostly, youp lead with me to part with the money I just earned by watching a 3-year old for 4 hours. This constitutes a large sacrifice on my part.

Barack, I am a student. I do not have money except for beans, books, and coffee. I'm afraid that no matter how many e-mails you send me - nay, even if you up your quota to 3 e-mails per day! - I will not donate to your campaign. I'm sorry. Joe, if you send me e-mails, I will not donate. I will not donate no matter who sends me e-mails; I do not have any money.

I heard that you are in the millions of dollars now, and could even afford a 30-minute commercial during prime time the other day! How nice! I didn't get to see it, since I don't have a TV. But I'm pretty sure that this is a good indication that you don't need my $25, which will instead be spent on the previously mentioned beans and coffee.

Therefore, I have to ask you to stop sending me e-mails, Barack and Joe and David Plouffe and David Axelrod and Mrs. Obama (although I do like you, Mrs. Obama, and I think you have excellent taste in sheaths.) I will be watching you on election night, and I hope that you do well and that a victory does not make you stupid and that a loss does not make you depressed. I think you have done a good job over the past two years, and a lot of my friends feel the same. Hope is not as important as money, I know, but it is the mainstay of your campaign, so please accept my hope for your success instead of my $25.

Thank you, and say hi to Michelle for me!

Catherine

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

2008-10-15T12:26:00.003-03:00

When I was a freshman or sophomore in college, I went to my dear (now-soon-to-be-a-mom!) friend Anne's house for Thanksgiving. Her mother had a personality test that we took for curiosity's sake. I buzzed through it and checked in heavily as an ISTJ: Intuitive, Sensing, Thinking, Judging. What does that mean? Well, in the explanation of this personality type, there were many useful nuggets. For instance:

ISTJs have tremendous respect for facts. They hold a tremendous store of facts within themselves, which they have gathered through their Sensing preference. They may have difficulty understanding a theory or idea which is different from their own perspective. However, if they are shown the importance or relevance of the idea to someone who they respect or care about, the idea becomes a fact, which the ISTJ will internalize and support.

So true! And this:

ISTJs tend to believe in laws and traditions, and expect the same from others. They're not comfortable with breaking laws or going against the rules. If they are able to see a good reason for stepping outside of the established mode of doing things, the ISTJ will support that effort. However, ISTJs more often tend to believe that things should be done according to procedures and plans. If an ISTJ has not developed their Intuitive side sufficiently, they may become overly obsessed with structure, and insist on doing everything "by the book".

Reading these descriptions assured me that I was not alone and in fact fit comfortably into a box, which was wonderful. I love boxes! More importantly, though, it taught me that...get ready...not everyone thinks like I do. I know. This was a revelation. I always thought that other people didn't follow rules and traditions just because they were, I don't know, rebellious. Or stupid. Or something. It never occurred to me that their relationship with rules and tradition was entirely different from mine. It, for instance, makes me extremely uncomfortable to vary from tradition, whether that means not celebrating Christmas the same way every year or not filling out the correct paperwork on time or using correct grammar. (Granted, this tendency has been mitigated by spending time in the Middle East where "by the book" has different...interpretations and consequences. Sometimes there is no book, and sometimes the book is flat out inefficient. I can appreciate that.)

This is perhaps one reason I have such a love for old things. I majored in history. I like old poetry with rhyme, meter, and patterns. I think old furniture is better made and prettier than that new stuff. I am always tut-tutting when I hear newfangled ideas. I am hopeful about progress but also believe that there is nothing new under the sun. Progress is a misleading idea. I prefer to think of this perspective as "realistic." Some prefer the word "pessimistic." Whatever.

So when I run across instances when history repeats itself or comments on our current struggles, I feel somehow vindicated, as if I could legitimately say, "I told you so!" Even though I didn't actually tell anybody so.

Here is an old thing which makes me feel particularly vindicated. It's another Kipling. And needless to say, I believe in the usefulness of copy book headings.

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Cities and Thrones and Powers

2008-10-06T02:46:00.000-03:00

Cities and Thrones and Powers
 Stand  in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
 Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
 To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth
 The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,
 She never hears
What change, what chance, what chill,
 Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
 And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance,
 To be perpetual.

So Time that is o'er-kind
 To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind,
 As bold as she:
That in our very death,
 And  burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,
 "See how our works endure!"


Rudyard Kipling

All of a sudden, the internet is only good for Googling IR theory definitions

2008-09-20T01:45:00.002-03:00

I am often walking down the street thinking deep thoughts and then thinking, "Dude, I should totally put that on my blog!"

Except that I don't. And do you know why?

Grad school.

I've been in school for three weeks and have read like, 6 books. Maybe 5. Anyway, a LOT. So I haven't been blogging much, or reading many blogs, or really anything blog-y. This is unfortunate.

But I have learned so much! For example: The first week, before class, we read Conoleezza Rice's Foreign Affairs piece on national interest and American realism. I skimmed it and was like, "Yeah, ok, democracy is important, our efforts to democratize make the world better, blah, ok I get it." But now I get it. I read the same article yesterday and it was like putting on 3D glasses: "Whoa! I totally get why she chose the words she chose! And what they mean!" Not that it was unintelligible before, but now it makes so much more sense.

If the rest of my grad school career is equally enlightening, the tuition will be worth it.

Fall To-Do List

2008-08-24T20:15:00.005-04:00

Hi! It's August. I know. Things got crazy.

So here's an easy blog to get back into the swing of things: a list stolen from a fabulous cooking blog, Chocolate and Zucchini. To quote: The Omnivore's Hundred is an eclectic and entirely subjective list of 100 items that Andrew Wheeler, co-author of the British food blog Very Good Taste, thinks every omnivore should try at least once in his life.

He offered this list as the starting point for a game, along the following rules:
1. Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2. Bold all the items you’ve eaten
3. Cross out any items that you would never consider eating. I am going to italicize these.
4. Optional extra: post a comment on Very Good Taste, linking to your results.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos Rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile (Not yet, but I ate Cayman in Peru, which is practically the same thing.)
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J Sandwich
14. Aloo Gobi (I...don't know what this is.)
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes (I tried Cherry.)
19. Steamed pork buns (...don't know what this is, either.)
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper. (No, thank you.)
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna caude
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar (I don't condone smoking. But maybe one day, if offered, I would try this.)
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo (eaten in New Orleans)
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects (I would try them, but they'd have to be dead, and cooked.)
43. Phaal (Again like Clotilde, I'd try a forkful, but wouldn't order it for myself)
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/€80/$120 or more
46. Fugu (Absolutely not.)
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut (I have had it, but I did not like it, not one bit. In fact, I hated it. That's right.)
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly Pear
52.Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S'mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin (Um...)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake (all of the above)
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill (No.)
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess fruit pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant (Someday...)
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse (I don't know if I could do this one.)
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam (Ew.)
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa (ooh, sounds yummy!)
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee
100. Snake

My score: 55/100. Looks like I have some tasting to do.

Cornmeal Muffins

2008-06-26T12:05:00.003-04:00

My dear friend Anne visited DC last November when I was, unfortunately, in Jordan. The plus side for them: she and her (equally dear) husband Jasen got to use my apartment instead of getting a hotel. The plus side for me: a thoughtful gift of blue cornmeal from New Mexico.

I hadn't opened it until last night when I was wondering what one does with a lot of souring milk. The answer: mix it with blue cornmeal, some eggs, and some baking powder for blue corn muffin deliciousness:

Everyone needs some Prada, if only in haiku format

2008-06-18T09:37:00.003-04:00

Go to the superfabulous blog Daddy Likey, pen a quick haiku about your favorite/most hated/most coveted designer, and see if you win some Prada.

At the very least, you get some amusing poetry. Go now!

Hamming It Up

2008-05-28T15:53:00.005-04:00

I am not an extrovert.

Extroverts are those people who thrive in large groups. They are not the people whose faces flush at the thought of making three brief announcements at a staff meeting. They are not the people who forget to breathe in the middle of a speech, thus making their voices quaver and break. They are not the people who have to collect themselves after a walk on stage in front of a crowd, no matter how small. And usually, they don't understand those of us who do.

That's a broad generalization, of course. Some extroverts probably do, on some level, understand the sheer terror of the introvert upon being pushed into a public situation. But for the most part, I've found the opposite: extroverts who nod politely and/or stare blankly when I say, "... No ... I hate public speaking." The response is usually, "Yeah, me too!" But the introvert can see in the extravert's eyes that it is a lie. He doesn't hate it. He is just saying that because it seems appropriate. Everyone is supposed to hate publicity. I've found far more introverts who can at least comprehend that someone - not them, of course, but someone - enjoy the heat of the limelight.

Last time I was in Istanbul, we took our group to a dinner-and-show called Karavanserai. It was dark and seedy and in a basement. There were hard-edged belly dancers who never cracked a smile, inedible desserts, and an emcee who delighted in passing the microphone to unsuspecting audience members. It was, in short, sort of a personal hell. So I sat in the dark corner and tried to remain inconspicuous. Just as I was getting to enjoy myself, or at least, the company around me, I heard my name being called by the emcee.

Now, when this happens-my name called unexpectedly, bidding me to get up on stage and perform, my heart quickens, my face reddens, and I lose my voice. I said, "No," firmly and numerously. So he moved on to my co-worker, who gladly got out of her seat and went up on stage. Greeeeeat, she goes, now I have to go too. I don't mind being a party pooper and have little trouble saying "No," but this was a work event, and she was my colleague, and now I had to get up. So I got up and tripped toward the stage. Fellow introvert and partner in embarrassment, Jenn, joined us.

What I remember most about those brief minutes on stage is our extroverted colleague singing Proud Mary, complete with "Rollin'! Rollin'! Rollin on the river!" hand motions. I also remember looking out to the blurry audience and feeling sort of like my insides had caved in. I suppose we made it through the song, and I remember tripping back to my seat, face burning, tears welling up in my eyes. The combination of the surprise element + not knowing the words + already sort of hating that song + performing in front of colleagues and strangers + work event, for Pete's sake was too much for my shy inner child. She was traumatized.

So on this trip to Istanbul, I told Alp (who is a wonderufl person but also the person responsible for our Proud Mary rendition), "OH NO, NEVER AGAIN, UH UH I AM NOT GETTING ON A STAGE AGAIN, NOT IF YOU PAID ME."

Below are some pictures of me on stage, wearing a harem hat, being fed watermelon by a pretend sultan, and later, mimicking (in front of approximately 150 people, strangers and friends) the belly dancer, despite the fact that she had said to me, "No dance, just sit!" while coaxing me up on stage. You will note that Samia, because she is The Awesome, came up with me for moral support. Samia is pretty much my favorite person.

The things I do for my job.

Sometimes My Life Surprises Even Me

2008-04-28T17:13:00.002-04:00

So, in my previous post I listed the plusses and minuses of various grad school experiences and how I would be happy to go to any of them, but of course I had my favorites, and one of those favorites (or, the favorite) was Columbia University because, guys, it's Columbia and then I would have a very good reason to move to New York. When I posted that, I also had a long conversation with two of my Favorite People about how I will probably go to SOAS (London) or SAIS (Italy/DC) if I don't get into Columbia because blah blah blah London! and blah blah blah Italy! and Georgetown ... well, not so much, maybe.

Except then I didn't get into Columbia. I read the e-mail in an internet cafe in Lima, Peru, and didn't break into tears but felt a little hollow and sad and then a little mad at Columbia because in their previous rejection they said, and I quote:

In your case, unlike that of many other applicants who were not accepted to the program, we feel confident of your academic potential. Rest assured your application was among less than five percent of all applicants whom we strongly encourage to reapply to the program after acquiring relevant job experience. We think this will greatly enhance your chances of admission in the future.

And what had I done? I had gone out and gotten me some relevant job experience.

So the rest of my Peruvian vacation, while I floated down the Amazon and fed monkeys and marvelled at Machu Picchu, I mulled the whole thing over in the back of my mind. I made no decisions until my 12 hour turnaround in DC: 12 hours to land at Dulles, go home, sleep, re-pack, drive to Dulles and get on a plane bound for Athens, Greece. My always-helpful mother came over at about 10 am and was greeted more or less by me yelping, "WHERE SHOULD I GO TO SCHOOL?!" (At least I waited to yelp after I'd given her her alpaca shawl.)

And then I raced around my studio, half-dressed and in hot rollers, listing for my alpaca-draped mother my various feelings on the subject of grad school. It went sort of like this: "I mean, SOAS is a good school, but is it good for what I want to study? The lady said...And SAIS is nice, and maybe I should just GO TO ITALY because who doesn't want to live in Italy and that would be kind of stupid to turn down, right? Right?...but I really think Georgetown has the best program of them all, and it's very competetive and if you get into the best school, maybe you should just go to the best school even if you would rather live in Italy and I WOULD be making new friends so it wouldn't be exactly the same..."

And by the time I had packed my carry-on and unrolled my curlers and put on my black travel trenchcoat, I had answered my own questions: Georgetown it was. (Thanks for listening, Mom!) My reasons are very good, and I was surprised at how comfortable I was with my own decision given that not a month earlier my general attitude toward Georgetown could be thusly summed up: "Meh." No, not comfortable; excited. There's nothing like a good, confident decision to turn your whole world a little sunnier. I'm excited about the program, about my future classmates, about my change in lifestyle come August, and about being a Georgetown grad student, and about what I will learn.

I sent in my $500 (unnngh) matriculation fee, joined the Georgetown MSFS 2010 facebook group (Hoyas!) and politely declined the other schools. And then I went to New York to visit Vera Who Lives in Brooklyn because even if Columbia doesn't want me, I'm still only 4 hours - and $3 - away from the Big Apple.

Something Old, Something New

2008-03-12T16:35:00.012-03:00

It's about that time, of life and of year, when the wedding bells start a-ringing. The snow has melted, the sun is shining, couples are beginning to emerge from their dens holding hands. Some have even ditched their winter scarves.

Many of my high school classmates, at least, the ones I've managed to ~~stalk~~ keep in touch with via everyone's favorite application, Facebook, are married, about to get married, or are thinking about getting married. When the first of us signed up for the Other Side of singledom, it was nary two weeks out of high school, and I'm not sure what happened to him/them. It seemed very rash and dangerous because we were just beginning our adult lives and was he even dating anyone?! What?

But now we are older and many of us are wiser, and now Decent Men have started appearing, which means that those single friends are venturing to the edge of singledom, peering over the ledge, and shrugging that it's not nearly so scary when you're a grown up.

I've been in one wedding, when my friend, the wonderful Anne, married Jasen, also wonderful, in the hills of Rancho Cucamonga, California. We wore long pink dresses and the day was hot and deserty. Now, make that two weddings, because weekend before last, Vicky up and go herself hitched, too, and to a fine man.

As Maid-o-Honor, I suspected I was supposed to do real work for the wedding preparations. Bridesmaids are not that important, work wise. They just show up and look pink. But Maids-o-Honor, they do things. The interwebs told me that I was supposed to plan a bachelorette party and also "provide support for the new bride." Well, I'm in DC, and she's not, so no bachelorette party without substantial travel bills. But Anthony and I DID give a lovely party, complete with Samia-cake (Have you had a Samia-cake? You need to have one.) At least I know that when I get married, I have a good cake-provider, assuming that Samia is not rich and famous by then, with her own Beverly Hills-based bakery. Even then, maybe she'll give me a discount? Vicky and Dave and the rest of the DC contingent came to my parent's grand house and had a lovely evening, complete with salami. Maid-o-Honor duty #1: check.

The maid-o-honor, the bride, the best man, and, most importantly, the cake.

And the rest was basically *talk*, but important talk about men and relationships and weddings and shoes and undergarments and honeymoons and expectations and babies and mothers-in-law and fathers and tuxes. And then the weekend came, and I put on my Girl Friday hat and got on the direct flight to LAX with Best Man Anthony.

We clean up real good.

Vicky, incidentally, is the Lowest Key Bride Ever. Any fears of a Bridezilla attack or a sudden sob of emotion five minutes pre-aisle were quickly put aside. She was chill. Except at 5 AM, wedding day, when we had to get up for our hair. That was not so much fun. But dang if we didn't look good afterwards.

Beautification at 5 am

We are grateful for Becca's cosmetology skills

It's strange to look at a newlywed couple, even if they've been dating a while, and really think about what they're jumping into together, hands held. They're jumping into an ocean. And even if you both know how to swim, the ocean is big. There are storms. Ships are wrecked on oceans. I look at the wedding pictures and wonder, in 20 years when they look back on these photos, what will they feel? Where will they be? What will they say about their wedding day when they were so young and new to life and each other?

I hope they'll say that their love has put down roots so deep that they will never be torn up, and I hope they look back on this day with wisdom and sweet nostalgia.

To the Nicks!

Ahem...long time, no see.

2008-02-07T11:22:00.000-03:00

Much like … everything else in my life, once I get out of the habit of blogging and Thinking About Writing, I tend to stop doing it because I find that I vastly prefer, say, eating chocolate chips on my bed while surfing YouTube. But I realized that I have not updated for two months, thus alienating my loyal audience of approximately 4 people.

While I was away, when I was not eating chocolate chips and surfing YouTube, I applied to graduate schools. It costs a lot of money to apply to graduate schools. I am not sure how this is fair, since I am applying not only for a place in their incoming class, but also for the opportunity to give them more money. The applications should be free. In fact, if I get in, they should pay me as a thank-you for applying. Here is The List of Schools I Would Be Happy To Go To, in order of preference:

Columbia SIPA and/or Journalism (dual masters)
University of London School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS)
Johns Hopkins SAIS
London School of Economics
Georgetown MSFS

I mean, I’m happy to go to ANY of them, particularly if they give me money (unlikely) but I guess if I had to choose, it’d be Columbia. And they did tell me three years ago that I should reapply after gaining some professional experience, which I did. But hey, London is also not a bad choice, and if I went to SAIS, I could stay in DC...

In other news, Lori, who is awesome, came and visited me for Christmas break. It is very nice to have a visit from a former roommate. There is no, "I hope she doesn’t mind that I don’t do the dishes every night" or trying to impress with my glamorous lifestyle, or…whatever. We lived together for two and a half years in college, and I mean, what bond is stronger than that, besides maybe the parental bond, or the bond you get with someone with whom you have sat, naked, in the Turkish baths in Istanbul? We had many low-key adventures, such as touring the Aquarium in Baltimore and the USS Constitution and also opening Christmas presents. And to top it all off, we celebrated our friendship/vacation/roommate bond/francophilia with a dinner, including wine and dessert, at Bistrot du Coin, which was heart-breakingly delicious.

Upcoming events: Vicky and Dave’s wedding in California in LESS THAN ONE MONTH, w00t! And a trip to Peru for another wedding/vacation in less than two months. And also, a work trip to Greece, probably. And trying to figure out how to pay for grad school. And more blogging.

The Weather Outside is Frightful

2007-12-18T14:29:00.000-03:00

I appreciate glittery frost on the cobwebs and the beauty of leaves blown about in a winter gale, individually chaotic yet corporately streamlined as they whip around the barren trees; I love the clean softness of freshly fallen snow, the way it muffles the world for a few hours until it is inevitably sullied by warmth and humanity. I love that the change of weather changes the sound of the air from lush and deep to tinny and thin, that the cool, refreshing breezes of summer turn gradually into whistling - and later howling - blusters that pull at scarves and prod errant litter down the empty, echoing streets.

Warmth is something I understand. It makes me want to breathe deeply and go conquer the world. But I hate being cold. I hate the prospect of being cold. I hate, hate the sudden streaks of hard goose bumps that rush up my legs as soon as the wind licks my jeans. I hate the hot sensation of truly cold fingers; the numb nose; the red, raw eyes. I hate the wooden, stiff feeling that permeates my muscles as I attempt to thaw. I hate the feeling that I am one thermostat, one winter coat, one fireplace away from death.

When I lay in bed, warm under my comforter, next to my radiator (which is usually dressed in tomorrow’s clothes so that they are warm when I put them on,) I usually can’t help but think, “…But for these walls…I’d be dying or dead, frozen somewhere in a corner, unable to move.” It’s a bit ridiculous because, of course, there ARE walls there, and I DO have a radiator, and I am not dead or near-dead because of the cold. But those walls are a thin separation, psychologically and physically, between me and that numbing temperature. And a jacket and gloves, although effective, are an almost comical boundary between my skin and the elements: how easy it would be to be stripped of that protection and be rendered helpless, my thin skin against the cruel winter.

When my brother lived in Alaska, he got frostbite because his ear was not sufficiently covered as he walked between his dorm and the library. This would not happen in Hawaii. You would not be this frighteningly close to frostbite, hypothermia, and death from exposure if you lived in San Diego, where when you walk outside, you are not a potential victim of the weather itself. One is not afraid, during the summer months, of being stripped of one’s sundress and sandals because (save for the possibility of being extremely embarrassed) it’s not a life-threatening possibility. Naked threats like illness, boredom and dehydration are benign until paired with looming, billowing cold that rushes down your neck, paralyzing you even as you attempt to defend yourself from illness, dehydration, boredom.

Cold makes everything harder, slower, more laborious. Cold is confident that, given enough time, he could permeate even your most carefully planned layers of clothing. Cold wants you to recognize his tyrannical presence and bow to him as he passes. Cold and I are not on speaking terms.

At the Lighting of the National Christmas Tree, Freezing. December 6, 2007.

Land of My Fathers

2007-12-11T18:11:00.000-03:00

My grandfather was tall and gentle and moved as old men move, with slightly bent knees and a lanky body of boney angles. But he had not withered as some old men do; his former strength was not hidden under years of alcohol and cigarettes. It was still tangible -- his hands sat on his lap like sleeping jaguars, full of lean control. His old skin tugged around his ears and shoulders and his movements were slow, but his eyes were still sharp and blue, like my father’s eyes, and his cheekbones were still commanding. His speech was slow and simple, as if he were always remembering something and trying to make sense of it, and his way of ending with a slight shake of his head and a soft “huh!” of a laugh buffered his words with kindness. Talking to him over a cup of coffee and a bologna sandwich, I got the idea that he had never been rushed, that he had approached life deliberately, cleanly, with a vague distrust of emotion but a very real sense of duty and family. And I also felt that if I ever wanted anyone to feel loved and honored and respected, it was him, who had raised his children in the Wisconsin winters and driven his cement truck every day and built himself a humble, honest reputation.

I have seen a few pictures of him and his young family circa 1955. They looked their parts; my father as the tallest and eldest of 5, 6, 7 siblings, standing straight and bright. There is something about him that is perpetually so innocent and so strong. He was the eldest of 7 on the 1950s Midwest farm, and seems to be the incarnation of everything I ever vaguely believed was good about America: honest, hardworking, protective, tall and strong, silent. The old photos of him on the farmhouse seem almost manufactured to create this impression: My dad's skinny kid frame clad in plaid flannel shirts; his dewy calf eyes under a limp 1950s hairdo, parted precisely on the side, cut close above his ears; a one-room schoolhouse; toys made of wood; the huge, loving frame of his father, also clad in plaid.

It is not a family of lavish tribute or gregarious compliments. We are a quiet people who see no need to offer excessive commentary. We are wary of telephones and intimate conversations. We prefer typewriters and books and silence. Any praise and encouragement, therefore, is simple, and the plain honesty of it moves me to tears sometimes. My aging grandfather and my middle-aged father, a successful doctor with a happy family, walking through the Wisconsin fields together, slowly and surely, for both were familiar with the terrain. Their powerful frames fit the landscape beautifully and even their light hair ruffling in the wind echoed the waves of the grains in the fields. “You know,” Grandpa said slowly, in his crackling voice, “I’m proud of you.” And my heart breaks with the pride and humility when I think of those words because I knew that these laconic men would never say more than that, and that the very absence of extra words makes the sentiment weigh heavy.

His funeral took place in the winter, on Thanksgiving, which seemed final and cold, an appropriate time to be buried and move on the warmer, friendlier lands. Yesterday's snow laced in doilied patterns across the stiff brown grass and the speckled sun shifted in a layer above the lace, giving the whole cemetary a rich, deep aura: layer upon layer of nature's patterns, from the nubby black frozen dirt through the lace up the rough tree trunks to the roof of waving pine needles and a few dead brown leaves languidly waving in the breeze, hanging from their branches with golden threads. The watercolored gray sky was thin with Wisconsin winter cold.

His children were there, and his close friends, and a man with a guitar. His sons dug the hole; his eldest gave the simple benediction. It is always hard to imagine the loss felt in others’ lives, and we gathered in possibly the largest gathering of Ranges I have seen in my 25 years, ate a post-Thanksgiving feast, talked about everything, and watched silly TV shows. We all knew the reason we were there, and we all felt the solemnity of it, but it was joyous and encouraging to see all sizes, ages, experiences, from his widow to his 2 year old great-grandson, connected only by thin lines of blood, marriage, and love, here remembering the man who had fathered us all.

