I don't feel safe here

I thought it was really interesting that one of the most frequently asked questions that the Mister and I got while we were home last summer was, "Do you feel safe over there?"

My answer was always an emphatic "Yes!" because I knew that the question was referring to whether or not we felt any animosity from the Saudi community. People wanted to know whether or not we were afraid of a terrorist attack on the American community in Saudi Arabia.

And my answer to that question is still the same. Tyler and I do not fear being the victims of a hate crime, and there is absolutely no reason for us to be afraid of one of our Saudi neighbors trying to blow us up. Even with Bahrain starting to boil again, and the craziness happening in Syria and other parts of the Middle East, my husband and I continue to feel totally safe from violent threats.

That said, I still don't feel completely safe over here. But for a very different reason.

Take our morning commute, for example. It has only been because of the grace of God that we haven't been in a car accident on the way to or from work yet. In the morning, the cars are moving slowly because of the poor driving skills of most Saudis and their hired drivers, so we're not worried about a serious car accident at that time of day. A fender bender, dinged side mirror, or rear-ending is more likely on the morning of any given work day.

But in the afternoons, we are regularly blown past by Saudi shabab that seem to perpetually be in a rush to go somewhere. It is not uncommon for us to be passed incredibly close by a Toyota Camry going well over 90 miles an hour, all while driving in the middle lane. That is not an exaggeration. Tyler and I both feel it is just a matter of time before we are run off the road by someone going high speeds while also checking his BBM thread and not seeing us as we maintain the 110 km/hr (~70 mph) speed limit that is hardly ever enforced.

Add to that the fact that any paved surface is fair game to be used by Saudi drivers. This translates to the shoulders of the road being too congested for emergency vehicles to use. And drivers don't pay any mind to the flashing lights on top of police cars or ambulances. Even with his siren going full blast, an ambulance driver gets little more than a passing glance by the other drivers on the road.

That means that if or when a person is involved in a serious car accident in Saudi Arabia, the response time of emergency services is dangerously long. The danger is increased by the lack of education on emergency response by the general population. People don't know to not move accident victims with possible neck injuries. They are not told how to handle open wounds or what kind of information to get from victims so the EMTs can respond appropriately when they arrive. It's every man for himself out there, and chances are pretty good that if you're in a near fatal accident in this country, it's going to turn fatal real fast because of ill-trained do-gooders.

It's not just while driving that I don't feel safe here. I don't feel safe at school, either. In the States, when a teacher complains of not feeling safe at school, it's usually because she fears a school shooting, or a rage-filled attack by a chemically imbalanced student. That is absolutely not the case here at all. I feel nothing but positive vibes from my girls, and I have no reason to believe that any of them would even imagine attacking me or anyone else in the building.

It's the building that I fear. Last year our school had a small electrical fire that set off alarms and filled the halls with smoke. Thankfully, it wasn't a serious incident, but it did not instill a sense of trust in the standard of workmanship the contractors had when constructing the building where I work.

And again, the emergency response of the students and many of my Saudi co-workers was awful. The whole scene was mass chaos. The evacuation was anything but timely, and no one knew who to turn to for information on what was happening.

This is not a commentary on the organization of my school. No, I fear a fire in any public building while out and about. I get the impression that the knee-jerk reaction is panic, and if you happen to be standing in the way of a stampede for the emergency exit, it sucks to be you. Emergency exits are not marked, and if they are they are usually blocked. People do not listen for instructions in any sort of setting, so I have no reason to believe they would look up from their Blackberries if a fireman or police officer were trying to help the masses evacuate.

People grumble about the excessive safety policies and regulations contractors, administrators, and drivers have to follow in the States. I have to admit that I found the overabundance of caution on the part of my old administration to be a little tedious at the time. But now that I've been here and seen what dangers lurk when the public lets their caution slip, I long for those regimented fire drills and wide open shoulders on the interstate. The lackadaisical attitude toward general safety here has certainly been one of the few negative aspects of the culture that I've experienced.

Vicariously yours,

The "Wow, I live in Saudi Arabia" Moment of the Day

I love Mythbusters. It's a fantastic show and they get to do lots of ridiculous stuff on there...like make cheese cannons or turn cargo containers and a forklift into a catapult. I heard an interview with them once where they were asked about what it's like to be able to do all that cool stuff and Adam Savage always says that they have what he calls "what the hell are we doing" moments. It's kind of like..."so we get to try and shoot a dude off a pier with compressed air and soda bottles...what the hell are we doing?!"

In a similar fashion I get stopped by the ridiculousness of things going on in around me in the Kingdom pretty frequently. These are my version of the "what the hell am I doing" moments...but to be more tame, I call them "wow, I live in Saudi Arabia" moments.

Today, I was sitting in the parking lot of the grocery store we go to (you know, the one that looks like a casino?) and listening to the end of a BBC newscast when a promo for a piece on the anniversary of Marvin Gaye's What's Goin On album came on. In the background of the promo was of course "What's Goin On". I love that song, and so I had an impromptu car dance behind the wheel singing the chorus to myself, when I looked up and saw a family of Saudis walking into the grocery store...all thobed and abaya'd out. I stopped dancing immediately. It was my "wow., I live in Saudi Arabia" moment. I was in the parking lot of the Indian grocery store, listening to Marvin Gaye on a British news radio station...in Saudi Arabia. It was strange...but I couldn't help chuckling to myself. We live a very unique kind of life here in the Kingdom...

Seriously...what's going on...

Vicariously yours,

Awkward American (aka Tyler)

I had the strangest experience that I've had yet in the Kingdom, today. Some American educators came and took a tour of our school. I think the idea was to show them how a Saudi private school works (and we are kind of the best one...nbd). I met with one of them who was actually a very interesting and nice guy who taught at a school in Houston. Anyway he asked the normal questions you would ask like:
"What are the differences that you see in teaching Saudis vs. Americans?"
"How long do you have?" I replied.

We then had a kind of panel discussion about Arabs, America, the future of the Middle East, etc. It was in the midst of this discussion that I realized that I was totally experiencing culture shock. I was sitting on the other side of the table from these American educators...both physically and figuratively.

The big thing I noticed is that they sounded the way I did when I first got here. We as Americans really want to be open minded...and I think we actually are. However, we don't really know how to be...and we're kinda bad at it. Much of what we do to try and connect with people is show that we empathize...we understand your experience or we use our experience to try and understand it. There's nothing wrong with this...I know it's well intended and I will probably do it every time I go to a new place. I realized, though, that I understood something that many Americans do not get the chance to understand: we don't get it. We try really hard, but we just don't. As a nation, as foreign policy, as world citizens...we miss the point a lot.

