It's Only December--Let's Talk About Thanksgiving

So, the Reverb10 prompt yesterday gave me a lovely gift. The prompt was: Party. What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.

Awesome. This means that even though I procrastinated sharing Thanksgiving pictures with you for weeks, now I can! And I even have a great excuse for doing so today, of all days!

Thanksgiving has been truly great in Saudi, both this year and last. I love all the history and meaning behind Thanksgiving--giving thanks, obviously, but I also just love that originally, Thanksgiving was about cultures coming together and finding a bond of gratitude. Here, we really get to experience that in a unique way, as people from about 10 different countries showed up to partake in our feast! Everyone ate until they could do nothing but groan and call for stretch pants and a nap. Everyone laughed and enjoyed each other. And I loved every second!

Here are the pictures!

Look at that beautiful bird! My part in that was staying out of the kitchen while Husband cooked the turkey. He's an expert. (I made the stuffing and also opened up two cans of cranberry sauce.)

People pretty much lined up all the way out of the kitchen for the amazing food. We had maybe 40-ish people show up. All the Americans were instructed to bring a dish, and the end result was too much food for all the counter space in the kitchen. We ended up piling plates of rolls and drinks on every available surface--and that didn't even include dessert!

Does that not look amazingly Thanksgiving-y? (P.S.--The sweet potatoes in the upper-left-hand corner? I literally licked those off the plate.)

Lookit this artsy shot Husband got of people picking up dessert. We had so many options; again the counters were full.
I had some apple pie and also some chocolate mousse pie that pretty much met my year's quota for chocolate. Which is a lot. 

I am not kidding.

Wall of thankfulness. Not everyone contributed, but still, it was nice to be able to share with each other.

This is how all Thanksgivings should end. :)

Reverb10

So I recently found out about something called Reverb10--a blog project to spark introspection about the past year and--I hope, anyway--intentionality for the coming year. I like the idea of thinking deeply about this past year; a lot has happened for me. Plus, writing prompts are helpful.

Today's prompt: Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?

I've had really great community this year; I lovingly call them the Magnificent Seven. Specifically this has worked because my close community is a small group of people who are working toward the same goal and meeting regularly. This is the year I began to think of my community as my actual brothers and sisters, in the sense of how I feel about them, and not just simply in the sense that I should treat them that way.

I wouldn't be sure that this was true except that I've had conflict--at least some--with most of these people over the past year. Once the newness of a relationship rubs off and the cracks begin to show, you find out what the relationship is really made of. Coming through conflict in one piece, closer than ever, reassures me that this community isn't just something I'm imagining, like a game of make-pretend-to-be-friends.

These are the people who've seen me at my worst, who've not walked away or gotten scared or given up.

The rich should worry

So maybe you didn't get that money so you can have a better "standard of living."

That's what's been bouncing around my mind the last couple of days. It's been about a month since Husband was offered a job with a non-profit company in the U.S. that provides clean water for the world's poor. His dream job. With a great salary.

Any time you have a great salary--and let's use the world's standards of "great salary," here, meaning, "more than $2 a day"--some alarm bells should be going off in your head. That's right--if you're rich, maybe you should start worrying.

You know what you find out when you meet the poor? Like, I mean the real, my-kids-are-very-sick-and-may-die-because-I-don't-have-money-for-anti-diarrheal-medicine sick? You find out that they pray like nobody's business. They feel the wings of the Lord covering them, brushing up against their skin, all the time. They taste His name on their tongues every time they open their mouths.

Imagine filling your mouth with sand and sitting in the sun all day. The way you'd want a drink is the way they want heaven.

But me? I dunno, my life is pretty comfortable, you know? Maybe it'd be nice to get published first. Have some kids before I go. I really wanna grow old with my husband.

See, that's the thing; that's why it's so dang hard for rich people to get into the Kingdom. Maybe we've got other priorities.

Okay, I just terrified myself with my own thoughts. The rich should worry, with thoughts like that.

Okay, reminder: This isn't impossible. There are rich people who did it--Lydia and Zaccheus come to mind--but it isn't easy. Something about a camel and the eye of a needle. (The image of him trying to squeeze through is much funnier once you've lived in the Middle East and ridden a stubborn, knee-locking camel. And now that I'm thinking of it: Have you tried just getting thread through the eye of a needle? Not like even that is easy...I digress.)

So let's say someone hands you a check, I dunno, for $1,000. Rich people always, in my experience, think about what they could buy for themselves with that. You know what I could get for $1,000? A really nice set of dishes. A beautiful hand-woven rug to sink my toes into. A mahogany bed frame with a canopy. (Can you tell yet that all my temptations center on making my house pretty?)

But the thing that I have been challenged with is that question: What if you didn't get that money so you could have a better 'standard of living?' Or, um, a nicer set of dishes?

God forbid I should have wonderful flatware outside the kingdom of God.

New Age in the Middle East

For all their crackdowns on religions other than Sunni Islam, it seems to me like the Saudis have a huge blind spot toward one: New Age.

So while Bibles are illegal, I can run down to Jarir bookstore and pick up a copy of "The Secret" any old time I want. They put people to death for witchcraft, but always ask you about your astrological sign. It's not weird to find out people practice new-age-tinged yoga or meditation (focusing on emptying one's mind, as opposed to a monotheistic view of meditation that focuses on filling one's mind with the Word of God).

I find it creeping into the conversation here and there. People telling you to look inside your heart and do what seems right to you. A leaning toward the subjective and universalism. People who are mostly seeking self-actualization, not submission.

So, the odd thing is obviously that this is in contradiction to what I know of Islam--but it's totally socially acceptable, while other things in contradiction to Islam are completely unacceptable.

I blame this partially on the phenomenon I call "Sounds True." Telling a Muslim there are more than 3,000 gods is going to be rejected pretty quickly. But New Age beliefs are way more subtle than something like that. They don't slap Islam in the face. They just quietly nudge it in the ribs 'til it moves over.

The other thing, I think, is a propensity for the education system in the Middle East not to teach people to think and analyze, but to memorize and believe. For example, young people have been taught for ages that the Qu'ran is true, while the Bible is riddled with errors. And in these school systems, you are absolutely trained just to accept whatever your teachers tell you as truth--as opposed to how I was trained in the West to think, analyze, and compare with criticism. When an old religion like Christianity comes 'round, they slap it down fast. But when New Age pops up, I don't think people have been given the tools for critiquing it and judging whether it's true.

And it "sounds true."

Oh Saudi. You never fail to surprise me.

The Whirlwind Woman

Today I taught Um Zara a new verb: Inspire. I only wanted to teach it so I could tell her that she inspires me.

The woman's got a husband, five kids, and a grandson. She's got a big house to take care of and plenty of cooking to do to feed everyone. But somehow--somehow!--she still manages to always have some project going on. Learning English, studying the Qu'ran, learning how to use the computer...she never stops. On top of which, she's not one of those mothers who just let the television be the babysitter. Or hires someone else to clean her house, even. I just can't figure out how this whirlwind of a woman does it.

It brings up a need that I see in America these days: Awesome role models. One thing I've noticed about Americans is that they tend to hang out with people in their own age bracket. College students hang out with other college students; young marrieds chill with young marrieds; people with kids are friends with people with kids.

That's all well and good--it's a little bit harder to find topics of conversation when you're in a completely different place in life. But one thing we might be missing is the ability to find older women who have done things you aspire to do--and who did it well. I want to know what it takes to have a successful marriage, raise kids well, and manage to have time for my own projects, too. But I don't have too many friends in the States who are older and have done it already. Maybe that's part of the reason we have so many self-help books in America--instead of friends, we get literature to teach us how to do it all.

Lots of Saudis study in the U.S.

