Another gap exists, a number of life leaps have been taken, and I don't know how to return to blogging without having some sort of bridge to get me from where I last was to where I am now.  Of course, the bridge has been built every day and I have been crossing it with every decision made, in choosing to make my musings public again, it feels like a chasm exists that is pretty darn wide!

Here's the nutshell: I am living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, back to the soil I dug my fingers into as a child.  I married the guy who I moved to Abu Dhabi for (in hindsight, I can say that, even though I would've never admitted it when I left Paris for the desert), and we've been married for over two years and are therefore entering the second round of our visa application for his residency.  We have an amazing, joyful, beautiful daughter who brings me endless smiles and touches my heart in ways I never thought was possible.  We own a house, have a German Shepherd dog, have to rake leaves, mow grass, and much to our chagrin, will be shoveling snow soon.  I am nearly finished with yet another Master's program, but this one will be finished properly, all wrapped up in a graduation, degree, and Director of Instruction license in December.  I miss my friends now scattered all over the world; I miss walking out of my door on rue St. Sauveur to the bustle of life in Paris, I miss daily surprises and wonders tucked around corners of tiny streets, ending in conversations over wine and tartare with girlfriends with whom I could laugh or cry; I miss my amazing colleagues and teachers in Abu Dhabi, the days of endless sun and heat and fast driving and beautifully sharp smells of oud and incense.

The collective mass of experiences and people and memories overwhelms me.  But when I have those moments here in America, I  take on projects and bury myself in work or moving winter jackets into the coat closet and boxing up the spring ones; in Paris I would've stopped and sat alone in a cafe to reflect and think about what it all means.  Here, my daughter wakes up from her nap and my alone time is cut, and I am happy to run upstairs and lift her out of her crib and provide the shoulder she wants to lay her head on until she's ready to move.

It's all about moving forward.  As Obadyah would say, "just keep putting one foot in front of the other," and sometimes that is enough.  I don't know where to start with new reflections, new topics to explore, new ideas worth writing about--much less sharing publicly.  So this will be the start.  And we'll see where it goes.  If it goes.

Another view on the Middle East

There is so much attention on the Middle East at the moment, with the now 3-week stand-off against Mubarak, with the Jordanian king releasing his entire government and appointing new people, with stirring protests in Yemen, and the Tunisians cheering that their chased-out leader is now being brought up on "crimes against Tunisia."

It is true, the amassed fortunes (in billions) of Mubarak and his family are despicable in a country where the vast majority of Egyptians live on less than $5 a day. It is also true that Ben Ali and his family in Tunisia siphoned massive amounts of their country's wealth into their own personal bank accounts. This is what I hear from my teachers who are Egyptian and Tunisian. This is confirmed in the news.

Here's what I also hear in my school (no sweeping generalizations here...just the women who work in my school!). Some Egyptian women are very afraid of swift change because the women and children are most vulnerable. While the men are all out in the streets being political, the women and children are at home with no protection. Looters have entered their homes knowing that they could easily take what's inside. A vacuum of power would be scary. The Muslim Brotherhood is not "equal" to Al Quaida, as it's been mentioned by some media. The Tunisians are thrilled that Ben Ali is gone. The Syrians are happy that there are no protests in Syria. They are happy with life there as it is right now. The Palestinians are used to all of this.

And the Emiraties. They remain eternally and deeply thankful and proud of their rulers. Last year when I was getting to know the women I work with, I did a "speaking assessment" in which I asked the question, "Describe somebody you admire." I had several women speak about Sheik Zayed. Their father, they call him. The father of their people. (Talking about him actually brought on tears for two women.) Not their nation, but their people. He gave, he shared, he had a revolutionary vision, he put his people first, he gave citizenship to orphans from other Muslim countries, he made sure people had homes if they chose to move out of the desert to the city. It's now his son who rules the UAE, after an older son tried but was decided to not be cut out for the job. The other sheiks of other Emirates are noteworthy and well-loved. The UAE has activated a policy of "Emiratization" in which more and more Emiraties are to be educated, trained, and appointed jobs within their own country. They've been going out to England or the USA for university education; they bring their ideas back to the UAE, where they are rewarded and cared for in appreciation for their contributions. Now there are universities beefing up their facilities here so that their own people can get a good education at home.

It's easier, I'm sure, for people to be happy with their sheiks here. It's a wealthy country with a lot to share. It's also a place where, yes, protests are illegal. You cannot protest against the government; you cannot choose to be a different religion if you were born here. You must abide by the laws of Islam if you are Muslim; if you are not, you are governed by a different set of rules--the rules that are dictated by your religion so long as you don't disturb others from practicing Islam. Yes, women can drive, and many do. Yes, they can go out unaccompanied, though many do not. Yes, they are deeply religious, deeply caring, extremely generous, very open-minded, and tolerant without needing to alter their own beliefs.

The other night I came home from yoga and stopped at a nearby bakery for bread. I ran in to get my bread, waited for some time due to the chaotic disorganization of the ladies working behind the counter, joked with an Emirati man who was waiting forever to get a cake for his sister's birthday, eventually got my bread, and went out to find that my car wouldn't start. After a few failed phone calls to colleagues (none of whom had jumper cables), I decided I'd just ask the next man who walked out of the bakery. Sure enough, the first man said he'd help me. He lifted the hood of my car, had a look, had me try to start the car one more time, and then went to his trunk and pulled out a battery. Completely new. Tried to start the car by touching his full battery against my dead one. But it sparked and gave him a little shock. So he went back to his car and got a wrench and proceeded to dislodge my battery from its casing. He put his battery in my car, asked me to start it, and sure enough, it worked. He then told me to just keep his battery. I protested and offered to give him some money at the very least, which he refused. He simply said he was happy he could help, and told me his name was Mohammed.