Thanksgiving with Other Americans

2007-11-24T01:02:00.000-03:00

On Thanksgiving, the Ranges got on a plane and went to Chicago. We drove across the gray plains toward Wisconsin, mile after mile of road, exit, road, the soft rolling hills punctuated with the sharp edges of the harvest's skeletal remains, dried stalks jutting up into the gray sky. It was Thanksgiving day, early afternoon, and only a few cars whooshed by us. We pulled off to a rest stop to get something to eat since we hadn't eaten since morning. A few snow flakes meandered down around our scarves as we entered the only restaurant that was open: A combination Diner/Popeye's/Burger King/gas station.

And here, in the middle of America, in a gas station in the middle of the plains, were scattered couples, truckers, single women working the counter, eating their Thanksgiving meals. Music tinkled from the ceiling and the lights were cold, not the warm Thanksgiving lights of home on a snowy day, and the air was tinny and smelled of fried chicken and convenience store preservatives. Weathered men with hats and layers of flannel and corduroy and wrinkles across their brows folded into plastic booths behind plates of turkey and gravy, boiled green beans, pumpkin pie. An middle-aged couple, her black hair just set, both wearing thick-rimmed glasses, shared a piece of pie and two cups of steaming coffee. A small boy and his mother decorated the Burger King/Popeye's seating area with Christmas decorations. Two languid young men slouched behind the counter. Some looked so weary.

Popeye's fried chicken basket is...not my ideal Thanksgiving dinner. But I felt a strange sense of camaraderie with the other solitary figures in that plastic oasis, and I wondered to the point just short of getting the nerve to ask them -- Where were they going? Why were they here, of all the places to be on Thanksgiving? What did she do? Where are their children? Which truck is yours? How long is your drive? Do you want another cup of coffee?

And it felt very American, somehow, the weary, independent loneliness of Thanksgiving dinner in a truck stop, with strangers you'll probably never see again, on a holiday that is neither sacred nor profane. And I felt a heartbreaking urge to hug everyone and listen to their stories because the sum of all the lives and experiences in that room could add up to a storybook of laughter and sorrows and love and hate.... But we sat alone, with our own thoughts, taking a mealtime to nod to the holiday and our fellow travellers, and then dribbling out, speeding away and leaving that very temporary place with its oddly permanent smell of ice and plastic under the fluorescent humming of the lights.

Do you need another reason to avoid Air France?

2007-11-15T20:15:00.000-03:00

There are some flights that go exceedingly smoothly: the ying. I boarded my flight from Colombo to Doha to Amman with no hiccups. I saw the sun rise over the impending chaos of Colombo as I sat on my scarf to protect my jeans from the dampness of the taxi seat, as if it had been washed carefully but had never quite dried in the intense humidity. Skinny men in colorful wrapped skirts stepped lightly along the sides of the road, men whose arm veins I could see from the car, so little fat did they have. Young girls in blue and white school uniforms that looked all shades of gray in the morning light, darted between the traffic like it was a game, a real life pacman, and their long black braids swung back and forth. It smelled like rain, heat, gasoline, rain, heat, fish, mangoes.

The new Colombo terminal boasts a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, shiny and new, and the mocha-colored cushions and smooth wood and wicker feel very colonial when you sip your cappuccino from a thick white mug while looking out over the South Asian jungle. I tell the barista that even in DC we don’t have a Coffee Bean yet, and why on earth did Sri Lanka, arguably the Tea Capitol of the World, get one before we did? He shrugged and handed me my debit card. I bought souvenir tea from delightful young women whose skin was the color of the tea they were selling, and they explained with the trademark South Asian head bob the difference between the types of tea: U.V.A., Kandy, Ruthuna, this one comes from the south, this one from the mountains...this one is light, this one is dark, this one is a little stronger, and this is a very nice assortment...

The connection to Doha, with its high ceilings and sparkling duty free, and then to Amman, was seamless. My suitcase was the first one out, and I was picked up right away. It was a lovely Jordan afternoon, and the landscape rolled away from the highway in amber waves with golden froth of the sun sparkling on the windows of the distant houses. That strangely fresh smell of soil, desert and diesel whipped around our heads as we sped across the plain.

And then the yang, a week later. I arrived at 1 AM for my Air France flight to DC via Paris. In the Amman airport, there are a variety of men milling about in blue jumpsuits, and they will help you (often whether you like it or not); one of them informed me that the Air France counter had already closed. So I rushed through, and yes, it was closed, leaving me and a bunch of French guys stranded, asking anyone who looked like they knew anything, How can we get on the Air France flight...? WHY DID THEY CLOSE THE COUNTER? The French guys yelled at the only man who looked like he had any control, who insisted repeatedly, “SHU MALAK, I don’t have any idea about Air France, I’m with Royal Jordanian! I have no idea! Get a hotel!” He muttered angry Arabic and sucked his cigarette. The French guys yelled some more, then gradually disappeared, presumably to get a hotel.

Luckily, I have a travel agent, and they have a 24-hour emergency number, and Vita, who is my favorite person right now, confirmed me on the Frankfurt flight leaving in an hour and a half, although the man in the blue jumpsuit tilted his head in a tick of disbelief and raised his eyebrows as he inhaled, “It’s overbooked maybe 30 person.” I pointed at the Blackberry pressed against my ear and whispered, “Si7r...” Magic.

Although I was confirmed on the flight, which was indeed magical, this was only the first hurdle: the Lufthansa computer system was down, resulting in a crowd at the counter that had been growing for thirty minutes. As departure time approached, they announced that there would be free seating for those who did not already have their boarding pass. This was good news for me because, well, first come, first serve, so I paid for my ticket with my own credit card because my government card’s limit is low, low, and I got a blank boarding pass with FREE scribbled on it.

Being on a flight with free seating means a mob at the counter and then the same mob at the gate, random blue jumpsuited men who take you to the WRONG TERMINAL, and also only being able to check your bag one leg, which in turn means picking up the bag, then entering the airport again to find the correct terminal, which may involve a variety of stunts, like climbing up a down escalator because I had gone into the wrong baggage claim. This, my friends, is much harder than it looks, and not as much fun.

But not as hard as the young Palestinian woman next to me in the airplane from Amman, who had never flown before and was wide-eyed, overwhelmed. She and her shy three year old son Hamza, dressed impeccably in a tiny black three-piece suit, were en route to Sweden. She didn’t speak a word of English. I knew I had a while to wait in Frankfurt, so I told her to follow me, and we’d find her plane together. Frankfurt airport is a maze of hallways, checks, arrival and departure computer screens, passport controls, German women in navy suits who speak quickly and unforgivingly. My baggage claim and her gate were in the same place, roughly, which was good, because it was completely confusing to figure out which Lufthansa counter she needed to find to get her boarding pass, and how exactly she was to get to her gate--and I am a veteran traveler who speaks English. I saw her off at the security gate and watched her glide into the crowd, Hamza trotting dutifully behind her in his tiny blazer, four steps to her one.

I wouldn’t have had the chance to help her on her maiden voyage if I had made the Air France flight, and I don’t know why things happen the way they do, but sometimes your inconvenience doesn’t matter in the long run after all, and sometimes you get a glimpse into someone else’s life that makes you think deep thoughts about destiny and chance while you wait with your laptop and German gummy bears at Gate 55.

GOALS.

2007-11-05T09:06:00.000-03:00

One day in third grade, we had a lesson on GOALS, written boldly on the whiteboard in squeaky blue marker. “GOALS,” my teacher warbled, “are very important. You can’t accomplish anything unless you first establish some GOALS.”

I had never heard this, or if I had, I didn’t know that it was so terribly important. I knew that I certainly didn’t have any GOALS. I listened intently, trying to understand this important concept to which I had somehow never been exposed.

My teacher explained further. “You should be able to measure how far you’ve come in accomplishing your GOALS, to check your progress.” I understood this, ok, fine. “Now let’s everybody write down three long-term GOALS. Make sure you have checkpoints. The checkpoints are like mini goals, and every mini goal should lead up to your main GOAL. It’s good to have a checkpoint once a week or once a month, depending on how long your GOAL will take.”

I got out a fresh piece of paper, a sharpened pencil, and stared at my fingernails. My heart began racing and my face flushed in panic, as it always does when confronted with a task I have no idea how to complete. I had no GOALS! My third grade self couldn’t think of any thing I needed to set a goal for, especially not one that would take months to complete. A month in third-grade Catherine time was...well, it was impossible. I concentrated really hard, trying to think of something that I needed to improve about myself, something that would take a long, long time, like a month. Maybe I could make a GOAL to ride my bike faster. Or maybe I could make a GOAL to read more books. I recognized that both these GOALS were very silly and not really measurable, and it seemed like cheating to make a GOAL of something that I would do anyway, regardless of checkpoints.

I don’t remember what I wrote down for my goals, but I do remember that it was basically BS. It is the first time I remember making something up to accomplish a task, just because I knew that if I didn’t write anything down, I would get a bad grade, or, worse, come off as thinking that I was already perfect and didn’t need to set any GOALS. (Even at this age, I was aware that humility is a virtue that will always eventually work in your favor.) I was a good kid, and an impeccable student who got hot, sweaty palms if there was even a chance that I was unprepared for a class, an assignment, a presentation. (Until I got to college and realized that I could procrastinate and still get straight A's...) I was afraid my teacher would see that my GOALS were counterfeit, and then I’d have to admit that I had made them up, or that I didn’t really have any. I would have to think on my feet. I hate thinking on my feet.

But she didn’t see through my fake goals, and I’m sure no one ever thought about my GOALS after that day, but for the next few years I felt anxious dread whenever I thought about my lack of GOALS, because what if I never accomplished anything with my life because of my distinct lack of GOALS? Was I doomed to failure because I simply didn’t know WHAT to do? Did a successful person like the President make more GOALS as a third-grader than I did?

Clearly, I have accomplished some things in my life, whether or not I had clear GOALS: sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t. Mostly, I think I trust my gut more than my to-do list and mostly, it works out, because my gut usually self-organizes and creates a mental to-do list which threatens me with that anxious dread if not immediately addressed.

And yesterday when I thought, “I really want to write a decent op-ed and get published somewhere,” my 3rd grade teacher’s thick, quivery voice echoed in my head: “You can’t accomplish anything unless you first establish some GOALS.”

So, internet, here’s my GOAL. It doesn’t have checkpoints yet, and I hope it won’t take months, but I intend to write more, an op-ed, to get into a newspaper or a magazine, something modest, but something I can use as a checkpoint for a grander goal, because seventeen years later my GOALS (always, always capitalized in my mind) are too numerous to mention, and some of the harder ones require some sort of published accomplishment. I want to improve my Arabic, become a *real* tanguera, keep a cleaner apartment and a stricter budget, go to Argentina and gradauate school, pray more, read more nonfiction, get published, write better poetry and more letters (combined, if possible), improve my photography, keep up my French, get a decent 6 pack or at least a 4 pack (don’t laugh), be a better sister, daughter, friend, girlfriend, neighbor...

You can be my checkpoint. Next time you see me, ask me how my GOALS are coming along. And when my op-ed is published, you can be sure it’ll be on this blog and you, my checkpoints, will receive due credit. Checkpoints really do make it so much easier.

The More Things Change

2007-11-01T12:34:00.000-03:00

Over a year since my last trip, I landed again in Amman yesterday night. It's the same. It smells the same, it feels the same, the sunsets are just as rosy pink, the houses are just as limestone white, the taxis still honk as they pass you at 40 mph, just in case you want them to stop. It's election season, and banners fly above the roads advertising candidates and slogans: "We won't settle for anything less than the stars!" My taxi driver shakes his head, "Big nice promises," he sniffs, "But you can only be elected if you have money. All of them, rich men." Sounds familiar.

The Holiday Inn is pleasant, nothing remarkable, but the breakfast, as unremarkable as it was, so so refreshing: tomato, cucumber, and green pepper salad, mana'eesh, shai bi n3n3. Laughing cow cheese. Pita. It never tastes quite as good in America.

But Amman has grown, and seems to be swarming with people, ideas, frustrations, like bees who have outgrown their hive. The traffic is backed up all day: before I could take a cab for a quick Swefieh shopping trip and back to Webdeh; now that ride takes at least 15 minutes longer and costs double. The hotels are always fully booked, the Iraqi accent floats around the city. There are towers under construction, huge, stark metal and glass towers, blatantly defying the city rule that all buildings must be limestone, and under 6 stories. They look like transplants from Doha. There are new pedestrian walkways, to be lined with glamorous shops,under construction: transplants from Beirut. "Everything changes," my taxi driver says, sighing glumly as the traffic comes to another halt, his cigarette dangling out the window.

I told a colleague that in DC, smoking has been banned in restaurants and bars. He looked at me in blank surprise. "This," he said, gesturing with his cigarette, "is the only thing keeping most of us sane."

After I checked in at the hotel I wandered up and down the nearby thoroughfare. I don't know the street's name, if it has one, but it's busy, and lined with a random assortment of shops and restaurants. I didn't feel like playing frogger with the traffic, so I stopped in the restaurant nearest to the hotel, a quick meat sandwich place advertising shawerma and kebab. My Arabic fell off my tongue hesitantly, and the consonants sounded all off to me, like I was speaking through cotton balls. "You speak Arabic?" the meat man asked. "Well...yes, but I studied here a long time ago, and I don't practice a lot." He shrugged, "Soon you will remember." I sat outside and watched the cars zoom pass while the waiter stopped by occasionally and enthusiastically told me Arabic words. (He gestures to the bottled water: "Water: maii. MM-AA-YYYY." I nod pleasantly, "...yes, shukran.")

I remember certain things distinctly: the Burger King sign at the intersection where AMIDEAST was, and perhaps still is, located; the that one block next to my house in Webdeh, with the Jasmine spilling over the edge of the walls; the block between the Zara and the Mango stores in Swefieh, where there is now *gasp* a Starbucks; the street at the North Gate of the university with the Turkish Pizza shop and the smell of that falafel/shawerma stand where we ate every lunchtime with a bustling crowd of students; the hill up to CSS at the University, the smell of those trees, the crunch of that mulch under my feet; the November rain and wind mixed with the clear, dusty, only vaguely polluted smell of Amman's streets, whipping around my umbrella. Memories are rarely one-time events, but those events which are repeated daily, so you hardly know you're creating memories until one day after your habits have changed, you're struck by a smell, a sight, a voice, and you remember...

I don't have any claim to this city, except that I studied here once, and I have visited twice, and that I know some families, and that I speak some language, and that I really like mansaf. But I often feel that the whole of Amman, or Jordan, is greater than the sum of its parts: I don't particularly love the language, the food, the people, the politics, the limestone, the jasmine, by themselves: there are other places with purer language, better food, prettier flowers. But together, they create something so beautiful that I often stop as I'm walking down the street and take a deep breath and look at someone's white porch overlooking a crowded street and a herd of sheep, and all the beauty and nostalgic pain of my memories settles on top of my eyelashes and in the middle of my chest, and for a second, it doesn't matter that my memory is often faulty or that things change so drastically so quickly. I feel that tingle of deep, dizzying recognition, and think that maybe...maybe I'll extend my trip a few days.

There are so many reasons not to bomb Iran.

2007-10-22T16:38:00.000-03:00

Fareed Zakaria's Newsweek article. I know I could just post the link. But it's worth reading, so here it is, saving you an extra click.

At a meeting with reporters last week, President Bush said that "if you're interested in avoiding World War III, it seems like you ought to be interested in preventing [] from having the knowledge necessary to make a nuclear weapon." These were not the barbs of some neoconservative crank or sidelined politician looking for publicity. This was the president of the United States, invoking the specter of World War III if Iran gained even the knowledge needed to make a nuclear weapon.

The American discussion about Iran has lost all connection to reality. Norman Podhoretz, the neoconservative ideologist whom Bush has consulted on this topic, has written that Iran's is "like Hitler … a revolutionary whose objective is to overturn the going international system and to replace it in the fullness of time with a new order dominated by Iran and ruled by the religio-political culture of Islamofascism." For this staggering proposition Podhoretz provides not a scintilla of evidence.

Here is the reality. Iran has an economy the size of Finland's and an annual defense budget of around $4.8 billion. It has not invaded a country since the late 18th century. The United States has a GDP that is 68 times larger and defense expenditures that are 110 times greater. Israel and every Arab country (except Syria and Iraq) are quietly or actively allied against Iran. And yet we are to believe that Tehran is about to overturn the international system and replace it with an Islamo-fascist order? What planet are we on?

When the relatively moderate Mohammed Khatami was elected president in Iran, American conservatives pointed out that he was just a figurehead. Real power, they said (correctly), especially control of the military and police, was wielded by the unelected "Supreme Leader," Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. Now that Ahmadinejad is president, they claim his finger is on the button. (Oh wait, Iran doesn't have a nuclear button yet and won't for at least three to eight years, according to the CIA, by which point Ahmadinejad may not be president anymore. But these are just facts.)

In a speech last week, Rudy Giuliani said that while the Soviet Union and China could be deterred during the cold war, Iran can't be. The Soviet and Chinese regimes had a "residual rationality," he explained. Hmm. Stalin and Mao—who casually ordered the deaths of millions of their own people, fomented insurgencies and revolutions, and starved whole regions that opposed them—were rational folk. But not Ahmadinejad, who has done what that compares? One of the bizarre twists of the current Iran hysteria is that conservatives have become surprisingly charitable about two of history's greatest mass murderers.

If I had to choose whom to describe as a madman, North Korea's Kim Jong Il or Ahmadinejad, I do not think there is really any contest. A decade ago Kim Jong Il allowed a famine to kill 2 million of his own people, forcing the others to survive by eating grass, while he imported gallons of expensive French wine. He has sold nuclear technology to other rogue states and threatened his neighbors with test-firings of rockets and missiles. Yet the United States will be participating in international relief efforts to Pyongyang worth billions of dollars.

We're on a path to irreversible confrontation with a country we know almost nothing about. The United States government has had no diplomats in Iran for almost 30 years. American officials have barely met with any senior Iranian politicians or officials. We have no contact with the country's vibrant civil society. Iran is a black hole to us—just as Iraq had become in 2003.
The one time we seriously negotiated with Tehran was in the closing days of the war in Afghanistan, in order to create a new political order in the country. Bush's representative to the Bonn conference, James Dobbins, says that "the Iranians were very professional, straightforward, reliable and helpful. They were also critical to our success. They persuaded the Northern Alliance to make the final concessions that we asked for." Dobbins says the Iranians made overtures to have better relations with the United States through him and others in 2001 and later, but got no reply. Even after the Axis of Evil speech, he recalls, they offered to cooperate in Afghanistan. Dobbins took the proposal to a principals meeting in Washington only to have it met with dead silence. The then Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, he says, "looked down and rustled his papers." No reply was ever sent back to the Iranians. Why bother? They're mad.

Last year, the Princeton scholar, Bernard Lewis, a close adviser to Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney, wrote an op-ed in The Wall Street Journal predicting that on Aug. 22, 2006, President Ahmadinejad was going to end the world. The date, he explained, "is the night when many Muslims commemorate the night flight of the Prophet Muhammad on the winged horse Buraq, first to 'the farthest mosque,' usually identified with Jerusalem, and then to heaven and back. This might well be deemed an appropriate date for the apocalyptic ending of Israel and if necessary of the world" (my emphasis). This would all be funny if it weren't so dangerous.

Meme, pilfered from Meg

2007-10-11T14:30:00.000-03:00

These are the top 106 books most often marked as "unread" by LibraryThing’s users. Here's how I shape up against them.

The books I've read are in bold, the ones I started but couldn't/didn’t finish are in italics, what I couldn’t stand has a strike through, those I've read more than once have an asterisk*, and those underlined are on my To Be Read list.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Anna Karenina
Crime and punishment
Catch-22
~~One hundred years of solitude~~
Wuthering Heights
The Silmarillion
Life of Pi
The name of the rose
Don Quixote
~~Moby Dick~~
Ulysses
Madame Bovary I watched the movie, though.
The Odyssey
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre ...I watched this movie, too.
A Tale of Two Cities
The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
War and PeaceVanity Fair
The Time Traveller’s Wife
The Iliad
Emma
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs Dalloway
Great Expectations
American Gods
A heartbreaking work of staggering genius
Atlas shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran: a memoir in books
Memoirs of a Geisha
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West
The Canterbury tales
The Historian : a novel
A portrait of the artist as a young man
Love in the time of cholera
Brave New World
The Fountainhead
Foucault’s pendulum
Middlemarch
Frankenstein
The Count of Monte Cristo* (LOVE LOVE LOVE)
Dracula
A clockwork orange
Anansi boys
The once and future king
The grapes of wrath
The Poisonwood Bible
1984
Angels & demons
The inferno
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
The picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One flew over the cuckoo’s nest
To the lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Oliver Twist
Gulliver’s travels
Les misérables*
The corrections
The amazing adventures of Kavalier and Clay
~~The curious incident of the dog in the night-time~~
Dune
The prince
The sound and the fury
Angela’s ashes
The god of small things
A people’s history of the United States : 1492-present
Cryptonomicon
Neverwhere
A confederacy of dunces
A short history of nearly everything
Dubliners
The unbearable lightness of being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-five
The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves*
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake
Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed
Cloud
Atlas
The Confusion
Lolita (thanks, Lisa!)
Persuasion
Northanger Abbey
The Catcher in the Rye
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics : a Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
The Aeneid
Watership Down
Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit
In cold blood : a true account of a multiple murder and its consequences
White teeth
Treasure Island
David Copperfield
The Three Musketeers

Lesson: Nothing, really, except that I clearly have more books to read.

Miss Range...with a lead pipe...in the kitchen

2007-10-11T12:23:00.000-03:00

Freshman year in the USC dorms, Friday the 13th of October. The sink in our kitchenette clogs, someone turns on the disposal, and a cloud of dark black oily liquid gurgles up from the drain, like squid ink. We were a bunch of 18 year old girls who, while quite capable in many respects, were not really experience plumbers, but we did manage to bucket out the black water and dump it in one of the two communal showers (I know, gross.) As we sloshed from the kitchenette to the showers, we realized that it was not only black and oily, but had a putrid, pungent smell not unlike rancid tofu. It was past 5, when the maintenence guys had already gone home for the weekend, and there we were in our dorm, an unknown substance gurgling up in spurts from the drain in a spring of glossy ooze. It gurgled to a slow halt as we kept our eye on it, and we slept in peace that night, from what I recall. The next day, a USC football game, I was alone in the dorm studying at the table in the common area when I heard a splash! and looked up to see a sheet of water spilling over the sink's edge into a lovely muddy puddle on the floor. I lept up, tied a bandana around my hair, and retrieved our bucket. It stopped of its own accord after a few hauls back to the common shower area. The next Monday, a man came and knocked a hole in our bathroom to fix the pipes. I still have no idea what the black ooze was.

---

Yesterday I came into my apartment after Bible Study, dumped my purse on the bed and went to the kitchen for a drink. There was about an inch of water standing in my sink. The faucet has had a steady drip for a while, but it had never clogged before, not like this. I looked underneath. The seams of the pipe were dripping. I sponged out the water in the sink and dumped it down another drain. We tightened and loosened the seams, and the water just kept rushing out--the sink water level never changed. The Manly Man and the handyman came determined that this was not a problem with my drain, but with the pipe system in general: my first floor apartment was the lucky recipient of waste water that couldn't drain properly because of a clog somewhere else in the system. Turns out that the apartment next to mine experienced the same problem. In other words, the water that was threatening to flood my kitchen was not my water. It was OTHER PEOPLE'S WASTE WATER just looking for a way out. Beautiful.

---

One day soon after I returned from Egypt last October, I was standing at the sink doing my dishes and minding my own business when I looked down to see that I had a fat, hairy visitor: one of Dupont's resident rodents had moved in while I was away. (S)he was quite at home on my yellow floor, and looked startled when she realized that she was not the only tenant in this studio. She bolted behind the oven. I bolted to the phone to call my landlord. I then moved to a friend's apartment because NO WAY WAS I SLEEPING IN THE SAME APARTMENT AS A BIG FILTHY RAT, EW, WHAT IF HE CRAWLED INTO MY BED OR SOMETHING, EW EW EW GROSS.

After a few days tempting her with peanut butter on unset rat traps, to lull her into a false sense of security, we set the traps. The next evening, a Friday, I opened the door to see...a bleeding rat. In my kitchen. I closed the door without moving an inch, went to the front desk and left a note saying something to the tune of, "There is a rat who may or may not be dying/dead in my apartment. If the maintenance guy is around, could you please have him look after that?"