According to a new report by the International Institute of Education, Saudi Arabia sends more international students to the United States than any other Middle-Eastern country.

China sends the most students to study in the States, followed by India. Saudi Arabia is seventh in the pack.

All that to say, I'm feeling hopeful that I'll find an Arabic partner in CO next year.

Hajj time

I'm posting this at 3 a.m. cuz I can't sleep. Thank you, insomnia. Let's see if I'm a little more off my rocker than usual.

Well, it's time for Hajj, aka time to educate my readers about the tiny bit I've learned while living so close to Mecca. So, Hajj is basically the pilgrimage that's required for all Muslims. It's such a big deal that they've made it a pillar. (So, Islam has five "pillars"--statement of faith, prayers, giving, fasting, and pilgrimage. No other religion as far as I know refers to its most important duties as "pillars"--one more linguistic mystery for me to solve one day.) Last year during Hajj, about 2.5 million non-Saudis flooded into Jeddah donning this one-piece white towel-y-looking garment, which always for some reason reminds me of Gandhi. (p.s.--Gandhi? Not a Muslim. Don't get confused here.)

My first awareness of the Hajj-phenomenon came through an essay I read in college, which of course I now can't remember the name of, but which was a personal memoir of attending Hajj. All I remember of the essay is how crowded Hajj seemed. You've got 2.5 million foreigners, plus Saudi pilgrims, plus Mecca's actual inhabits, crowded into one city that normally holds 1.7 million people. It's got to be one of the worst places in the world to bring a bunch of small children--imagine trying to hold on to a three-year-old in that kind of crowd.

I can't say I've learned a whole lot since then. There's something about running between two mountains to symbolize Hagar's search for water for her son. People pelt pebbles at some columns that represent the devil. They circle a black box and pray. I think there might be some sheep sacrificed. Everybody is required to do every thing in the same exact order at the same exact time, which means that enormous crowd follows you everywhere. Or maybe you follow them?

All this ignorance of mine just highlights the fact that pilgrimages are sort of lost on Westerners. We don't really have a concept for the kind of preparation you'd do to make a trip like that, or the kind of importance it would have to you.

Instead, we have retreats. Ah, the phenomenon of the personal retreat--it's not about going anyplace special; no, it's about getting away from everything normal. Get out into nature, particularly. (Well, in my crowd anyway.) Have a mountaintop experience. Connect.

Why does humankind need to get away from the normal to feel as though they are really connecting with God?

My brain is fuzzy. I can't think about theology at this time of the night.

Going home...weird

Sorry about the long time since my last post. This always seems to happen around this time of year: A lack of writing in general on my part.

So, Husband recently got a job...in America. In my home state, no less, and we'll be living like probably 15 minutes from where I grew up. We'll be moving back to the States mid-December.

I am a big ol' bag of mixed feelings on the subject. I am so excited and happy that Husband has a great job, which I know is exactly what he wants to do. Who is lucky enough to get their dream job right out of school? I'm also happy to go home, where I know how everything works and I'm never completely unsure about things like how to get maintenance in my house. Also, America has one huge appeal to me: Nature. I really can't wait to take a jog next to the foothills, overlooking woods, streams and golden fields. AND. I'm tired of moving. So tired. I HATE moving, and I am so ready to just be in one place, for once. Not packing every six months. I want to sink my feet into the earth and grow roots.

At the same time, though, I feel super sad about leaving. I have already had to say goodbye to several people that I know I won't see again for a very, very long time...if ever. I feel like I am just an expert at saying goodbye, so much so that I'm starting to feel numb every time I do it. Also, I'm just sad about not living overseas anymore. Even though it can be frustrating, it's also a crazy experience that not everyone is lucky enough to have. And to be honest, I never saw myself living right where I grew up. I always saw myself in a foreign country, dressed in foreign clothing, speaking foreign words, having a foreign life. It's hard, suddenly, to adjust your expectations for your own life.

Did they just compare Bin Laden to the Dalai Lama, the Pope, and Jesus?

Why yes, yes they did. Check out the first few paragraphs of this story from the Egyptian newspaper Al-Ahram.

I firmly, firmly believe that a wise person listens to both sides of a story before making a judgment...but after listening to the other side of this one, I just kind of want to throw up.

Istanbul pictures...finally

Flags hanging inside the Grand Bazaar


This is Zeki, a carpet-seller in the Grand Bazaar, sitting in front of a 100-and-something-year-old kilim (flat-weave rug). Zeki, I'm pretty sure, is the only person in the entire Bazaar who does not try to lure tourists into his shop the way a spider would lure an insect into its web. Most shop-owners are all "Hey, c'mon, have a quick look around, looking is free," until you're inside, and then they basically block the door until you take them up on what is, they assure you, a very special deal just for you, since you're such a special tourist and all. Zeki, however, just gave me tea and educated me in the world of fine carpets for several hours, without so much as a hint of "How much would you pay for this?"


Pottery shop in the Bazaar. They love their painted flatware in Istanbul.


The dome inside the Haghia Sophia, a 1500-year-old church-turned-mosque-turned museum.


Colors and columns inside the Haghia Sophia.


Streams of tourists with umbrellas pouring out of Topkapi Palace. It rained or drizzled or misted literally all day every day while we were in Istanbul. It was like therapy for my skin. It kinda sucked to never have dry feet, though.


Inside Topkapi.


Famous Blue Mosque.


Don't drive your tractor on the bridge.

Too much change, apparently

I have always (okay, not always, but for a good long while, anyway) operated under this paradigm: When I'm around people from other cultures, I try to "do it the way they do it." When I meet my Arab friends, I greet the ladies with cheek kissings and the men with my hand placed over my heart. I always inquire about the family and have a good amount of conversation before ever 'getting down to business.' If I invite them out to coffee, it'll be my treat. And on and on it goes; it could very well go forever.

Why? Because I aspire to be a cultural chameleon. I want to fit in wherever I go. I want to speak a dozen dialects and understand every local custom. I want to see the world, but I never want to be a tourist.

It's taken me years to figure some of this stuff out, and I don't even get it all yet. Americans greet with handshakes; they're direct and confrontational; they split the tab. But when I'm around another culture, I try to turn on the analytical side of my brain and figure out what's happening and why. And a huge part of Arab culture is driven, in my opinion, by hospitality.

Take something normal, like having a guest. Here are some of the things people have told me over the years. First, thorough house-cleaning is an absolute necessity before guests arrive. Right down to moving the couch to vacuum under it. In America, you might offer a drink; in Arabia, you give them one, immediately, and offering is kind of like saying, "I don't really want to give you this; if I did, I would just do it." So you don't offer things; you just bring them. You never, ever, "kick someone out" of your house because you're ready to go to bed. Basically, you bend over backward for your guests.

So, I invited one of my favorite people over this week, and she told me something along the lines of, "Nah, I feel like you're going out of your way too much for this." Then she told me that I was "becoming more Arabic" and that she liked "how I used to be." Back when I was all messy and disorganized and would forget to offer water.

So I told her, "Khalas, okay, come to my house and I won't do anything. I just want to see you." She did and it was all well and good.

But apparently, my strategy of "being more Arab" has both succeeded and failed. Succeeded because apparently I've got some of the rules down. Failed because it turns out, your true friends don't actually mind if you're casual and clueless. At least when you're casual and clueless, you're relaxed and not stressed out.

New paradigm: Try to blend the two cultures together and create a new equilibrium.

News flash

News Alerts: 6 New Results for Beth

Arabic skills recovered in risky search-and-rescue attempt
Authorities have recovered Beth's Arabic skills this week, which miraculously survived after they went missing four months ago. Sources report the second language disappeared in May, when Beth boarded a plane for the United States and encountered a whole slew of people who didn't know what the word "insha'allah" meant. Still, hope remained throughout the summer that Arabic would someday return, as the missing-in-action language gave hints of being alive: Beth mysteriously thanked waitresses with "shukraan" and accidentally commanded children to "yallah." Then today, the Arabic skills reappeared, very much alive and seeming to have suffered no ill effects from four months of captivity. The joyous reunion was followed by a one-hour discussion about education almost entirely without English.