Yesterday I did an English lesson with the principal. After discussing verbs and expressions related to Heads of Departments, she started talking about Arabic grammar, which lead her into a discussion about Islam. She knows the Holy Quran very well. She didn't want to stop talking about all of the ways that the Quran helps Muslims live their lives. And then she asked if I've read books about Islam. I told her that I have, although I've probably read more about Islam from a political and social perspective, not a religious one. She said that it's such a beautiful, peaceful, loving, and generous religion, and that the people who use the name of Islam to carry out hateful and deadly acts are not really Muslim. They don't understand, she said.

This sentiment is something I hear over and over. The Muslims I know here are not ashamed but sad about the way that Islam is portrayed and understood in the West. And they are right to be sad. They would also be right to be extremely frustrated. In light of the upheaval and the renewed spotlight on the Middle East, there is also renewed criticism of Islam (in broad, sweeping generalizations, but nonetheless, it's being put out there). When I read about people who actually write/say things in response to this change--which is quite positive for the people!--like "Islam kills and it always has," or "Why is Islam allowed in the US?" or "We must fear Islam," I am outraged. Living in a Muslim country has been an eye-opening experience that has easily challenged any preconceived notion I may have come here with. This has been a deeply personal experience of getting to know Arab and African Muslim women who could not imagine their lives without Islam. They tell me that the notion of "converting" religions is unthinkable; being Muslim is a part of their everyday lives. And they are some of the warmest, most generous, curious, genuinely welcoming people I've ever met. I wish their perspectives and profiles would be included in the reports on "life in the Middle East" so that more people OUTSIDE this region could gain a wider picture of what it means to be Muslim, Arab and/or Middle Eastern.

Random stuff from the week

I remember now one of the reasons I stopped blogging. There are so many events here that can't be talked about. Not on an open forum, anyhow. Too many identities that should never be written about. Like how we have to take photos here in the school: the backs of heads or hands. No faces. And so the most interesting and intimate information about what I learn about from the various perspectives of the various Arabic women I work with are, for the most part, all off limits to the "public eye."

But here is a little bit about what happened this week. Girls (students) have been coming to my room to look through the newspaper and magazine library that I have. They're collecting information about healthy lifestyles for their English/ICT project. I've had several conversations with many of them. Three in particular are interested in what an "American perspective" on Arab people is "really" like. They asked if I thought everybody was a terrorist. I said, "absolutely not." Then they asked if I knew any Arab people in the States. Well, no, I didn't. How was that possible? I'm not sure.

I get bottled water delivered to the house. Every Tuesday the water truck comes, and if I have bottles to exchange, I put them outside with the coupons attached. This week I needed another coupon book. So I put my 3 bottles outside and attached an envelope to it, which contained 100 dirhams and a request for another booklet. It sat outside on the stoop for 10 hours, and when I got home later that night, I found full bottles, but no coupon book. I thought it was strange, and I decided to let it be for a day or two. If I had no word, I'd call the company and tell them that the delivery people had taken my money but not given me the coupons. But the very next day when I got home from work, sure enough, there was the water guy waiting for me. He apologized profusely about forgetting my coupons. I knew he hadn't taken the money. People here are drive by such a respect for honesty when it comes to stealing. They just don't take what doesn't belong to them.

I went to my horseback riding lesson on Monday. Junior came with me since he was home. It's the most peaceful, beautiful environment, in my opinion, to be outside after the sun has set, in a place filled with horses and people who love them. The past few weeks I've been on a crazy horse. Literally, she's crazy. A former racehorse that has thrown everybody off. When I got there, our instructor wanted to see what the guy in my class could do with her. I had no problem with it, even though I felt like I was making some progress with her. I got a "calmer" horse. And on my second time asking for a canter, I got bucked off. Yep, had to do an emergency dismount when I found myself on her neck ahead of the saddle! She even broke the fence (top rail!) in her kick that threw me off. Of course I got back on. And then learned that the guy on my horse from last week also got thrown off before I got to the arena. By the end of it, I decided against jumping and just took it easy. I said I was too old (the guy and girl I ride with are both 17/18). Really, I was just fed up. But I'll get that same horse again next week, and I'll hope it's better! And the next night I enjoyed a civilized and less physical game of mahjong.

I saw a movie with my friend Sonya last Saturday. "The Furious Force of Rhymes" It's a documentary about the global hip-hop movement and the way different people have used it to find their voice and express their concerns (racism, classism, neo-colonialism, the fall of communism, terrorism/being seen as terrorists). It was fabulous. It played on the last day of the Abu Dhabi Film Festival.

And the Ferari Theme Park opened 3 days ago. It has, of course, the world's fastest roller coaster. The Formula 1 race is next weekend, so the city is full of activity. There are nightly movies outside on the beach, 2 concerts every night (also on the beach), art exhibits,...and of course, all the stuff going on at Yas Island, the island with the theme park and race track.

And last but not least, Junior and I went in search of a pumpkin yesterday. It looked more like a butternut squash, but we found some at the Fruit and Vegetable market. We spent 3 dollars on it, and Junior did all of the carving. Per usual, I toasted the seeds. And per usual, I was the only one who ate them!

For a moment

The strangest things touch us sometimes in the most unexpected ways. And then we find ourselves doing something with passion or excitement or sadness or reflection--and it was never even on the radar when we woke up and thought about our day.

I woke up this morning with the intention to research what it will take to get my teaching certification for French. I pulled out all my transcripts last night and found myself paging through the binder that has contained my life's most important documents since I've lived outside of the USA. For five and a half years now, that blue binder (American size, which the A4 documents from every other part of the world stick out of the top of, but I never bothered to buy a larger binder) has contained my passport, my birth certificate (yes, original), my diplomas (yes, originals), my university transcripts (now from 6 different schools), my carte de séjours, my residence permits, my work visas, my health insurance documents, my letters of recommendation, my French language exam certificates, copies of all credit cards, drivers' licenses, library cards, student IDs, apartment lease agreements, utility bills (needed for every transaction in France), police background checks, and even my fingerprints and contact lense perscriptions. It's all there. I felt emotional and strange paging through those documents last night, and so I left them to this morning. Because, as I prepare for another step forward, I have to reorganize all of the above, so that I can fit them into a nice picture that sums up my "experience" abroad, over the past (nearly) 6 years.