The next day, Saturday at 11 AM, I came back to a laughing front desk clerk who thought that I probably was exagerrating and the rat was probably dead, and was I even sure that it was a rat? Mice can get pretty big, you know. We opened the door, and there she was, with her beady bright eyes, nursing her injured paw in my foyer. The desk clerk thought this was hysterical and screeched with a mixture of disgust and delight. We couldn't trap her with a box and broom, and only succeeded in scaring her to seek refuge under my chair (EW EW EW) so that night we set more traps. The next afternoon, I was greeted with a truly dead rat. The landlord took her away so I didn't have to witness the carnage. There had been, he told me, construction in the basement, leaving a small hole(s) through which the rat had probably discovered my cozy, warm, person-less apartment.

I spent the next 24 hours bathing my studio in bleach and vinegar. I think I dry cleaned every item of clothing I owned. My dishes had never been so clean, my wood floors had neevr gleamed with such precision. I cursed the cumbersome 1950s oven that was stuck to the wall, preventing me from cleaning between the wall and the cupboards.

The moral of the story: Never buy a first floor condo. Let someone else deal with the ooze and the pipes and the rats.

No One's Ever Thrown Me A Surprise Party Before

2007-10-05T12:45:00.000-03:00

I turned 21 in Amman, Jordan, on a Tuesday. The store that supposedly sold the "best milkshakes in the Middle East" didn't have any milkshakes, so we went to a tea shop in the middle of downtown Amman with a bunch of people I had just met three weeks ago. There was not much fanfare, but the tea was decent. We went home early to study for our history midterm the next day. In the following week, I came down with a case of Hepatitis A. It was not a miserable birthday, but it could have been better.

I turned 18 at a Buca di Beppo's somewhere in LA with people I had just met in my dorm, the first year of college. It was nice to get out of the dorm, but I'm not sure we had much to say to each other. There was a lot of, "So! This is pretty good food." "Yeah, I've never been here before." "Yeah!" "Yeah." Not miserable, but not really fantastic.

I turned 24 on a rainy day in Adams Morgan, and most of the people I had invited to dinner were sick/out of town/lazy/stuck in Alexandria/whatever. The people I ended up sharing it with were wonderful, but there were only four of us and a lot of mojitos. Again, not miserable, but I can't say it wasn't lame, either.

Not to say I haven't had some good, fun birthday parties: I turned 23 at Mama Ayesha's after living in DC 9 months and accumulating enough friends to make it a true birthday quorum. We ate Arabic food. We went salsa dancing afterwards. Some of us drank mojitos. I met Anthony, who now has surpassed me in Arabic skills and remains one of my dearest friends, despite the difficulty of the weekly Arabic quizzes he administers (Well, I had met him before, but not really.)

And I kind of assumed that birthday parties diminish in quality as one ages: nothing will ever compare to the fantastic day that was my 6th birthday party. Not only did we have a TEDDY BEAR PICNIC, but we also wore PARTY DRESSES and FANCY HATS to said teddy bear picnic. It was pretty much 6-year-old heaven.

So I came back from Geneva on the 13th of September, after exchanging a few e-mails with Lisa and Anthony, "We should do something for your birthday! But I'm busy. How about Sunday?" I had a vague impression that something would be happening Sunday despite the fact that my birthday was on Saturday, which as everyone knows, is the PRIMO BIRTHDAY PARTY day, especially if it is actually the day OF your birthday. I half-heartedly attempted to arrange something, but people were vague/busy/disinterested, so I gave up and decided that going to a war protest would have to suffice as a birthday celebration.

I went to the protest, my first protest ever. I ... am not a protesting person, but it was a liberating experience, and Sasan bought me a nice bumper sticker, so ... that was nice. The weather was beautiful. The crowd was energetic.

On the way back from the protest, Sasan insisted we go to Trader Joe's: "You SAID we could go to Trader Joe's!" ...what's the big deal? I thought. But fine, sure, we'll go to Trader Joe's. He bought nuts and chips and LOTS OF SALSA. Because he really likes salsa, and he goes through it so fast (?) Ok, fine. And I believe I made a comment on the way home about how I Don't Want To Have A Lame Birthday wah wah wah. I believe I also thought, Wouldn't it be nice if someday someone threw me a Fun and Exciting Birthday Party, with friends and family and food and if it were a surprise, wouldn't that be even better! Maybe next year.

We went back to my apartment to drop off the groceries, and I still had the vague idea that we'd be going to Busboys and Poets later on for a Brazilian carnival thing. Sasan declared that it was a Persian tradition to clean up the house/apartment on one's birthday. "It's like starting the new year off, you have to clean your house. However your house is on the first day of the year, that's how it will stay the rest of the year and besides, it's not NICE to be in a messy apartment." And I protested. I don't want to clean my apartment I want to go do something who wants to spend their birthday cleaning the apartment that's so lame. But we cleaned despite my protests. And then he declared another Persian tradition: To take pictures on your birthday. We have to take pictures every year so that we remember the years blah blah blah. He says this to me, in my undone hair and ratty T-shirt. So of course, I go to change. I take my time. We don't have to be at Busboys til 10. It's like, 8:30. Sasan hurries me along: But no we have to go now because we have to walk to Busboys afterwards and we need plenty of time let'sgolet'sgolet'sgo.

He runs me to Dupont, where we took precisely one picture. I was annoyed: WHY ARE YOU WALKING SO FAST. GEEZ. He slowed down. "Ok, I should buy you dessert, it's your birthday. Where do you want to get dessert?" We were walking down 19th street. "Fondue!" I said as we walked by the Melting Pot. I love fondue. "Ok." He steered me in, and I protested, again. "Um, isn't this expensive? We can't just go in an order dessert fondue...um...Are you sure? We can just get ice cream." "Let's just SEE." He said.

So we walked through the dining tables to the corner. I was looking at the various fondue selections, the steaming pots on every table, the couples cuddling and feeding each other strawberries dipped in chocolate. Then I looked up and the first thing I saw were balloons...then I heard a crowd, "SURPRISE!" ...then I recognized Lisa, in the middle of the crowd, and I realized that I was The Surprised One. I was the surprised one.

And then everything made sense. Lisa didn't have a prior engagement. It was a foil to prevent me from planning anything on Saturday night. Sasan didn't need 5 jars of salsa. It was for the party afterwards, when we migrated from the fondue to my apartment. Cleaning one's house on one's birthday is a bogus Persian tradition (although cleaning on the new year is not.) And the picture ploy was just to get me to go willingly to Dupont. He had planned and executed it all, the whole program, designed to the last detail (he even e-mailed my parents to warn them in case they had conflicting plans with me.) He predicted my reaction to people's inquiries about what I'm doing for my birthday, knowing that I shouldn't think that everyone's forgotten, but I should think that it's really not that big a deal to them. He anticipated my reaction to friends', "What are you doing to celebrate?" verbatim: "I guess we're doing something Sunday night...?" He combed through mass e-mails to find friends' contact information.

Sasan gets the gold star.

Carolina brought a decadent chocolate cake, Melissa brought balloons. Anthony brought paper plates. My cousin was there, Kutaiba was there. They had all arrived on time (we had not: I took too long figuring out what to wear.) and were waiting to celebrate MY BIRTHDAY. Because they are the best friends ever.

Carolina, Leila, Azucena, Katie, Melissa, Me, Sasan (Project Manager Extraordinaire), Lisa, Christina. The photographers: Jason, Anthony

If You Forget Me

2007-10-04T23:02:00.000-03:00

Just because I like it, here is a lovely poem by Pablo Neruda.

---

If you forget me
I want you to know one thing
You know how this is

If I look at the crystal moon
At the red branch of the slow autumn at my window
If I touch near the fire the impalpable ash
Or the wrinkled body of the log
Everything carries me to you
As if everything that exists - aromas, light, metals
Were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me

Well, now
If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you, little by little

If suddenly you forget me
Do not look for me
For I shall already have forgotten you

If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life
And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots
Remember....
That on that day, at that hour
I shall lift my arms, and my roots will set off to seek another land

But... If each day, each hour
You feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness
If each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me
Ahh my love, ahh my own
In me all that fire is repeated
In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten
My love feeds on your love, beloved
And as long as you live it will be in your arms
Without leaving mine

How Taking Taxis Improved My Spoken Arabic

2007-10-03T12:45:00.000-03:00

When I was wandering around the Levant during my junior/senior/whatever year of college, I took a lot of taxis. In Beirut, I carried around a pack of expensive cigarettes and offered them to the cab driver if we were taking a long enough ride to warrant a cigarette. Although I can't condone smoking, it was an extremely easy way to make quick friends with the driver, and sometimes he counted that as payment, which always gave me the thrill of a Good Deal. They're going to smoke anyway. I may as well get a cheap cab ride out of it.

Without losing much time, most cabbies steered conversation to one's personal life, things one would not dare ask in an American taxi, questions which were endlessly amusing to answer, but sometimes crossed into the terrain of the Intrusive. If you speak Arabic, so much the better, because then you are instantly intriguing. It's excellent practice. Where are you from? (America/Canada) Are you married? (...yes.) Where is your husband? (He's in America/Canada/Portugal, he's coming to meet me here shortly.) Do you have babies? (...no.) Why NOT?! (...)

The best answer to "Why NOT?!" is to say that you've only been married 4 months. This usually calms them down because then they can't say that you're not TRYING, and it's possible that you could still have a baby within an acceptable time frame.

If a young single American doesn't say she's married (i.e. if she tells the truth) she will probably notice his ears perk up slightly. "Why aren't you married! It's better to be married!" To which she may respond, "...I don't want to be married yet," or, "I don't know anyone I want to marry," or, more amusingly, "I don't need a man to make my life complete." Any one of these may inspire an incredulous stare in the rearview mirror. And any one of them may inspire a proposal, which may be dismissed by something as simple as "I don't want to marry a Muslim," or, "I'm not interested," but more often was persistent. "I make good American husband!" many claimed earnestly. "It is PERMISSIBLE for a Muslim man to marry a Christian woman!" (...yeah, but it's maybe not permissible for the Christian woman to marry the Muslim man. What about that?) "You want to live here? I marry you, you stay here. It's beautiful." I once heard a despairing cabbie's woeful tale of converting to Islam in order to marry a Muslim woman, only to have her call off the engagement and leave him stuck with a religion he didn't really believe and couldn't legally denounce. His solution: marry me, move to America, forget about Islam. My solution: Tip him and get out of the cab.

After the first few proposals, I began wondering: what response did they really expect? Did these cab drivers (who were, I'm sure, friendly, hard-working, upstanding citizens) understand the absurdity of their suggestion? Did they think it was possible, or likely, that a single American girl would find love, or at least, a mutual admiration, with a cab driver in an Amman suburb and just decide, in the time it takes to drive up one of Amman's rocky hills, to change her previous plans, marry him, and stay there?

I guess people do that. I guess it's conceivable that one would be so taken with the city, so enamored of the jasmine wafting through the valleys, so flattered by the prospect of a sudden relationship with a dark man in a new country, that one would shrug off her previous life and transplant herself to foreign soil. Conceivable, but not very likely for a free and easy college-educated girl in her young 20s whose possessions fit in one large, wheeled duffle bag.

This is not an easy concept to explain in halting Arabic. I did my best. I'll never forget the words for "My husband is in another country right now," "No, I don't have babies," "I don't want to marry you," "You've got to be kidding," or "That's not important. I'll get out here."

So the moral of the story is that public transportation helps your vocabulary.

Stolen from Lisa, who stole it from Paul.

2007-10-01T21:34:00.000-03:00

If your life was a movie, what would be the soundtrack?
Instructions:

1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend your cool... & a lot of the songs fit with
the setting"

Opening Credits:
Quequ'un M'a Dit, Carla Bruni.

(I like it!)

Waking Up:
Freylekhs (Joy) from Songs of My People, Simon Wynberg

(This is a very perky song. It's an appropriate waking song, I think.)

First Day At School:
Amor Verdado, Afro Cuban All-stars

Falling In Love:
Dudu, Tarkan

(hahaha. I do love this song, and it kind of makes me want to fall in love, but I think it's about him being sad that he's not loved back, yes?)

Fight Song:
New York Gotan, Gotan Project

Breaking Up:
I'm No Angel, Dido

Prom:
Route 101, from the Definitive Hits, Herp Albert

(Sounds about right, yeah.)

Life:
Carmen Suite -- Aragonaise, LA Guitar Quartet

(This is one of my favorite songs ever. I would be happy to have it be my life soundtrack, so long as I end up better than Carmen did.)

Mental Breakdown:
You Know I'm No Good, Amy Winehouse

Driving:
It Had Better Be Tonight, Lena Horne

Flashback:
When You Called My Name, The Newsboys

(This works. I like it.)

Getting back together:
Besame Mucho, the tango version by Mantovani

Wedding:
Complainte de la Butte, Rufus Wainwright from the Moulin Rouge! soundtrack

Birth of Child:
Nekreh El Keld, Souad Massi

Final Battle:
Somewhere, Leonard Bernstein, West Side Story (Sung by Tony as he's dying. Sad. Maybe better for after the battle?)

Death Scene:
My Baby Needs a Shepherd, Emmylou Harris

Funeral:
No Jive, De-Phazz (Hotel Costes, Vol 1.)

End Credits:
Sadani Khalas, Amr Diab

Very appropriate end credits song.

Captain Obvious

2007-10-01T12:11:00.000-03:00

Here is an actual question asked to Bill Clinton by Tim Russert on Meet the Press.

MR. RUSSERT: Do you ever think of the historical significance, a husband and a wife both being president of the United States?

...

Bill Clinton has probably never ever thought of that, no.

I think Clinton's response should have been, "...Whoa! You know, you're right! Dude. That's deep."

Something for a Friday

2007-09-28T11:45:00.000-03:00

5 Things I Am Afraid Of:

Getting stuck in an elevator
Scuba diving
Death in my immediate family
Public speaking and performing
Causing a toilet to overflow somewhere that is not my home

5 Fears I Have Conquered:

Cutting all my hair off
Touching my eyeball/putting in contact lenses
Getting a brazilian wax
Quitting my stable job in order to pursue something that may or may not work out
Traveling alone

5 Things I Am Good At:

Sensing the moment at which the conversation turns from "playful!" to "...awkward" and thinking up something to say to change the mood
Cooking with what I have in my fridge at any given moment
Walking in heels
Vocabulary words
Packing

5 Things I Am Bad At:

Remembering to mail my rent check so it arrives on the 1st instead of leaving my mailbox on the 1st
Estimating distance and the time it will take to travel said distance
Getting up on time
Not getting distracted by shiny objects
Studying if I know there's not going to be a test

5 Things I Want To Get Better At:

Keeping my closet organized
Getting enough sleep
Dancing in nightclubs
Giving other people the benefit of the doubt
Returning phone calls

5 Things I Will Never Be Able To Do and Therefore Covet The Ability To Do Said Things In Others:

Be the life of the party
The splits
Act
Speak English with a convincing foreign accent
Stay friends after breaking up

5 Things I Wouldn't Give Up, Not For Anything:

Good rhythm
Willingness to taste any food put in front of me
My fantastic and inspiring friends
A good relationship with my parents
My faith

5 Things I Would Be Lying If I Told You I Wouldn't Sell My Soul To Possess:

A six-pack
A lucrative career as a photojournalist
An old house with a veranda
Thicker skin (in the metaphorical sense)
A clear complexion

The Price of Freedom is Eternal Vigilance

2007-09-26T19:08:00.001-03:00

Most of you know, and some of you don't, that I come from a conservative background, where Republicanism was sort of assumed, not necessarily in my family, but definitely in the community. We were calm and had a general idea that we should let our political voices be heard, we should vote, we should make sure we voted for people with our values, but we were not a protesting people. We did not stream into the streets, we looked with disdain upon what we saw as brash, liberal, dangerous actions of the ACLU, we generally support authorities unless they were Really, Really Bad, bad enough to make you go against your religious beliefs, etc. It is my nature to protest, perhaps, by writing a letter to my congressman, and not much else. I am not an extremist. I (like most Americans, I think) believe profoundly in the self-correcting system of democracy: the pendulum will always swing back.

However, since moving to DC and becoming much more politically active, my attitude has changed. I have begun attending marches in protest of the war (some of my high school friends are shocked at this, I suspect...:) ), and especially in protest of the looming war with Iran, out of the simple conviction that our discontent with the current state of affairs needs to be seen in throngs of unhappy citizens on the streets. I have had for years now the vague sense that something isn't right with our democracy, but I didn't know what it was, and I didn't have the words, motivation, or education to really figure it out; nor did I really even believe there was something TO figure out.

On Monday I went to a book signing with Naomi Wolf, a Yale-educated writer whose latest book, The End of America is very easy to read, thorough, and short. It's the number 10 bestseller on Amazon, but she hasn't had any media requests to discuss her book on the major networks (unlike her first book, The Beauty Myth.)

The book is chilling. She researched 6 governments who have, in the last century, shifted from democratic open societies to fascist/dictatorial closed societies: 1930s Germany, Italy, Chile, China, etc. She found that there are 10 predictable steps in the blueprint of a fascist shift.

She found that the current state of American policy is lining up precisely with the blueprint. For example, the first step is to invoke an internal or external threat, real or invented, as a national unifier. The following steps are to establish secret prisons, a paramilitary force, to surveil ordinary citizens, restrict the press...

With just a little research, provided by Ms. Wolf, any ordinary citizen can see that this blueprint, which was effectively used by Stalin, Mussolini, Hitler, and other dictators and would-be dictators, is remarkably resonant with what is happening in American today. The secret prison and daily torture, legal or illegal, at Guantanamo, the case of Jose Padilla, the invoking of 9/11 and the "war on terrorism" to justify violations of civil liberties, the presence and continued growth of paramilitary forces such as Blackwater (a military force not held accountable to military law), the increased wiretapping, confiscation of normal citizens' computers, the orchestrated firing of journalists and university professors for disagreement with the administration, the coordination between the White House and the mass media (also see the book and/or film War Made Easy by Norman Solomon) the fact that the President can now deem anyone - including you or me - an "enemy combatant."

These things all upset me before, and I recognized them as infringements of our rights, but only when I saw it so clearly presented was I struck with the realization that they aren't individual freak occurrences, but could be the result of a master plan that could-and will--eventually result in a closed, dictatorial society. Of course, it's not a sure thing: this theory could be wrong. But examine the evidence, piece it together, and you find a dangerous trend: anyone in a place of power with enough smarts and menace could easily, easily, manipulate this situation and close the door on American society. As Ms. Wolf said in her talk, "Can anyone name a country that opened secret prisons that did not eventually become a dictatorial state? ... No one can, because there isn't one."

This is urgent: the pendulum may not swing back. It doesn't matter where you stand politically, it doesn't matter who you voted for, it doesn't matter what your religion, race, or creed is. It doesn't matter what you think of the ACLU or of Republicans or Democrats or liberals. This is about the whole of American citizenry. Please read her book, or at least the interview with buzzflash.com (which is basically what she said in her talk and is very thorough) and then that you do something with this information.

You can also visit www.americanfreedomcampaign.org to voice your commitment to upholding the constitution, petition the upcoming presidential candidates to uphold the constitution and be informed of upcoming events. It's a first step, and an important one. Because even if we're not on the edge of a totalitarian state, shouldn't we as Americans hold the government accountable for what makes America America? Shouldn't all detainees have the right to formal charges and a fair trial? Shouldn't we hold habeus corpus sacred for everyone, even suspected terrorists? Shouldn't we outlaw torture in ALL cases? Should there even be a debate about these fundamental rights?!

I have to take this seriously because the pieces fit together almost too beautifully for it to be a mistake.

The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

Poem Spree!

2007-09-14T13:36:00.000-03:00

From the dawn of your smile on me I could see
Its magnificence might cause a fatality
For it lit up the whole night and warmed me like sunlight,
Inspired my surrender: a white flag at first sight.
I couldn't resist the allure of your lips,
And the smile in your kiss tastes like mist and rose hips:
So fresh, like the first glimpse of sunrise. I know I
Am in way too deep to pretend I can keep my
Emotion a secret-I know you can see it.
My love was inside, and your smile unleashed it.

And that was my demise, not the light in your eyes,
Nor the glow of your skin or the way your hand glides
On my hair. No, its there: above your clefted chin
Where the tan of your whiskers turns into pink skin
Of your lips, turning up like the curve of your cup,
Framing pearls of your teeth. You don't know how to stop
Tempting me. So you see, to that smile I'm a slave,
Don't know how to behave since the moment you gave
Me that grin- I gave in. I give in. And you win.
And I hope I have something that you delight in,
That inspires your poems and fills up your dreams
The way I am inspired when your smile beams
For then you understand what I try to describe:
Mere words can't convey what your smile does inside.

If one day I awoke and I found that you'd gone
My world would collapse and I'd find before long
That its easiest to forget things I loved so:
The slant of your cheekbones, the flare of your nose.
The shade of your eyelids, the silk in your touch,
The lilt of your voice... might not haunt me...too much...
And little by little I may seem less bereaved,
But that smile-your smile- it might never leave.

---

We've been frequenting Open Mic at Busboys and Poets on Tuesday nights, and I've been inspired by the great - and sometimes mediocre - poetry. I decided to dust off my writing cap and try my hand at it since I do enjoy poetry and also want to exercise my writing muscles (particularly as I prepare to write grad school essays...) I've started with easy, inspiring things: Sasan's voice, which was the first thing I noticed about him; his smile; and a heartfelt plea for forgiveness (Have you ever felt like that? Don't you hate it? That urgent, humiliating, nauseating realization that you - yes you - have done something so beneath you?)

Next, maybe I'll tackle something more socially aware. Like the war.

Asking for Forgiveness

2007-09-13T18:25:00.000-03:00

My heart can't sleep, my eyes can't weep.
I prostrate myself at your feet,
Hands held up, weak, for you to speak
Forgiveness into my parched ears.

Your words - my manna from above -
Condmening my negligent love
Will also nourish that part of
My heart that's longing to be near

To you...I write these humble words
To put my penance into verse,
In hopes that I can break the curse
My foolish actions brought on me.

For if a poem my transgression
Then a poem my redemption:
Please forgive my indiscretion.
Come from heaven, set me free.

Sasan's Voice

2007-09-13T18:22:00.000-03:00

The drizzle of his chocolate voice into my ear was not my choice.
But his lips part, my heartbeat starts Kaleidoscoping abstract art-
Like rain on the Serengeti pounds sandcastles of confetti
Into a pulse of colored flecks...his cocoa kisses on my neck
Feel like a rainstorm's throbbing drum, within my ears, upon my tongue.
Kahlua's an intoxicant, dark chocolate's antioxidant
But leave to me my drug of choice, my only fix: his velvet voice.

It is best to schedule your wedding on a weekend when a tornado is not also scheduled.

2007-08-27T10:02:00.000-04:00

I took my time on Friday morning, had some breakfast, caught the metro to Reagan National, took a nap on the plane, read some Lolita, landed early, no problems. Jess' fiance was going to pick me up, but he was a few minutes late. When he arrived, he said, "Yeah, we've had some...weather...here..."

No kidding. There were uprooted trees, flooded streets, whole stretches of road with no stoplights. Apparently on Thursday night while I had been singing along to Emmylou Harris while I packed my carry-on, Chicago was experiencing a major tornado. Flights were cancelled, some delayed, people were on standby, waiting in Atlanta, New York, Mexico. The logistics of picking everyone up at the airport while managing to tie together the last-minute preparations (Wait, which side do the bride's guests sit on again? Did you pay for the cake? Did you pick up the veil? Do we need to get cash for the band?) and operating in a neighborhood without electricity...it was interesting. The rehearsal, with the three pastors and the herd of small children, in a dark church, wasn't as ... illuminating as rehearsals usually are.

Saturday morning, at the mall after a leisurely breakfast, we got nails and hair done, quickly and beautfully. We were still in the shower when we were supposed to be leaving the hotel. We weren't sure how to put her veil into her hairdo, fitted around the tiara. The pianist had an hour to practice. She started walking down the aisle an hour after scheduled, but no one really cared, because here she was, beautiful, walking down the aisle with her tall father, surrounded by little Mexican girls and white tigerlilies, and her fiance was waiting at the end for her, that petrified groom look melting into a look of love and joy. The lights came back on in the middle of the ceremony.

And the reception was a fiesta, with a mariachi band! And food! And family! And delicious cake!

It just goes to show that neither rain, nor tornados, nor delayed flights, nor humidity, nor not knowing how to put on a veil, nor not having enough cash for the mariachi band, nor not paying for the cake on time, will keep two lovers apart.

They Grow Up So Fast

2007-08-14T15:55:00.000-04:00

The last, heady days of high school in Colorado Springs. The weather was warm, we had all picked our colleges and purchased the requisite apparel, proudly advertising our school of choice. Our homework had dwindled to a trickle-nominal things that merely punctuated our drifts in and out of the school building, like commas in a long run-on sentence. We spent a lot of time in each other's backyards, strumming on guitars, eating ice cream, talking about the adventures that surely awaited us when we arrived as freshmen in a few months. Graduation day wasn't as climactic as graduation season itself.