Now before you go all "tea party" on me and get upset for thinking that we don't get it...that's part of the problem. One of the issues is the political thing...I kept asking my students and my colleagues what they want America to do. They keep telling me they don't want us to do anything. Just let them do what they do. I understand that we have a vested interest here involving terrorism and our only legitimate source of fuel, so we can't just do nothing. But I hear on the news and commentary in American media this same question I was always asking..."what do they want us to do?!" It really does prove that we are missing the point.

The educators that came were great guys. I certainly don't want to take anything away from the them. I am proud that my countrymen wanted to make a hell of a trek over here to actually find out what schools in the Kingdom are like. I'm glad that the students got to speak to more Americans that aren't shouting about how Islam is going to destroy the United States. I'm glad that we got to sit down and talk with them and tell them what it's like to teach internationally as an American. But I couldn't help noticing a great deal of almost reverse culture shock at the way they were answering questions about Arab-American issues.

Again, I don't have this place figured out. I could not even dream of saying that I "get it". But I think that I do understand that I don't...and from the way that acknowledging this has paved the way for deeper, more fruitful, and all around better conversations with my students and colleagues...it seems that this is the way to go.

On a related note: I was totally accidentally awkward because of some social cues here. One of the things here is that you shake hands with people every time you see them. You shake hands in the morning, in the hall way, even when you tell a good joke. As your students are coming in the room it's like a receiving line. This made for an awkward moment when I shook one of the guy's hands like twice and reached out for a third time on the way out the door...I was denied...realized immediately how weird it must have seemed to them and awkwardly explained the unnecessary hand shaking. They laughed uncomfortably and we parted ways...it felt like that Arrested Development episode when Michael is talking to that British girl and says something like, "...and so I bid you good morrow" and walks away mouthing "what is wrong with me...". Yeah, just like that.

Vicariously yours,

I'm experiencing a sprinkling of culture shock, perhaps

In the grand scheme of things, women's education is a relatively new thing in Saudi Arabia. It first became legal in the 1960s/70s, but didn't become popular till later. That means my students are only the second generation of women in their families to even be allowed to get an education. SECOND.

In America, women girls were allowed to go to school as early at the 1700s. It wasn't popular and many universities didn't open their doors to women until the 1920s, but that means that I haven't met a generation of women in my family that didn't go to school.

So I can understand the apathy and the disinterest in education among students in the United States. Students in America have the freedom to choose to be uneducated. If you're a high school drop out, there are still opportunities for you--they generally involve a McDonald's name tag or a mop/broom, but you have the freedom to make that choice.

Until just over a decade ago, women in Saudi Arabia didn't even have the choice to drop out of school! You can't drop out of something you're not allowed into! So the apathy and disdain for education among my students blows my mind. These girls KNOW someone who didn't go to school. These girls SEE women who are denied rights because of lack of education or because of gender discrimination. I expected that, of anybody in the "developed" world, they would understand the importance of education.

Last week, when we had the fire, girls were asking if it was real or just a drill. "Insh'allah it is real and the whole school burns down," one giddy seventh-grader said, arm-in-arm with an equally bubbly friend. They weren't the only ones who groaned in disappointment when we were let back into the building only to find that it was a very minor fire and no damage was done to classrooms or computer labs. The next day I had several students that said they had hoped the fire would be more serious so they wouldn't have to come back to school.

What?! I was shocked. I would expect that kind of flippant remark from a student in the States. Usually my kids said something like that just to get a rise out of the teachers. I taught middle school, and sixth-graders generally don't have a filter. My students back home were no exception.

But here!? My students are just as callous about education here?! This country is on the cusp of major change, and the GIRLS in my classroom could potentially be the leaders of that change. But 95% of them appear to care less about learning and more about being able to sit around and do nothing.

Do nothing. Which is exactly what their government forced women to do a mere 2 generations ago. Just sit at home, girls. No need for you to think.

Maybe I see a different side of my students because I'm the foreign language teacher. Very few of my students take English seriously (to clarify, they take their grades seriously, but actually learning and applying the language? no.) and most of them make it clear to me through their behavior that they don't take me seriously at a teacher. Perhaps in their Arabic classes they are the driven, determined, change-making girls that I was hoping to find before I moved to this country.

Because if they aren't, the men have won.

Vicariously yours,

It's an interesting time to be in the Middle East, that's for sure!

I had a meeting with the TARA committee this morning. We've been keeping an eye on the situation in Bahrain, as we were alerted a few weeks ago that protests were being planned and things might get real. I just expected today's meeting to be about the cautionary moves we were going to take to make sure the conference went off without a hitch.

But when I arrived at the home where the meeting was held, I knew that things were not going to turn out as we all hoped.

Around 3 am this morning, the Bahraini police stormed the camp set up in the main round-about in Manama where protesters--families with women and children--were sleeping. Official reports claim that only 3 people have been killed, but that conflicts with what we've been hearing from committee members living in Bahrain and some news reports.

The TARA committee members watched in horror as Al-Jazeera showed tanks rolling down the main road of Manama, the kingdom's capital, just a mile or so away from the hotel where the conference is supposed to be held in just a week.

Obviously we've cancelled the conference and now have to watch as things unfold in the Kingdom of Bahrain, a chain of 33 islands just 16 miles away from where the Mister and I live. We can literally see the main island from our roof.

Selfishly, the Mister and I are bummed that we have lost our retreat from the stress of the Saudi Arabia, but our hearts go out to the people of Bahrain. All of this unrest is rooted in discrimination of Shia Bahrainis by the Sunni monarchy that has ruled the tiny kingdom for more than 200 years. Inspired by the success of the protesters in Egypt, the majority Shia citizens thought they would be able to capture the world's attention and force progress in their own country. I've been told that protests like this one have occurred several times over the past few years, and deaths have resulted even then. But now that rebellions are popping up all over the Middle East, Bahrainis are hoping to finally be noticed.

Bahrain, you have our attention.

Vicariously yours,

in which i have to leave to notice some things here...

You may or may not be aware of this, but when you are in a place for a long period of time, things become normal. You get used to a certain standard in everything. Everything from food to weather...you just start to think that this is the way it is and you don't think about it. The best metaphor I can think of for it is how everyone else's house has a smell...but you never notice how your house smells because you smell it all the time.