Two people--two!--dream Beth is pregnant; superstitious fears follow
In a somewhat disturbing chain of events, Beth and her close friend both dreamed Beth was pregnant last night, leading to nervous speculations about the state of Beth's womb. Beth entertained thoughts of the power of female intuition; and of how her mother once dreamed a friend was pregnant and then it later turned out that the friend was pregnant, and her mother knew about it first even though they weren't even living in the same state and hadn't even talked in months, and what if this is the same thing? Other female friends were less-than-reassuring about the state of Beth's uterus, claiming they'd actually been thinking about her being pregnant this very week.
If her mother also has had a dream lately about Beth being with child, Beth will probably go ahead and take a pregnancy test.

A whole year after buying her Mac, Beth finally figures out how to scroll
Today, Beth finally figured out how to do a two-finger scroll on her Mac, and the late-blooming skill launched a whole new set of insecurities about how she'll never be as cool as all those artsy, hip-ly dressed, tech-savvy people featured on Mac commercials.
Meanwhile, nagging thoughts that she'll never really figure out Twitter persist.

Beth declares self unfit to mother a cat, much less a child
For the second week in a row, Beth forgot to take her cat to the vet this week, claiming she got "caught up" in her Arabic studies. Since the vet visits her compound only once a week, the unfortunate feline will have to wait even longer before he can get a cream or something for that funky fungus on his leg. Beth lamented her poor mothering skills to Husband, bemoaning her absent-mindedness and asking what kind of mother she'll be. Husband meanwhile hoped this outburst of emotion was PMS, and not a sign of the aforementioned pregnancy.

Refrigerator contains only mustard, capers, lettuce
In preparation for their upcoming trip to Turkey, Beth and Husband stopped buying regular food and intend to attempt survival on a sparse diet of condiments. Beth has subsisted mostly on hard-boiled eggs, mustard and chocolate milk, while Marc has eaten an absurd amount of canned chickpeas. Friends' comments about how hard-boiled eggs with mustard sound like a pregnancy food were not appreciated.

House cleaned in anticipation of cat-sitter's arrival
Beth and Husband spent time cleaning toilets and sweeping for dust-bunnies to prepare for the cat-sitter's arrival this week, in spite of the fact that the cat-sitter is probably the least clean person they know. Still, Beth faced uncertainty about what he would think if he discovered six books, 11 note cards, four Bobbi pins, four pieces of trash, three pens, a pencil, a photograph, a pair of nail clippers, a couple of old to-do lists, a journal, an iPod connector thingy, some chap stick, and her cell phone on her bedside table. Shortly thereafter, she swept all of it into the bedside table's top drawer and called it good.

Couple unclear how it's time for trip to Istanbul, already
Citing a lack of seasonal changes in Saudi Arabia and the fact that "time flies," Beth and Husband both expressed undue shock that their impending trip to Turkey was, in fact, in like three days.
"Holy crap, how is it October?" Beth remarked, nearly a week into the month.
Husband gallantly took it upon himself to write out all the directions to everywhere and check multifarious travel web sites, while Beth borrowed a book called "Istanbul" from a friend and vowed to read it on the plane. She also alerted blog readers that she'd be gone for a week, but she'd reward their faithfulness later with pictures from Istanbul.

The pyramid is wrong

There's a popular idea in psychology called the Hierarchy of Needs. The concept was created by this guy named Abraham Maslow, who essentially ranked human needs in a pyramid with things like food, shelter and air at the bottom and self-actualization at the top. The theory goes that humans begin to fill their needs from the bottom up. Only once they have attained food and shelter can they look for something like a loving relationship. Only once all other needs have been satisfied will they go on a spiritual search for meaning.

I don't know how anyone, having studied a range of human experience, can subscribe to this nonsense.

Case study #1: America. Let's just go ahead and say that country's got it pretty good when it comes to basic needs. Less than 2 percent of the population lives in absolute poverty (less than $1/day). Americans, even ones who have been hit by the recession, are rich people--they've got cars, houses or apartments, and money to spend on $5 cups of coffee. Their children go to school. They wear shoes. They usually do not die because they get diarrhea and can't afford the medicine to stop it.

There's poverty and suffering in America, sure, but I'm just saying that this poverty is relative to the rest of the American population. On the whole, if you're an American, you're probably freakishly rich.

So according to the Hierarchy, with these basic needs covered, Americans are freed up to pursue higher needs: love, friends, family, spirituality, God. But that's not what Americans are doing with their wealth. One recent study indicates that, when asked to identify their priorities in life, the priorities of family and spirituality are both on the decline in America, while priorities of health, wealth, and leisure are climbing.

It strikes me that wealth is an addictive thing: Get a little bit and you'll want a little more. Instead of feeling satisfied with our basic needs and moving on to pursue relationships and then faith, suddenly we put way more things into that "basic" category: the right kind of cell phone, for instance, or a house with four bedrooms, not three. We feel unsatisfied with what we have, materially, and so our focus stays on the material.

Case study #2: Refugee population in Uganda No one can miss the absolute poverty here, and I won't spend a whole lot of time talking about that.

What I will say is that, according to the Hierarchy, these are the people who ought to be consumed, every minute of every day, trying to meet their basic needs: Food, clothing, shelter. But while these people spend insane hours out in the fields trying to meet those needs, I don't think I've ever met anyone who prayed harder. God is like oxygen for them: If He doesn't provide, they will die--and they know it. He's indispensable. He is their biggest need, because they realize that without Him, they can't have any of their other needs met.

On top of that, the people I met put a higher value on community than any American I know. (And the Americans I know value community more than most do.) I had one person tell me they'd rather build relationships with foreigners than have their money. (Read: The community tier is a higher priority than the "basic needs" tier.) And if you want to know what you can do for them, they will tell you: Get to know us. Spend time with us. Show you care.

One thing I've noticed is that humans aren't actually very good at realizing when their basic needs are met. How many times have I heard an American (including, embarrassingly, myself) say: "I wish I were rich"? The more time we spend focusing on our material needs, the more we seem to have, don't we?

No wonder it's hard for the rich to enter the Kingdom.

How to get stuff done

Why is it so hard to do stuff? I swear, when I worked four part-time jobs and took 18 credit hours and volunteered, somehow there were more red check marks on to-do lists and feelings of accomplishment that followed. Now that my whole day stretches out blankly in front of me, somehow the temptation to watch the Food Network for hours on end is way stronger than it ever was before. Maybe I thrive on the pressure and the deadlines. Which is why I've needed to learn to motivate myself, which is a lot harder said than done. But after a year of this, I've finally got a few tricks in my bag.

1. Write out a schedule. Especially procrastinators like me. If I don't plan when I'll work out or write, I'll inevitably push that stuff further and further back until suddenly--WHAT??? HOW IS IT MIDNIGHT?!?

2. Ask for help. You know those quiet, peaceful hours of the morning when nobody's up yet and it's just you, your coffee and the sunrise? Yeah, I hate those hours. However, I get more stuff done if I get up earlier. Knowing how hard this is for me, I've recruited Husband to cajole me by turning on the lights and promising me coffee. I ask friends to meet me at the gym or go to a coffee shop to study Arabic. Nothing wrong with accountability.

3. Make attainable to-do lists. I am queen of mile-long to-do lists. Like, I'll write "Plan Thanksgiving dinner" in early October. Really? Do I need to worry about that now? It's slightly more useful and a lot less discouraging when I only let five things onto the to-do list, which means I might actually accomplish some of them instead of feeling so overwhelmed that I never even get started.