Somewhere in graduation season, the idea occurred to me, the result of some long conversation some warm spring night, to give my friend Jessica a graduation gift. Not a monogrammed Bible, not an envelope of cash, not an address book so she could keep in touch with us and always remember to STAY SWEET! BFF! No, I drove down to the south of town and purchased the last duckling for sale in the whole city. He was a white-crested duck. He looked something like the hatted duck in this photo:

I took the duckling in his box, with feed, of course, to Jessica's house. Although I had warned her family, Jessica was surprised, which was just how I planned it. We christened the duck Homer, in tribute to a movie that had affirmed our nerdiness and provided hours of entertainment, much of it having to do with our physics class.

Homer, it turned out, was a girl. She taught herself how to throw herself up the stairs of the front porch, crouching as much as she could and then hurdling up like a fluffy cannonball and landing on her belly on the next step. She lived in the backyard kiddie pool or in the bathtub. She went on walks. She exercised her quack. She maintained the fluff atop her head with pride. She was a good duck.

We all went off to college-I to California and Jessica to Pennsylvania. Homer stayed home and paddled around the kiddie pool. The next time I heard of Homer, I learned that, lo and behold, she had attained her 15 minutes of fame, picture published in the Gazette, had even showed up in court.

Jessica' mother had sold Homer to her yoga instructor, who had provided Homer with a loving and caring home. The neighbors, however, were not terribly fond of the new pet, and claimed that the duck, and her quack in particular, was a nuisance and should be forcibly removed from the neighborhood. The spat went to court. Homer won.

Homer's new owner, celebrating her court victory and Homer's 15 minutes of fame, threw Homer a sangria party. The invitations pictured Homer wearing a red party hat. Jessica and I were so proud.

Jessica's since gotten her Masters and lived in Mexico, moved to Chicago and fallen in love. She's getting married next week, and I'll be there. There are some friends you just feel like you *live* with, no matter how far apart you've gotten or where you've moved, some ceremonies we have to go to because we've crissed and crossed in and out of each other's lives so regularly, with such unexpected joy and coincidence, that there must be something real to this friendship. Some friendships are solidified by a trip to the Turkish baths (you know who you are), or a night in a haunted Sri Lankan hotel, and some, by a white crested duck.

And the Living is Easy

2007-08-02T13:54:00.000-04:00

It is nice to think, "Maybe I'll go out tonight," and then stand up, pick up your purse, and go, ignoring the coats hanging in the foyer, the boots stashed under the bed 'til winter, and the scarves that are neatly folded on the upper shelf. It's nice to meander down through the farmer's market, run your eyes over the fresh tomatoes, and then continue meandering to a terrace, order some coffee, and drink it outside without adjusting your sweater to protect against the intrusion of a cool breeze.

I appreciate the change of the seasons, the ripple of cold in the air as autumn approaches, the urge around the end of September to wear something warm and camel colored and maybe bring a thick red scarf just in case, the sudden appearance of pumpkins in the grocery stores. I appreciate the cold winter with the long warm coats and the fresh snow and the hot drinks. I appreciate the spring when the greens are tender and the flowers are innocent and nothing seems to have ever heard of age or death. But summer is my favorite. Summer is when I feel that I could, if I set my mind to it, conquer the world, when art is most meaningful and friendships more invigorating. There is something about the heat and the sweat and the constant temperature, the sheer bliss of having a cold drink in the hot sun, the ability to sit out all night on your roof and never fear the cold, that makes me feel immortal and capable. Summer is when I Plan My Life, consider things that I'm too miserable to consider in the winter when it's cold and I'm preoccupied with thawing my fingers. Summer is when I get up the energy to call old friends and invite people over and drop in uninvited and buy plane tickets in anticipation of a lazy August and peruse grad school catalogues.

I don't know if it's the fact that the seasons here do change and I have therefore learned to appreciate summer all the more, or if I just really like warmth. I think it's the latter: I have only visited Florida once, and it was August, and what I found alarming, in a pure rush of realization, was that the water and the air were not only the same color, but the same temperature. You could wade and wade and hardly tell where the water ended and the air began, only sometimes by looking down through the ripples and seeing your toes in the sand, broken by soft, soft waves and tiny, tiny grains. The California waves are cold and harsh and loud, but here, there were no waves, there were no crashes or rocks. Just water and sand and water, turquoise and aqua, warm as a baby's bathtub, smooth and wet. It was beautiful and inspiring and made my heart beat faster.

Maybe if I lived by the Florida beach and saw it every day, or under a palm tree in St. Martin, or by a Tahitian lagoon, the refreshing feeling of warmth and summer would wear off and it would be same, same, uninspiring and boring. Maybe. Maybe I would miss the metallic smell of winter and the gradual thaw of spring.

For now, I'll stick with the four seasons and enjoy the trickles of sweat that begin creeping down my back as soon as I step out of my air conditioned office, the sticky smell of skin and sun, and the feeling of life, life! that surges through my fingers when I step out into the heat.

My Dad Looks Like Harrison Ford

2007-07-11T10:24:00.000-04:00

See?

Harrison's got nothing.

Urban

2007-06-28T10:30:00.000-04:00

The District's DMV has a deservedly, erm, disappointing reputation. My last encounter with them brought me to tears. So when I got the notice in the mail that my registration was about to expire and I should plan another trip to the DMV by June 26th, I promptly put the letter in my (growing) pile of To-Do and made a conscious decision to procrastinate. I accomplished this goal very well and finally got around to doing something about that letter on June 27th.

Last year, I came out to my car on a crisp spring morning to discover that my driver's side mirror had been shattered. The mechanics still worked, there was just no mirror. I called a few Toyota dealers and auto parts stores. The estimate was $500-$600. "For a mirror?" "Yup, 'fraid so. You gotta replace the whole piece, can't just buy a mirror." Yeah.

So I bought a hand held mirror for $2.99 and ripped the plastic casing off. Then I bought a glass cutter and cut a piece of glass the shape and size of the mirror casing. Then I Krazy glued it to the frame. Heckuva lot cheaper than $500. It did its job for a good year, but I knew it wouldn't pass the DC inspection.

Knowing that the inspection was coming up "sorta soon," (I was deliberately trying to avoid thinking about my debt to the DMV) I called the Toyota dealership again on Saturday. "Yup, we can get that. Nope, it's not $500. It's easy to install. The total will be $150." $150 is still not that great, but it's better than $500. So I picked up the part on Tuesday night. The Toyota lady seemed confused that I didn't want it installed, but she shrugged, "Ok, good luck." I left with my new mirror.

Wednesday morning the 27th, I drove to the Vehicle inspection site. I parked in a nearby gas station with my wrench and my new mirror, ready to replace it and removed the black plastic casing to reveal three easy screws. The morning was just heating up, the smog was beginning to feel thick, and the highway was beginning to give off waves of heat. At that moment a short, unkempt middle-aged African-American man came over and offered his assistance: "I fix my daughter's car like this, it is pretty easy..." He clearly knew what he was doing. I held the screws while his short fingers removed the offending mirror and found the plug for the motor. It took about 10 minutes and there I was with a new mirror. I'm sure it would have taken me longer, although I would have figured it out eventually. "Thank you!"I smiled, truly grateful for his time-saving help. His eyes were sad, "Could you help me out a little?" Of course I could. I gave him a ten. He tottered off to the gas station for a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. I drove to the DMV and was first in line for inspection.

The inspector failed me and my newly mirrored Toyota for non-operational headlights. I tried to smile prettily and told him I would get it done RIGHT AWAY, but rules are rules. "Where can I get a headlight?" I asked. "Try Dura, up on Rhode Island Avenue."

I called Dura, "I need a headlight for a 2001 Corolla. Can I get one there?"

"Yes ma'am, we have a lot of those, and they're only $9.95."

"Can I put it in myself? Is it pretty easy?"

"Shouldn't be too hard, no, ma'am."

"Great! See you soon."

I drove up 395 and was on Rhode Island Ave in no time. The road and sidewalks widened and the houses began to look disheveled. The boring but approachable strip malls disappeared and the shops looked more...local. I passed churches on big lots, beauty parlors, and local donut shops. There it was, 2066. I parked and hobbled in in my white suit and fat walking boot. I must have looked conspicuous: Maurice behind the counter looked up kindly and said, "Are you here for the headlight?" He looked a lot younger than his voice sounded, and he held up the small package. I was amused by this and smiled, got out my credit card, and said, "Yup, that's me!" Maurice gave me tips on how to install the light and told me to "be sure and stay cool out there today!" I haven't gotten service that friendly in a long time.

I pulled my car into the shade and opened the hood. I poked around a while and decided that I had no idea how to install a headlight. So I walked across the parking lot into an AutoZone and asked if anyone there knew about Toyota headlights. The woman was clean and professional. "No, but you see that guy over there under the tree? His name's Joe. He'll help you out." I followed her finger through the heat waves undulating over the parking lot to see a tall, lean, black, black man sitting under the tree with a tall, large white man wearing a black t-shirt. They looked quite at home in their lawn chairs, not comfortable, but not uncomfortable. Just there, sitting still, in the heat. Something about the picture made me feel truly urban and summery, these two unlikely shapes reflecting through the heat, drinking cold beer under a sparse tree growing up and out in a city parking lot. The air smelled hot and urban, the sky was clear, soft blue with a brown haze hovering over the horizon. I think they had seen me looking forlorn in my white straight skirt and broken foot poking around cluelessly under the hood in the AutoZone parking lot in the hot sun. As I left the store, the tall black man casually approached me, his wiry muscles glistening in the hot sun. His eyes were deep and black above his chiseled cheekbones. He squinted at me.

"Whatchyou need help wit?"

"I need to replace a headlight and I've never done that before."

His expression didn't change, and he lead me back to my car. "I been working on cars for 42 years." Pause as he fingered the headlight under the hood. "It's the only thing I can DO, you know what I'm saying?" I nodded and expressed my respect for a good mechanic. "It's how I make my survival, hear me?" I nodded again as I squinted at him through my windshield. The headlights turned on and he closed the hood. "Now, you gonna pay for that sweetheart..." "Of course. Let me just go and get some cash." I asked the woman inside, "So Joe, how much to people usually tip him?" "Oh, five, ten." "Great, can I have these batteries and cash back for Joe?" "No problem." She was efficient and fast and friendly. I placed the ten in Joe's long, bony, ebony fingers as I left and thanked him again for his help. His expression didn't change, but he nodded, turned, and sauntered back to the lawn chair under the tree.

I passed the inspection and re-registered my car, easy as pie. Got to work before lunch. Breathed a few prayers of gratitude for the two men who helped me that morning. Wondered what the rest of their lives are like. Decided to return to Dura and AutoZone if ever I need another headlight.

Cast

2007-06-13T09:55:00.000-04:00

This time around, I was pretty lucky: no plaster cast. Last time, I had a big, heavy, itchy plaster cast up to my knee. It was small enough to slip bootleg jeans over it, but still bulky, still unmanageable, and by the end of the 2 months, completely filthy. When they removed it, my skin was pale, pale, and my calf was jell-o, atrophied and sickly, decorated with spindly leg hairs that hadn't been shaved in weeks. My foot was alarmingly skinny and boney--but healed--and there was two months worth of dead skin sloughing off at the slightest touch. I remember sitting in the shower for at least an hour, scrubbing and scrubbing, shaving and re-shaving, massaging and marveling at the appendage I hardly recognised.

Now I have a walking cast, a big black boot with five thick velcro straps, room enough to wiggle my painted toes. I can take it off when I bathe, when I sleep, when I get home from crutching up from Dupont Circle in the sweltering 90 degree humidity. The heavy support of foam and bandage and long cotton sock feel good on my fragile foot, but not on the rest of my sweating body. I am grateful to not have to scrape off two months of debris, for being able to shave and massage my weakened calf, for the stability of a wide, flat surface that I can balance my left foot on without putting pressure on it.

Crutches chafe under your arms, they make your triceps, pecs, and deltoids sore, sore, sore. After a few weeks of sweaty palms, the handles feel positively grimy. You can't carry anything that doesn't strap on your back. (Although yesterday I did make it home with two pints of Ben and Jerrys in my right hand.) A three-block walk is daunting, and your knee feels heavy and strained from holding your bum foot up.

But at least I don't have a plaster cast.

Say something!

2007-06-08T11:09:00.000-04:00

I know you've all been dyyying to comment, but for some reason, the comments have been disabled lately. But lo, they are again enabled. Comment away.

Silver Lining

2007-06-06T13:36:00.000-04:00

My triceps are getting very strong. I have all this time to re-learn my guitar scales since I won't be dancing anytime soon. People hold the door for me all the time. I have a very easy conversation starter. My toes peep through my cast so at least you can see the pretty color of pink they are painted. I have a walking boot instead of a plaster cast, so I can sleep and bathe and shave my legs without having to worry about my bum leg. I can still manage to do the ab workouts at my gym. I get to ride the motorized shopping cart in Trader Joe's. I have a valid excuse to do nothing with my afternoon except sit in Tryst with my legs up and read my latest novel.

I noticed, last time around on crutches, that by the time they were removed, I had developed an acute sense of the handicapped. Although I was myself handicapped to some degree and couldn't help anyone, I was alert to the needs around me because I was so alert to my own needs. The girl with the books piled in her arms, she needs someone to open the door...The woman with the wheelchair can't reach the elevator button...The man with crutches can't balance his crutch and his latte...Does no one SEE that I can't open this door by myself?...

I also, to a lesser, but more interesting, degree, began to be aware of hidden needs...The lonely one in our group who never spends time with anyone one-on-one because she's so easily forgettable and people neglect to invite her...the girl who blamed herself for her parent's nasty divorce...The self-assured, confidence of a hig achiever that hides an intense confusion about what she's achieving... In many ways, I began to see my injury--and my crutches--as a metaphor for all our daily struggles. Even when I am perfectly healthy and capable, there are internal handicaps that are just as daunting as that heavy door at the bottom of the church steps, the one that was so difficult to open with one foot and crutches: I'm quick to judge, slow to realize that I've judged. I'm often more concerned with how people see me than how I really am. I am lazy when I think no one will notice. Although I don't lie, my first inclination is always to fudge the truth a little, to make a better story. Maybe these are your handicaps. Maybe yours are completely different.

Thomas Aquinas said, "Be assured that if you knew all, you would pardon all."

We all have handicaps of some sort. Some of them, we can see.

Somebody get this woman a violin.

2007-06-04T15:52:00.001-04:00

So I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. And not because of alcohol (that's never happened) but because of an ear-splitting cold, complete with runny nose and cough. And! Crusty...pink...stingy...eyes. Pink eye. Add it to the list: torn contact/scratched cornea, broken foot, head cold, pink eye, all within three weekends, and all overlapping at some point.

So do you think I'm being tested or do you think I'm being punished for somethihng I did? Or do you think it's all a complete fluke and hey, it happens?

I'm going to go drink more tea.

Don't Break Your Foot in New Jersey

2007-05-28T19:07:00.000-04:00

I broke my fifth metatarsal on December 31, 2001. On January 1, 2002, I had it x-rayed and set, and I spent that semester, until my Spring Break in Paris, in a cast cleverly painted with orange flames by my artistic roommate, Lori. It was a pain, but I managed, with the help of the roomies and the USC shuttle bus, the drivers of which knew me by name within a few weeks. I relaxed on the couch with my fire-engine red hair and my casted leg propped up on the armrest, typing on my laptop. I finagled a bookbag that rested on the small of my back so as not to throw me off balance. I got my shower time down to ten minutes: garbage bag, blue artist's tape, plastic bench to sit on in the tub, leg propped up on the side.

Walking with crutches is sort of like riding a bike. I suspect that once you've learned how to maneuver, you never really forget, so when you have to do it again, you pick it up easier, get stronger faster, and don't have to try as hard to figure out how to go up steps or carry your purse.

--

Saturday night. 11:15 PM. Lower East Side of Manhattan. Walking across a small street on our way to a milonga. Two sets of dance shoes in purse. Pothole.

The pain that I felt when I first felt myself falling from twisting my foot on the pothole I don't really remember. I remember not being able to feel my foot and not being able to really breathe. I remember grabbing Sasan's arm, sort of, and knowing that I couldn't put weight on my foot as he helped me to the curb. I sat on the planter under the streetlight and he took off my espadrilles, and I gasped for air. I looked down and saw the purple bump on my left foot, growing bigger and purpler with every minute. The more I sat, the more I could feel the pain, until I knew that this wasn't a bruise. 'Do you want me to call a cab and go to a hosptial?" "Yes," I said weakly.

Sasan carried me to the side of the road and the cab pulled up and drove us a few blocks to New York Downtown Hospital. The staff put me in a wheelchair and wheeled me down the hall to the ER. My foot was swollen and bruised, shaking from the strain of keeping it elevated. A man and a woman approached me, took my blood pressure, temperature, and got my statistics: name, birthdate, date of last menstrual period...the man tied an ice pack onto my foot, which felt instantly relieved. Both nurses talked to me at once, but slowly, as if in a leisurely conversation, and I couldn't see straight to answer both of them. "What medications are you on?" "Ortho tricyclen-lo" The elderly nurse offered me a tablet to write the name down. "It's birth control," I said, puzzled. "Oh, well, I don't need any of that, so that's why I don't know what it is."

They wheeled me into a room with a bed and turned me around. I gave them more information, signed a release, gave them my Aetna card. It took forever, and I sat there in the curtained room, crying, looking at my iced foot, holding Sasan's hand. "Maybe it's not broken! It's probably just twisted or something," he offered optimistically. I looked at my foot dully and shook my head. I've broken it before. I had a hunch it wasn't just bruised.

The wheeled me into the x-ray room. The man gestured to the table with a pillow at one end. "Should I sit up there?" "Yeah," he said, "Your head..." "My head goes there or my foot goes there?" "Your head." "On the pillow?" "Yeah." It seemed like a lot of effort just to find out which way to lay on the bed. He didn't wheel the chair over to the bad, so I got up and hopped on the bed. My foot--still raw and throbbing, still without painkillers, rested on the x-ray film. The technicion ripped the ice pack off; I cringed. For each x-ray, he moved my knee abruptly, causing me to gasp and cringe, clearly ina lot of pain. "I need you to put this side on the film" he said. "That side HURTSSSS" I gasped. He looked at me as if this had not occured to him. "Oh...sorry."

When that was done, he tried to put the ice pack back on, but didn't have any tape. So he wheeled me, sans ice, back to the waiting room. "Hey, this girl needs an ice pack, I didn't have any tape to re-tape this one back on." Nothing. I looked at Sasan. "Where's my ice pack?" "I have no idea..." He got up and asked the nurse, "Um, she needs an ice pack for her foot..they took it off..." The didn't exactly jump to attention, but they did hand him an ice pack, which he held onto my foot with two paper towels. I sobbed quietly in my wheelchair. At some pointthey gave me some percocet, but I don't remember when. The doctor approached. "You do have a fracture..." I sobbed more. Sasan droped his head and looked at the floor. I don't recall what other information she gave me, but it wasn't much. we had to ask what kind of fracture, what the next step was, who should I call in DC, what medication should I take, will it take long to heal, will I need a cast, should I keep it elevated...

She left to get some painkillers and I sat there crying in my wheelchair. I cried because it hurt and because a fractured metatarsal means no tango, no salsa, no swimming...for three months or hot, sticky, DC summer. Our weekend in New York was shot, we were going to be up all night figuring out hotels and cabs and prescriptions and busses and pharmacies. The doctor returned. "Mrs. Range!" she looked alarmed, "why are you crying?" I didn't answer, just looked at her, dumbfounded. I'll give you three guesses why I'm crying...

They wouldn't give me a percocet to go, although they did give me two and told me to take one or two every six hours. By this time it was 1 AM. Where is a 24 hour pharmacy? At 14th and 4th. But if we go there, we'll miss the bus to our hotel, which is in New Jersey. The man at the hospital desk called a cab, which came, but wasn't announced to us. He drove us to Port Authority, where we did get our bus. The bus driver was the same that had dropped us off that afternoon. His eyes widened: "What happened to you!" "She broke her foot..." He shook his head in utter sympathy.

The bus dropped us off, with all his condolences, at Hasbrouck Heights. We called the Hilton. "Could you please send a cab? One of us is on crutches." We waited, and waited, and waited, kept company by a wasted young man in a baseball cap who thought he should tell us all about where he was from and what he was doing in Jersey. I sat on the curb. Sasan looked at the pharmacy hours. We waited. We called the Hilton again. We waited. We called the Hilton again. Finally, a cab came, a big black car with a tall accented driver. Could we plase go to a pharmacy first and then to the Hilton? He seemed confused by our request, but obliged, looking up pharmaciies on his GPS. The CVS that was nearest to us was closed, opening at 10 AM on Sunday. He drove us to the Hilton. It was nearing 3 AM.

Now, the prospect of waking up the next morning without painkillers was unappealling. Sasan approached the concierge again. "Corey, my man, do you have any idea if there's another pharmacy near here open 24 hours?" There was! 6 miles away, he'd call a cab. We called the pharmacy, we called the cab, we waited. We waited. We waited. Sitting in the matte beige lobby at 3 AM, drugged up, sleepy, foot throbbing, sitting on the square, boring ottomans looking out the revolving doors into the blackness. Easy pop songs played over the speakers...2 am and she calls me cause I'm still awake...the revolving door thump thump thumps every time someone comes in. The cab approaches. Finally.

The driver was Persian, or his mother is Persian. He and Sasan exchanged pleasantries and he drove us past the previous CVS...two blocks. On our right hand side there's a RiteAid. It's open. Five blocks from our hotel is a 24 hour RiteAid.

The lady at the pharmacy slumped in her chair and raised her eyebrows, "On Sundays from 2 to 4 AM the computer doesn't work...so..." Sasan and I stare. "The computers don't work? We need some percocet...she just broke her foot...it's kind of important..." She sighs and says, "Well, I guess I could TRY the computers..." They worked. She filled the prescription. Ten bucks for Percocet, 2.50 for granola for the morning. $25 for the ride back to our hotel, five blocks.

At 6 AM I take two percocet and fall dead asleep, foot elevated on two of the Hilton's fluffy pillows, sheets wrapped around my body leaving my foot exposed. I would wake up thinking, "Where am I....Why does my foot hurt...Wait...Why is my foot broken?..." and fall back into a fitful sleep.

Don't break your foot in New Jersey.

Books.

2007-04-27T15:24:00.000-04:00

The Five Most Recent Books I’ve Read

White Teeth, Zadie Smith
One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez (sort of.)
Passage to India, E.M. Forster
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Muriel Spark
Cuban Diaries: An American Housewife in Havana, Isadora Tattlin

Five Books I Could Read Over and Over

The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
In the Time of the Butterflies, Julia Alvarez
The House of the Spirits, Isabel Allende
The Harafish, Naguib Mahfouz

Five Books That Blew My Mind and Would Be On My Syllabus If I Were a Teacher

Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Screwtape Letters, CS Lewis
Orthodoxy, GK Chesterton
The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

Five Authors With Whom I Would Like to Have Drinks

Rudyard Kipling
Naguib Mahfouz
Azar Nafisi
G. K. Chesterton
CS Lewis

Five Books That Make Me Want to Have Kids Just For The Books

Just So Stories, Rudyard Kipling
Caddie Woodlawn, Carol Ryrie Brink
The Westing Game, Ellen Raskin
The Owl who was Afraid of the Dark, Jill Tomlinson. Actually, ALL of the books in this series are fantastic.
The Chronicles of Narnia, CS Lewis

Five Books the Rest of the World Loved and I Sort of Hated

Good in Bed, Jennifer Weiner
One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain
Beloved, Toni Morrison
The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway

Five Books I Just Could Not Finish, No Matter What

Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore Cooper
Moby Dick, Herman Melville
Emma, Jane Austen (I think I'll give this one another go, though.)
The Brothers Karamazov, Fydor Dostoevsky
Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert

Five Books That I Am In Awe Of and Are Pretty Much Perfect Pieces of Writing

The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
The Cairo Trilogy, Naguib Mahfouz
The Alexandria Quartet, Lawrence Durrell

Five Books That Made Me Weep Buckets

Anne of Green Gables, LM Montgomery
All Creatures Great and Small, James Herriot
Goodbye, Mr. Chips, James Hilton
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo
Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Five Books Set in Africa That I Love

The #1 Ladies Detective Agency, Alexander McCall Smith
Out of Africa, Isak Dineson
Seven Pillars of Wisdom, TE Lawrence (well, it's sort of Africa)

...I think that's all I've read that's set in Africa, although in my defense, I've read TWO of the #1 Ladies Detective series, so that's something.