Which can sometimes lead to tragedy.

As Amber has been telling you, we just spent the week in Barcelona. I think you guys are pretty smart, so I don't think I need to explain how Mediterranean Spain is different than the Kingdom. But our time away from Saudi (to use the metaphor again) let me realize the way our house smells.

So some things that I have noticed since we got back:

1. The Traffic: Holy death trap, Batman! I know that driving in Saudi is bad. I was even to the point of fear when we first got here, but I guess I got used to it. I knew the "rules" (in quotes because, of course, there are no rules) and driving wasn't a big deal. When we got back from Spain, I hopped in the car to run to the grocery store and was immediately almost killed. I pulled out from our street onto the main drag and a car went by me so fast and so close that my VOLVO shook. The past few trips out have been expletive laden to say the least. But one of the things that I've been thinking about is how before we left, I just expected that kind of driving and thus it didn't really frustrate me anymore. I apparently lost that control.

2. The Volume: We had to be at Barcelona's airport at 8:30ish in the morning. We arrived, checked in, and started to find our way to the gate when Amber stopped dead in her tracks. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's...it's so quiet!"

There were a ton of people in the airport, and if you've ever been to that airport, you know that it's super open and there's not a lot in the way of sound absorption. But you could have heard a pin drop. Here, however, not so much. We went to the grocery store and BOOM. Children running amok...men talking loudly at each other...women yelling for said children. It was insane. And deafening. I never remember it being that loud...but I guess you get used to the volume too.

3. The Prayer Break: I spent a week of being able to just go out and get some food or run errands whenever. It was great because I can't do that here. I have to be conscious of the prayer times. It really didn't bother me that much before we left, but once we got back and wanted dinner yesterday, I stepped out the door and suddenly, prayer call. Wait 15 to 30 minutes and try again. It's one of those things you're not really allowed to be mad about...I mean it's literally one of the major points of their religion. So I have to be a grown up about it...::sigh::

It's pretty weird to have your normal be Saudi normal...but it's ours. I guess I just forget how our normal is so strange...leaving to somewhere else always highlights that. Berlin is gonna do a real job on my perception of the Kingdom...ugh.

Vicariously yours,

in which i take you along with me to get a haircut.

Now, before I begin, I should make one thing clear: I'm not really a "pamper myself" kinda guy. I don't really like cosmetic things to be a big deal. My normal haircut costs about $15...and it's always at a place in a strip mall with a clever name like "Kwik Kuts" or "Head's Up". I got a shave before our wedding, and that was a special occasion. I'm usually in and out in 20 minutes...and that's if I get a shampoo and the stylist is particularly talkative.

Here, as many things are, it's totally and completely different.

I noticed today that my hair was particularly shaggy and we're about to go on vacation (real pumped for Barcelona!) so I thought it would be a good idea to get a trim. I grabbed my keys and headed off walking for the barber shop.

This is the third time I've been to this particular barber shop. I even have a "usual" at this place...he is, of course, my barber "guy". He's a Bangladeshi guy who calls me "Boss" (something he calls all of his customers) and talks pretty much non-stop the whole time in an English-Arabic hybrid that is mildly understandable. I think it's a great place because I can get a shave and a trim all for around $6.50. That being said, I've never had the same thing happen any of the times that I've been...and this time was no exception.

The guy works alone, so I got to the place around 8:30 pm expecting to see a few people waiting, only to find that there was another barber there. Already things were different than last time. I of course got called by the new guy and we began. The regular guy was nice enough to let the new guy know my normal "do" and shaving style in a language that I can only guess was a mix of English, Arabic, and Bangladeshi. I am amazed by this because the guy remembers my "usual" from the first time that I came in. One time and BOOM, he's got it. Incredible...(digressing).

The haircut was pretty normal, with the exception of the brutality my scalp endured at the hands of that man's comb. It was the shave that got kinda strange. First of all, they lather you up with this gel and then just kinda let it sit. They then take a straight razor and light it on fire with rubbing alcohol. Obviously, this is sanitizing the razor...thanks, man. He begins the shave, which is nice enough. He finishes and washes the excess gel off and I'm thinking, "This is where dude stopped last time, so it must be time up..." I start to get up, but he gives me the barber pressure on the head, which means sit down and stay still. "Alright..." I then experience one of the most awkward (and honestly kinda painful) skin treatments I've ever had.

He rubs this pink lotion on my face which smells like banana yoplait...and just kinda leaves it there. I also want to note how close to my nostrils this lotion is applied...like basically inside. He thankfully washes it off...which I again, foolishly, think is the end. He then grabs this stuff that looks kinda like spicy deli mustard. I can feel the harsh pellets in the lotion and immediately think, "oh no...not ex-foliation..." But oh yes. He not only rubs it in, he GRINDS it in. This goes on for literally 5 (PAINFUL) minutes. I begin to wonder if he's just having some fun with the white guy...a paranoia that I feel a lot here...but the guys behind him are just chatting like it's totally normal.

When this is mercifully over, he steps away for a moment. I start to get up, but for the third time, he makes me sit so he can finish: some water on the hair and beard, an impromptu scalp massage that made me see stars a little bit, and then the styling of my new "do" so that I look like a "Top Gun" pilot...(Ice Man, of course). He gestures for me to get up, with a flick of his apron for good measure. A little anxious to leave before he changes his mind, I pay the man and bail. On the way out I glanced down at my watch and realized that I had been there for an hour and 15 minutes. Wow.

So the obvious question is why I allow myself to be tortured like this...and I think the answer is that I really do enjoy getting a shave and all that along with the haircut. In a place like this where there's such an emphasis on how you look, it's interesting that so cheap to get someone else to groom you. Anyway, I'll keep going back to my slightly insane barber just for the experience...plus it's a great haircut.

Vicariously yours,

in which i stop whining and get a life.

Please forgive my long absence on the blog, but I've been pretty miserable here for a little while. I thought it would be better for me to not blog rather than overload the blog with a bunch of really ridiculously sad panda-esque things. But I'm back.

Sad panda is sad.

I won't bog us down by going into why I was so miserable too much. That's really not important. As a teacher, long stretches without a break are difficult enough, but it's a lot harder far aways from home. But ultimately, I was doing a lot of nothing and wishing I was somewhere else. As you can imagine, that's not exactly uplifting.