4. Unplug the Internet. I think I have cyber-OCD. Like, if I'm online, I somehow feel the need to check my e-mail every five minutes and then read all the updates on Facebook. Whenever I get stuck on a project, my cursor just automatically drifts toward Firefox before I even know what I'm doing! And every time I do that, I lose like 15 minutes of work time because it takes that long to transition in and out of an activity like Working on my Book. Unless working actually requires me to be online, it is stupid not to unplug.

5. Multi-task like mad. Favorites: Memorizing Arabic verbs on the treadmill. Cleaning house while talking on the phone. Planning plot points as I pick up groceries.

6. Take a whole day off, every week. Which is great, because then I can plan to spend four hours re-reading the seventh Harry Potter book without feeling guilty about it.

"Health" Food

I was originally pumped to hear that the supermarket on my compound would have an entire section devoted to "health food." Then I found out that my idea of healthy food is very, very different than theirs. I mean, I think of organic produce, whole grains, vitamin-rich snacks. Words like all-natural and unprocessed come to mind.

But here's what I find in the supermarket:

An entire wall of sugar-free candy and reduced-fat cookies.

I cannot pronounce most of the items on these ingredients lists. That is never a good sign.

Another entire wall devoted to sugar substitutes.

This would be the wall of chemicals. I'm not even sure if this qualifies for the "food" part of "health food."

A whole wall of jelly.

Why is this here?

A corner devoted to refried beans and processed nacho cheese.

Okay, what the crap?

And finally, one corner of actual health food.

I live in the airport

I've never been to Ethiopia. Now, I've been to the Addis Ababa Airport, which is in Ethiopia. But it doesn't count. I never left the terminal. I gazed out the windows at the Ethiopian landscape, and then did crossword puzzles and took a nap while I waited for my next flight. Airports are a special place: A place for people just passing through, a place that's neither here nor there.

Living on a compound is sort of like living in an airport.

See, technically, I live in Saudi Arabia. I have the stamp on my passport. I have an iqama, or residential visa. My postal address says "Kingdom of Saudi Arabia" at the end.

But at the same time, I definitely do not live in Saudi Arabia.

For instance: The official language, where I live, is English. Most women don't wear the abaaya. Cultural events like weddings don't take place here. And, if I wanted to, I would never have to interact with any Saudis, at all. There are enough Americans here that I could stay entirely within a Western clique without having to engage with the local culture.

To be honest, I've found the entire experience...disappointing. I've wanted to move overseas for years. But I live in an airport--a place that's neither here nor there. The compound is eerily defamiliarizing: It's like living in a Middle-Eastern impression of a small Western town. The coffee shop is a replica of an American chain. Middle-Eastern "festivals" held in the public town square are attended overwhelmingly by Westerners. There are so many Americans here that it's easy for us to duplicate the exact routines we used to have at home. And since we're so far separated from the actual culture of Saudi Arabia, we're missing out completely on the most valuable thing you can gain while living overseas: community. While I might have Arab friends sprinkled here and there, I have virtually no connection at all to an actual Saudi community.

So maybe as a first "living overseas" experience, this isn't actually representative.

Which is maybe why I have another itch to move, but maybe....maybe not home.

Arabic is my music

I'm back to language learning, which makes me about the happiest camper on the planet. Back to spending lunch hour practicing gargling sounds! Back to complicated mimes/diagrams to help me get my point across! Back to propping my Arabic notebook on the treadmill at the gym! Back to annoying people by explaining points of grammar they have no interest in!

I'm thrilled to discover that I actually forgot a little less Arabic than I originally anticipated. By this, I mean that I can understand my teacher when she speaks Arabic to me, but when I want a word like "confused," for instance, I dig around in my brain to no avail. It reminds me a lot of playing music. I was super committed to playing music in high school; I played about four hours a day at one point. But I haven't played in...a while. Years. So anyway the point is that when I pick up my instrument now, my fingers remember things I don't. My eyes see the notes and my fingers just play them, by memory. Obviously not perfectly--but they surprise me.

That's how it is speaking a language you haven't practiced in a while. You remember things you didn't know you remembered.

Alhamdulillah.

Holy Cyberspace, Batman!

An excerpt of an essay I wrote officially got published by an online magazine! And it feels swell!

I Meant to Tell You the Soup Story

So Husband is feeling sick in the mall, and I want to buy soup for him. Soup and tea, actually. We head up to the food court; Husband sits down and puts his head on the table, and I march over to the nearest shop.

"Salaam-aleikum," I say. This just means "hello." Everyone in this country knows how to say "hello." It is not ground-breaking for me to say this. Or, anyway, I certainly don't think it's ground-breaking.

"What?!?" Clarification: This wasn't a Sorry-it's-loud-in-the-kitchen-and-I-didn't-catch-that what. This was a Did-this-white-girl-seriously-just-greet-me-in-Arabic-even-though-I-probably-speak-English what.

"Salaam-aleikum?"

The guy's jaw literally falls open.

"Aleikum-salaam," he manages to mumble.

"Uh, andak hassa'?"

"WHHHAAAAT?!?" Again, he heard me. But he's staring at me like palm trees just started sprouting from my ears.

Now I'm stuttering. I can't figure out if this guy is just really surprised that I should speak Arabic, or if I'm actually saying it wrong and accidentally asking him if he has heroin, or something.

"Hassa'?" I say in a tiny voice.

"Na'am." He points to the menu, which is simple enough for me to read. There are two soups, and one's vegetarian.

"Hal haatha buhaaraat?" I want to know if it's spicy.

He literally can't even answer. He just stares at me, slowly shaking his head, which I take as a no.

It was the easiest order I ever placed in a restaurant. I knew every word I needed and never stumbled once, not even when I asked for change (and the word for change is "fucka," so that can be kinda difficult at times).

But I'm pretty sure I almost gave that dude a heart attack with my Arabic ninja skills.

Watch out your abaya!

I shopped for 12 hours in the big city yesterday. And I've managed to boil the entire experience down to six awesome photographs.

Taken near an escalator:

The translation was clearly done by Google Translate, which doesn't believe in prepositions.

Taken at a restaurant with separate lines for women and men. The sign in the upper left-hand corner reads "LADIES."

I'm slightly confused about the point of side-by-side separate lines for men and women in a fast-food joint, but these dudes seem to be just confused, period.

Taken at a restaurant called "Thai Thai":

Um, cutest teapot/tea cups EVER.

Taken at a Toys 'R Us:

That's the wall of Hannah Montana dolls. Apparently, her cult following is just as enormous in a country where religions other than Islam are prohibited.

Taken at a supermarket called "Hyper Panda" (uh, best name for a supermarket, ever):

Spring Roles. Maybe inside the package you'll find theater bills?

Also taken at Hyper Panda:

That would be Pillsbury dough boy products, labeled "Organic Food."

No news is...boring

I love, love, love Google News Alerts. Getting them is the first working strategy I've ever had for keeping up with the news.

Once in a while, though, it's a boring News Alert day. All the articles are about financial acquisitions, or new businesses opening, or political dealings I couldn't care less about. I pity the journalists who have to cover such things.

Now, if you were getting Google News Alerts on my life, let me tell you: It would have been a super boring week.

News:5 New Results for Beth

Somehow, Decision is Made to Visit Turkey
Husband randomly bought Beth a ticket to Istanbul, where a five-day visit is anticipated for October. Though previous discussions had been made about visiting the Great Pyramids or the Taj Mahal, somehow the duo decided attending some conference on poverty was more important. Also cheaper, since Husband's trip will be covered by his sponsor.