Five Things That Turn Me Off of a Book, However Unfair
The feeling that it would Not Be That Hard to Turn This Into a Movie and What's Up With the Lame Dialogue?
Science fiction
A big sticker on the front that says it is now a major motion picture
Chick lit
Slippery pages

Five Things I am a Sucker For in a Book
Plotlines that span generations
Magical realism
Conniving protagonists
Fashionable women
Exotic locales

Maybe it's to show off your fancy cell phone.

2007-04-20T10:19:00.000-04:00

InStyle.com says this is one of this season's Hot Trends:

That, my friends, is a clear purse. Chanel. $895.

I would just like to point out that I don't have to spend $895 to show the world that the inside of my purse may or may not contain a combination of: lip balm, pens, old grocery lists, last week's receipts, as assortment of plastic utensils, tampons, mascara, credit cards, picture IDs, a cell phone, a blackberry, keys, hand sanitizer, Neosporin, Lipton tea bags, hair bands, yesterday's earrings, candy wrappers, $1.43 worth of spare change, and, occasionally, my dance shoes.

On Luxury

2007-03-28T15:32:00.000-03:00

After much, much deliberation with Qatar Airways, I finally got a ticket to go to Doha on Saturday night, March 17, at 11 PM. What they didn't understand, obviously, was that by flying on Saturday night, I was going to miss the all-night milonga at the tango marathon. This, clearly, was a major inconvenience to me and are you SURE that there aren't any LATER flights? Really? Because it would be really great if I could leave on like, say, Sunday morning...

There were no later flights, and it was just as well, because I was still fighting a cold on Saturday, March 17th. Sasan and I bundled up, drove through the unexpected snow, and took the lessons, all three of them, back-to-back; I looked at the tango shoes, which didn't fit; and I embarrassed myself with my weak abs that could hardly support my volcadas. And then I went to the airport and flew business class to Frankfurt, then Doha.

---

Doha, Qatar, is up the ways from Dubai. Talk on the street is that Doha is where Dubai was a few years ago, and is catching up steadily. I've never been to Dubai, but I can tell you this much: Doha is boring. Boring. Y'all know how I feel about Cairo: it's filthy and chaotic, and even the 5-stars feel a tad dingy. But when you walk down the street in Cairo, it's happening. There are people everywhere, all hours of the night. In Doha, the street feels clean and empty, everyone stays in their lanes, and the cars are smooth and powerful. No one walks, there are no corner stores, no kiosks selling bananas and mango juice and the daily paper. Maybe it's too sandy. There's no Nile or Bosphorous acting as a natural gathering place to keep cool in the hot, hot sun. There's just cement and glass, skyscrapers that light up the clear night with their brilliant lights, manicured gardens and heated pools.

The luxury of Doha is not the luxury I imagine when I hear the word "luxury." The word luxury to me inspires images of feather beds and exotic fruits in mahogany bowls, sunlight streaming through sheer curtains, rich plants spilling over balconies, fruit fresh off the trees, the thick smell of vanilla and moist soil. It means thick, saturated pillows and colorful, bejewelled slippers, a wall of books, papaya marmalade on fresh croissants, strong coffee with warm, frothy milk. It means groomed gardens with scented flowers that permeate the evening air. It means an reliable, old house that creaks a little with age, but not with weakness, crown molding, fresh paint, wide porches that cradle you in the landscape, and appliances that are just as beautiful as they are functional. It means space to separate work from play, bills that don't pile up, and room enough to leave projects unfinished for a while.

Doha's luxury is all business. Sure, there are featherbeds and sunlight, pillows and valet parking. There are new mobile phones, clean leather interiors and heated pools. There are doormen who smile and make small talk, there are cheerful waitresses who attend to your needs, there is room service and busines service and laundry service. It all feels new and modern and streamlined, but it feels impersonal. The luxury I imagine-the luxury I want - is not modern and chrome. It's old wood and good design, the smell of breakfast and fresh linen not in a skyscraper, but in your own home, with your own family and people you love. Of course it involves money. Private jets are really nice. Hired help is fantastic. More importantly, though, is the feeling of your home as a haven, a place the outside can't invade, a place full of magic and peace and extra touches: a bouquet left for you on the side of your bed, fresh blueberries in your pancakes, lavendar sachets left on your sheets to make them smell nice when you get in bed after your shower, because lavendar is your favorite.

Luxury at the Doha Ritz is nice, for a week or so. Waking up in your own bed, seeing someone you love, and finding ways to make them feel pampered, that's better.

---

That being said, flying business class on Qatar Airways? Is fantastic.

So sorry I couldn't make it; I was weekending in St. Barth's.

2007-03-09T14:23:00.000-03:00

There is something extremely satusfying about being able to truthfully say those words:

Random co-worker: "Hey there, good morning."
Me, sunnily: "Morning!"
RCW: "...are you ok? Your face is sort of red."
Me, nonchalantly: "What? Oh, that. It's sunburn."
RCW: "...from what? Were you outside a lot?"
Me, carelessly: "Hm, yeah, I spent the weekend in the Caribbean."
RCW: "..."
Me: "Well, I mean, I was working. But yeah, I guess I got a little sun."
RCW: "...What were you doing in the Caribbean?"
Me: "I was babysitting."
RCW: "In the Caribbean?"
Me: "In St. Barth's."
RCW: "What? How?"
Me: "This family I babysit for, they travel a lot and take their kids. They needed a travel nanny this weekend."
RCW: "Wow. So did you fly out of Reagan or what?"
Me: "No, they own a private jet. We flew out of Dulles."
RCW: "You flew their private jet to St. Barth's?"
Me: "Yeah, we landed in St. Martin and then took the boat to St. Barth's."
RCW: "So...three days in St. Barths, and you got paid?"
Me: "Six hundred bucks."
RCW: "...Nice work if you can get it."

And it's true, that's exactly what happened. I, the travel nanny, flew in the private jet to St. Martin, took the waiting van to the boat, which took us to the waiting van on St. Barth's, which took us directly to the resort hotel on the beach. The babies and I stayed in our own villa, and the parents stayed in their own villa. It was three days of putting sunscreen on babies on the beach, feeding them pain au chocolat, dressing them in a multitude of pink sundresses, changing diapers, and putting on and taking off various swimsuits. It involved occasionally dog-sitting, nap-supervising, and snack-making, but this all dressed in nothing but flip flops, wet hair, and un maillot in the airy, 85 degree, white-linen-and-dark-wood St. Barths, , where Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban were, incidentally, also weekending. It was a 24/7 job. But it was in St. Barth's.

I mean, really. Nice work if you can get it.

Why yes, I have been to the middle of nowhere.

2007-01-23T01:57:00.000-03:00

I've used the phrase "The Middle of Nowhere" many times. Maybe to describe the location of a Montana town we drove through once. Maybe to describe a road trip that veered through the Mississippi foliage for hours. I'm sure I've used it to describe how I felt in various deserts in the Southwest US.

But I've never experienced The Middle Of Nowhere as profoundly as when Lisa and I ventured on the bus to the Western Desert. Somewhere between Cairo and Libya - or, in fact, everywhere between Cairo and Libya - is an expanse of desert so vast, so monochromatic and bland, that you feel as though you could walk and walk and never arrive, as if the sun has baked every hope of life into the hard, grey sand.

First the bus took us through the suburbs of Cairo-stark apartment complexes that stood naked save for halos of smog. What greenery there was seemed to be an afterthought, and did little to soften the impression of heat and concrete. As we left the city further behind us, we encountered stranger complexes-stranger because they were so far removed from any of the history and richness of the ancient city. They were new and freshly painted with primary trims. I wondered aloud what made them so eerie, and then realized: there was no Nile. The further we got from the Nile, the more absurd the buildings seemed. Who lived out here? What was there to DO out here?

Once the suburbs had fallen out of sight, it was just us in the bus and the flat, boring desert. Even I, who adores the clean, invigorating desert feeling, was lulled to sleep by this desert. We drove for hours to a rest stop which seemed to also be a meeting point for wild dogs. Then we continued the bus trip. Suddenly, there was green. There were palms. Handmade signs pointing to a side road. A small mosque. Across the horizon were spurts of green and long sinews of shrubs growing along the tiny streams. We arrived at our desination, Bahariya, which we had assumed, erroneously, would at least have an ATM, and were greeted by a bevy of safari guides, clamoring to snag the tourists who were stretching their legs after the long bus ride. We ended up in an Ahmed Safari jeep, and I wouldn't at all be surprised if all the safaris were actually just subsidiaries of Ahmed Safari. The jeep took us to the Ahmed safari headquarters, where we settled in to negotiate our desert trip.

Ahmed Safari Headquarters

We ended up with a tall guide, whose name might have been Ayman, a French freelance photojournalist, a Gereman student, her Brazilian boyfriend, and a Korean woman traveling across Egypt solo. First stop: the Black Desert, which Rebecca rightly described as, "You know when you have a campfire and then the fire goes out and leaves sort of a heap of ash? Yeah. Imagine that, but bigger heaps." So the Black Desert was not that exciting.

The Black Desert and our trusty jeep

But our next stop (which felt like it was about a week away) was the White Desert. First you drive through the remains of the Black Desert, which reminds you very much of Southern Nevada, and then it's flat, flat, and then mounds of white chalk appear on the surface of the sand. The further you drive, the larger they grow, until they very closely resemble something Dr. Seuss might have seen on his way to Solla Sollew.

Tracks to nowhere

We drove through the white formations into-and past-sunset. Our poor fasting guide must have been starving, but he kept driving, perhaps because he has "his spot" - all the spots looked exactly the same to us foreigners, but I supposed if one knows the white desert, one has one's favorite spots. Twilight was just seeping out into the horizon and the air felt cooler and stiller. It was dead silent. It was a silence I could hear your heartbeat through. It was almost deafening after the hubbub of Cairo and the roar of the Jeep's engine. The white shapes are tomb-like, rising still and cool into the air, bumping the stars with their mushroom-cap heads.

We ate a meal prepared by our two guides over the campfire, listened to shrill, but upbeat!, Arabic music on his mobile phone, and laid our sleeping bags in the protection of the windbreak between the two jeeps. It was then that the realization of The Middle Of Nowhere sunk it. We weren't in Nevada, a few hours awy from Vegas. We weren't in Wadi Rum, only an hour or two from Aqaba and the Red Sea. We were an easy nine hours drive West of Cairo-probably further. We might be closer to Libya, actually. If we had been lost, there's no way we could have found our way to civilization before we collapsed of thirst. All the white shapes looked like all the other white shapes, and the horizon never changed. Nothing mattered except the sky and the stars and our heartbeats and the white tombs around us. Everything else seemed completely irrelevant and unecessary.

Sunset

The next day we returned to a little bit of civilization: the oasis towns, built up around springs. Farmers worked out in their fields, planting, weeding, with their donkeys and children around them.

We dipped out feet in one of the springs, feeling fresh after a night in the desert and some long, long hours in dusty vehicles. We were still in the middle of nowhere, but in a slightly more orderly middle of nowhere, where someone would probably notice if you were injured on the side of a road and the silence was just quiet, not the echoing, lonely stillness of the previous night.

And we returned to Cairo that evening, on the last night of Ramadan, and were welcomed by the chaos of horns and pedestrians in Giza, Ramadan lights blinking on and off, men yelling as they leaned out of open bus doors, women with their Eid purchases pushing their way through crowds of rowdy young men. It was like a jolt of caffeine. I couldn't remember what silence sounded like.

How to Travel Through Cairo on an Empty Stomach

2006-12-26T17:14:00.000-03:00

I spent Ramadan 2003 in Amman, Jordan, and I celebrated it wholeheartedly with plenty of dates, soup, lamb, chicken, and a nice side of Hepatitis A. I fasted for about a week, an honest-to-goodness fast with no cheating, no snacks in the bathroom, no kisses, no cigarettes (ok, so those last two weren’t such a problem.) But then when I really started feeling the Hepatitis, when my skin turned genuinely yellow and my eyes sort of looked like egg yolks, I quit. I had an enormous craving for chocolate, and not the good 72% cacao chocolate that I usually, snobbily, crave. Any chocolate. Twix. Hershey’s. Even Arab chocolate (which is really terrible.) Coincidentally, at this time I also found the only two bags of chocolate chips I have ever seen anywhere in the Middle East, sitting right there on the bottom shelf at the grocery store in the University. I bought them both. Instead of doing the noble thing, which would have been to introduce my Arab friends to the wonder that is the America chocolate chip cookie, I ate them all myself. I sneaked chocolate chips into my classes and pop a few in my mouth when no one was looking. They melted on my tongue and for a few minutes satisfied my craving, and no one ever had to know. I owe a great debt to the chocolate god who sneaked those chips onto that grocery shelf.

Fatema and I celebrate iftar in Amman, 2003

Excepting my chocolate frenzies, I really enjoyed Ramadan in Jordan. It felt celebratory and festive, even though everyone was cranky, nicotine- and sleep- deprived. We had iftars of garlic soup and couscous and lamb, plenty of qatayif afterwards, oregano tea, zaatar tea, mint tea. I stayed in Jordan for Eid, which coincided with the American Thanksgiving and made me homesick, but a few of my friends ventured down to Cairo for the week. They came back with stories of dusty hostels and mean cab drivers, sleeping in airports and getting stopped at borders. All in all, it didn’t sound like an ideal vacation.

I forgot about their tales until a few days into our own Cairo-during-Eid trip. I’d wanted for a long time to see Cairo during Ramadan and Eid—18 million people celebrating a month-long fast and a week-long Festival must be something. Cairo is known for its sheisha and belly dancing, night-long iftars. But you have to know people. Luckily, we did know people. We knew Loay and Rebecca and Anthony, all of whom know/are Egyptians who know how to party like Egyptians, which translated to smoking sheisha and riding feluccas. Which is great by me. Unfortunately, these people we know all have day jobs, so we were left to our own devices during the day. I spent much of my summer in 2002 walking through Cairo, mostly lost, so this was not intimidating to me at first. After a few days, it, oddly, grew more intimidating.

Egyptian Woman

In 2002, I was with a bunch of foreigners who were either practically Egyptian or lost just like me. I had all summer to explore, so I didn’t need to worry about wasting time being lost while trying to get to the Citadel before it closed. Maybe I was also a little looser, unflinching, less spoiled—I refused to take taxis, I knew the metro stops by heart, and I wasn’t scared to ask questions. On this trip, I took taxis-plenty of them-neglected the metro but for one day, and grew increasingly skeptical of asking questions, particularly to cab drivers or storekeepers (granted, those two types are not notorious for giving you a straight answer, no matter the country.) After a few difficult exchanges with cabbies and a lot of time lost in the streets of Cairo, I grew a little more intimidated by the sheer immensity of the place, the dust that never settles, the noise that never subsides. Why this hadn’t bothered me before…perhaps it was because I had no expectations of what Cairo would be like. I had a vague impression of some pyramids, the Nile, maybe some guys in robes. When I arrived with a blank slate, I let Cairo fill it up with its flaws and beauties, and I wasn’t disappointed. This time I arrived speaking the language and expecting to know the place, and I was disappointed. It took a few days for my attitude to adjust.

Street Behind the Khan

It also took a few days for my appetite to adjust. The thing about traveling during Ramadan is that Ramadan is the month of fasting. Y3nni, there is no food to eat. Y3nni, after walking through Cairo all morning, you get a little hungry. But I learned that if you wait until about 2 PM and just keep going, your hunger subsides and you can eat a decent evening iftar and go along your merry way. By Friday I had this figured out, but it didn’t stop me from carrying around a packet of sugar biscuits in my purse. Not only am I not a Muslim, but I’m a traveling non-Muslim. I figured I should be allowed some biscuits, even during Ramadan. (After a week there, I came back and discovered that I was five pounds lighter due to the long, long days and few meals. Naturally, I gained it back in about two weeks, but it was nice while it lasted.) The iftars we shared with Rebecca and Anthony were delicious, all lentil soup and restaurant-home-cooking, ma7shi and bechamel sauce, with tea for dessert. It was a different flavor from my Jordanian iftars, both culinarily and psychologically. It was more basic food, salt-of-the-earth food, roasted pigeon and bread and rice, things you can imagine your grandma, if she were Egyptian, cooking up to fill your belly. Oddly, most of my Jordanian iftars were eaten at homes, and most of my Egyptian iftars eaten out, but it was the Egyptian food that felt homier, and the Jordanian that felt more festive and exotic.

Tamar Hindi for Sale

Empty stomach or no, we did a lot of walking. We walked around Zamalek, and we walked down the cornice. We walked through Khan el-Khalili and down Port Said Street. We walked through M3aadi and through the Coptic churches. We also took a lot of taxis. It’s a walkable city for your daily needs-bread, water, whatever, but not if you actually want to get anywhere. You can’t walk from Zamalek to M3aadi unless you have a lot of time on your hands. So you take a cab, which is bound to be an interesting experience, if not a cheap one. We could have metroed, and perhaps we should have, more often, but we didn’t. The cabs gave us at least a sense of downtown, Tahrir Square and Zamalek, The roads that cross up to Mohammed Ali and down to the Coptic Churches. I’m sure we paid double what is appropriate for most of our rides. I’m ok with that.

Muddy Street in Cairo

And still, I have no sense of direction in that city. I have no idea where we are on the map at any given point. I have no sense of North or South, even when I am staring at the Nile, which runs North and South. Something about the condensed sprawl of the place, the people upon people, the dust upon the old, grand buildings with their sky-scraping billboards telling you to drink Coca-Cola. Something about the energy of the place makes me forget directions and lost my aim, wanting only to sit on the curb with the men and their sheisha, watching the chaos go past me instead of trying to keep up with it myself. It is not a romantic city, as Paris is romantic with her cafes and boulevards and angst-filled poets, or Marrakesh with her piles of alluring spices and secret alleys, or even Amman, who wafts her jasmine kisses over you as you stroll up and down her hills. Cairo is big and dirty and old, but these sometimes take a romantic turn: on the felucca gliding down the Nile, a river so long you can’t imagine the end of it. And it’s romantic to look up across the dust and skyscrapers and see pyramids nestled in the distant desert, pyramids that were built before English was a language. It’s romantic to see the Nubians, dark and serious in their galabayas, padding along next to the fairer Cairenes, Upper and Lower Egypt represented in these men, brought up miles apart, passing each other on the street corner after they buy their bread. And sometimes in the morning when it’s quiet, you look up at the old buildings with their intricate, curled molding and great, imposing doors, their charming windows that look out over the tall, old trees lining the street, and you imagine, for a moment, a whiff, what it was like when these buildings were new and full of life, swept and proud, when they saw dancers and weddings and elaborate iftars. Then it feels romantic, as a lost love is romantic; sometimes I only miss the man I wanted him to be, and sometimes it’s only the imaginary Cairo that I miss.

But sometimes I miss the real Cairo too. Even after being so fed up, so overwhelmed, so ready to JUST LEAVE THIS CITY, now sometimes when I get a whiff of desert air, or hear an Egyptian accent, or crave some koshary, or remember the cityscape sprawled beneath me, I miss Cairo.

Dahab Means Gold

2006-12-25T15:21:00.000-03:00

I travel as respectfully as possible, as I generally consider myself to be considerate of other's plans. But when we decided, at 9:30 PM in a silent Nuweiba, to change the next days' planned trip to St. Catherine's with Mr. Hamdi's friend/guide, personal comfort had taken precedence over sticking to the plan. We walked a few doors down to Mr. Hamdi and requested, if it weren't too much trouble, if at all possible, could we maybe get a trip to Dahab and cancel our plans with his friend...if it's not too much trouble...

Mr. Hamdi sounded optimistic and sympathetic as he informed us that yes, his friend would easily take us to Dahab tonight. We were relieved with a relief that had only just realized how unhappy we would be if it hadn't worked out. But when Mr. Hamdi's friend arrived, he was not relieved. He was hopping. We were disrespectful to change our plans this late, he was going to lose money because of us. We assured him that we didn't mean him any harm, and that we would pay him just as he expected to be paid for our reservation tomorrow. After a few minutes, he had calmed enough to take us to his van and then to a van that he had arranged going to Sharm al-Sheikh. We could just be dropped off at Dahab - the Hilton, I requested, not knowing any other hotel off the top of my head - on his way.

But our stay in Dahab was worth the trouble it had taken to get there, the late, exhausted ride, the inconvenience of the tour guide. We managed in one day with the helpful staff of the HIlton to find out the bus schedule (for the bus stop was not 3 km from our hotel as in Nuweiba, but just down the block) and arrange for tickets back to Cairo at 7 PM, much better than the previously planned 3 PM departure from Nuweiba. We breakfasted richly on crepes and omelettes, jams, and real coffee. We strolled to the main drag and finally felt like we were vacationing at the Red Sea. The first little surf shop we saw arranged for a ride to St. Catherine's, a snorkeling adventure at the Blue Hole, and a camel ride back. This was exactly what we wanted.

Camels at St. Catherine's Monastery

St. Catherine's is an impressive monastery at the base of Mt. Sinai, built by the ambitious and pious hundreds of years ago. The road to Catherine goes through a magnificent desert whose horizons are vast but never straight: they are always marred by the tips distant mountain ranges. Sand dunes occasionally sweep across, but not in a hostile way, as in the Western Desert. In a serious, lonely, pleasant way, the sand nestles into the crags of occasional sharp black mountains and blows across the road that seems to stretch into, perhaps, China. For as far as you can see, and surely as far as you can walk, it seems flat and manageable, particularly if you are a lonely sort of person or if you are a beduin with a herd of camels. But just beyond where you presume you could walk in a day rise reddish-brown rocks, dry, intimidating, soft against the horizon because of their rounded shapes. The desert is an ever-changing, ever-deepening palate of camel and sienna and terra cotta. The hostile Western desert seemed simply miles of stale dust, while this seemed warm and full.

Sinai Sand

And then you reach St. Catherine's, an oasis of humanity and commerce, pilgrims and tourists, nestled into a nook which would be otherwise indistinguishable from the rest. Her bell tower rises up in a geometric contrast to the round rocks, and her golden rooms are full of scripts, textiles, incense, and bearded priests. Her spiritual bounty is in stark opposition to the desolate, albeit beautiful, desert that creeps up on her doorstep. You wonder about the men who built this, who came from other countries, probably on horses or camels, with their clothes and their Scriptures.

St. Catherine's Bell Tower

Our ride back was quiet and thoughtful. We sped to the horizon we couldn't see, almost as if rewinding our trip up to the monastery; we would recognize a mountain, or a change in color, or a particular gathering of camels.

Our guide met us back in Dahab and we took a bumpy jeep ride to the Blue Hole, where we snorkeled and saw many fishes. It was in the late afternoon, or it felt late, and by the time our camels had arrived at four, we were tired and wet with tangled hair and pruney fingers, like little children at the beach. We changed, sloppily, into our damp clothes and mounted our camels, led by a small withered but spry man with a blue galabaya and big rubber sandals.

The Blue Hole

A trip on a camel from the Blue Hole to Dahab is longer than you think it is, but we saw the sun set over the mountains of Saudi Arabia's Red Sea coast, and to see that from a camel is, well, really cool. The light changed gradually from stark shadows of the sun behind the mountains to a twilighted pink and blue haze that made you rub your eyes instinctively in order to see clearer, like when you put a filter on a camera lens. It was methodical and refreshing to feel the camels beneath us plodding, bored, toward our destination.

We made it to the bus station at 6:45 and boarded our final night bus, headed for Cairo and then to the airport. Our last night and day in Dahab had somehow made up for the troubles of Nuweiba and the sleepless nights leading up to it. We had vacationed, successfully, at the Red Sea.

Here, the time, it is not exact...

2006-12-14T18:41:00.000-03:00

“Here,” Mr. Mohammed our fake Bedouin guide said, “Ehhh…time is not exact.”

No kidding.

Morning Constitutional

Lisa and I, after washing up on the shore of Nuweiba at 6 AM (see the keffiyeh-ed man taking his morning stroll? It felt very serene at 7 AM), waited in our little beach hut after a nice swim in the Red Sea. We waited and waited, past the climax of the sun, into early afternoon. Lisa fell asleep on the cushions. I walked up and down the packed sand that made up the main drag of Nuweiba, if it can be called a main drag.

Haji Lisa and the Blue Cushions

I approached Mr. Mohammed. “Ahem, where is the jeep?” I looked at my watch in the universal signal for, “You’d better have a good reason you’re making us late.” Mohammed urged me to just chill. “It is coming, I talked to him and he said 5 minutes.” Five minutes.

15 five minuteses later, I was no longer calmly inquisitive. “Mohammed!” my voice approached a yell. “It has BEEN five minutes. It has been THIRTY minutes. It has been TWO AND A HALF HOURS. WHERE IS THE JEEP?”