But then I read an op-ed piece in the New York Times. A woman who wrote about being 50-something and having long hair. And how she's tired of people finding myriad reasons to criticize her for her decision NOT to cut her hair, as most middle-aged American women do. And she said that in Europe the same wouldn't be true. And she said that maybe she should move to Paris. Which, of course, got me thinking of Paris. Middle-aged women with long hair and Paris got me thinking about Joni Mitchell. And her song, "California." About leaving Paris, where it's "old and gray and settled in its ways" and going home to California. And when I got to the end of the opinion piece, I saw that this woman writer has a blog, called SlowLoveLife.com (yes, check it out), which I went to. Instead of removing herself from life's chaos through meditation or going to an ashram, she has opened herself to moving through life more slowly, taking in all that is beautiful and interesting and worth appreciating. And violà. I was inspired to return to my blog. And when I did, I found that I was 14 months past my last post.

I like my last post (Aug. 29th? 2009). My first impressions of life in the Gulf. How far my impressions have come since then. I feel a little sad that I haven't written about the between-time. But that's okay. I was living life and keeping up and enjoying myself. But I do sense that something is missing...and that's the creative side of me that loves to write, reflect, write. So this morning, I decided to write instead of research. My binder and all its contents are still spread out all over the couch and coffee table in front of me. A reminder of what's next. But I'm happy to have stopped for a moment and did something that I truly appreciate.

On the Arabian Gulf (not the Persian Gulf!)

It has been four months since I last wrote. I considered even giving up the blog for good. Not because I was uninspired, but because finding the time to write on it wasn't happening.

But. I am now in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, and how can I not write!? Let's start with this. I bought two abaeyas yesterday (I don't know if I spelled that write, but it's pronounced a-BIY-ah). They are the long black dresses that women in the Gulf wear. "Gulf fashion," the stores like to advertise. I found two beautiful ones--one with embroidery on the sleeves, another one with beads running down the front and along the sleeves--made by a Pakistani tailor. I never thought I'd wear one of these, but I will. Not because I have to, but because they will make dressing for work easier. I won't cover my head (I don't have to), and I won't wear them every day, but strangely, I think I'll feel quite graceful when I do.

To fill in any gaps, I'm here on the Arabian Penninsula because I took a job with a Pakistani company (Beaconhouse Education Group Ltd) who was awarded one of the contracts issued by the Abu Dhabi Education Council for its school reform project. I am part of a team of about 20 people going into 4 schools grades 10-12, 2 being boys' schools, 2 being girls' schools. Our focus--per the royal prince--is to focus on the grade 12 students, and our main objective is to raise not only academic standards, as well as improve pedagogical approaches (of teachers) and leadership (of principals). My role has not been clearly defined yet (orientation officially started today), but my title is "English Language Development Trainer." Rather ambiguous, yes. I do know that I will be responsible for both girls' schools, and I do know that I will be working primarily with the two principals of those schools. My team is really incredible, with us having 200 years of experience collectively...in at least 20-plus countries all together!

So I arrived 6 days ago, to both pleasant and not-so-pleasant surprises. Yes, it's hot (100-115 degrees every day--day and night!). Yes, it's the desert, so there's not much greenery (though Abu Dhabi is one of the greenest cities for being in the desert!). Yes, it's "developing" rapidly--ie, construction everywhere! I also knew, despite having been told differently, that I would be living in a "satellite" city to Abu Dhabi, not in the city itself. The city is named Musaffah, and it is an industrial city with labor camps....though it is now becoming a residential city. I am in the "new" residential zone, which means that on every single side of me, there is not a single finished building. There are 12 cranes within the view from one window. There are at least 7 more in the distance. There are more cranes per square mile in Abu Dhabi and Dubai than in any other part of the world. And now it is Ramadan. This means that the construction workers do not work during the daylight while they are fasting. It's just too dangerous to be up on the scaffolding (which severely lacks in safety regulations!!) in this heat with no food or water for hours. So instead, they work from 8pm to 3am. Last night I hardly slept with the banging and shouting and drilling and sawing and metal clanking going on nonstop all night. I'm not sure what's worse, my clanking air conditioner or the clanking construction outside!? But on the upside, Musaffah is an older, smaller town, which means that there's nothing of the nightmare-ish traffic that defines Abu Dhabi. There are also no fast food joints, no chain stores; everything local, everything cheaper and easier to find and easier to get. I can walk outside my door (and past the construction barriers) and find myriad Indian restaurants, Lebanese bakeries, Sri Lankan spices, small grocery stores, enormous bags of rice, dry cleaners, barbers, tailors, bikes, rental car shops, rugs and tacky bedding, and EVERY single cell phone, cell phone accessory, charger, and SIM card you could possibly need for yourself and fifty other people!

I am ever so thankful that Junior is here. Without him I would have been completely lost. And not having nearly as much fun navigating all of this! (Granted, even with him here, I'm having the occassional break-down!) We have gone exploring, rented a car, shopped, cooked, cleaned, played games, haggled, drank, found the equestrian club, and then spent the most relaxing day yesterday splurging on a day at the Hilton's private pool and beach area. It is heaven. And there, you completely forget that it's 110 degrees outside, as you sit under water falls and relax in hammocks or under umbrellas. It was divine. Now it's back-to-work time for both of us.