As I often do when I'm grumpy and homesick, I called (skyped, gchatted, whatever) my sister. I am blessed with two siblings that happen to be my best friends and life is more difficult not being able to get in touch with them whenever I want...but ANYWHO...I began Whinestock '11 and was really getting into the pitypalooza I was throwing. My sister, of course, was having none of it:

"I just can't do anything like what I did at home!"

"Welp...you need to find something new to do then."

Curse you and your demon logic, woman!

After Whinestock '11 got rained out by tropical storm Sister, I proceeded to think about what I had been doing this whole time. A few things came to mind...primarily eating, sleeping, watching TV, and playing video games. I realized that not only was I boring myself to death, but I had almost no energy and didn't sleep very well...which translated to having no patience at school...which translated to bad teaching days...which made me grumpy and perpetuated the cycle. So it was time to make some changes...

Before I look like this guy...(Bahahaha at this)

So I cut some stuff out of my diet (or at least I'm keeping them to a minimum) and I'm actually doing something active every day for an hour. I'm also reading a little bit everyday. I'm pretty impressed at how well I'm keeping up on all this stuff. I normally set up a goal for like 2 days and then quit. But it's been (one week since you looked at me...) about 10 days and I'm still going strong. I have more energy at school, I feel better in general, and I am actually getting stuff done that I want to do. I still have time to watch TV and play video games, but I make sure it's not the only thing I do.

So who cares? Well, this is something that I realize about myself everytime I move somewhere strange and new. I have to hate it first. It was that way in Kuwait. It was that way in Georgia. It is that way in KSA. But the reason is because I'm so focused backwards. I think about home and only home, and never really put myself where I am. I keep thinking this is a temporary thing. I mean sure we're not gonna live in Saudi forever, but we're here now. This is where we live and this is what we're doing for at least two years.

In the end, I was miserable here because I didn't have a life. I sat around and wished I was back in Nashville, which only made me sad and grumpy. I realized today that a life was really what I needed. Now that I've got one, I can stop whining and actually enjoy myself. So pass the shawarma and let's do this thang.

Vicariously yours,

How to avoid my rookie mistake...

I bought a new abaya. When I first moved here, I didn't think I would buy more than one abaya. I'm not planning on staying here long enough to warrant spending money on a clothing item I will only wear in Saudi Arabia.

Then I bought my first abaya.

I say that not to imply that abaya shopping is exciting. It does somewhat feel like a scene out of a J.K. Rowling novel with a fun cultural spin, but other than that it's relatively meh.

What I didn't know before buying my first abaya was the complexity of the cloak! I thought they were just glorified house robes! Boy howdy was I wrong. Therefore I had to go out and buy a second abaya that is more practical for my lifestyle. For those in the market, I've compiled a list of the things one needs to consider when purchasing an abaya:

1. The sleeves! Take into consideration what you will be using this abaya for. Will it just be fending off the public from taking in your sinful body? Then you don't need to go fancy. Don't be seduced by the flowy, open, heavily embroidered sleeves. Oh you'll love how much they resemble a kimono and feel wonderfully worldly with your cross-cultural abaya, but about 1 day after the purchase, you'll be cursing the Asian designer that came up with the wings that now have to be attached to your body!

This is my first abaya. I really do like the embroidery on the sleeves, and this will be my go-to abaya for fancy occasions (cause I have so many of those over here in Saudi Arabia). But look at the sleeves! They are totally impractical! They're too long, and their bell shape, though alluring at first, turn into huge shovels of destruction anytime I need to reach across any sort of plane. Cups get dumped across the dinner table, soup gets a little fabric flavoring, and knives tumble to the floor. Plus, whenever I'm grocery shopping, my arm is exposed while reaching to the top shelf, and that elicits unwanted sidelong glances from my more conservative fellow shoppers.

These are the sleeves on my new abaya! Look at how they maintain the flouncy-ness, while tapering at the cuffs to prevent mealtime disasters and unwanted exposure.

2. The Length! Now, you can't rock the calf-length abaya, but if you're only purchasing the abaya to abide by the local regulations, there's no need for it to drag the floor like a genuine Arab. Chances are you'll be going up stairs or an incline of some sort in your time with the abaya, and I'm willing to bet at least one of those times you'll have something in your hands. That's when you get introduced to the abaya-wearer's most common companion: the hem peck.

Anyone who has worn a prom dress that was too long is familiar with the hem peck. It starts with an accidental step on the hem of your skirt, and in an effort to prevent ripping the skirt, your posture becomes one of a chicken going for its breakfast. Your neck goes out, your shoulders go forward, and your back curves a little bit to decrease the tug on the fabric. You try to recover by taking another step, but if your hands aren't free, you just perpetuate the cycle. The hem peck (I totally just made that term up, but I think it's got real staying power).

I recommend that you make the hem of your abaya fall around your ankle bone, that'll decrease your chances of looking like a doofus in front of all your students as you stumble your way up the steps, muddying your abaya and fumbling your school books all at the same time....not like I've experienced it or anything.

::ahem::

3. The Fabic. Ok, so most of the affordable options ($20 and up) are going to be some sort of polyester blend, there is still lots of variety when it comes to what your abaya is made of. The most expensive abayas ($1,000 and up--no joke) will be made of a wonderfully buttery silk blend that has the most magical flow when you walk. But chances are if you're reading this and actually heeding my advice, you're not a wealthy Saudi oil tycoon's daughter, so you can't afford the silk in the first place. Welcome to polyester town.

You want to consider how thick the fabric is. If your sleeves are layered, you're going to boil in the summer. If your fabric is too thin, your abaya's going to become see-through in the flash of any cameras that snap your photo for posterity. For the winter, there's the velvet abaya. Just the other day I saw a beautiful abaya that was all black with a black-eyelet lace overlay. So nice for the frigid 50 degree weather of the Saudi winter.

4. The Hijab. There's no point buying the abaya if it doesn't come with a matching hijab included in the price. If your abaya has any embroidery or individuality on it, your hijab will match. Most hijabs have the embroidery on one end so when you tie it around your head, you don't have scratchy threads making an impression on your cheek while you stroll around town. Sometimes the hijab will have embroidery on both ends. It all depends on your preference, really.

Vicariously yours,

in which "yeah, i live in saudi arabia...so?"

I have started about 5 or 6 posts in the last month or so but just haven't had the energy or desire to finish them. They are all very good...one about TV, one about doing everyday errands, etc. Amber has been encouraging me to "write a blog post or people will stop reading!" So to hold off your exodus, because I'm posting, already.