Mohammed looked concerned, but I wasn’t sure if it was concern that his jeep was late or concern that I was about to throw sand in his face. “Here…here the time, it is not exact.”

I looked dead into his eyes. “Mohammed. I have lived in this country and in Jordan.” I waved toward the Jordanian shore across the Sea. “I know that time is not exact. That is why we have waited. One hour, ok. Two hours…eh…” I shrugged, “but THREE. Mohammed, three hours is TOO MUCH to wait. Mish ma-OOL. MISH MA-OOL.” Mohammed continued to express his concern by shifting his weight and darting his eyes between me and the bright blue water.

We would have left Mohammed and gone to another (possibly fake) beduin, had we been anywhere but Nuweiba. But Nuewiba’s main drag is perhaps 200 feet long, and Mohammed looked like the only option on this sunny, lazy afternoon. We had waited since 1 PM and the clock was ticking towards 4.

“Mohammed, the sun is going down. There will be no light. HOW are we supposed to look at the canyons when there is NO LIGHT?”

Mohammed was quick to point out, “Oh, but this is the best time to see the canyons! It is beautiful!”

“But MOHAMMED! WE are not IN THE CANYON! By the time we GET there, the sun will be DOWN.” At this point I decided that the 350 pounds we had agreed upon was going to be halved.

At 4ish, the jeep approached. We got in the back, relieved that we were going to be doing something with our day, which was largely wasted waiting for this jeep. And we did indeed, see the colored canyons, which would have been more colorful in the SUNLIGHT rather than dusk, and we even got a bonus: a camel family outing on the road ahead of us. When we had strolled through the canyons, we joined the jeep driver and Mr. Mohammed for tea in the tent up in the mountains above the Canyons. Tea, as you know, makes everything better. We calmed, but I was still wondering if we should pay him the full amount. Three hours is three hours.

Camels taking a family stroll in Sinai

Lisa in Colored Canyon #1

The sun set and the starts blinked above us as we hurdled back in the Jeep toward Mohammed’s beachside resort. We still felt gypped by Mohammed, but he had promised us dinner upon return, and the promise of food lightens everyone’s mood. We waited as he prepared the fish, and then enjoyed his eagerly prepared, but ultimately mediocre, fish, hummus, and baba ghanoush. Stray cats played around us and the sea lapped up in delicate waves upon the pebbles. We finished our fish and leaned back, talking with the Jeep driver/Sheikh’s son-in-law, who told us all about his plans to marry a second wife sometime in the near future, but then warned us not to tell his first one. The Sheikh, an old, wise-looking man, joined us for a few minutes, curling himself up on the cushion the way old Arab men do, his knees twisted towards us and his hands resting calmly upon them. We didn’t manage to convince Young Sheikh that his first wife would probably be very jealous of a second wife (And besides, he had already thought of that: They would live far away from each other. Perfect.) But we were, by the end of the meal, feeling as though we had DONE something with our day. Canyons, sheikhs, fish, and discussions of polygamy in a foreign language—we were ready for bed.

Cell Phone Bedu-Our Dinner Companion

Mr. Mohammed joined us as we got ready to leave. We decided to just give him the money and be done with it. “So, 350, right?”

“..yyyes, 350 is what we agreed for the canyons and the jeep…”

“…” Lisa and I leaned in, waiting for the completion of the sentence.

“The jeep to the canyon, 350, yes…”

“..and?” Lisa inserted.

“And then there was fish, and I made you the dinner…”

We realized what he was doing. He said he’d get us a jeep to the canyon, he got us a jeep. Three hours late, but it was there, was it not? But the fish! The fish was extra. The tea with the beduins? Extra. The hummus? Extra. We couldn’t believe our ears.

“Ooooh, no.” My Arabic improves greatly when I am upset. “Oh no. You were THREE HOURS LATE. We waited ALL DAY on our ONLY DAY here, and you promised us dinner to make up for it. We will NOT pay you for dinner. You said that was a gift.”

“But I gave you tea! And fish! And…”

“I CAN MAKE TEA. I have never, ever been charged for tea, not in this country, not in Jordan, not in Lebanon…” I listed how many ways one could obtain tea for free, making sure he realized that I was not about to give him money for something that is taken for granted even in Wadi Rum, where there is no water.

The argument was loud, and our point was clear. We shoved money into his hand and left him counting it, calling back that it was exactly the amount of money he asked for and he needn’t worry, we didn’t gyp him as he had gypped us, and we wouldn’t be visiting him again.

The aggravation was not only over the extra money he wanted from us. It was a noisy night bus ride, a long day in the sun, and four hours of waiting for a jeep that took us to canyons we couldn’t appreciate in the dusk. It was the frustration of having no choice, no where else to go, and not even being near the bus station. It was being clearly, obnoxiously ripped off by a man who deserved neither the money he charged nor the money he wanted to charge. It was the concept of “Egyptian hospitality” falling flat, and with a thud. It was being taken for a stupid tourist, and occasionally living up to the title.

So we stalked back on the empty, dark street to our hostel, frustrated. We had arranged to go to St. Catherine’s monastery the next morning at 7 with a guide, and take the bus back to Cairo at 3 PM. “Plans could change,” one of us suggested. They certainly could.

Sacrificial Shirts & Hotels with Towels

2006-12-13T18:47:00.000-03:00

The world looks different through tired eyes. When you’re tired, your standard of acceptable challenges lowers drastically and every obstacle looms ten times larger than life. The world also looks different through refreshed eyes. A good night’s sleep, and yesterday’s problems can seem silly, abstract, and ridiculous. They can also seem completely incomprehensible: What was I thinking when I signed up for…?

Many, if not all, of my solo journeys have been of the hostel variety. I stayed in Wadi Rum for a week with a change of clothes and a camera. I’ve hostelled in the French country and on the Beirut corniche. I’ve taken night trains in order to save on hotel costs. Four of us girls did Italy for two weeks in the cheapest hostels available- we got what we paid for, hostel-wise, but the stories? Priceless. I remember sharing a flat, wooden mattress with Stacy, whom I barely knew, on the outskirts of Venice, in the freezing cold. We’d sleep with our backs together and just as we warmed up, our hips would start hurting from the mattress and we’d have to shift our bodies in order to relieve the pain, maintain some nominal degree of privacy, and share body heat under the thin blanket as the wind blew through the crack under the doorway. We didn’t sleep much, but let me tell you, there’s no better way to make friends.

So I consider myself a sort of experienced low-budget traveler. Nothing much surprises me anymore, not after coming into our Roman hostel at 2 AM and finding other people in our beds. Egypt, I thought, should be a piece of cake. And it was, in that there are hostels, and they are dirt cheap. Budget travelers have an easy time of it. But by the end of the trip, I was ready to turn in my hostel card and graduate to the next level of world traveler: hotels with towels.

Our Pension in Cairo was a sweet little place in Zamalek, near embassies and a Panini Café, with a pleasant courtyard where old men gathered and talked all day and, as far as we could tell, all night. Our room had two beds, a little balcony, and a shelving unit. The shared bathroom was relatively clean and there was hot water. The owner, Mr. Hady, was nice enough, a round man with a friendly, but serious, face. Lisa and I were happy to have found an affordable room that didn’t have bugs or dirty sheets. But when we went to take our showers we realized that the cute pension didn’t have towels, either. Nor had we brought any. So we made a sacrifice: We each took our cleanest dirty shirt (an odd tribute to Johnny Cash, perhaps) and used it to dry bodies and wrap up wet hair. This was surprisingly effective, but also … grimy. The towels were dry by morning, ready to be packed up again and hauled to our next destination. We were satisfied with this system.

But then came Nuweiba. Our Lonely Planet recommendation turned out to be very, very lonely. Not a woman in sight, in fact, and no other hostellers, despite the fact that they told us that all the rooms were booked (which, if you ask me, was a weird, but baldfaced nonetheless, lie.) It was a tired, rickety little room with two single beds and clean pink sheets on the crooked sidetable. The door stuck to the frame and required a good deal of shoving to open. The whole room was about as big as my bathroom in my studio apartment. Not to worry! I thought. I’ve done this before! I thought. So we took it. Grand total: $1. That’s right, no zeros.

But then we had our adventures with Mr. Mohammed and the Jeep That Wasn’t (Be patient! That story is coming soon.) And we returned after dark to our small, tired room which was next to the tired, smelly bathrooms and had ants crawling under the crooked door. The room seemed smaller now that there was no sunlight peeking in through the rafters, and sketchier now that we knew there were no other women around. There was no sound. Our mouths had a bad taste after our aggravating exchange with Mr. Mohammed. Slight feelings of claustrophobia crept up on us from the wet tile floor. Lisa slouched on her bed and I slouched on mine, and we conspired. We conspired to leave, to get outta Dodge, and somehow get to a hotel, a hotel with towels and windows and no groups of silent young men playing cards on the balconies above us. We weren’t sure it was worth it. It would be more prudent to stay put for one night, deal with the ants and the crooked rafters. Wouldn’t it? It was only costing us one dollar. Who could beat that?

But it wasn’t worth it. The tipping point had been reached, and we tipped. We didn’t know exactly how to escape, since there weren’t any taxis (which only heightened the feeling of claustrophobia), and it turned into quite an ordeal when we managed to do it, but we did. We escaped to the Dahab Hilton, a five star resort on the edge of the Red Sea, a resort with whitewash bungalows, big square patios, and three swimming pools. A resort with minibars, wake-up calls, and towels. Never have I so appreciated towels.

We rinsed our sacrificial shirts and hung them up on the towel rack. We slept like the dead in an enormous, fluffy bed with feathery pillows. We woke to the sun streaming through our wooden shutters. And the world looked a saner, approachable, and refreshed. What were we thinking, staying in Nuweiba in that one dollar hostel? Why didn’t we plan this better? How absurd is it that we paid someone 300 pounds to go to a hotel we didn’t even know had vacancies? It seemed ridiculous and abstract to me, like it had happened long ago, back when I Didn’t Know Any Better. But after a good night’s sleep on a fluffy bed, I knew better. I knew that that trip was worth every piaster and the $80/night hotel was the best money I’d ever spent.

The silly part is that I’d stayed in the Dahab Hilton before, in 2002 on my first trip to Egypt. I knew it existed, but I had ruled it out as too chichi for our low-budget adventures. But upon further reflection, I realize my folly. At $80/night, that’s what, a Motel 6 in Grand Rapids? Yeah.

So I’m done with the hostel vacations, at least the rougher sort. It’s worth the extra few dollars to have a little towel luxury that will make my vacation a vacation and not an exercise in sacrificial clothing.

Christmas: $100

2006-12-06T13:37:00.000-03:00

Some people do.

In Which She Decides Never Again to Take the Night Bus

2006-11-16T14:50:00.000-03:00

We were ecstatic at the ease of the bus situation in Dahab. This bus stop was right next to our hotel. It was small and relatively clean. The 7:30 bus had seats left on it, and we gladly paid for two. Dahab to Cairo, 7:30 PM. A Day in Dahab and no need to pay for a hotel that night. Fantastic.

As we boarded the bus, I immediately noticed the legroom. I have longish legs. Not really long long, but long enough to notice legroom. There was no legroom. I couldn't cross my legs. This is a problem. I grunted and scooted sideways to fit my knees together. It's ok, I thought. I'll sleep, I thought. It won't be a problem, I thought.

By 7:30 PM in Dahab in October, the sun is completely set. It was dark, and we were tired, but not so tired that we fell asleep right away. Which is good, because even if we had wanted to, we wouldn't have been able to sleep. After an hour ride to Sharm al-Sheikh's bus stop, we had a longish (rather too long, if you ask me) stop in Sharm, but not in pretty Sharm. In the Sharm bus stop. With the sketchy bathroom. 15 minutes of wandering aimlessly around the busstop, and we're back on the bus. We had hoped that the creepy dude with the ballcap in front of us would stay in Sharm, but we hoped in vain. He was there for the rest of the ride, regularly and overtly glancing back and inspecting us for seconds at a time.

First, we were entertained with musilsilat (TV programs) with a vaguely Ramadan theme. I think. All I know is there was an Asian-looking singer, an honest-to-goodness bellydancing dwarf, and two sketchy looking men with gelled moustaches. I put on my headphones, pulled my knees to my chest, and closed my eyes. I felt tired enough to sleep after our exciting and exhausting adventures in Dahab.

You would think that since we were STILL IN EGYPT and HAD NEVER LEFT Egypt and no one had gotten ON or OFF the bus since Sharm al-Sheikh, as there were no busstops in the MIDDLE OF SINAI, there would be no need for extra security checks after leaving the busstop. Yes? Well. You would be wrong. Not only are there security checks, but there are security checks EVERY HOUR. Rough looking men board the bus, check your passport and/or your bus ticket, and then leave you to resume your fitful sleep. It is an extremely annoying interruption, especially considering that you are not having that great a time ANYWAY, trying fruitlessly to sleep in a fetal position in a dirty bus with a creepy hat guy staring at you.

But more annoying? Is when they wake you up and make you get out of the bus. Because at 3 am, or thereabouts, a tall gruff man boarded the bus and yelled something about "SHANTAT!" Now, having already dealt with the word "shanta" ("bag" or "purse") after losing my luggage in Jordan, I thought, "Aha, he is talking about luggage! See how well I speak Arabic!" And we assumed, erroneously, that this was a repeat of a previous bus ride, where they had requested that those passengers getting off at certain stops bring their luggage up with them until that stop. The gruff man looked at us and yelled again. So we got off the bus.

Everyone else was already off, with their luggage lined up in front of them. It was the most orderly queue of people we had seen all week. We joined them, yawning. My eyes stung from the previous 6 bumpy hours of sleeplessness. It was chilly, but the air felt clean, the crisp, barren sort of clean that is one of the most beautiful things about the desert. At a command from the police, everyone stepped back one large step in a weirdly synchronized movement. "Weird," I thought, "Have they done this before?"

The policeman, once we had stepped back and given him room, fiddled with a small black gadget he held, then held it up in front of him, as you would a sword or a pistol, and speedwalked past the luggage, turning on his heels when he got to the end to speedwalk back. When he reached the end of the luggage line, he just kept walking, off to the desert behind the bus. And then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, everyone picked up their suitcases, put them back in the bus, and made their groggy way back to their seats.

The whole thing was so surreal, so out of place, and everyone's reactions were so...normal. We had a hard time figuring out what, exactly, Mr. Policeman had done. Was it a metal detector? If so, wouldn't he want to check the bags in the bus as well as the bags under the bus? Wouldn't he want to check the individuals? It was very confusing.

And not two hours later, there we were at a nondescript busstop in Cairo, somewhere by the Nile. We had no idea where we were, but we did know that it was 4:30 AM and that 4:30 AM is when good girls are usually in bed, which is exactly where we wanted to be. We got in a taxi and told him the Four Seasons, knowing that we could sit in their lobby as long as we wanted, and really, just wanting to be off the street. The taxi driver asked us as soon as we started off, "How much?"

This is never a good sign in Cairo. As we learned from Anthony, this is how the taxis work: you get in, you tell them where you are going, and you pay them AFTER you've gotten out of the taxi. Otherwise, you'll get ripped off. But we were stuck, so I asked, in what I thought was a very clever response considering that we had no idea where we were, "How much do you want?"

He laughed. "How much do you want to pay?"

Then I made a mistake: "How long is the drive?"

"You don't know how long the drive is?"

"Well, we don't know exactly where the bus station is."

"It's the Ibrahim bus station!"

"Yes, um, I know the NAME of the bus station, but I don't know how far it is from the Four Seasons."

He laughed again. "80 pounds."

"EIGHTY?" I raised my eyebrows. "No. That is too much." I felt trapped in the cab speeding next to the Nile. I knew 80 pounds was a ridiculous price.

And then he actually said, "You don't even know where you are! How do you know how much is too much?"

I shot a Look at Lisa. The Look said, "This is so, so obnoxious." The usual cab ride is 5 pounds, ten if there is traffic or if it's a ways. Eighty is probably what that guy makes in a month. And at that moment, I lost my previous regard for Egyptian hospitality. What kind of person rips off two obviously lost, tired, young travelers at 4:30 AM?

The ride was not very long. We passed two wedding parties on our way, one with the bride and groom speeding away on a motorcycle, the other with the bride posing for pictures by the Nile. It seemed mildly absurd to have these brides so perfectly adorned at such an odd hour of the day/night, when most people were in bed with smudged eyeliner and tangled hair. But it also seemed fantastically festive. Why not stay up all night and celebrate a marriage? Why not take a stroll in your wedding dress by the Nile at 5 am? I kind of wanted to join the party, or at least follow it from a distance and eavesdrop.

We ended up giving the cab driver too much money, although he swore, "Wallahi, it's not expensive, it is a fair price." I knew it was too much, but I also knew that standing on the street corner arguing with a cab driver was not a good way to spend your Friday pre-dawn morning. I was annoyed that I had spent so much of my vacation getting ripped off by cab drivers, and I was ready to sit on the Four Season's couch, watch the sun rise, and decide what to do next.

How My Blackberry Saved Me from Cairo

2006-11-12T23:49:00.000-03:00

The previous chapter will be posted shortly--this is the final chapter in Cairo, right after our bus ride from Dahab, which you will be able to read all about as soon as I post it.

---

After our fifty-seven hour night bus ride-which included seven security checks free of charge!-Lisa and I found ourselves in Cairo at dawn, listening to the recycled tunes in the Four Seasons lobby, waiting for the sun to rise. I printed my itinerary from the business center, just in case. It is Egypt, after all. Whent the sun did rise, we cabbed to Cilantro and got a tiny, expensive breakfast. Lisa was staying another few days, but my plane was scheduled to leave in a few hours, so we walked through the empty Zamalek streets to the President Hotel where we showered, dressed in our cleanest dirty shirts, and re-packed.

My wonderful, $7 Andiamo suitcase and I took the first taxi we saw to the airport, about a 45 minute drive. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I tried to pay attention to the expanse of Cairo below me as we sped toward the airport. Cairo is a brown city, like it rose of the dunes and never managed to shake off the dust. It leaves your feet brown, your palms dusty, and your skin clogged. The thick smog seems less to have settled than to have risen from the ground, kept close to the rooftops by a general languidity, a heat that is too lazy to rise into the atmosphere. The airport, too, feels brown and dusty, sleepy, and as I handed the last of my pounds to the cabbie, I felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of a warm, clean shower in Frankfurt.

I walked to the check in gate for Austrian Air. I was the first one there. I felt svelt and well-travelled in my long, terra cotta skirt, my chic, borrowed jacket, and my tidy, rolly suitcase. The gate opened and I stepped up to the helpful looking man and passed over my passport and itinerary. "I have an e-ticket," I offered in my smoothest voice. He typed away for much longer than necessary. He called someone else over. There seemed to be a problem. "Ma'am, we don't see your reservation in our computer, so if you'll take a seat, we'll check and get back to you." "...you don't see it? Well, I do have one, because it's here on the itinerary." I gestured toward the itinerary. They repeated their offer "It seems your reservation has been ccanccelled. We'll do our best to rectify this." "Well...um...Is there a place to get a cup of coffee?" I asked. No, there was not, not until after you pass security with your boarding pass. Which I didn't have. Well, I thought, maybe I can get a 15 minute nap. I laid down on the metal seats.

Fifteen minutes and no sleep later, the same short, goateed man came over and told me that he was sorry, my reservation had been cancelled and there's nothing they could do. "What?" I was stunned. "Why was it cancelled?" "You used your free miles on this ticket, yes?" "...yes." "Well, you had a reservation on the 23rd, and you didn't show up, so they cancelled it because you have changed your itinerary after beginning your journey." "No, I'm sorry, I think there's some mistake. I never had a reservation on the 23rd. My reservation, AS you can SEE," I pointed dramatically at the itinerary, "is for the 27th. Today. Al-yeom." "Well, our computers say you were supposed to be here on the 23rd." "Well, then why does this itinerary, which is FROM UNITED AIRLINES, say that my reservation is on the 27th?" He shrugged. "I don't know ma'am. Next?" "Wait, wait, wait, what am I supposed to do now?" A sickening wave of anxiety washed over me: I could be stuck in Cairo another day, another night, and I really just wanted to leave, to get on the plane and go, go, until I landed in a country where the customer is always right. "Erm...go talk to the Austrian Air representative." I stared at them, infuriated. "Which is....where?" He yelled at the tall man next to him, "Ali, take her to the sales office."

Ali seemed nice enough, and he also seemed very confused at my state of fury and confusion. "Is there a problem?" he asked cheerily. "Iowa. Fii mushkila." "Ahhhhh! You speak Arabic!" This seemed to make his day. He whistled as he led me out past the security check I had already passed once. I was not in nearly as cheerful a mood. Up the stairs, down the stairs, past the crowds, to the Austrian Air office. I walked in with my trusty Andiamo.

The woman behind the desk leaned forward, clicking her long nails together as she talked to a tall man. "Begad?!" she lilted. They continued to have a long, fascinating conversation about her cousin's wedding. I tapped my foot and glared at her. She turned her head to me. "Yes?"

I explained the situation. She typed with her long nails on the keyboard, tap tap tap. "Erm, you did not show up for your reservation on the 23rd, so they have, erm, cancelled your reservation."

"I never had a reservation on the 23rd." I showed her the itinerary. "My reservation is on the 27th, today, to Frankfurt. This email is from United Airlines." I pointed at the United logo. I was holding back tears of exhaustion and frustration.

"Yes, erm, I do not know, but you do not have a reservation, and there is nothing I can do. You have to, erm, call the United representatives in the US, yes?" She looked at her watch. "But I think it is very early in the US and it is also the weekend, so probably you will have to wait to call them because they are not open now."

I looked at her without forgiveness. "So what am I supposed to do, sleep in the airport for two days? Do you have a solution?" She stared at me. I continued, whimpering, "Can I at least try to call from your phone, since this is clearly not my fault?"

"Erm, no, we do not have international phone lines."

I was incredulous. "Isn't this an international airport? ...never mind. Where can I call?" My eyes were red, I could feel them stinging.

"Go downstairs to the pay phone."

"Where are the stairs?"

"Outside my door."

"Yes, clearly, they are outside your door, but which way should I turn when I get outside your door."

She raised a penciled eyebrow at me and pointed to her right.

I took my Andiamo and I stalked out of her office. I went down two flights of stairs and spotted the pay phone. I held up my credit card at the little shop: "I need a phone card. Will you take this?" "Of course!" "Ok, 10 pound phone card. Thank you." I handed him the credit card. "Oh...no, sorry, this no work."

I didn't try to argue, although I could think of a few words he should have heard. "Where can I get cash?"

At this point, a round, helpful man walked up, perhaps taking pity on my teary eyes, and directed me up the stairs to the ATM. I went up, past the crowds, to the ATM. I got 20 pounds. As I withdrew the money, friendly taxi drivers hassled me, "Taxi, taxi, taxi? You need taxi to Cairo? I have meter in taxi!" I kept walking and waved my hand too angrily in their direction. I returned to the store. I bought the phone card. I slided to the pay phone. I dialed my parents, knowing they would be up at 7 am on a Friday morning.

My father picked up the phone. I started crying as soon as I started talking, tears of exhaustion and frustration. "Daddy, I'm stuck in the Cairo airport and--sniff--they say I don't have a reservation to fly to Germany and --sob--I can't call united because it's an 800 number and -- cry--I just want to leave *sob* this CITY." He was getting ready for work, but he put my mom on and I sobbed the story out to her, when the phone died. I bought another phone card and called again. The line was busy. I left a message saying I would call in ten minutes. There was no way they could call me.

I sat on my luggage with my back on the yellow tiled wall downstairs in the Cairo Airport. I felt alone. Men were gathered in small groups, praying, drinking tea, talking on cell phones. None of them offered to help. Even if they had offered me a cup of tea, I thought, how hard would that be? If I saw a stranger crying in an airport by a pay phone, I would offer her a cup of tea if I had one. (I didn't want to think about if this were really true or not. It probably wasn't. But it is now: If I see you crying in an airport, I will help you.) I felt them watching me as I sat there, tears gathering in my eyes and sometimes escaping down my cheeks. They stared, but they didn't move. The few women stood in groups and glaced over occasionally.

That's when I got out the Blackberry. It still had a bar of charge left. I emailed Fares and my parents, and not two minutes later, my mother wrote back. She was on the phone with United, sorting it out. 15 emails later, she wrote back: go check in at the Austrian Air office, it should be ok.

I walked into the Austrian Air office and sat down defiantly. "Please check my reservation again."

The woman clooked at her nails and then started tapping. "Hmm, yes, erm, Range? Yes. So...this ssays you never had a reservation on the 23rd!"

"...yup."

"That is so strange."

"Yup."

"Wellll, I guess...you can go through to check in now!" she chirped.

"Yeah. Great."

