Ahem...long time, no see.

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

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

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

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?

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.