There is loads more to say, but I'll save that for another post. There are no photos because I haven't taken any yet! Plus, this internet thing I have is pretty slow, so uploading will take forever. I hope to get all of that changed soon!

What you don't know about your cell phone

Your cell phone is made from a mineral called coltane (as is your iPod, your microprocessor, etc.). It's a mineral found in the Dem. Rep. of Congo (DRC). Because of the scramble for this mineral and the way it's being taken out of the country by Western and Chinese multinationals, 40 women are raped each day. (Of course the mineral exists elsewhere, but nowhere else can companies get it for cheaper!) It's now considered one of the deadliest wars...and yet not much is being done to address it.

I just went to a most amazing presentation and round table last night with Laetitia and her mom. I'm so glad they included me, because it not only was absolutely necessary to learn more about this situation, but it sparked what has been recently brewing in my mind: the need to be involved again. The discussion was lead by the French Sec. of State for Human Rights, France's youngest minister ever, being in her late 20s/early 30s, and Eve Ensler, the writer of The Vagina Monologues. I had no idea that the woman who wrote that play was such an activist. But she is, and her message is extremely powerful. Stop raping our women. Violence against women CANNOT be normalized....and if we remain quiet, if we let the women be humiliated by their violations (instead of the men who did the raping!), then we are sanctioning the violence. And it will continue. There were representatives from numerous other organizations, as well as a good audience ready to engage with the panelists. It was inspiring...and madenning.

The following is Eve Ansler's organization: vday.com; and here is a link to a 60 Minutes story that was done in 2008 on the war and the raping of Congolese women: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/01/11/60minutes/main3701249.shtml?source=search_story. And below is my own response/reflection after having experienced what I did last night.

How do I sit here and write about the ideas that I just heard articulated so eloquently last night in a context where they weren’t just formulated behind a desk in an office on a university campus, but were learned and felt from the vibrating rhythms of dancing and crying and shouting and sharing? How do I bring together all of these brilliant ideas, those which make my body feel nervous with surging energy, those that make me want to get out and act, to organize and give back and move forward…how do I bring them together in any meaningful way when I am limited to 2 dimensions? Limited to dialogue. Limited by language, which isn’t even necessary when the dancing, crying, shouting, and sharing convey more than words in any language ever could. When body language and a simple touch can say more than bungled French coming out of these American fingers? My fingers will always speak, my hand will always move across the paper. But my body can’t sit any longer. My conscience knows that I have stories to collect, experiences to recount. That my soul has been disengaged for too long, that I’m ready to pick it back up and see where it will take me.

What's not being said

The Pope was all over the French newspapers this morning. The reason: He's in Africa (Cameroon) for the first time, and the message he's spreading is one which condems condom usage as an effective way to combat the AIDS pandemic on the continent. He says, "You can't resolve it with the distribution of condoms"...."on the contrary, it increases the problem."
This is not a surprising stance, despite the fact that it's the first time he has directly discussed condom usage. Right. The Catholic position is clear: premarital sex is a sin; contraception is not to be used. The Church seems to not talk about the latter very often anymore, and most Catholics have (at least in the US) chosen contraception as a family planning method.
But condom usage (or lack thereof) in the fight against AIDS is a new stance. And one that, in my opinion, carries with it a lot of assumptions. Harmful sexist and racist assumtions.
The first assumption is this: that everyone getting AIDS is having sex outside of marriage. The second: that AIDS would not spread if people were, in his words, adapting a "responsible and moral attitude towards sex."
Let me say that IF everybody was having sex within and only within marraige, there would be a sharp decrease in the number of people infected with HIV. But isn't that the case in EVERY society!? But that's obvious. What I want to look at is what's between the lines, what's being said in the absence of words.
To address both of these assumptions, I'm going to draw upon my own experience in Zimbabwe. Just less than 10 years ago, Zimbabwean women didn't have the right to demand that their husbands wear a condom when HE was HIV-positive. So within the marraige--therefore sanctioned sex, according to the Catholic Church--women could not protect themselves against infection. How are the husbands contracting the virus? From an economic, exploitative situation brought on directly by imperialism. Men were first drawn into labor via the colonial government (often forced labor), which today has taken the form of multinational corporations. This means that men are working in mines, on oil fields, on farms, and extracting every possible natural resrouce from their country for the benefit of a multinational corporation which sends not only the raw goods, but also the profits abraod. They work for months on end away from their wives and families, coming home only for a weekend here and there. No doubt there are "sex workers" (as they've been called in Zimbabwe) who work the bunk-houses where the male workers are housed. Then the men carry whatever infection or virus they might have contracted back to their wives. (I don't want to indicate that all men are behaving this way, though certainly some are!) The problem here is two-fold: economic exploitation has disrupted the family unit; and, without condoms, nobody is protected. Would the absence of all sex solve the proble? Sure. But unless eradicating prostitution and keeping sex strictly within the confines of marriage is truly possible (and when, in ANY society, has that been achieved!??), then condoms are, quite frankly, the best way to keep people safe. And that includes people who have sex WITHIN their marraiges.
What also lies in the unspoken is the age-old stereotype that African people have lascivous sexual appetites. That their societies also lack the necessary structure for curbing such sexuality...which makes Christianity and Islam (besides capitalism) the strongest forces moving throughout the continent. What's not being discussed, however, is the history: the way in which those two religions in particular completely disrupted the social structures in which sexual relations WERE governed within African societies. Premarital sex was outlawed among some African peoples, while it was not among others. No matter what the case was, African societies quite effectively managed the sexual affairs within their groups, and sexual promiscuity, sexual devience, and sexual violence were highly punishable. Missionaries were colonialism's "cultural" arm, and their responsibility (their "burden") was to change societies (which in the case of Christianity, meant bringing them into compliance with Victorian values). I won't go further into THAT (though I could, as I wrote over 100 pages about it last year!), except to say that religious conversion imposed different family models and thereby put enormous strains or eradicated completely the communal living that characterized, organized, and managed all aspects of life--including sexual relations and expectations. And contrary to other misrepresentations which have been perpetuated, the vast majority of African societies--pre-colonial invasion--were quite balanced. Because they had to be for survival.
I want to conclude with a Yoruba saying: "O n pami, o lo n gbami" (You are killing me but you insist that you are saving me).