I think the biggest reason that I couldn't finish a post was because I don't think it's that exotic. I was totally stoked to write these big blog entries about all this stuff I'd been doing because it was all new to me. But I have now lived in Saudi for awhile now...and it's getting to be normal.

That's right. I'm starting to feel at home here in KSA. This is just where I live. Sure, every once in awhile I have that "oh crap, I'm in another country moment" but mostly the awe has really faded. I say this as I eat Poppadums ("An Indian Gourmet Snack Perfect for Today's International Lifestyle"...says so on the Pringles-esque tube) dipped in homemade hummus that I got at our grocery store, LuLu. It has been totally strange to sit and think about the stuff that is now the norm. I have always been amazed at how able to adapt humans are...but this is ridiculous.

Some examples:

1. I was awakened yesterday morning in that "woke up in the middle of a dream and have no idea what's going on" haze by the call to prayer. I literally rolled over and said out loud, "What IS that!?" Amber looked at me like I was crazy and said..."Ty...it's the Athan...you've heard it a million times..." A little later, I realized it wasn't that the actual call to prayer woke me up...it was because the muezzin was different. That means that I've grown so used to the way the other guy does the Athan that the new guy threw me off. WHAT!?

2. A couple of mornings ago, a car drove by me on the shoulder and missed my side mirror by MAYBE an inch. I didn't even blink. WHY AM I USED TO THAT!?

3. I have a shawarma guy, a barber, a computer repair guy, an oil change guy, a shiisha "bar", and a grocery store. These guys are the only guys I will go to for their respective errands. I am turning into an Alwahab.

And these are just a few things that I've noticed right off the top of my head.

I have my days where I don't like it here. I have my days where I am amazed that I live in a country like this. But most days I'm just going to work, getting on facebook...normal.

Before I left, my Dad and I were talking about living abroad as an adult. He said something like, "You'll go to the grocery store and it'll be really crazy...but after a month or so, it's just going to the grocery store." Well said, Dad. Well said...

...have I mentioned that my grocery store is covered in neon lights and adorned with two pyramids?

Vicariously yours,

I'm awkward in Saudi Arabia

I think everyone would describe me as being moderately eloquent and able to know when to shut up.

...I'm waiting for my friends and family who know me best to stop laughing before I go on...

Truth is that I'm an unfortunately awkward person with very bad timing and the inability to know when to stop talking. I do have the occasional moment of clarity when I find something similar to the right thing to say, and I sometimes can know when to keep my mouth shut and save myself from embarrassment.

The sad thing is, I think that shut-up switch was broken on the flight over here back in September. Ever since we have left the country, my awkward-o-meter has been off the charts!

Exhibit A: One day during our long Eid break, the Mister and I came home and bumped in to our neighbor outside in the courtyard. She was getting her laundry from the dryer (we share a dryer, so it's outside), and she usually has a big smile on her face at all times. This time she scurried away, didn't smile, and just kind of mumbled a hello. Her husband was also there and he said, "You'll have to excuse her, she has something on her face." I asked what he meant and he said she had a beauty mask on her face. "She uses it every now and then to make her more beautiful."

It must have been clear, because I hadn't notice anything unusual about her face in the few seconds we saw her.

That's what SHOULD have come out of my mouth. What I actually said was, "Oh. I hadn't noticed." This short clause made it sound like I hadn't notice that she was more beautiful, and while I think her husband picked up on what I really meant, he kind of chuckled.

"....I mean that I didn't notice she had the stuff on her face, not that I didn't notice that she's beautiful. Because of course she's beautiful; she doesn't need to use anything on her face!" the awkward rambling just wouldn't stop, even as the hubs was giving me the are-you-seriously-still-talking face. After a bit I finally just sighed, "I'm gonna stop now..." and I unlocked our door and went inside.

Exhibit B: Thanksgiving. Dinner with the Billionaires. We've retired to the tea and dessert portion of our program, and everyone's sharing stories of their world travels. The current topic of conversation is Turkey (the country, not the meal we are digesting). Someone mentions that Turkey has more Greek history than Greece does and the ancient city of Troy is brought up.

"Yeah, but all Troy has is some walls and a horse you can take a picture with," someone mentions.

"You mean like a Trojan horse?" I ask. This is question is awkward/stupid enough, but I think he overlooks it because he did just say that it was a horse...ok, yeah, it was just a stupid question. But like I said, the switch is broken!

"Yeah, it's this big wooden horse for the tourists to climb into and take silly photos," my guest humors me.

"Like a replica?"

DID THAT REALLY JUST COME OUT OF MY MOUTH!? Of course it's a replica! What, were the Trojans going to piece together the charred remains of the downfall of their city and preserve it for tourists to enjoy centuries later?!

While most people would have said, "Gosh, that was a stupid question," I of course feel the need to save face because we are dining with billionaires, and this particular variety happen to be my boss and her husband who pays my salary. I can't let them think they've hired a total dud.

"I mean, of course it's a replica, but it's a big wooden horse just like the real thing was? ...That's pretty much what a replica is, isn't it? Oh, you know what I meant!" It all comes out of my mouth so fast, I'm sure it's wasn't even discernible as English words.

So. Awkward.

And these are just the two examples I'm willing to share with the world! I don't know what it is, but I'm hoping I can rediscover my somewhat with-it self when we visit the States this summer. Awkward Amber has got to go!

Vicariously yours,

They're getting to me

I'm slowly starting to realize that some of the things that drive me crazy about the way Saudi children behave probably can be explained and I somewhat sympathize.

For example, the kids here will actually ride scooters, roller skates/roller blades, and various other wheeled contraptions through crowded public places that a Westerner like me would not expect to see them. They are blowing past me in the malls and through the grocery store (less so the scooters in grocery stores, but boy oh boy do they ever love those Heelys!).

ugh. It just makes me want to throw a stick in his path Big Daddy style.

At first I was blown away at the fact that these parents weren't driven as bonkers by this behavior as I was! I was in a mall, for heaven's sake! A mall is for shopping, walking, and not for being mowed over by drag racing 9 year olds on roller blades! What possesses these parents to let their kids treat this confined public space as if it is their personal back yard or an open park?

Safety gear?! Pah! The Saudis laugh at helmets.

Today as the Hubbins and I were walking through a mall to get lunch, I saw a little girl in the center atrium playing with a frisbee. I can only hope that her parents were nearby keeping watch (but, if I'm honest with myself, they probably weren't), but she was just going to town with this frisbee! She would throw it up in the air and chase after it as it floated over the center fountain and across the open space. She had a total look of euphoria on her face and it was just like a scene anyone would see in a grassy suburban park back home.