Husband Grateful for Gourmet Recipes, Sorta
Thanks to the recent acquisition of the book The Flexitarian Table, Beth has come under the delusion that she is in fact competing for the title of Top Chef, and recently purchased items such as fresh Parmesan and capers to prove it. While hours spent in the kitchen have recently increased, she's pretty much wasting her talents on Husband, who, while expressing his appreciation, seems to be just as satisfied with plain beans and rice.

Arabic verb tenses fly completely out of head
Thanks to a summer spent in an English-speaking country and a failure on her part to even once flip open her Arabic books, Beth has recently discovered she has forgotten how to say the word "yesterday" in Arabic. The realization came about as she attempted communication with a dear friend in Riyadh, who somehow managed to gloss over the error, probably because she was trying to remember the word for "move" in English.

Totally Deserving Non-Profit Adds New Content
The non-profit group Coburwas recently added new content to its website, which Beth finally got her butt around to writing this week. She also received an e-mail from Coburwas member John, which ended with: "KISS! KIIIIIIIS TO YOU! Your loving brother, John." This prompted Beth to express a desire that more people would follow such conventions in e-mails.

Butts Officially Kicked at Gym
In a turn of events that would probably horrify those people convening in Geneva, Beth has recently begun using torture to punish her thighs and abs for a summer spent eating cake and not running. In particular, she's been doing these nasty lunge-squat combinations that probably aren't even legal.

Thank you humidity...

...for doing this every time I walk outdoors wearing glasses:

Six Rules for Behaving in Public

You already know the obvious ones, right? Like try not to wear a mini-skirt or take swigs from a paper bag?

There are two options for being an expat in the Middle East. You can try to blend in to the culture (an impossible goal if you're blond), or not. I opt for the former, which means I spend a lot of time observing and asking questions and noticing when people look at me funny. Here are the six rules for public behavior I've picked up over the last couple years:

1. Always take the time to greet everyone you've ever met on the street. Even if you're on your way to work and you're running late and you've only ever met that person one time at a party and you don't remember their name. Say hello, shake hands and kiss, and ask how they and their family are. Otherwise, you are just asking for them to complain to mutual friends about your rudeness. I know, because I have been that mutual friend before. I spend a lot of time trying to explain American behavior.

2. Don't eat or drink in public during Ramadan. I don't care if you're not fasting. It's illegal.


I don't care if it is 105 degrees; leave that "Akwaafeenaa" at home.

3. Girls, make all reasonable efforts to hide the fact that you have hips. Actually, this is your exception to the no-mini-skirts rule. I've seen local girls wearing them over their jeans. Also mini-dresses or super-long shirts. I love that toga-style shirts came into fashion right before I moved over here.

4. Don't leave the house with your hair still wet from a shower. It is somehow an indicator/advertisement that you just had sex. Which doesn't make sense to me, because humidity's at 60 percent, which means everyone needs to shower twice a day...whatever.

5. Don't offer your hand to someone of the opposite sex. A lot of Muslims won't shake it. I thought this one was more well-known, but I see Americans have the awkward "Um, sorry, but I don't touch women" conversation all the time. My rule of thumb is to give guys the nod and wait to see if they extend their hand. If they don't, you get to do my favorite greeting ever: the right-hand-over-your-heart salute. Like, "My heart is touched to meet you...don't touch me."

6. Don't put your arm around your significant other. I've noticed that in a lot of places, hand-holding is okay (uh, well, if the person is your spouse). But putting your arm around their waist? You might as well make out on a park bench.

Did I miss any?

Why Ramadan is No Fun

A couple of years ago, while we were living in the U.S., my husband decided to fast Ramadan. For clarification, he's not Muslim; he just wanted to see what it was like and grow in his understanding of Islam. He went the whole hog (errr...scratch that, more like he gave up hog and wasn't eating or drinking all day). It seemed like every night, he had someone else's house to visit, feasts to share, prayers to say. He got a lot closer with some of his international friends and really valued the entire experience.

I never fasted Ramadan, but still, when I was Stateside, I thought Ramadan was fairly neat. Some of my friends were certain to invite me to their house or to mosque, and on those days, I'd go ahead and fast too, and then enjoy a feast of couscous and cake later on.

But here in the Middle East, Ramadan kind of stinks.

We've been around for Ramadan for two years now. So far, I've never been invited to come visit the mosque, and I've never been to someone's house for a late meal. I spent the last Eid alone in my house, and I expect the same this year.

The only invitation I've had to take part in the holiday came this last week. A friend (who is also an expat) who works as a cashier in the supermarket asked me and some friends to break fast. (We ate in the back of the store, off the Styrofoam trays used to package fruit. I was enormously pleased to be invited.)


Fruity feast. Thank you, Khan!

"But you're not fasting," you might argue. "Ramadan is about fasting!"

It wouldn't matter if I were fasting, though. Case in point: I have an American friend who is a Christian and decided to fast Ramadan. He's following the whole thing to a T--even breaking fast with dates, which is a bit of a technical rule. But he isn't invited to take part in any other celebrations either. He is experiencing all the hard parts of Ramadan, with none of the benefits and fun.

But all this just got me to thinking: I bet most international students in America spend Christmas alone in their rooms, too. I mean, out of a whole month of celebrations, parades, shopping, choir concerts, church pageants, cookie swaps and white elephant gift exchanges, how many international students do I normally invite to partake in the festivities?

Being an international student automatically makes you curious about the culture you're in. But when holidays roll around, you start feeling even more like an outsider than usual. You'd love to see the festivities up close--attend a Christmas Eve service, drink hot chocolate, take home a terribly tacky gift from that white elephant exchange (still confused about why Americans call it that).

But unfortunately, I think holidays are also the least likely time for the nationals to open up their eyes and take care of the strangers in their midst.

Choose It/Lose It: YouTube!

Choose It: Literal Trailers
The guys doing literal trailers are genius. Someone needed to question how many scenic helicopter nature shots are truly necessary in movie trailers these days, anyways.

Lose It: DieAussen-something
I don't read German, but in any case, I think this sucker was misfiled under the "News and Politics" section. Doesn't it seem like a lame self-promotional music video about retro toys to you?

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Ramadan

The grocery store near my house, all dressed up for Ramadan. All that was missing was piped-in music--which is pretty much forbidden right now.

My husband is an environmental engineer. More specifically, he is pursuing a job working on water systems for impoverished communities. After a year of living with him, sometimes I can talk the talk. I know what TOC is, and that high levels of that in your drinking water is bad. I know how expensive reverse osmosis is, and I know that about half of the stream water in America contains antibiotics (yes, you're drinking them). I can even draw you a picture of how microbial fuel cells work (although I'll probably confuse positive and negative charges).

But in reality, I'm just repeating what I've heard Husband talk about. In reality, I'm clueless.

In much the same way, I can talk to you here about Ramadan.

This is my second year of experiencing Ramadan in the Middle East. Ramadan, for the people who don't have the time to Wikipedia it, is a holy month for Muslims. It goes like this:

*During daylight hours, no eating, drinking (Psst! It's 105 degrees out!), smoking or sex.

*At sunset, you break fast in community by sharing a big meal.

*A lot of Muslims go to mosque more often during Ramadan, or make an effort to read a lot of the Quran. Some people even read it three times during the month. (The Quran is about the length of the New Testament, to give you a frame of reference.) Some of my friends are traveling to Mecca and Medinah this month, too.

*The end of Ramadan is marked with the biggest holiday (Eid) of the year, and the whole country shuts down for like two or three weeks to celebrate. Literally.

It's a Very Big Deal here. The scale of the holiday is somewhat like Christmas in the States--except that here, stores are less likely to have sales and more likely to shut down all day. Everywhere you go, there are banners wishing you "Ramadan Kareem," or "Bountiful Ramadan."