Sensory memories

Completely random....here are some of the sensory memories that have made me more alive:

• the smell of horses sweating and the feel of their deep inhales and exhales after a good ride
• swinging in Sturzl's hamock
• listening to roosters crowing at 5am in Harare
• mom playing the piano at night while Josh, Jon and I fell asleep
• the distinct ambulence siren sound that reminds me I'm in Europe
• the smell of dad's shirt when I'd hug him after a work day at Sargento
• the sharp smell of the conductor's sweat while leaning over me in the ET (afternoon rides were more memorable)
• the feel of my blanky on my neck or cheek
• the taste of grandma Suemnicht's chocolate chip cookies....and of taking Andies candies out of their fridge
• my first sips of Tanganda tea
• listening to Cyndie Lauper in Madison with Leah while driving out to the marsh
• the smell of books from the library
• the clicking of my new/old typewriter
• the smell of my African mudcloth, which I use as a bedspread....it still smells the same as when I brought it home
• sound of Jon or Josh bursting into the house shouting that the other one had a bloody nose
• the first Saturday that I woke up to the ND marching band playing the fight song
• singing Garth Brooks to and from horse shows
• the smell of breaking open a new bag of shavings in a freshly-stripped stall
• the sound of the Mullet River behind our Riverview Rd. house...and the small stream that ran off to the side of it
• sitting inside the wooden teepee at Shelly's house, the sun shining between the logs

It's still swinging

I'm listening to a sappy Neil Diamond song. Totally random, my mix, that is, of all 3678 songs in my iTunes. But Neil Diamond is singing, "you are the best part of me...the part that allows me to open my heart and let love inside." But I'm not skipping forward, because something resonates. How difficult this is. Truly. There's something very interesting about being 30 and single...something very wonderful, very liberating...a chance to explore and experience and learn and grow deeper into who I am before bringing somebody else into the equation. Something my Mom never got to do. Something most of the women of my mother's generation didn't get to do. We have choices, we have fewer social expectations, fewer constraints. We have the world open before us. Hmmm. And with this lack of constraints and finger-wagging, we also have tougher decisions to make. Nobody's going to make them for us....or tell us what to do. And then there's the "independent woman" defense. There's the comfort of having created and settled into a certain life, a life that can easily feel under seige by somebody who comes along and wants to be a part of it. And perhaps make some renovations. So it is increasingly difficult to open the heart and let love inside. As I've come to realize. Until somebody comes along and gently pries the door open, takes his time walking through, but won't allow you to slam it in his face either. Even when you try. And thank goodness for this.

The pendulum swings

A girlfriend told me that when you move back to the States after living in France, everything is even-keel. Everything is more simple, more efficient, everyone is more accomodating. Life is much easier. The lows aren't as low; but the highs aren't as high either. You don't get that thrill from having argued your way into a residence permit extension, you don't walk five miles and talk to seventeen different people trying to do just three errands in one day, you don't touch the untouchable (it's already been done and put on the shelves of your local WalMart), don't marvel at yourself after having participated in a debate in a language that you didn't grow up with. But your packages aren't lost at the post office, your doctor offers you all the options before making the decisions for you, you can finish a list of to-dos in one afternoon, and calling your cell phone company to inquire about charges doesn't cost you 34 cents a minute. The gyms are beautiful and clean, with smoothie bars and Clif bars, but walking into a North African bar requires you to get in your car and go to a specific (and probably discouraged) part of town. You will never be charged 280 euros for owning a television (audiovisual royalty....is it really that much of a luxury these days!?), nor will someobdy called a "hussier de justice" in your neighborhood hunt you down and threaten to confiscate items in your apartment. But you will pay health insurance and medical costs through the nose. You don't come out of the metro with tears only to run into the ex who said he hoped you understood why he could never see you again. You don't meet your next lover in the library, but you also don't stay up talking until 3am, because you have to be at work at 8am the next day. You can find health food on every corner, but you can't get a decent baguette. You no longer know where your beef came from before it was wrapped in celophane, but you can get Neuskee's thick-cut bacon. You only have to make a phone call to resolve problems, as opposed to writing formal letters with all the proper etiquette phrases. Bottom line. The post office in the USA no longer uses hand-written ledgers to track packages. This is the "old world." And in general, I find it quite charming and agreeable. But not today.

This, too, is Paris

EuroNews does a segment called "No Comment' where they just show video without commentary or explanation. It's really powerful. Occassionally uneventful (when you strip away all that we inject to create drama...).

This is my No Comment. Only to mention that it's a photo taken in my arrondissement at a sit-in against homelessness...where homeless people literally constructed a contained shantytown of tents, blankets and boxes. And they stayed there for months.

Photo taken by Jimmy Louchart of the blog Paris Environs

Jimmy Louchart / CC BY 2.0

It could be worse

There are a lot of crappy jobs out there. When I was little I thought the worst possible job belonged to the garbage man. Today a new one tops my list. A jack-hammer operator. There is one across the street from me. All day he's been starting and stopping with that most horrible machine. Not only is it jolting him around, he's wearing a helmet and ear protection....but he's the brunt of hostility from every business person and resident on this street trying to work, live or just watch tv. Even the passer-bys are irritated by his work. Unfortunately for the jack-hammer operator, he is the one to blame for the lack of peace today.