Then it hit me. This probably was her park. It's not like there are a lot of grassy hills in Saudi Arabia. Most of the year it's so hot outside, your face melts as soon as you step out the door. Malls are where people gather here. It's a safe place for women to walk around without their guardian. And because it's so crowded with other Saudis in the same lack-of-entertainment situation they are, these moms don't really worry much if their kids run around in and out of sight through the throngs of people. Everyone kinda watches out for each other and they are used to dodging the tots.

It still drives me totally bonkers, but now I kind of feel sad for these little tykes. They won't have the kind of childhood memories that I had. They probably don't know what it's like to run down a hill barefoot with the feeling the soft grass beneath your feet. They don't know what it's like to have to stop your kickball game because of a pop-up spring shower. They don't know what the instructions "Stay within earshot" mean. They are growing up in the middle of a flat, brown, sandy desert. To them, the mall is their playground, and I guess I can give them a little leeway as they zoom past me in the food court.

Vicariously yours,

i have no idea what time, day, or year it is.

There have been a lot of changes in a short amount of time for us here in Saudi. We've written about a lot of them: religious environment, cultural quirks, etc. But one of the things that's giving me a lot of trouble recently is the change in schedule. You may think that this is a minor issue, but when things get turned around like they are here (in comparison to our normal American style schedule) you get a little lost.

As you may or may not be aware, the work week in Saudi Arabia begins on Saturday and runs to Wednesday. That means that our weekend is Thursday and Friday. Now that sounds simple enough, but think about this. My entire life, I have understood what happens on the weekend sounds roughly like this: sleep in Saturday as late as possible, football in the afternoon, maybe do something that night...wake up Sunday, go to church (most of the time), eat lunch, football/golf (depending on whose house and when...I'm lookin' at you, Dad), and then frantically work on things for school the next day. In Saudi, things don't quite work that way. Everything is pushed to Thursday and Friday. However, one of the things that doesn't change is the football. College football games are still on Saturday and pro football games are still on Sunday and Monday. This means I'm getting football scores and updates on workdays. I hadn't realized it until I got here, but I've been using this as my signal for the weekend for awhile so I'm confused when I'm working and wondering if my fantasy team is doing okay...or if Auburn lost...it's hard. More importantly, I have to wait until Saturday and Sunday to talk to my family or anyone in the US. This is because of my next point...

We are EIGHT hours ahead of Nashville, TN. That means as I type this, it's 7:23 pm on Sunday night in Dammam, but it's 11:23 am in Nashville. So I end up getting the scores, news, and things that are happening in the states the day after. This becomes confusing when say--I don't know--trying to talk to your grandmother on her birthday around 9 pm her time. That means you have to be up at 5 am to talk. Realistically the only time I could talk to my family and friends on skype or gchat would be during their weekend...but my "Monday" and "Tuesday"...Saturday and Sunday...SEE?! I told you it's confusing!

Another thing that you need to be aware of is that there is an Islamic calendar called the Hijri and people follow it. Some follow it so closely that some of my kids don't know in what year they were born off the top of their heads, and you have to specify "yeah, in the Gregorian calendar" when talking about history. Their calendar is based off the fleeing of the Prophet Mohammed from Mecca to Medina. This was called the Hijra, so the calendar is called the Hijri, and all of the dates are "after hijra" or A.H. So, 1776 AD was the signing of the Declaration of Independence...but it was only 1189 AH according to the Hijri (Until December 7, we are in the year 1431 AH...in case you were wondering...impress your friends...). As a history teacher I find this particularly interesting, but one more thing to trip my students up as we learn. The good news is this really only applies to the Middle Ages & late antiquity (Ancient Rome). <----yeah I totally just nerded out on you there...sorry, comes with the territory.

Tie this all together with the daily schedule that people keep here in Saudi: We start school absurdly early, so most people (ok, everybody) take a nap in the afternoon. I normally don't like sleeping this much because I would rather be doing something but, stores are pretty much closed until at least 4...so when in Rome... I won't lie, it has been nice. I don't have to tell you how much Amber loves naps. Additionally, the afternoon nap combined with the late start of businesses means everything is open late; at least until 10 pm and most of the restaurants/schwarma places are open 24 hours. This means that a lot plans involve late nights...even on school nights!

All of this leaves me with an incredible sense of chronological vertigo. I call days the wrong names. I sometimes wake up really excited for the Bama game on Saturday and realize that I have to wait until Sunday to find out what happened. In planning to talk to my grandma on her birthday, we needed to be talking to her at 9pm her time...Amber accidentally counted backwards and almost had us planning to talk with Granny and the rest of the family at 1 pm our time...which would have been 5 am their time...not the plan.

It's been crazy to get used to and honestly, I don't think that I am. At least I know when I'm supposed to be at work, but even this afternoon I took an hour long nap and woke up at 5 thinking that I had slept all through the night to the next day. This is actually what ended up prompting this post. Hopefully I'll have my internal clock set correctly soon...erratic does not even come close to describing my sleeping pattern.

Vicariously yours,

i have a come to Allah meeting

So, an interesting thing happened to me a few nights ago. I was invited to a panel discussion about the perception of Islam in non-Arab countries. The American teachers in the secondary school were invited to take part because...we're the only non-Arabs on staff. Since it seemed like something that would be a great experience for cross-cultural learning, those of us that were invited decided we would all go. They had also invited a couple of people from the Islamic Center in Dammam that were Filipino, I assume to try and get more than just the American view of Islam...you know, stress the non-Arab part of the function. It was going to be a very interesting night and I was actually pretty excited about the experience.

And it started off promisingly enough...a couple of teachers introduced the evening and welcomed everybody in, and then the mic was handed to one of the students. He addressed his first question to the Filipinos: "So how did you find out about Islam?" This is when we find out that the Filipino gentlemen were mostly new converts...from Christianity. One of them was a former priest and he proceeded to explain how he realized that Christianity wasn't for him.

During the former priest's testimony (that really is the only way to describe it) I started to feel resentful. I resented the fact that I was basically tricked into an evangelistic pitch meeting. I resented that there was no mention of the perception of Islam in other countries, just the ways that Christianity is wrong. Don't get me wrong, they were all very friendly. They even offered to answer any questions we might have about Islam. They were talking to the room, of course...but looking straight at me.