I don't care what culture you're from, holidays=candy, and lots of it.

A slightly lesser-known fact is that during Ramadan, a lot Muslims in this part of the world talk about one thing: television. Ramadan is essentially sweeps time in the Middle East. It's time for the soap opera stars to die, or get married, or have a baby, or whatever. A lot of people just sleep most of the day, spend their few hungry hours watching TV, then break fast and stay up all night.

I do not understand this in the least. When I ask, people tell me they fast Ramadan for these reasons:
1. Obedience to God

2. To learn sympathy for the less-fortunate in the world

3. To cleanse the body (in the sense that fasting can be good for your health)

4. To seek closeness to God

But it seems to me that spending all the month sleeping and watching TV is directly going to hinder a person from all these pursuits. One because I don't believe that God desires technically correct external behavior without an internal repentance and intention to seek Him. Two because the less-fortunate of the world do not distract themselves from hunger by watching soaps. Three because being a couch potato is terrible for your health. And four because I have yet to meet the person who had a divine encounter while sitting in front of the Tube.

What would Dewey Decimal say?

Today, I took a picture of the "Religion" section at the public library.



Myths, myths, astronomy?, myths, Eckhart Tolle (aka myths), and a book on the Hajj.

p.s. The bug is fixed, and I can upload pictures now...finally!

Downside and Upside

We've been in the Middle East almost a week now, and I haven't adjusted a bit! Here's a look at my last week:

On the downside, I have the worst case of jet lag I've ever suffered. Waking at 2 a.m., sleeping til 11, napping in the afternoons, tossing and turning at bed time--and I'm eternally tired.

On the upside, I don't have anything special to do, so I can pretty much sleep whenever I want. Including the middle of the day, if I want.

On the downside, I have to adjust my diet...again. This is because I can't always find the ingredients I want (the grocery store here is a total crap shoot--some days you find delicious organic granola bars; other days you can't find frozen food--like, you can't find any frozen food, at all.)

On the upside, I am 100 percent in control of the menu at my house! Which means I get to eat things like tofu and lentils, when I can find them.

On the downside, I have yet to get into the swing of a schedule, and I probably won't until Ramadan is over. A big chunk of my time is normally devoted to language-learning, but my teacher/student will be celebrating Ramadan and then Eid for a few weeks yet, meaning we won't be having any lessons. Also, a bunch of people will be vacationing over the break coming up week after next, so I probably won't get into the swing until after everyone gets back.

On the upside, Husband and I are officially back into spending all day on Fridays on marathon dates--and I can't wait to swing dance, get coffee, and play racquetball this week. (p.s.--I could not spell "racquetball" for the life of me. I had to have the computer do it.)

On the downside, it's butt-hot here.

On the upside, our air-conditioning is working, thank God!

Two mysteries solved

Between our family vacation in the middle of nowhere (which was lovely) and our long plane ride and subsequent killer jet lag, I just haven't had a minute to post. However, in my time of absence, I've managed to solve two cultural mysteries I've wondered about for months.

1. The mystery of the black abaaya: Over the summer, I saw a documentary by MTV's True Life about young people in Saudi Arabia. (p.s. let me know if that link works. I can't access that page from over here.) The show follows four stories of "revolutionaries" in Saudi: a death metal band seeking a place to rock out, a man shunning arranged marriages and looking for love on the Internet, a man fighting for women's rights to attend city council meetings, and a woman starting up a business selling colored abaayas.

At one point on the show, the female entrepreneur asks, "Why black? Why is black the prescribed color? Why only one color?" I always wondered the same thing.

So two days ago, I hung out with Saudi and American friends of mine. I'm not shy about asking all my cultural questions, so I asked my Saudi friend, "Why black?"

"Why do you wear black to a funeral?" she asked.

"Because black is a color for sadness!" I said.

"Then why does a man wear it on his wedding day?" she asked. Ay-yi-yi.

"I guess it's the color of formality" (then I realized she doesn't have the word "formality" in her vocabulary) "...uh, like, a color for being serious."

"You see? Black is the color of respect. We wear it because it's the color of respect."

Then my American friend piped up that she read somewhere that traditionally the black abaaya came about because, in ye old Bedouin days, when everyone ran around on camel-back, the women wore black because that made them visible against the backdrop of sand. If they wore white, they might get left behind when the caravan took off.

The mystery of why it's so hard to buy lingerie here: Buying lingerie here has got to be the most awkward and frustrating situation on the planet. Lingerie stores only employ men. There are no dressing rooms. And there are no returns.

So you go. A strange dude sizes you up and recommends a size, color and style. You buy it (quickly, I imagine, so you can get out of there) without even trying it on, and if you get home and it doesn't fit, well, too bad. Money and time wasted.

Okay, so quick side story that I swear relates: Last year, I was visiting an Omani friend, and she complimented my purse. She asked me how much it cost (not a rude question in the Middle East), and I told her $1. She marveled and exclaimed--until I told her that I'd bought it used. She then looked at me like I'd just said I'd picked the purse out of the dump. She went from saying my purse was "nice" to saying it was "dirty." (This particular friend doesn't exactly tiptoe around your feelings.) I refrained from telling her that nearly everything I own/wear comes from a thrift store.

Okay, so the tie-in: Here, used clothing is considered dirty, apparently. So, if a woman buys a bra and takes it home to try it on and then returns it, it's seen as "used." If a store were to accept returns, they'd go out of business because local women would not trust that what they were buying was actually new.

For an American parallel: It'd be like finding out that a store re-packages underwear that's been returned. Ewwwww.

But why lingerie stores can't be staffed strictly with women is still a complete mystery.

Six Things to Stock Up On Before Moving to the Middle East

The thing about moving overseas is: You never really know what you'll miss until you get over there. This time around, I've wised up. I'm bringing:

1. Neutrogena's benzoyl peroxide face cleanser/mask (or whatever): Because you will probably not find your exact product--the one that took you six years to find and fall in love with--over there. If you need benzoyl peroxide the way boy bands need teenaged girl fans, you better bring a few tubes with you.

2. All-natural peanut butter: In Saudi, people prefer processed products (I can envision that phrase slapped on a billboard downtown--probably with a picture of a turbaned man happily pumping hydrogenated vegetable oils into Skippy jars.) One of our suitcases currently holds about 8 pounds of the natural stuff. That's right: I've devoted 8 percent of our weight allowance to mashed peanuts.

3. Condoms: Let's just say: If you want condoms in the Middle East, you will need a prescription. And then you will only receive six at a time. And those six will be banana-flavored.

4. Deodorant: Because it is dang expensive there, leading me to believe most people still rely primarily on cologne, not Secret. I refuse to "go local" in this regard.

5. Journals: Yes, of course you can buy them over there, but they open (dur) from right to left. For some reason, I find my creative processes hindered if I feel backward before I begin.

6. Women's workout clothing: Finding breathable women's pants and a good sports bra in the Middle East is, in my experience, about as easy as finding pork in Saudi Arabia. You have three options: Wear jeans, buy men's workout clothes, or bring a bunch with you. I've done two out of three.

Choose It/Lose It: A flick and a read

Choose It: The Book of Eli
It's the story of Eli, a "walker" wandering in the ruins of a future world, carrying the only known surviving copy of the Bible with him. Of course the forces of evil are bent on getting their hands on the book, which leads Denzel Washington to bust out some Batman-esque butt-kicking. (I always like it when fight scenes rely on swords instead of guns--although this flick had both.) I kind of expected this movie to either be cheesy or a ridiculous distortion of writings and events in the style of The Da Vinci Code. But it was neither.