Je suis américaine

Every French newspaper had his photo covering the entire front page. There were photos from his childhood within, entire spreads and special supplements. The French are SO happy about Barak Obama. (And well, I wouldn't be writing this if I wasn't SO happy too!!) I wanted to blog the very day after the election because the energy was palpable. My brother Jon called to get a guage of the internation response....which I confirmed to be quite positive. There were parties upon parties throughout the city...though most of us decided to stay home to watch from our sofas (results weren't in until 5am for us), calling and texting each other to report our heightening excitement as the results rolled in. I was riding on a tidal wave of happiness after the election, but I wanted to wait to write. Perhaps it would just be a passing fad. But just two days ago I was in the fromagerie buying some very stinky cheese I wouldn't have dreamed about eating 3 years ago when a typical-looking French man was monopolizing the check-out cheese cutter's attention. He was so animated, his white hair poking out from underneath a black beret...and I wasn't listening at first, until he opened his jacket to reveal suspenders with American flags all over them! "Je suis fiér! C'est le premier fois que je les portes!"...."I am proud...it's the first time I'm wearing them!" He wasn't American. But I broke into a huge smile and told him how much I loved his suspenders. And that I, too, was proud. He congratulated me. And in fact, since the election results last Wed. I've been congratulated by French people, British people, a Kenyan friend, some Algerian girls...and my Angolan-Brazilian friend told me that he wanted to pack up and move to America. The world truly is still celebrating. But they're not just celebrating Obama. They are celebrating us, we Americans who made this decision, we Americans who showed the world that our voice is strong and that we truly ARE for progress, that we are interested in putting ourselves and our country on a different path. They are proud of us. And as an American citizen abroad, I can feel the shift in perception. Just this morning I passed by a store displaying Obama shirts in the window. "Hope" is the word written below an artist's depiction of his face. It's a week after the election, but I have no doubt that the shirts will remain. This energy is lingering, and I am happy to report being happy to say, "Je suis américaine!"

Legal to research

It doesn't look like much...a little yellow cardstock thing (which only looks big because of the angle and how close it is to my computer's camera!)....BUT this is the much-needed "Certificat de Scolarité," meaning that I am official here. I just got my student card and these things in the mail....so now I can proceed, once again, to the Prefecture to solidify my residence permit. Until Aug. When I will either go home or enter the process again. The coolest part of this card, for me, is that it says "M2 R Lettres modernes"....meaning 2nd year Masters in Research. I'm a jeune chercheur. A young researcher. Now I have to get off of blogger and get back to reading!

An interesting road ahead

I have started my second year's master's classes. I switched schools, changed programs even, and have been greeted with the stark and very real reminder that I am NOT in an English-speaking country. I say this because, in all honesty, I sometimes forget. The majority of my friends are anglophone...and those who aren't, can speak English quite well...and prefer to! In Paris, if you ask nearly any ex-pat if they are friends with more French people or more foreigners, they will laugh aloud as if you asked the most assinine question possible. Foreigners. Bien sûr! We find each other in this home away from home...we form bonds easily in our displacement. And we form friendships on a common language that doesn't leave us without great expressions, in which we can be completely ourselves, in which we can actually be funny! So I find myself speaking more often in English than in French. Which is too bad, of course, and yet when a French prof says that we must cut ourselves off from people who speak our language, I think there's no way that I would choose to continue living in this country if I didn't have my core group of friends!
All of this is to say that this year I'm no longer operating to any extent--academically--in English. I will also write this year's 100-page thesis in French. Argh. I worry about eloquence, I wonder if I can be nuanced, I fear that I can't be poetic or visual. Not to mention the extra time it will take to look up words I don't know, to find (or not find) equivalent expressions, and to ensure that my structure is "French" enough. I will have to find several readers/editors...I can't just sit down and let me ideas flow...and I will rarely be entirely certain that what I put on the screen won't, in some way, be modified, cut, or re-written by somebody whose French is maternal. But I guess the time had to come. I have to remain positive...and perhaps write myself a note on the bathroom mirror: "You are still smart in French."

Oh, the France

I could be a movie star, or a robber. I never know in this country. The other day I was walking home and several men on the street kept staring as I approached them. The one, holding a baguette sandwich, suddenly got an excited look on his face, and he hurried up to me and asked for my autograph. "Why?" was my natural response. Then the other two guys are looking at me, scrutinizingly, one saying, "Non, it's not her," the other, "Yes it is her!"...guy with the sandwich is still looking at me eagerly, says, "Well, you are ****, non!?" Non. I'm not her. I laugh, walking away, still being eyeballed. Then on Friday I go to my local Monoprix...it's a small and more friendly version of a WalMart here. Groceries upstairs, home/beauty/clothes on the street level. I grab my toothbrush, soap, mascara, head upstairs for the only thing I needed up there: a package of toilet paper. I was going to check out upstairs when I remembered that I wanted to find a water-filtering pitcher. So I went back downstairs. A plain-clothes guy approached me: "Did you pay for that already?" he asks while reaching over my arms to touch the pack of toilet paper. "Non, not yet." "Oh, well, you cannot be downstairs with that. You must pay for it upstairs." Hmmm. Okay. I had already inquired, when I was new to the store, if I could pay for items from the downstairs, upstairs. Yes, not a problem. So I tell this plain-clothes security man..."Oh, I see...I can carry things upstairs, but not downstairs." Right. I ask if I can just grab the water filter and head right back upstairs to pay. No. I was standing right next to the stairs...needing to go into the ailse RIGHT next to where we were talking. No. Not possible. You must go upstairs immediately to pay! Really!? Wow, alright. So I go...and he's coming with me. I ask him, yes yes yes, he must now accompany me to make sure I pay. Hmmm. Even wants to tell me which cash register aisle to get into! He waits at next to the cashier, he watches me, he then goes to walk with me back downstairs. He leans in and confidentially says, "You know, I really should have taken you as a robber, but I know you are not....so you just have to obey this rule and then we won't have to take you into security!" Wow, alright...yes yes yes, I understand now the rule, thank you very much sir, and no, I am not a robber. So I'm back downstairs, now looking for the water filter. A tall man with a "Security" sweater is now talking to Mr. Plain-clothes. Security dude walks up to me and says, "Mademoiselle, I need to see your cash register receipt." WHAT!? Are you joking!? I actually started laughing. A 6-pack of pink toilet paper was causing THIS kind of commotion? So then I ask him where, in the store, is this ever-so-serious rule posted so that the customers KNOW not to make such an infraction. Oh, it's posted somewhere. "But WHERE?" I inquired, now getting completely annoyed. Oh, but it's a rule. RIGHT, a rule that is NOT posted anywhere. I argued and laughed and finally suggested that perhaps they make the rule visible. And left the store. They didn't carry water filter pitchers afterall. But the worker in that department couldn't tell me that. She just gave me a "Pfff" and said she had no idea if they carried such a thing....I should just look around to find out! But then today I had a moment of redemption. I went to the outdoor Sunday market, and at one of the butcher's, I asked for chicken breasts. The butcher pulled out the whole chicken....threw it on the wooden block, and proceeded to whack off it's head, it's legs, and then dive into the center to extract the center white meat breast. Whew! I got skin and all, a few bones. But he liked my eyes. Thought I must be from the north of France. (Usually I'm mistaken for a German, so that was a completely new identity mistake!) So he gave me a champagne-corked bottle of blond beer! It's local to some region of France, though I don't know where. Perhaps the North. Just tucked it right in there with my chicken wrapped in paper.