I walked up the stairs, outside into the dusty Cairo air, and back into the first security check. The man recognized me. "How did you get out without me seeing you?" I wasn't in the mood to explain, so I pointed vaguely in the direction of the other exit.

My mother sent another email: You should be going to the check in now. Sure enough, I was walking to the check in counter where this rigamarole first started. I got the same man, Mr. Goatee, at the counter. "I should be ready to go now. Please check."

He acted as if I hadn't just spent the last hour jumping through Egyptian hoops, calling overseas in a building with no international lines, and explaining that I didn't actually have a reservation on the 23rd. He acted as though he'd never seen me. Maybe he didn't recognise me with the red, puffy eyes. "Oooooh, your bag is 12 kilos. You will have to check it."

I looked at him blankly. "No. I am not checking this bag. it's 1 or two kilos over? I could take my shoes out and carry them and it would make the weight. Plus, last time I checked my carry-on, you lost it."

Mr. Goatee shrugged, "I am sorry, it is too heavy."

"Ok, let me take out the things that will break." I took out my camera, lenses, and headphones. "Now is it underweight?"

He looked puzzled. "Well ... I will check it through to Dulles."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I have a 20 hour layover in Frankfurt."

"Yes, it is rather long."

"You want me to spend 20 hours in Frankfurt with no change of clothes? You want my bag to sit in Frankfurt for 20 hours? You think it won't get lost sitting there all day."

Mr. Goatee thought about this. Then he tore up the ticket. Then one last thought seemed to occur to him. "Well, you shouldn't have wheels on your suitcase. That is a problem."

"They come off."

"...oh. Can you take them off? I mean, I just don't think the lady at the gate...she won't like it if it has wheels, maybe she will make you check it. I just want you to have a smooth entry."

I took the wheels off.

"Oh..." he handed me the boarding passes for my entire trip back. "Have a nice flight."

I didn't say anything. I walked to the gate. 20 minutes later, they called for boarding.

The lady at the gate? Was Mr. Goatee.

---

The rest of the trip was seamless.

Chicks Dig King David

2006-11-01T18:13:00.000-03:00

My favorite Internet Quote of the week:

Young men out there, take a lesson from David: He's a warrior, he plays the lyre—the guitar of his day—and he's not afraid of a good cry. Now do you understand why the chicks dig him?

From Slate.com.

Egypt Stories Coming Soon!

Marrakech Express

2006-09-27T12:19:00.000-03:00

Because Phil requested them: Photos.

The Road to Marrakech

2006-09-18T19:31:00.000-03:00

I know it seems like the only time I post is when I travel to another continent. Fair enough.

---

I flew to Marrakech the day after my 24th birthday party (which, incidentally, consisted of Ecuadorean tapas, a rum and coke, Chi Cha Lounge, a few mojitos, three of my favorite people in the whole world, some excellent salsa dancing, a light drizzle, and two boxes of Godiva Chocolate) Because I was flying through Paris on the way there and London on the way back, I thought I would be smart and pack light, and by light, I mean my small gym backpack and my laptop case. No way is Air France going to lose more of my clothes. I'll show them. I got many comments by Air France officials to the tune of "So, traveling light today!" And I felt like saying, "Yes, because you LOST MY STUFF" but I did not. I just smiled and hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders and walked away. Now I'm in MArrakech and wondering why I did not think to bring a bigger bag so that I could BUY STUFF. Because the shopping here. The shopping here!

The arrival was seamless. The visa is free. I had no checked luggage. A small wrinkled Moroccoan man greeted me at the Marrakech airport with a sign that spelled my name correctly. It was alarming how smoothly it went.

But this was not to last. Because while the shopping in Marrakech may be excellent, the conference planning is ... not so much. The business center in this hotel doesn't have a copy machine. Or a stapler. Or tape. Or paper clips. Or anything. They did not make our group reservations for dinner despite it clearly being marked in the agenda I gave them. They wanted us to pay cash for the projector for the conference room--about $135 in cash. Sketchy. You have to pay cash for the front desk to make copies--75 cents per page. For 5 research papers, the bill is steep. The list goes on. Hey, at least there's a pool. (An alarming number of scantily clad young brown people hang out at the pool. I didn't expect it to be so ... Baywatch.)

---

The day I arrived, Tyler and I walked to the medina, old city, for dinner. He had read in "1,000 Places To See Before You Die" about a restaurant called Yacout, Arabic for "sapphire," located "somewhere in the medina." Always up for an adventure, and fully knowing how easy it would be to find a restaurant located "somewhere," I signed on and we walked to the city center. It was a circus. The crowd throbbed and swirled around kiosks, snake charmers, kebab stands, henna artists, jugglers, carnival games. It was a strange vibe that felt like a combination of an Arab wedding and the State Fair--get your hands henna-ed, toss the ring over the jar and win!, eat some food on a stick, dance under the lights hanging from the kiosk awnings. After turning down several kebab peddlers, we wandered down an alley of the souk and stopped in a charming hotel (much more charming than ours, and it even had a tiled fountain in the courtyard) and the clerk gave us directions: "Go down zees street, et, then you see the road, it is name Mohammed V, you turn a droite, et puis, you will see the Center Artisanale, and then it is right, right, toujours a droite, and then you see big doors" - here he made a double arch motion with both hands - "then you ask someone, it is very close, very close." Simple enough.

We walked back through the crowd and down Mohamed V, turning right at the Centre Artisanale. The road forked a lot, and there was no big door. Rather, there were many big doors but none that seemed more remarkable than the others. We stopped in a small grocery store and the man driected us back and to the left. "C'est tres pres d'ici" he promised. I think he lied.

After once more stopping for directions and being told it was only "300 meters!" from where we stood, we had almost given up and gotten a cab back to the part of town we knew, when a tall thin man in a striped shirt that made him look taller and thinner told us he knew exactly where it was but it was "Assez loin d'ici"- rather far. "Really? We were told it was close! 300 meters!" He shrugged in a particularly French manner. "Non, c'est loin, peut-etre 15 minutes." Tyler and I were skeptical. 15 minutes is not the same as 300 meters. "Je peut vous aider, suivez-moi, 15 minutes. Gratuis!" Free! he says, and my guard went up. Is this a scam? Will he ask for a handout? Or lead us down a dark alley to our death? Ok, the death is unlikely. But we didn't have much to lose, and we were already lost. So we followed him. For a long time. Through alleys and past kebabs and cats and shoes for sale and guava vendors. Past henna parties, children playing in the street, laundry hanging above our heads, and street signs illegible from wear and weather. At a small, dusty mosque, he asked someone where the restaurant was and we walked down a dark, empty alley, which was nerve-wracking until we saw that it lead to a smaller, darker alley, at which point I might have gotten scared if I had been alone. But at the end of the alley he pointed out large, fancy, clean cars driving past slowly through the alleys, "Ils sont des voitures du restaurant"--the valet service was parking them. A few left turns and there we were, and an old man in a white galabaya and a red fez greeted us, "Bonsoir" with a polite little bow and a warm smile. We had found it--rather, been led to it- Yacout, with no name on the building, no street address, and a doorway that didn't even face the street but was two right turns behind a small dirt lot and an unlit alley. There is no way, no way, we could have found it ourselves. Our lean, striped guide said, "Et voila!" and turned on his heels to leave without even asking for a tip. We stepped into the doorway.

All the pictures you have in your head about what a Moroccan palace must look like--that is Yacout. Small and intimate, but grand, intricate, and breathtaking. The blue and white tiles in the entryway, graced by two dark wood chairs and candles on an inlaid table, was just the beginning-the hallway lead up some small stairs, pas a room with a tile fireplace and we could see at the end the gleams of candlelight on a reflecting pool. The gracious host greeted us and when he realized we didn't have reservations, directed us to the terrace where we could, "relax, enjoy the view, have a drink, and get ready for dinner..." Which we took to mean, "You should have had reservations." No matter. The terrace, up towo flights of circular blue tiled stairs and a second terrace with plants and candles, was charming, a split level with lanterns, musicians, and ghost-like waiters in their long white galabayas. Just above rooftops, you can see the whole city of Marrakech and its alleys and minarets spread out beneath you like a nubby carpet. Our aperatifs (we classily orderd un coca and a beer) was served in gold-engraved glasses and accompanied by silver dishes of rich golden raisins and plain almonds. The night was perfect as only a Mediterranean night can be.

After they decided we had relaxed enough, they brought us downstairs to the main restaurant. Down the tile stairs, past the reflecting pool and into what felt like a honeymoon suite: a long, immensley tall room with three french doorways adorned with burgundy floor-length curtains, easily 20 feet tall. Seven circular tables with thick tablecloths, decorated with scattered rose petals and single white taper candles, a tiled fireplace at the end of the room, and a bench with striped embroidery and red pillows that reached from one end to the other. We sat in front of the middle doorway with a glimpse of the pool and the best view of the two musicians, castanets and oud, with their tassled hats. They rested against the glass French doors with the ease of cats, folding their legs under their long embroidered robes and leaning against triangular pillows while they played and sang. They were later replaced by two different musicians who played much more Arabic, Northern, Andalucian music rather than the Southern, African beat the first two had played. The courtyard was open and visible from the terrace, where we had just been, and the night breeze just barely whispered across the candles.

The set menu began with about 10 Moroccan salads: carrots with cinnamon, sweet tomato paste, zucchini, liver, olives, marinated peppers...the names do them no justice. It was not JUST carrots with cinnamon. It was carrote puree with cinnamon and ... something else ... that didn't taste like a dessert, nor like a sauce. It was rich and vibrant. Nor was it JUST liver, but liver cooked to a pleasant, almost sweet, texture, with a sauce and spices hiding inside. They tasted effortless, like when you see a good dancer who makes ballet look easy.

Chicken with preserved lemon and olives. I love this dish, even in its American (or, worse, my homemade) version. Something about lemons with olives makes the world better. To taste it as it should be, in Marakech, listening to an oud, was pretty close to heaven. This was followed by lamb and quince tagine and couscous with vegetables, and the lamb was so tender it came off with a spoon. The quince added a sweet spiciness to the lamb, and with the boiled - but not to death - vegetables, it was perfectly balanced. The couscous was light and fluffy, floating on the side.

By this time, we were wondering how much more food we could possibly fit into our bodies. Granted, we had walked for two hours to get to this place, but one can only be so hungry. Luckily, dessert was next, a light flaky pastry with a rose water-milk sauce followed by an assortment of rose water and sugar-nut bites and, of course, mint tea poured from a foot above the glass to acheive the perfect frothiness.

All this was ours for a price I won't even name, because it was worth it (but no, it wasn't over $100.) It's everything you want Marrakech to be.

The Best Of DC

2006-08-21T16:07:00.000-04:00

The Washingtonian does it, so I'm going to, too.

---

Hair: Hands down, no contest: Trim Salon.

Nails: Color Nails on 17th and R. $35 Mani/pedi, and a nice massage in the package. Can't beat that.

Facials: Andre Chreky Salon, 16th and K. Seriously, go to Mila. She will FIX YOUR SKIN.

Shoe repair: George's Shoe Repair on U street. He's been fixing shoes for 57 years. When he fixes your high heels, they don't break again after 2 weeks, like every other shoe repair store. Also, he's very old and cute and he laughs a lot.

Coffee: Tryst's Cuban Coffee is the best cuppa I've tasted in DC.

---

That is all. I have updates from Marrakech when I return. Stay tuned!

Only in LA, man. Only in LA.

2006-08-18T09:21:00.000-04:00

An interesting variation on the idea of a sushi platter.

Fresh Figs

2006-08-10T09:40:00.000-04:00

Figs are best when picked straight from the tree in the morning, after they've had a few hours to wake up and warm up in the sun, after you've had a good night's sleep on the roof under Jordanian stars. They are especiailly good with fresh mint tea.

I went to Jordan for work, but the last few days I spend not working at all, mostly eating figs and swimming in the Dead Sea. Don't worry, your tax dollars didn't pay for that.

Despite warnings that it would be TOO HOT, JUST TOO HOT, it was not in fact too hot. It was fantastic, beautiful weather, dry and hot and blue and brown. I heard reports that DC was sticky molasses hot, and I could smell the sweat through the e-mail.

The Marriott at the Dead Sea has three pools on different levels with fountains and waterfalls. The bogainvilla's bright magenta is appropriately brilliant in the blinding sun, and the Dead Sea's blue gray swirls spread down the horizon.

There is a patio where you can sit outside at night when the stars come out and smoke sheisha and drink mint lemonade. A brunette bellydancer comes out and twirls her hips. You can walk down the stairs to the shore of the Dead Sea and listen to the lapping of the waves on the rocks.

I find most spa experiences to be much the same--soft new age music playing over the speakers, scented candles, and intense herbal smells. I thoroughly enjoy it, but sometimes doubt the effectiveness-besides the feeling of being pampered-of spas. But if you go to the Dead Sea Spa and get a Mud Envelope, they will rub you with oil and salt, much like a chicken before it is roasted, and then rinse you off and lather your whole body in mud. Then they wrap you in the spa equivalent of Saran wrap, put a few heavy layers on you and leave you to roast for a few minutes. When they unwrap you, you still feel rather like poultry, but then they rinse the mud off and you see that your skin is new and soft, baby skin, and you're drowsy with the salty thick smell of the sea.

-----

I think that this is more enjoyable after you've been wearing the same clothes for a full week. One week of laundering your clothes in the hotel sink because Air France sent your luggage to the wrong Middle Eastern country and you feel ready for a spa treatment. (You also feel ready for a new wardrobe, courtesy of Air France.) Despite the fact that Air France promised us each 100 Euros to go shopping, 100 Euros doesn't go far, even in Amman. In fact, it will buy you exactly one pair of trousers, two cheap shirts, two undershirts, and possibly a pair of underwear. Needless to say, these are not business clothes, but teeny-bopper store clothes--camisoles with sequined hearts on the bust and underwear with cheap bows.

Air France insisted that of COURSE it would send my luggage STRAIGHT AWAY to the Marriott in Amman. In fact, it would be there the next morning! Then they insisted that of course they would sent it to the Dead Sea Marriott! Then they insisted that of course they would forward my luggage STRAIGHT to my permanent address in the States. It's been two weeks and there's no sign, no news. It's gone. Air France owes me a new business wardrobe. And a new Huit swimsuit. A Tahitian pareo. My purple Anthropologie kimono, and a pair of purple suede flats. An international adapter/converter kit. My favorite white pants. All my t-shirts. And a grey Christian Dior suit.

----

The day before the real work began, Peter and I drove with Fares to his parents' house in Madaba. There is nothing like the smell of the country--the desert and the stars and the cool night air, the plates of fresh fruit and figs and pomegranate, the cups of mint tea. Better, the people you love with you. Friends and family, celebrations and weddings and good Tawjihi scores. A new garden that has your favorite plant, named after you: "Catherine's Majnouna." Dinner made from vegetables fresh from the garden, organic cucumbers and ripe tomatoes. The girls slept on the roof under the stars on mattresses under bright felt blankets and woke up to the dawn. The first thing we did after waking up was pick figs and drink mint tea, and it made me wonder what I was doing living in Washington riding the Metro everyday when really all I want to do in life is eat figs at dawn and drink mint tea.

---

I only have "Geekish Tendencies."

2006-07-25T13:59:00.000-04:00

How about you?

There's a Reason They Call it the Red Eye

2006-07-18T11:38:00.000-04:00

Reason #1: No Blanket
Reason #2: No Pillows
Reason #2: Loud, naggy couples seated in the row behind you
Reason #4: Your neighbor's air turned on full blast and pointing at your legs, making it impossible to get and stay warm: see Reason #1.

I love JetBlue. I love that they have a direct flight from Dulles to Long Beach. I love that it's cheap and easy and you can check in online and print your boarding pass from the kiosk in the airport. I love the choice of snacks they give you. I am not so fond, however, of the lack of pillows and/or blankets. Really, one or the other would be nice, I don't need both. On the whole, though, it was a nice flight, and for the price, I guess you can't really expect pillows. I guess. I landed at 5:20 AM and was home by 6:30. It took me about four minutes and thirty seconds to collapse on my bed and fall asleep. I woke up refreshed and smelling very distinctly of Stuffy Airplane Cabin, which is alright if you're in a stuffy airplane cabin, but not so nice if you're at home in your own bed. I examined my back and was pleased to find that my cranberry burn has faded to a lovely lobster bisque color, a color I might consider painting my walls if I were allowed to paint my walls.

LA was a nice break, a good vacation with friends and food and sun and beach and weddings and freeways and shopping. I remembered why I love SoCal: the food and the attitude and the individualism and the weather, the WEATHER, and the easy life. I don't feel like it's my home anymore, although I can still drive like a local, and I realized how much I like being home in DC. I like being a regular at the Cuban place down the street. I like that I drive by the Jefferson Memorial every day on my commute to work. I like meeting people who think like I think, and feeling like I fit. I like having my church and my friends from all over who happen to be passing through, and I like that, finally, my mailing address and my permanent address are the same.

That said, I'm still considering grad school at UCLA just because it's in LA.

My Recommended Summer Friday Itinerary.

2006-07-17T16:40:00.000-04:00

Friday, July 14

4 AM: Wake up to BBC blaring on the radio. Decide you can sleep just 5 more minutes.

4:45 AM: Jump frantically out of bed, pull on clothes, grab the (pre-packed, thankfully) carry on.

5:15 AM: Drive to Dulles

6:00 AM: Check in at Jet Blue kiosk.

6:05 AM: Walk approximately 4.5 miles to Gate B36.

6:30 AM: Board Plane.

6:31 AM: Fall asleep.

9:20 AM, PST: Wake up. Exit plane and find yourself in happy, sunny, Long Beach Airport.

9:21 AM: Be greeted by Lori. Yay!

10:30 AM: Eat Big, Delicious French Sandwich at C'est Si Bon. Meander to Lori's cute apartment.

11 AM Meander around said cute apartment.

11:15 AM: Ride ferry to Balboa Island. Eat Chocolate-dipped strawberry. Eat Cold Stone Ice Cream. Buy red Flip Flops. Get whooped 7-2 by Lori the Air Hockey Queen.

Somewhere around 1?: Ride ferry back to Newport. Decide to go to beach.

2 PM: Go to beach. Test the water. Decide it is Cold. Build sand dragons. Build sand castle. Sand Castle!

Watch cute little kids building sandcastles. Make Sand Chair. Lie in sun. Fall asleep. Wake up to find a cute but vicious child thoroughly destroying your sandcastle. Watch him make his way across the beach systematically destroying every sandcastle in sight. Nickname him Hurricane Steven.
Behold, Hurricane Steven:

5 PM: Get hungry. Wonder if you're sunburned.

6 PM: Buy groceries for dinner. Begin to realize that you are, in fact, very sunburned. Buy Aloe.

7 PM: Grill meat. Meat! Mmm, meat! Also grill asparagus. Try to grill potatoes but fail.

7:50 PM: Eat meat with tongs because you forgot to bring forks. Feel very primal. Wish you had room to eat more meat because it is so tasty.

8:50 PM Admire sunset over Newport Beach.

9 PM: Realize that you are very, very sunburned. Go home. Watch Stargate.

10 PM: Fall asleep.

New Apartment!

2006-06-24T14:05:00.000-04:00

The reason I've been absent lately: Decorating my Swanky New Pad.

I love it.

And I did it all for under $100. Craig's List! Rocks!

--

And, since we ran out of room in the comments on the previous post, thank you, Phil, for confirming what I suspected all along--girls that look like they'll snap if you hug them aren't attractive to guys, either. (Well, most guys. I can't speak for all guys. Heck, I can't even speak for one guy.)

Totally Useless Fashion Advice

2006-06-15T13:35:00.000-04:00

All right, I know that any fashion advice you get from Instyle.com is probably...unreliable. I read it for the kicks. But I do have sort of an issue with the recent bikini slideshow. Take, for example, the props they give to Mischa Barton:

"Mischa Barton has picked the skimpiest combo of the classic triangle and string bottom. She’s wearing it straight across her hips, which proves that you don’t have to pull the leg line high to make legs look long."

Um, guys...Mischa could wear ANYTHING and make her legs look long, because her legs ARE long. Also, her thighs are about the size of my wrist. The fact that she's wearing a bikini straight across her hips proves nothing. Also, Mischa, I can count your ribs. Please go get some boardwalk fries or a scoop of ice cream.

Next?

“Kirsten Dunst is a pale girl with red hair and a pale yellow suit—she’s probably doing what you’re not supposed to do, but I love it! It’s very retro and fun, and the cut is perfect—it couldn’t fit her better.”

So how does that help us, the reader looking for fashion advice? "This is what you're not supposed to do, but look! Kirsten can do it!" I don't know if they want to say "Kirsten can do it but you probably can't because you're not Kirsten! Too bad for you." or if they want to say "Kirsten can do it and YOU CAN TOO!" Either way I think she needs to stand up straight. And Kirsten, go with Mischa and get some ice cream.

Next?

"Jessica Alba has picked a great suit in terms of her age and personality— it shows her coquettish side. Simple hair and bare feet are nice complements to the rest of her."

Jessica Alba is toally way cute, and I love the picture and I want her swimsuit, but guys, seriously. OF COURSE she's wearing simple hair and bare feet. What ELSE would she wear? A tiara? Her Manolos?

Next:

“This is a great example for all the girls who want padding—you don’t need it! Kate Hudson looks great from head to toe—she’s not trying to make her chest look big. A straight top with a straight bottom is very flattering on any shape.” If this is the "You don't need it!" of padding, I'll take padding. Just because she's a celebrity doesn't mean this actually is a flattering look. That is all.

Finally, props to J. Lo who looks Normal and Healthy, like she eats occasionally and has muscles, too, and has a nice swimsuit in a nice color that she is neither falling nor poking out of.

Cool things you should know about

2006-06-12T13:42:00.000-04:00

www.freecycle.com: source of some free stuff I got for my apartment!

www.thelunchclub.com: Meet new people! Random! Fun!

www.craigslist.com (Ok, I know you already know about Craig's List, but since it pretty much furnished my apartment, I though I should give it, you know, public recognition.)

Thwakety Thwack

2006-06-02T11:48:00.000-04:00

The summer months bring steamy afternoons, lazy weekends and the urge to go thwackety-thwack, thwackety-thwack into the salt mines. The flip-flops already are out in force. Their cheap rubber soles melt against the hot concrete and get all squishy, dirty and distorted.

...Flip-flops should be paired with surf shorts and swimsuits; they should be found on beaches and in public showers. Exceptions can be made for walking the dog, watering the lawn, taking out the trash and ensuring that a fresh pedicure makes it from salon to home without getting smudged.Flip-flops are sloppy, cheap and generally unattractive. And that is part of their charm. They represent the blissful informality of summer, the most grudging, reluctant response to the admonishment, "No shoes, no service."

Thank you, Washington Post, for setting the record straight. Flip flops, my friends, are NOT OFFICE ATTIRE. They do NOT go with business suits. They look SILLY with straight skirts and pearls. When you wear them in the metro on the way to work, your feet get dirty before they've even passed the turnstile. The thwakety-thwack is distracting in the office. Pleeeeeease leave them at home. Or at least change once you get to work.

Pandora's Box

2006-05-25T11:33:00.000-04:00

My new favorite Internet thingamajig: Pandora.

This is so, so cool.

Haven't you been frustrated with the recommendations that you get from, say, iTunes? I have. "Other people who bought this also bought..." helps me...not at all, because my interest in / love for the song amounts to a lot more than genre or artist. Just because I like Lauryn Hill doesn't mean I like ALL hip hop, and I can like one OutKast song and hate all the others. (Same goes for you, Amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com: Just because I once bought "A Brief History of the English People" doesn't mean I want to buy EVERY BOOK YOU HAVE about British history.)

Pandora looks beyond genre and artist and captures the *mood* of the song by filtering it down to the fundamentals: rhythm, melody, harmony, vocals, lyrics, key, cultural inspiration... This makes perfect sense to me. Bravo to the Music Genome Project.

New pictures!

2006-05-16T10:13:00.000-04:00

Well, old pictures, but maybe new to you: Wadi Rum, Petra, and various iftar activities in Jordan. More to come, but not for a few weeks.

Distraction

2006-05-11T14:27:00.000-04:00

Introducing: Google's newest way of distracting us.

Now you can, for instance, find out that far more people in the Philippines and Ireland googled Pope John Paul II than in the US, but no one really cared much about googling the pope until he died. People in Halifax really like Oprah. And Britney Spears has been on a downhill curve in popularity with only a few spurts when something exciting happens, like babies. Besides that, more people in Venezuela, Mexico, Argentina, Peru, Chile, Portugal, and Finland care about Britney than in LA. (Besides that, they wanted the news in Danish, Spanish, and Swedish.)

Think of all the wonderful things you can explore when you should be working...