It's got a post-apocalypse meets old-school Old Testament story line, a mixing of genres that I found pleasing, probably because the biblical allusions weren't disgustingly overdone (as so often happens when people try to "make Christian art"). Granted, Eli quotes Scripture at every turn--but he also shoots arrows through a potential rapist's crotch and steals shoes off dead bodies. I like that kind of tension in a character. Besides, it's got a good shot of mysticism and mystery and a twist at the end. Good work, Denzel. I'd watch that again.

Lose It: Twilight book series
I've been saying for some time now that Twilight had potential to be a good book--but instead, it is a second-tier piece of airport-novel trash. I say this because I don't think there's anything wrong with the story line--hey, who doesn't love a good vampire romance injected with werewolf fight scenes? The problem with Twilight is the writing itself--rambling passages that could easily be cut and never affect the main story line, lazy characterization that relies on physical description, too many adverbs, too much sloppiness in passages that say "very beautiful" instead of "dazzling." I knew it by the first paragraph of the book--four out of the five verbs in the opening are "was." (I maintain that you can tell a good writer very quickly by their verb choice. Good writers know precise, action-filled verbs. They only use "was" if absolutely necessary.)

Stephenie Meyer's fatal flaw was only ever writing one draft. What kind of writer only writes one draft? That's like a filmmaker submitting his raw footage to an audience without ever letting it hit the editing room. Only a hack would do something like that. And where were the editors on this thing? Couldn't they have seen a diamond in the rough and sent it back to Meyer for some polishing?

I don't know what makes me angrier: That Twilight actually could have been a good book, or that it made so much money as a bad one.

A Road Trip List

Husband and I climbed in the car at 5 a.m. and made the epic journey to Midland, MI, to visit his family before we get on a plane, again.
Here's how the trip went:

Theme song: The Longest Road, which I think is by Morgan Page. As if the 22 hours in a car were not enough of a reason to choose "Longest Road," the lyrics are fitting, as well:
Giddy up and gold mine
Different place, different time
All the stars are in their prime

Fast food eaten: Just a couple of grilled chicken sandwiches and a "Real fruit!" smoothie from McD's. This was at probably 2 a.m., and I was having a "yo quiero Taco Bell" moment, but nothing but McD's was open.

Caffeine ingested: A venti skinny vanilla latte, 16 ounces of diet pepsi, and half a can of diet Doctor Pepper. Yeah, I was super wired.

Books read: Only a little more of Jeffry Eugenides' Middlesex, which is, if nothing else, an epic that must have taken 15 years to research.

Phone calls made: Five.

Political opinions discussed: Health care reform, primarily. I spoke with my friend Dawn on the phone. She works for Social Security, and said that if people would spend just one day working her job, they'd all support health care reform. This is because she regularly meets people who, for instance, have a kidney problem, need a test to determine what kind of problem it is, can't afford the test, don't have insurance because they're self-employed, and could literally die any day because they can't get treated before they get diagnosed.

Philosophies discussed: Determinalism, i.e. your lack of free will. This is the idea that our "state" completely determines which choices we make; therefore the choice itself is an illusion. What's previously happened to you has already determined which choices you'll make. This is something I'm writing about in an essay, currently, because blogs are not the place for such complicated dealings.

Work done: Nada. First I felt too hyper because of all the caffeine, and then I felt too exhausted by all the driving. My self-control could use some work.

Post-script: Apologies for not posting pictures of Africa yet. My laptop is having issues and not letting me upload anything to the Internet right now. Once I get that fixed, I'll post some. While we're on the subject, if anyone knows what my laptop's problem is, you could be a dear and leave me a comment.

Choose It/Lose It: Writings

Welcome to Choose It/Lose It, my latest excuse to praise or condemn aspects of culture that have caught my eye lately.

Choose It: Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn

I read a good chunk of this book on the way to Uganda, and I honestly can't wait to finish it. The premise: The ongoing violence and discrimination against women worldwide--including sex trafficking, honor killings, mass rape and mother mortality--are tantamount to gendercide. Kristof and WuDunn have done a beyond-incredible job of interviewing hundreds of women who have been affected by gender-based violence and providing a platform for their stories. The book provides graphically detailed descriptions of the realities of forced prostitution, rape as intimidation, and women who have been cut up or burned with acid or beaten into sexual slavery. Eye-opener is not a strong enough word.

And while the authors do not wish to sugar-coat or downplay any aspect of this gendercide, they do not leave readers without hope, either. They interview dozens of women, many of whom are former victims, who have taken courageous actions to provide medical care and education for women in those areas where gender discrimination is at its worst. Probably the most worthwhile book I've read in years.

Lose It: A Girl's Guide to Saudi Arabia by Maureen Dowd
I feel like I've read this article before, perhaps more than once. It's your typical single-gal-goes-to-Saudi-Arabia-and-gets-pissed-off-because-she-has-to-wear-an-abaaya. Dowd whines on and on about the dress code, the driving laws, the edited Hollywood movies, the lack of Cosmopolitans..."I'm so repressed!" she says. "Poor me! Poor all women in Saudi!"

But my main problem with the article is the Dowd only manages to talk to one Saudi women--who commented on how nice the malls and restaurants in Saudi are. All the other people talking about women's oppression? Western. If you're going to travel to another country, especially if you're going to write about it, it is your responsibility to ask questions and, as much as possible, see things from another perspective. Dowd just remains stubbornly in her own shoes and lays her pre-conceived notions over everything she sees. She's too busy with her pity party to do her research. Smacks of Orientalism to me.

This is what I do

Last weekend I took my 12th plane ride of the summer. I was coming from Nashville and heading to Denver. In the seat next to me was a skinny guy reading a physicians' magazine. I was dead-tired and wanting mostly to sleep, but he struck up a conversation.

"So," he said, "what do you do?"

I hesitated and looked at the seat back in front of me.

"This," I said. "This is what I do."

That question, "What do you do," has tripped me up constantly all summer. Normally, that question can be answered with three or four words: "I'm a _______."

My answer is slightly more complicated: "Well, I've been living in the Middle East, where usually I teach English and learn Arabic and hang out with people a lot, but right now I'm home for the summer--except I'm not really home too much, I'm always off somewhere--and I've been doing a lot of writing, but I also started a volunteer job for this non-profit called Coburwas, but also I've just been going a lot of places, and..."

People like me just don't fit here.

Uganda: She wants to stay in the refugee camp

Bridget is the only person I meet in Kyangwali who says she never wants to go back to the Congo. Naturally, I wonder why. Most of the people here are still tied to their homes, even though their homes were burned and abandoned 15 years ago.

But I never find out why she doesn't want to return. Bridget has maybe a 100-word vocabulary of English--still markedly better than my Swahili, obviously, which covers "how are you?" and "fine." But what I manage to glean from our conversations is this: She's 22, left the Congo 5 years ago, and has a four-year-old daughter named Ketti, who is probably the sassiest girl in the camp. (Sass, I find out later, runs in the family.)

This means that Bridget arrived in the camp pregnant and alone at the age of 17.

Now Bridget receives a modest salary to do all the cooking for the Coburwas school--making breakfast and lunch for 97 kids every day over a wood fire. By employing her, Coburwas is not only giving her a way to provide for herself and her child, but hope and a family.

At night, we can hear Bridget's voice piercing through the thin walls where we're staying. "Ket-TIIIIIII!" she yells, her voice jumping up a couple octaves on the last syllable. Ketti emerges, dripping wet and naked from her bucket bath, giggling as she chases one of her ever-present companions around the camp and dodging her mother, who waits with Ketti's pajamas. This happens pretty much every night.

One night I decide I'm going to befriend Bridget. I invite her to sit on my bed and make friendship bracelets with me. Giving instructions turns out to be harder than anticipated: I don't realize until then that she does understand the word "under" or "last." She resorts to doing it her way, then says, "I make food now."

"Can I help you?" I say.