And there is a Part Deux!

Summer vacation part two takes place in the States. It makes me realize, though, that I am completely discrediting almost 4 weeks of vacation in Paris! I can honestly say, though, that my categorical self almost blocked that part of my time, knowing that I still had my trip home to follow. So going home meant first going to Monterey, California, for my Mom and Paul's wedding. It was more fantastic than I anticipated! I was lucky to stay in the same hotel room as my mom...with Leah as well and Paula in an adjoining room. So we did our hair together, our make-up...drank wine, talked at night, and tried and re-tried different outfits together. I got to see the excitement in my mom as she awaited her wedding. And I think the second time is quite powerful. To say those vows to somebody after having lived them with somebody else. To know what they truly mean, to understand what that commitment entails, to be courageous and confident enough to make it work. My mom and Paul re-discovered each other, and I am so happy that they have both found happiness in their relationship. I didn't know necessarily how the marriage would change the dimension, but after having been home, I get it. I saw it. I felt it. So....going back, the wedding in California was amazing....

Then I was back in Wisconsin. The first stop was a trip to Lake Geneva to see my friend Steph and her now 5-year-old daughter Auden. This has become an annual affair, and it's such a joy to see Auden's growth each year. This year to see her start to swim, to ask questions about my family, to watch her act out entire scenes from The Sound of Music...she can recite poetry by heart, she sings Ani DiFranco, she even drove the boat. Then at night, Leah, Steph, and I sit on the couch or porch and sip a little wine, talk, and occasionally dive into the container of custard! I then had time with my dad, got to see his last softball game of the season, didn't help at all in the house he's working on, but I did help pick out two vanities, sinks, and fixtures! We made dinners, sat out by the pool, spent time at Crystal Lake, took some morning walks (though we both agreed, not enough of them!)...and had some really great and necessary conversations. I also played with my high school class in a fundraiser softball tournament. Leah sat on the bleachers with my dad, Mom, and Paul, as they all watched me strike out every single time! I also got to spend some time in Milwaukee with Josh...hang out in the Cholive headquarters, go out together, meet up with mutual friends of ours...and I even got to see one of my former students from LE. My mom and I also did our summer peach canning... And then for the first time in 12 years, I went to the Sheboygan County Fair!! The cows, I adore. Had to see them the first night with my dad. We also went to see my horse, Mac, and I almost cried when I walked into his stall. I bought him when he was 4, and he's now 22 years old! And still looking and moving beautifully! Then we found my cousins and their friends...people I knew from years back, friends I showed horses with...and we all experienced an Oil Can Harry concert. I can't remember the last time I drank so much beer, nor had so much beer spilled all over me! The only logical thing to do, then at 1 am, was to go to my dad's pool! I then got back to the fair with my mom and aunt...and we did all the animal barns (particularly intrigued by the poultry! what diversity!!), did the crafts barn, looked at the canned food and knitting and cases upon cases of breads and other baked goods!

And then I went down to Chicago. Leah moved into the most fabulous apartment...so I helped her unpack, arrange and re-arrange...we schemed about the best places to read, to dance, to talk on the phone, to watch the sun turn pink, and to, of course, drink coffee! I also got to make a trip to Indiana to visit Obadyah. His situation deserves its own posting...so I will save that. I got to see my old hair-dresser, Patrick, who gave me a fabulous cut...got to have dinner with cousin Nic, hang out with Heather Foley...and just enjoy time being with Leah in her environment.