I was put out. Annoyed. I considered walking out a couple of times. Not because I didn't like what they had to say, but because I felt like I had been lured there under false pretenses. I began to feel more and more defensive as the other speakers went on.

The father of one of my students came up to me after the "discussion" and gave me a pen with information about Islam on it. He called it a "magic pen"... you might say he was the Islamic equivalent of a Gideon. The pen had a scroll inside with websites with information about Islam.

Needless to say, I was upset by the time I got home. But I've thought a lot about it and I've come to a few conclusions.

First of all, this is literally the reason we came to Saudi Arabia. Not to convert to Islam, obviously, but to find out about other people's perspectives; to finally be in a minority and see what it feels like. I certainly was put in a position I'd really never been in before. So I can complain about it, or I can learn from it...and that is why we're here.

Second, this is no different than what would happen to anyone who's not a Christian back at home. Whether it's at work, school, or even in sports Christians take every opportunity they can to share their faith. From holiday programming to prayers before football games, Christianity is everywhere. Now that I've been on the other side of tracts, I can see how uncomfortable and even intrusive it can be. I'd never really thought about it until it was happening to me. Non-Christians are inundated with Christianity everyday in America, but in Saudi Arabia, the non-Muslims are inundated with Islam. I can actually sense your eyes rolling as I write this...but wait for the third point.

Third, and most importantly, I'm not at home. Saudi Arabia is a country that is ruled by sharia law and the king is the "custodian of the two holy mosques". You cannot separate Islam from Saudi. I don't think that expressing the religious views of the majority should be taboo. Just like Christians expressing their faith in America because they are in the majority. I live in an Islamic nation. I respect that.

In the end, I don't think that they set up the evening for the explicit purpose of converting the heathens. I think they really did want to talk about the issue of perception in non-Arab countries. I'm glad that I went. To hear the things that Muslims...especially Muslims that were once Christians...think about Christianity is fascinating. It's never a bad thing to get humbled every once in awhile. Ultimately, I'm not resentful about the experience...I actually think I learned from it.

Vicariously yours,

Burn baby burn

I have a problem. When I'm cooking, I want the food to turn out just right, so I obsessively follow the recipe as much as possible. Usually this turns out fine, but occasionally I'll miss a step or forget to chop an ingredient, so I end up doing two or three things at once and stuff gets rushed in the kitchen.

And when things get rushed in the kitchen, someone gets hurt.

Last night, I was stir-frying the vegetables at the same time as boiling the noodles at the same time that the Mister was chopping the garlic that was supposed to already be in the stir-fry. The noodles were ready, so I quickly dumped them into the colander and, thinking that I'd emptied the pot of all the water, slung the pot back onto the eye.

Only problem was I hadn't gotten all the water out, so I effectively sloshed the just-slightly-less-than-boiling water down my left arm.

It didn't hurt so bad at first. It more just startled me. I abandoned the kitchen and ran to get a towel to dry my arm --"stir the vegetables!" I cried as I ran down the hallway, and THAT is when the pain set in.

Eventually the pain got so bad that I was brought to tears, and thus the Hubs started freaking out. He doesn't really know what to do when I cry or when I'm in pain, so combine the two and he's a hot mess. He sent out a distress signal to the other Americans in the house and our next door neighbor came to the rescue.

He is in the apartment right next to us, and is married to a Thai woman who doesn't speak that much English but has the kindest heart and sweetest smile. She brought over an unlabeled jar of some mystery ointment. She said she brought it from Thailand and she uses it on herself when she gets a burn.

My instincts told me to turn down her kind offer, but I really didn't have an alternative, and I didn't want to be rude. The smell of menthol filled the air as she gently applied the poultice to my burn.

I'll be honest, it only succeeded at making the pain worse at first. I think the nerves were still too pissed at me for burning them to calm down, Thai ointment or not. Eventually, though, the pain started to recede and I applied the camouflage green stuff to my arm again. MIRACLE! The pain immediately started to decrease.

I was left with big green patches all over my arm, and this stuff stains anything it touches, so sleeping was going to be tricky...

Enter my Mister with a boy scout-esque solution: Wrap my arm in paper towels!

It worked well enough. I think it didn't hurt that our sheets were black, so even if I got anything on them, I wouldn't have known!

Today my arm just felt like it had a bad sunburn, so I'm hoping tomorrow it'll be good as new. In the meantime, I have yellow stains from where the magic ointment didn't come off, and I look like I don't know how to apply sunscreen.

The must frustrating and scary part of the whole situation was the fact that neither of us knows the name of any of the hospitals here. We don't know where they are, and we don't now which one to avoid (there's always one). We don't have a car, and we don't know what phone number to call in an emergency. 911? 999? 411? And even if we did know the number, we don't speak the language, so it would be impossible to tell the person on the other end of the line what we needed! This was part of the cultural experience I wasn't hoping to have to deal with, and hopefully we'll never have to use the emergency services in this area during our time in Saudi Arabia...but it's definitely a challenge of living abroad that I'd forgotten to prepare for.

Vicariously yours,

Three Words: Surprise Stool Sample

(for those who found us through a google search and just want the nasty details on collecting a stool sample, see this entry.)

So today was our first day of "work," and it was interesting to say the least.

Lemme start from the beginning:

Woke up this morning around 4 am when the first call to prayer began. Conveniently, there's a mosque less than a block away from our hotel, so one of the calls was LOUD and clear. The cool thing about the calls to prayer is that each mosque has its own guy who says the call (he's got a job title, but I can't remember it at the moment), so the mosque down the street will start its call, and then the mosque a few blocks away will start its call a few seconds later, so they kind of go in a round. It's so unique and just...I just can't describe it. We're going to record it soon and post the video so you can experience it too.

Anyway, it's 4 am, I'm now wide awake, even though I don't have to get up for another 3 hours. It's just me and my thoughts. That can be dangerous. That's when the anxiety starts to rise.

It was like my first day of high school all over again. What should I wear? Will I make friends? Are they going to like me? Will I hate it here?

Anyway, long story short, we get to our respective schools, find out we have more paperwork to file--really not all that shocking--and we need to have passport photos taken as well. So we get a driver to take us to a photo studio.

Here's what's funny: I could have brought photos from the US, and they would have been like any other passport photo--no hijab, hair down, everything normal. But because these photos were being taken in Saudi, I had to be covered. So I had to borrow my new boss's abaya and hijab to go run this errand! It was so bizarre!

Here's what the photo ended up looking like:

Nothing new for those of you who are friends with me on facebook.