WMATA

2006-05-11T14:17:00.000-04:00

Dear Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority,

I realize that summer is approaching and the outside temperatures are rising. However, this does not mean that all the metro trains need to have the air conditioning set to 40 degrees.

Thank you.

We Are Scone Models

2006-05-09T12:11:00.000-04:00

This weekend:

Lisa came to DC! We ate scones on the Mall!

Life is good.

Summer Means ... Farmer's Markets!

2006-05-02T15:31:00.000-04:00

10 Reasons to Eat Local, posted on the Eat Local Challenge blog.

Community Supported Agriculture : What it is, why it's good, where you can find it in your area.

Every city has Farmer's Markets, right?

If you're in DC and you're interested in home delivery, sign up here.

Spread the word!

I hang out with smart people!

2006-04-28T11:36:00.000-04:00

Congratulations to Anthony, who 1. got a fat scholarship to study in Egypt for a year, and 2. wrote this Wikipedia article ALL IN ARABIC.

Belated congratulations to my brother, who will be transferring to VMI this summer.

And congratulations to Fatema, the one on the right of the picture, who ended up published in the Daily Star.

Splenda

2006-04-26T13:10:00.000-04:00

"Tastes just like real sugar!" they say. "No calories!" they say. "Made from sugar, tastes like sugar! You can even bake with it!" they say.

The other day, I couldn't find any sugar in the office for my tea, so I shrugged and decided to give Splenda a try. I recall trying it some time ago, and perhaps disliking it, and I have a general suspicion for anything that claims to be just like something else (taste!), particularly when it is also claiming to be not at all like that something else (calories!). But I tried it.

Splenda, my friends, DOES NOT TASTE LIKE SUGAR. It tastes like fake sugar, powdered, chemical sugar. My mouth tasted like stale toothpaste for an hour afterwards, and my tongue felt numb-ish. I drank another cup of unsweetened tea just to get the flavor out, and still it remained!

Also, how do you bake with fake sugar? Ew! EW.

My aversion to Equal and Sweet n Lo (is that what it's called?) is solidified, too. I don't trust any of them. Not only do they not taste like real sugar, they aren't real...anything. If I want sweet, I want *true* sweet, not fake sweet. I don't think a teaspoon or two of the real stuff in my tea is going to cause me any real harm. I can spare 30 calories for a real teaspoon of sugar.

What I did this weekend

2006-04-24T10:15:00.000-04:00

I finally uploaded my stash of pictures from my computer to the internet. Istanbul, Family, Friends in LA. Yeah, they go all the way back to my LA days. I procrastinated a little on the uploading.

Oh, and I looked a lot of apartments (Anyone looking for a roommate on June 1?), but had no luck, so I went and watched Finding Nemo in Arabic with Anthony, tried to burn his dorm down by leaving the popcorn butter on the heat too long, and ate lots of brownies.

DC Is Beautiful in the Springtime

2006-04-20T13:10:00.000-04:00

How it went in Istanbul

2006-04-14T11:56:00.000-03:00

It went great!

Except when the man at the restaurant made us stand up and sing "Rollin' on the River," the words to which I do not know. That was kind of really obnoxious.

And although we are capable people who are relatviely experiened with putting on conferences, we owe our hides to this wonderful Turk, Alp. Three cheers for Alp! Without him--disaster.

Everyone showed up, my new shoes did not fail me, only one person had serious airplane troubles, which worked out in the end, there was fruitful discussion, the meals were reliable, no one got sick, the weather was beautiful, my mom gets along swimmingly with Fares, as you can see.

AND we had ample opportunity to enjoy delicious lamb kebab. Here, look, Mohammed and I in Sultanahmet eating kebab! Mmm, kebab.

So, all in all, an excellent trip. More pictures!

What made my week

2006-04-14T11:28:00.000-03:00

Before I went to Istanbul, I went dancing almost every night because I knew I wouldn't be able to go for another two weeks, as a business meeting in Istanbul does not usually include salsa music. (Actually, I go almost every night even if I'm not planning a trip to Istanbul, but never mind that.) I met a nice guy, and we talked a bit, and toward the end of the evening, they played my *favorite salsa song ever ever ever* and so I said, "OOOOOH this is my favorite song EVER ever ever! But I don't even know the name!" And he told me the name, but it is Spanish, and I forgot it.

So then I went to Istanbul, and I came back two weeks later, and I went last night to the place I ALWAYS go on Thursday nights and there he was and, my friends, guess what he had done? He had burned me a CD of my favorite salsa song ever ever ever AND other songs he thought I would like. He had even labelled the CD with the titles and artists! And the CD case!

How sweet IS that?

On a related note, I've decided to learn Spanish because I am tired of shouting over the Latin music, "WHAT? I DONT SPEAK SPANISH. WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

Calamity and Consolation

2006-03-27T11:29:00.000-03:00

I have this great hairdresser. She can read my mind. She makes my hair look fantastic. She's adorable, funky, sweet, and has art coming out of her tattooed pores. I can't stop raving about her. I actually do carry her card with me and give it out often. People stop me on the street and say how great my hair looks, and I haven't even DONE anything to it! It's all her! She's a genius!

She's moving to California this week.

I'm devastated! HOW WILL I LIVE WITHOUT HER? DOES SHE KNOW WHAT SHE IS DOING TO ME? DOES SHE KNOW HOW LONG IT WILL TAKE ME TO TRUST ANOTHER HAIRDRESSER?

California will be great for her. DC is uptight, conservative, and boring, at least as far as hair and makeup goes. She will thrive in LA! Her name will be in lights! I really think it's a great move, and she'll love it there. But I will be wallowing in hair misery.

To console myself, I went to Nordstrom and bought shoes. This only partly makes up for a scary, uncertain hairdo future. But look how cute they are! At least I can be well-heeled if not well-coiffed.

One more thing about the Oscars

2006-03-24T13:47:00.000-03:00

that bothered me, and I KNOW the Oscars are old news, but it's my blog, and I'm going to write about it.

Best Song: "It's hard out here for a pimp." On so many levels, I just...can't... understand why this is celebrated.

Level 1. This is awarded the same prize as works by Henry Mancini? Really?

Level 2. Do all y'all realize what this song is about? It's about men selling women to other men. Is that kind of really disgusting to anyone else? I don't think that songs can't be about controversial things, or about disgusting things, or about non-PC things. But guys singing about selling girls for sex is degrading in one of the basest ways. All that fuss about feminism and equality, but the little golden man goes to a song about pimping.

And mixed in with all this fuss about Brokeback Mountain -- The general feeling is that homophobia is Not Cool. We are ALL about supporting LOVE between people! No more taboo love! (I agree. Homophobia is bad!) But does it seem a little...hypocritical...to say, "Boo, homophobes!" and then turn around and celebrate misogyny? We're for gays but not women?

Level three: the obvious: "Woooe is me, I have it so hard as a pimp, wahwahwah" I have a hard time sympathizing, and the song doesn't make me want to, either.

We award this song because...it was the best song out there this year? Because it sheds light on the hard life of of America's overworked and underappreciated pimps? Because it's musically important? None of the above?

George Clooney gave a very good speech about how Hollywood is always out of the loop by reecognizing the unfortunate, highlighting social problems, talking about taboo subjects. Next subject: mistreatment of women.

Fashion Statement

2006-03-13T16:35:00.000-03:00

I don't own any shirts with words on them, but I would wear this one.

The reason I was not at my computer much last week.

2006-03-10T21:51:00.000-03:00

This book.

Two thoughts on Oscar fashion, as if anyone cares what I think about Oscar fashion

2006-03-09T12:32:00.000-03:00

1. What was with the pockets?

Since when do evening gowns have pockets? Don't you want to show off your manicures and dazzly rings? What are the pockets even for? Chapstick?

2. Plain black dresses? This is Oscar night! Do something shiny! This:

Not shiny. *yawn*

Other Blogs

2006-03-09T12:17:00.000-03:00

My two favorite lines from the blogosphere last week:

La Coquette:
7:20 AM Customs. I look over at the "European Citizens" line. It is a sea of excellently tousled hair. The signs should read "European Union Hair" and "All Other Hair."

Les Cadeaux:
I love that bubble feeling you have as a kid, in which you know your family and only your family, and the only story of how two people met is the story of how your parents met. Before there is knowledge of dating and lust and heartbreak and compromise and sex and commitment and fidelity and finality, there is the story of your parents, whether it’s a sad story or a sweet story or a short, short one.

Comparison

2006-02-27T02:44:00.000-03:00

They said that we weren't allowed to take public transportation in Algiers because "The taxi drivers might rip us off." It is nice of them to be so concerned with our financial well-being. However considering that we weren't allowed to leave the Hilton:

Cafe au lait and croissant at Hilton: $10
Cafe au lait and croissant at airport: 75 cents

Dinner at Hilton: $35
Dinner at the kebab place down the street: $7

Mint tea at Algiers Hilton: $5
Mint tea at the kebab place down the street: 25 cents

Covert Operations

2006-02-24T05:21:00.000-03:00

We snuck out.

---

The first night, it was to a traditional Algerian restaurant. We made reservations and arrived in the rain in our taxi, er, contract vehicle, and the windows were barred and the thick wooden door had a worn knob in the middle. It opened and the old man stood there looking at us, expressionless. "We have a reservation..." His expression didn't change. "We have a reservation for 8 o'clock for four people..." He stepped aside, but not enough to signify a welcome. "Our reservation is under the name..." He stepped aside a little more and we barged in as politely as we could manage--it was cold and drizzly outside. When he saw that we definitely had made up our minds and were not going to leave him alone, he closed the door behind us and went into the kitchen to find the owner. She came out and was all French convivilatiy as she sat us in the dining room--a room of whitewashed woodwork in intricate detail, curlicues and Arabic script around the moldings, red cushions, blue tile floors, candles that burned to the last of the wick. The owner was delighted to bring us whatever we wanted, and what we wanted was "brick," lamb and kefta appetizers, couscous, lamb, chicken, Algerian red wine, and a little Turkish coffee to finish it off.

Poulet avec citron confit-I chose it because I have the recipe in my fantastic Claudia Roden cookbook (which you should go out and buy *right now* if you are at all interested in making Middle Eastern food) and I keep turning to it, eyeing it, wondering about it, and never trying it, usually for lack of citron confit. But here! In its native land, I had to try it. It is exactly how you expect it to taste, all buttery chicken and bitter green olives and tangy lemon sauce.

---

Two nights in a row, we have used our, ahem, "contract vehicles," to visit the Slaughterhouse. There are three restaurants, simply named "Rotisserie," if that even counts as a name, flashing neon and christmas lights in the dark alley. The roads on the way there cross many dark alleys--some have signs, some do not. The signs are Parisian--green with blue rim, "Rue des Martyrs," "Place de la Concorde," "Rue des Anges" with the Arabic equivalent snaking beneath. The glass showcases in front of the Slaughterhouse restaurants are filled with skewered raw meat, les brochettes, and some, sometimes, have mechouie, spits of lamb rotating over a fire, sizzling and spurting. The first night, they were out of le mechouie, to our great disappointment, but the brochettes were delicious, and the mergez sausages. The local soda, Hamoud, and the fluffy bread, the bitter green pepper spread (for which I don't particularly care, but it's good with a dash of harissa) the sugary tea to wash it all down. The second time they had le mechouie--heaps of lamb with french fries soaking in the juice, enough to keep us busy for an hour while Samia told her story of witnessing an honest-to-goodness brawl on her Air Algerie flight from Frankfurt to Algiers.

---

We had an organized tour (i.e., legit) of the Monument des Martyrs, a national museum of Algerian history. The museum - the "National Museum of the Army" - is dedicated most particularly the war for independence, which comprises one-third of the museum's shelf space, although they do give a nod to other eras. Not much more than a nod, though. As far as national museums go, this one is blatantly political, shocking in the graphic descriptions and pictures of Algerian martyrs from the war against France. Our guide was clever and fluent in English, and amiable until he discussed the injustices of the war.

As we left the museum to wander up to the monument itself, the rain started coming down harder--many of us decided that a vew from afar was sufficient, and we explored the little shops under the canopy while waiting for the bus. I bought the last roll of 200 speed film, although the man seemed disgruntled that I didn't want 100 speed, for he had many rolls of 100. Why did I need the last of the 200? I shrugged and gave him my money.

---

Algiers has much potential--two or three languages are mixed together in a charming dialect, the food is superb, the old city is beautiful and Mediterranean, wrought iron gates, white buildings, gardens, promenades. The people are friendly, the history is rich and interesting. It's but 2 hours from Paris. But it's decidedly, deliberately inaccessible to tourists, and the general feeling of disrepair is depressing. If you came here for a vacation-which, given my experience with the embassy, might be impossible-I'm not sure what you would do with yourself. Besides eat lamb and couscous, I mean.

And if you ever do find yourself in Algiers, do not stay in the Hilton.

In response to the comments...

2006-02-24T04:31:00.000-03:00

No--no postcards even of the Hilton. There's no gift shop in this Hilton. No toiletries for sale, no books about Algeria, no maps, no film. And thusly, I am stuck in the Hilton with little to occupy my time exept my Naguib Mahfouz book and all the delicious cafes au lait, and my blog...I am surprised, in fact, that I have not blogged more, with all this free time. But I read a lot, and I talk to the waiters and staff and practice my French and my Algerian Arabic, which I don't even understand.

I like the haiku idea.

Il n'y a pas de...

2006-02-21T07:34:00.000-03:00

cartes postales. There are no postcards in Algeria--so if I promised you one, which I probably did, I can offer a rain check and send one from...somewhere else.

Maybe I can do some sleuthing later. Contraband postcards?

Hotel.

2006-02-19T17:48:00.000-03:00

It's raining on the Barbary Coast. I'm on the first floor of the Hilton Alger. The view from our operations center is the blue gray sea and the textured gray cloud cover, looking out over the clay tennis courts and the kidney-shaped swimming pool. Between the courts and the sea is a line of lush but stubby foliage. Flocks of birds swoop in long ribbons over the horizon, over the huge ships that lurk in the fog in the Bay of Algiers.

---

One of our coleagues here, we love him, and he is a wonderful man, and he speaks clearly and strongly, and repeats everything at least twice in different words so as to provide you with the most flawless information; that is, he will say everything again in case you did not quite understand the first time. If you need him to repeat, he will gladly do so, because one should never be without instruction; all employees should, in fact, have instructions for every part of their day, so do not hesitate to ask him, as he will gladly fill your ears with every possible combination of words in answer to your request. He will reword his instructions in order to convey the most sound interpretation of his words. He rose today and addressed the group.

"What I understand, and correct me if I am mistaken, is that we are not allowed to use any form of transportation besides a government of Algeria vehicle, a US Government vehicle, or a Hilton bus, and that all other forms of transportation are prohibited?"
Yes sir, that's right.
"So personal taxis, public busses, local taxis, they are not to be used."
Yes, sir, that's right.
"If you want to leave the area, you must use a government vehicle or a US embassy vehicle; otherwise you may not leave."
...yes, sir. That's right.

At our general, if subdued, outrage that we were not allowed outside the hotel grounds unless in a government vehicle or Hilton bus, a fearless woman asked, "So what you're saying, effectively, is that we aren't going to leave the hotel for a week?"

"Well, no, you may use Algerian government or US embassy vehicles."

"We don't have access to any of those vehicles. So what you're saying is that we aren't going to leave the hotel for a week."

As this realization sank in, the group shifted uneasily. Six straight days in this hotel? He noted the unease.

"I will consult with the US government and the Algerian government to see if there are any solutions that will both keep us securely according to US regulations and allow us to leave the hotel to see some of Algiers. I will arrange this to prevent cabin fever from setting in, because as the transportation situation is now, we will all grow very weary of each other very soon."

We nodded as a group with a general sense of incredulity. 6 days in this hotel, this hotel which doesn't even have a gift shop; from which we can see, but not get to, the beach; this hotel which offers the most expensive buffets of any Hilton, anywhere; which substitutes Fanta for Orangina and thinks you will not notice. 6 days!

---

We might sneak out.

Upon Arrival in Algiers

2006-02-18T07:44:00.000-03:00

1. Business Class from DC to Paris ROCKS.
2. There are no ATMS in Algiers, Algeria and quite possibly in the whole of N. Africa
3. Algiers is actually very pretty and green and hilly if you ignore the 1959 cement-block architecture
4. Breakfast at the Hilton really is twenty dollars.
5. Apparently I speak very good French, "for an American."
6. You know how they always ask if someone gave you stuff to carry on board? Someone totally tried to give me stuff to carry on board! I don't know if he just realized he couldn't check three bags and wanted me to take one for him, or if he really was trying to pass, like, contraband, off on me. I pretended not to speak French and shrugged a lot and then I was all excited to tell the lady when she asked, "Has anyone given you items to carry on board?" but she didn't ask. So I told her anyway.
7. I have a balcony in my hotel room, which is not exactly...um...what I would call 5-star, and the balcony overlooks the parking lot, but whatever.
8. They SAY they don't allow outside food, but they totally did not mention the seventy-nine bags of trail mix I have spilling out of my purse, so they must not care that much.

On Embassies

2006-02-18T07:26:00.000-03:00

T minus 8 days

Samia and I visit the Algerian embassy and drop off our passports with visa applications and two photos. The man behind the whitewashed desk sits in a bare room behind a desk of scattered piles of paper, leaning his head on a phone. We show him the pasports and he nods, only giving us enough attention as absolutely necessary before he returns to his phone conversation in muffled Arabic.

"We are leaving next Thursday--will the visas be ready?"
He nods and continues talking on the phone.
One is government, but the other is a tourist passport. I think I have to pay--do I have to pay now?
"No, no, no pay. We will call you if you have to pay."
No, I am pretty sure I have to pay.
"We will call you."
Do you even have our phone number?
"...no, I need your phone number."
When will the visas be ready?
"Call at 3 o clock. Call visa"
At three o clock?
"Call at three, from three to four, the visa man is here."
Ok, I will call then.
Samia looks doubtful. We anticipate many trips to the embassy before Thursday.

T minus 3 days

I call the embassy and give them my name: is my passport ready?
"Your name...Cat-reen?
Yes, Catherine Range.
"Geneva Catreen?
Um, Catherine Geneva Range, yes.
"Catherine is woman name?"
...yes.
"Yes, it is ready!"
What about my colleagues' passports, are they ready?
"..."
I give the names.
"...no, I do not know"
You don't know? Can you check?
"No, I do not know."
Well...we are leaving in three days.
"Call at 2 o clock, visa man."

2:15 PM, Samia calls Visa man, Ali. The man at the front desk picks up.
"Call at three o clock. He does not pick up the phone until three o clock."
But...you told me to call at two.
"He does not pick up the phone until three o'clock. "

3 PM Samia calls again.
Ali--I need my visa.
He tells her that her visa is not there.
But the man at the desk...
"Oh, Rashid? Well, he is Moroccan..."

T minus 2 days

7:30 AM, I call the embassy
Hello, my name is Catherine Range and my passport is ready to be picked up...
"Let me check"
I called yesterday and you said it is ready to be picked up
"Your name?"
Catherine Range
*papers shuffle*
"...yes, it is ready."
Yes, I know, but can I pick it up now? Hella?
"Yes! Anytime! No problem!"
Now? At 8 am?
"No problem!"

8 AM: Arrive at embassy, which is closed, locked, bolted.

9:30 AM, I call the embassy
"Yes, I called at 7:30 and the man said that I could stop by, but when I came at 8, it was closed."
"Really?! Oh, there is always someone here."
Wellll, there wasn't anyone there at 8 AM...
"Our hours are from 9 - 5."
Uh, ok. Can I come now and pick it up?
"Yes, no problem!"
Are my colleagues' passports ready yet?
"I do not know."
They are leaving with me tomorrow, they need their passports.
"I do not know, I am from Morocco."
...

11 AM I pick up passport. Rashid gives me a knowing smile and I suspect he is glad thta I will no longer be calling him inquiring about our visas. He is always on the phone. No sign of Samia's.

11:30 AM I go to the Turkish embassy, through a heavy metal door, a locked gate, a metal detector, and an x-ray machine, down a clean, wood staircase and into the lobby. I walk up to the "Visa" window.
I need a visa for next week...
"Ok, it will be ready by 10 am tomorrow."
...really? 10 AM?
"Yes, see you then."

T minus 1 day

I pick up the passport at the Turkish embassy at 10 sharp.

...

I've arrived in Algiers. I have yet to hear about Samia's passport.

Plug and other things

2006-02-03T16:36:00.000-03:00

Bare Minerals. This is the greatest makeup ever. No, seriously. I've been trying to find good makeup for years--it is always the wrong color, too oily, too cakey, too heavy, not heavy enough, too expensive, too smelly...But THIS. This, my friends, is the Cosmetic Holy Grail. This makes your skin look even without looking cakey. This goes on as a powder and looks like *gasp* real skin instead of wax. This, you can use as much or as little as you want. This doesn't clog your pores. This doesn't even have a smell. This is a $25 miracle. (OK, more, if you buy the bare escentuals brushes , which you should do. STILL.) And it really is so pure you can sleep in it.

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So I got a new office. It's my Own Office right now. It's kind of naked and lonely, but I will Decorate. There are five extra chairs in it and two extra desks--I think maybe if I move the chairs around, throw some papers on there and maybe leave a few dirty coffee cups on the desk, people will assume that someone works there and they won't give it to someone else. Then I wouldn't have to share...

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We help a Pride and Prejuedice Valentine's Day Tea Party yesterday. It's an idea I lovingly stole from Sara. It turned out very well, and we had snow, too, which made it all cozy and tea-ish. Complete with scones, whipped cream, fruit salad, little popover thingies, cookies, and an assortment of tea AND made all the better by the use of my *shiny new* tea kettle. Mr. Darcy's DVD didn't cooperate, so we had to watch Sense and Sensibility instead, but the Misses Dashwood were charming and everyone loves Mr. Edward Farris, so it was an excellent tea party.

I am in the market for a decent scone recipe, by the way.

Sri Lanka

2006-02-02T11:48:00.000-03:00

Since we had an extra day in Sri Lanka, we decided to go to Kandy. We thought this was an excellent idea.

This turned out to be a leeetle bit more of a hassle than we anticipated. Mostly because prices, they are subject to change at any time. For any reason.

So our car arrived at noon, like it was supposed to. But then it left because it didn't have air conditioning (air conditioning was a high priority on a three hour drive.) Then the second car left because it was broken, needed to be replaced. Finally at 1 we piled into the third car and proceeded to drive around the tiny lake near our hotel while Dan argued with the driver about the price, which was 40% more than he had agreed upon. We returned to the hotel at 1:45, unsatisfied with the monetary arrangement, and arranged yet another car with the hotel travel office. 3 o'clock, he said. Fine, we said. So we walked to the Galle Face Hotel, then back down Galle Road, where we ran into a scuffy looking man who decided that we needed to be accompanied.

On the other side of the lake is the temple I visited last time with my friendly tuktuk driver. We made our way over there via the hotel laundry room, which is not, in fact, a room, but sort of a small field with clothes lines and stone pits for the hot water. I had been eyeing it for a while with an inclination to take some pictures.

We ended up at the temple on the lake, and with 15 minutes left before our car was to arrive, we visited the bigger temple. Last time I was there, it was full of people. This time was quiet, but not because of our "guide," who took every opportunity to point out things that we might have missed: "Buddha!" "Flowers!" "Books!"

We rushed out at 2:55 to grab a tuktuk, when, unsurprisingly, our "guide" put on his Most Pitiful Face and asked for a little something "for the children." We feigned ignorance, and asked the tuktuk driver if we should give him something. He bobbled his head affirmatively and Kirsten coughed up 100 rupees-about 1 dollar. Then as our tuktuk sped around to the Cinnamon Grand Hotel, the driver informed us that the money was not, actually, for the children. "This man, bad!" He said "Drugs!"

We had just unwittingly supported a Sri Lankan's drug habit with our 1 dollar.

The hotel van arrived at 3 and we began the climb out of Colombo up through the green hills to Kandy. When we arrived there, it was drizzly and dark, and the hotel reecommended a "famous restaurant-the most famous!" to us. I suspect it was not in fact the most famous restaurant in Kandy. Is uspect that it is owned by the hotel owner's cousin. But never mind. It was decent food, and we were serenaded by a trio of Sri Lankans singing "It's Now or Never" and "Country Roads" with their Sri Lankan ukeleles.

The next day we headed to the Temple of the Tooth, the Royal Botanical Gardens, and the elephant orphanage. All were wonderful, partly because they are wonderful and partly because they are So Foreign To Me. That's why I took Lots of Pictures. Monkeys! Elephants! Saris! In this case, the pictures are worth a thousand words, so let's skip to the photos. More black and whites to come, but they are yet being developed.

The ride home was uneventful, and we arrived just in time to send Kirsten off to the airport. We hung around and slept, ate, and puttered until our flight left at 3 am.