"No, no."

"Yes, yes, I'm coming."

Bridget goes to the food store room (kept under lock and key) and emerges with a tray of rice. She hands it to me and I literally sit staring at it for probably 20 minutes while she bustles around, stoking the fire, shucking corn, washing dishes. Finally she returns and I ask, "What do you want me to do with this?" She takes the tray from me, holds it tightly and tosses the rice about a foot into the air, which reminds me a little of a pizza chef tossing dough. The rice flies up and lands neatly back on the tray with a satisfying rain-on-the-roof sound, while the chaff scatters onto the ground. I think about the bags of already-cleaned rice I normally cook at home. No wonder cooking is a full-time job for most women here. She hands the tray back to me. I hesitate, then try the tiniest toss. The chaff doesn't fly, and I almost drop all the rice into the dirt. Bridget, in the way of most Congolese, just laughs--not maliciously, just in the way you laugh with your friends when they do something dumb and harmless. I laugh too. I get a tiny bowl and take maybe 1/4 cup of rice to try to practice. Maybe I hadn't had enough confidence. I throw it high in the air, and it would have gone on the ground except that Bridget wisely holds the tray beneath to catch it. We laugh hysterically, bent double at the waist, at my ineptness for half an hour. Sometimes you don't need language to bond.

I follow her inside the mud hut where she cooks. Pretty soon she hands me a bunch of tiny onions to peel and chop. How hard could that be? But I have literally never done this without a cutting board before. The knife she uses is broken: The handle is broken, so that the blade swivels dangerously like a switchknife. Bridget, however, is basically an African Iron Chef: She has enough potatoes for 20 people peeled and chopped in about 20 minutes, while I meticulously hammer away on the onions, using my fingernail as much as the knife. I'm having trouble: It's dark out now, and mud huts don't usually feature electric lights. I consider it a successful venture when I finish without chopping off the tip of my thumb.

Pretty soon, I'm asking for Swahili lessons, and Bridget multi-tasks. She tells me the words for corn, firewood, pot, fire, arm, leg, hair, about a dozen others. I only really retain the ones that are cognates with Arabic words I already know. Apparently, Swahili evolved from Arabic, and the words for "tray" and "church" haven't changed.

Dinner, as it always tastes when Bridget has done it, is fabulously good.

How to be an insomniac

10 p.m. The day feels over, as far as projects go: I don't have the discipline to work while my neighbors sleep. But the projects will hover indefinitely in the air: I have e-mails to write, friends to call, research to do. Instead, I watch videos on YouTube, or something equally unproductive.
I finish up the dishes, or leave them in the sink for the next morning. My dad used to go to bed right after he started the dishwasher for the night. His dishwasher used to make a low humming sound; mine clunks and roars like a monster.

11 p.m.This is when my husband will begin to make comments like, "When do you plan on going to bed?" Going to bed, however, has always felt like punishment to me. As a child, people made me go to bed when the clock struck. As an adult, I just crashed, sometimes over a book at the dining room table, sometimes on the floor of the newspaper office where I used to work. Don't get me wrong: I love to sleep; I just hate going to bed.

11:30 p.m.This is when I've brushed my teeth and washed my face and lamented over how cluttered my bedside table is. We use a nightlight because my husband likes total blackness, and I used to sleep with the overhead lights on. So we compromise. For months after we got married, I'd half wake up in the middle of the night, feel him next to me, and physically spazz out: Arms and legs would jerk; I'd gasp like someone had just tried to drown me. He would put a hand on my hair and say, "It's me. It's me."

Midnight I can hear my husband sleeping beside me. His breathing gets deeper and his arm around me feels heavier. I almost always feel annoyed by this fact: He has left me behind in the world of consciousness, gone on without me. I feel as though I have been left on the shore as he rowed silently away. I watch him disappear into the dark.

12:30 a.m. I try to relax my jaw. I have a tendency to grind my teeth in my sleep. At 26, my gums are already receding. I work on relaxing my jaw, and my shoulders, and the muscles in my forehead. I try to physically smooth them out with my fingers.

1 a.m. My mind whirs. I think about the schedule for the next day. I think about something I said to a friend last week. I think about running: when and for how long. I think about writing: what and how. I think about God. I think about my husband. I think about my family. I think. A lot.

2 a.m. If I'm not asleep, I might as well get up. Sometimes I get a snack: leftovers, usually, or chocolate. I bring my pillow down to the couch and pop in a movie. The house sometimes clicks or creaks. This is the time when I feel most alone.

5 a.m. If I'm still not asleep on the couch, I'll probably go back to bed. We are the only married people I know who don't have "a side of the bed." Sometimes I sleep on the left, sometimes the right. Last night we switched halfway through: My husband went to the bathroom, and I rolled over onto his pillow. We traded pillows and sides comfortably, in the way of habit.

6:30 a.m. My husband's alarm goes off. Depending on whether I kept him up all night with my sleeping problems, he gets up or hits snooze. He likes getting things done in the morning. He feels lazy sleeping in. I think maybe he has "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise" ingrained in his conscience. I try to get back to sleep, sometimes with success. This is the time I'm most likely to actually get rest: at the time when everyone else is waking.

8:30 a.m. This is the time I got up today. I dragged myself into the kitchen to fix coffee and oatmeal. I spent a lot of the morning rubbing my eyes. I thought about napping and decided against it. So I read and pray, and write and research, and run and cook and eat.

Before I know it, it's night again.

Uganda: Eric, the king of education

Laura, Hannah and Eric outside the best Chapati company in (well, it used to be the world, but now it's just the local area).

We got hooked up with the Ciyota guys in Kyangwali because of Laura's friend Eric Glustrom. Eric runs a non-profit in Uganda called Educate! with an exclamation point. You have to say it really excited.

We meet Eric our first day in Africa. He's tall, lanky, smiling. He's 25, but he seems simultaneously much younger and much older than that. Younger because his mannerisms somehow haven't acquired that cocky, cynical attitude I associate with a lot of 25-year-old guys. Older because I don't know anyone this age with this kind of vision for the future.

Eric's phone rings constantly while we are with him in Kampala. "What's going on?" he asks every time. This is because for Eric, something is always going on--or, rather, about 50 things are always going on. The first graduate of the prestigious African Leadership Institute (and graduate of Educate!) is coming home this weekend. Benson is getting ready to travel to Kenya for a leadership training and wants to meet up in Kampala. The country director of Educate! is resigning, and her replacement is being trained. The new Educate! staff is visiting Kyangwali and receiving orientation. And three girls from the States are coming for a couple weeks to visit.

Eric is famous in Kyangwali.They've even written a song about him. The lyrics go: "Eric, the founder of educate! Eric, the king of education! Eric, who's kind and good to everyone! Long live King Eric!"

Educate! started in Kyangwali, when Eric met a teenager with no future prospects and realized he had enough money in his pocket to sponsor the guy's education for the next year. Educate! began as a sponsorship program and then morphed into a program that not only sent kids to school, but put them through a two-year leadership course with a local mentor. So when the kid finishes high school, they don't just have a brain filled with the chemistry and grammar rules that they've memorized by rote, but they have a framework for tackling the issues they face in their own communities: Poverty, violence, disease. Educate! essentially teaches them to think creatively about solutions and to believe that they can make a positive change. As a result, you've got micro-lending programs going, small businesses starting, communities organizing to dig water wells.

With all that going on, if you're hanging out with him, Eric's still not likely to rush off to attend meetings, send e-mails, or write grant proposals. He'll get you a snack and sit down and listen to whatever you have to say. Eric is the one who advises us to not do much our first few days in Kyangwali: "Just meet people and hang out with them," he tells us. "Listen to their stories. Relationship is important."

Which is some of the best advice about the trip we ever got.