So then we're told we have to go to the hospital. We're not entirely sure what for. We were told last night that we had to do some "blood work" as a part of today's paperwork, but we didn't realize we'd be going to a hospital! Keep in mind that the only person affiliated with the school that is traveling with us is our driver--and he's Filipino. He just goes where he's told. Literally.

So we show up at this "hospital" and I'm immediately shoo'd into the "family section" of the waiting area. This is where the women sit. We have no papers, really no idea what we're at the hospital to do, but some man in a thobe told us to sit, so we sat (by "us" I mean me and one of the other female new hires who thankfully speaks fluent Arabic or I never would have made it through the day!). Apparently the authoritative man in the thobe works for the school, so he was telling the nurses at the reception desk what we were there for.

Get this: We were there to give blood samples, urine samples and ANOTHER STOOL SAMPLE!

NOOOOOO **side note: for those wondering how a stool sample works, see this post.**

So after waiting for almost 2 hours, watching all the male new hires go first, but having a great time with my new colleague, I'm brought back to get my blood drawn by a nurse who I'm pretty sure was wearing the same gloves she had on when she started her shift earlier in the day--she definitely didn't change them between me and my colleague.

I'm then given two cups. "One for you-ryine, one for zee othear," the kind Asian nurse tells me.

Thanks, but where am I supposed to go to collect these samples?

I'm pointed to--get this--THE PUBLIC RESTROOM DOWN THE HALL!!

Keep in mind that I'm still wearing the borrowed hijab and abaya. I'm also wearing a floor length skirt that my mother so kindly sewed me before I left. I'm supposed to take all that and my two plastic cups into this teeny tiny bathroom stall and collect my samples to the best of my ability.

I'll spare you the details, but it wasn't pretty.

I can't believe we got sneak attacked by a second stool sample! I thought I was traumatized by the first one! This one was in a dingy Saudi Arabian bathroom and I had NO GLOVES!

I'll stop there.

So yeah. That was my first day at work. Not your typical first day kind of story, but I guess I'm not working your typical kind of job.

In other news, I got my very first abaya and hijab of my own after evening prayers. Aunt Suzanne, the hijab is the head scarf that covers my hair. The abaya is the long black dress. Here's what it looks like:

So what do you think?

The trip to the mall is a whole 'nother post in itself. I'll have to save that for later.

Vicariously yours,

Quote/unquote Hospitality

Somewhere around the final match of the rugby world cup, right as Matt Damon is declaring that this is the team’s destiny; I realize that we are flying over Iraq. Amber leans over and points out that this will be the closest she will ever get to her father’s hometown. I consider this for a moment, and then get lost in the rest of Invictus.

There are 35 minutes left in the flight. My stomach wis turning somersaults as I grip my entry card. The plane starts its rapid descent. My ears pop. A few rows up, a child starts crying. I sympathize. With 25 minutes left in the flight, my new life in Saudi Arabia is about to start…I feel like crying too. I’m not upset, but I am nervous…and the somersaults are turning into full-on backflips as we get closer to our destination. I am beginning to feel a little overwhelmed.

The plane touches down almost perfectly. I am totally impressed with the Dutch pilot. He got us here early and everything. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m gonna hurl. We step off the plane and immediately, I am brought back to that night in July almost 15 years ago when I did the same thing in Kuwait. The smell of the airport is very…unique. There’s also something very Arab about the décor: mirrors…geometric shapes. We head over to passport control.

There is a sign that says “no smoking” in both Arabic and English. There is a man smoking next to it. We wait in a line. Amber asks if this is the right line. I say, “I think so…” She pauses, “You just picked the one with all the white people in it, didn’t you?” “Yeah,” I say. We switch to the line that says “foreign citizens”. It is our turn. The young man in the green beret behind the desk looks…bored. I can just barely sound out his name from his name tag: Abdullah. Abdullah types on the keypad as if it had said something about his mother. He calls out to another officer and makes a thumbs down gesture. I tense up. Amber glances at me. He had run out of ink…just needed a refill. We get fingerprints and photos taken…but honestly, how many photos do they need? We’ve already given them 3 a piece. We’re allowed to pass through. “Khalass,” Abdullah says, with a dismissive gesture.

We collect our bags and walk out to meet the school welcome committee. They are all very helpful and very, very kind. My new boss is a grandfatherly sort of man who when we ask, tells us with arms opened wide, that he founded the school with Amber's new boss and has been there for 34 years. Our apartment is not ready yet and won’t be ready for another week. We’ll be living in a hotel. The elevator takes an absurd amount of time to arrive.

The drive from the airport is longer than I thought. The man driving is amazingly careful for an Arab driver…which leads me to believe that he is not actually Arab. Amber and I are lost in thought. We finally made it. This is totally different than anywhere we have been before. The desert stretches for miles in each direction. We crest a hill and see our new home, a thin string of lights on the horizon. I think of Las Vegas. Amber and I hold hands for the rest of the car ride.

It seems that driving in the city demands a kind of aggression that only Bostonians or New Yorkers could muster. There is construction everywhere. The lines on the road seem more like suggestions than rules. A wildly painted Toyota truck passes us. The driver is talking on the cell phone as he flies down the road. Just like in the US.

The driver refuses to let me help him with the bags. It seems like it’s frustrating him that I keep picking one up and carrying it. I even get an eye roll for holding the door open. “Sorry,” I mumble. The hotel itself is hot. The air feels heavy. I feel the first prickle of sweat on my forehead. The gentlemen from the school make the arrangements with the front desk. I glimpse the name of the hotel on the register: Gulf Flower Hotel; our home for the next week or so. The school gives us a fruit basket and a bag of snacks. Mr. Fawzi makes the quotation marks with his fingers. “Hospitality…” he says. We’re grateful for it.

Our room is small. “It’s like everything here is stuck in the 1970s…” Amber says. What can only be described as the strongest window unit in the world makes the room cool and comfortable. Sleep is in order, and it comes quickly.

I am awakened in the morning by the call to prayer. Its haunting tone does not allow me to return to sleep. It’s 4:30 am. I lay awake. The saying “we’re not in Kansas anymore” does not adequately describe our situation. I have to wait 3 hours before I can get up. But I’m ready now. I want to get to the school and get started. However, I need to stay in bed and try to sleep. The call to prayer ends and I roll over to try and get back to sleep. I can’t help thinking that the adventure we had set out to find was right outside the door. Waiting.

Vicariously yours,