Then merely days later, the Munsterer's arrived. They are my sister-in-law Molly's family! They all came for the Ironman triathalon in Madison....which my brother Jon was, of course, participating in! With cars packed full with coolers, food, cowbells, sneakers, layers, an outdoor tent and chairs, and even a megaphone...We carpooled to Madison, where Jon had already arrived and checked out the course with his coach, Pete. The weekend was absolutely amazing. Inspirational. Non-stop fun! We were such a good "Team Jon": Munsterer's, Becky (Molly's sister), Josh, Leah, Paula and Dan, Pat and Steve, Dad, Mom and Paul... of course the two yellow labs, Scout and Duke! Molly made us all matching t-shirts, and having loaded up on a carbo dinner, we were all ready to hit the course at 5:30 the next morning! Jon of course got there much earlier! With the sun rising over Lake Mendota, all the swimmers got into the water. It was like a sea of minnows when the cannon sounded and everyone spanned out across the water. Jon finished his 2-mile swim in an hour. Paula and I watched him transition from the swim to the bike...we all met up, and then drove out to our spot along the bike route. The bike was 112 miles...and we were at marker 45 and 90 miles. We met up with Pete, set up 2 tents...and then proceeded to yell and cheer and clap and dance...make human pyramids and do kick lines and ring bells for the next 5 1/2 hours to cheer on the bikers! I think Jon gave us the biggest complement ever when, after all was said and done, he said that we were the most fun cheering group along the entire bike route! Oh, we had energy. (And when that lagged, we went to the coolers for beer!) Then we went to downtown Madison where we caught Jon on at least 6 times along the marathon route. We kept on cheering, taking more breaks to sit on any grass or pop into a bar from time to time. But then 12 hours later, we all parked it at the finish line. Jon (still running!) came through at 12h45min. He did sooooo well! The sun had set over the capitol building, and there was music blasting...and Jon was so amazingly still full of energy! He had more than we did! We took photos and then went back to the hotel where none of us could even walk anymore. But Paul had brought celebratory champagne, so after getting Wendy's burgers, Jon and Molly came back to meet us all in the hotel where we opened champagne and re-invigorated ourselves by re-counting the days events...and asking Jon a thousand questions! The next morning we had IHOP breakfasts and thanked our stars that the day's rain hadn't fallen during the Ironman. And then I had to say good-bye. And it all felt very strange. To Josh the night before, to Leah after breakfast, and to Jon and Molly at the hotel. But it was the most fabulous way to end all of our summer vacations. Because all summer we'd all been talking about Italy...then California...then the Ironman. And when that final benchmark is over, a different reality hits. So next: Christmas!!

Summer Part 1

Jon and Molly visited me in Paris back in June. They were here to greet me at my apartment with flowers and champagne when I finished and passed my thesis defense. We walked, we took our time, we ate great food, we danced and danced, and we ended up at a Chinese restaurant for a poetry reading we never heard. But we ate Chinese chicken and got inappropriately hit on. We talked at night and laughed over beers, ran into a problematic washing machine at the laundromat, hung out with friends, and stopped often for coffee and wine.

Then we all met in Amalfi, Italy. In a villa for 14 people, we had a rather revolving door of friends and family in and out for 2 weeks. We started days with yogurt and coffee, did yoga and spent entire afternoons on the concrete slab by the sea. We jumped from the cliff and took group swims over to a public beach, we snacked on bread and procuitto and pecorino, we ordered our groceries daily with the help of an Italian dictionary and Leah's sister Mari's preparatory Italian lessons. We ordered local wine. We got lemons from groves above our house, tomatoes on the vines with leaves, entire half wheels of fresh cheese, Italian meats wrapped in paper, fresh basil and beans and zuccini. The chefs gathered at 8ish, everyone was showered and dressed up for nightly dinners. We played music and lit candles and cooked for 14 people...Polenta and pasta, rissoto and vegetables and salads and fresh fish (thanks to Nic!). We played games or just sat and talked in the soft light of the moon across the Mediterannean.

Leaving the villa, Leah, Mari, and I went to Rome for 2 days. Then Leah and I went to Greece. Trouble getting out of Rome, I ended up in Athens a day after Leah, but we eventually got on a ferry to Santorini. Thank goodness that Santorini quickly negated the horror of having rode the ferry for 12 hours, sitting and sleeping only on a wooden bench breathing in dark black ferry exhaust. But we hit the beech in Santorini. And never left it. Really. Our hotel was right on the beach walk, across the pedestrian street from the pebbles and tiki umbrellas that mark the beaches of Kamari. Outside cafés, warm sun, a day in the "capital" city of the island--Fira--which led to an entire afternoon in an artist's studio, drinking his father's wine, smoking Greek cigarettes, and listening to classical music. He took us to a super local dinner in the old port, where we pulled apart freshly-grilled sardines and calamaris, washing them down with little beers. Andrés. Amazing art, very interesting man. Sizzling cheese, dolmas, eggplant salad, tzaziki, moussaka, stuffed tomatoes...(clearly a foodie's delight!) The sunsets were amazing, the people so open and friendly, and every night we found ourselves out with new groups of people.

That was summer Part 1. European vacation. Beach vacation on the Mediterranean. I returned to Paris without my bags, in a sun dress, to find 55-degree weather and rain. But July wasn't all that bad. Though I admit that it doesn't qualify as vacation Part 2. That took place in the States. And that will be a new blog altogether....!

Where to Start???

But really, how to I return to blogging after a 3-month hiatus? After having had the most amazing summer in the 30 years I've been living? After having passed through several milestones, come to some pretty important realizations, and built memories that go way beyond the beauty of the photos. I don't know. But I know that the summer is over, it's now Sept. 11th (can't help but always think back on this day...where I was, who I was with...at LE, first period composition class), and I will now settle back into the routine that makes up the life I've chosen at this time. Summer, all that it beheld, and the way I chose to spend it are all elements that also make up the life I've chosen. The best of the best, really. But even the all-star team breaks up and goes back to the batting cages. Thank goodness Paris is more exciting than my batting!!! (As evidenced in the softball tournament I played in where I struck out EVERY time I went up to bat!)

I don't know where to start. So I won't right now. Besides, it's 2:40 am, and I really should be sleeping. My body isn't quite adjusted. Or else it's the emotional high, the motivation, the energy I'm cruising on after having just (finally!) watched Obama's DNC speech. Wow. THAT is the America I want to say I am a part of. This is the embodiment of what I believe it means to be an American. But sparing political talk (for now)...this is just a blog posting to say that I WILL be posting blogs soon...I have MUCH to tell, pictures to show, thoughts to share. Stay tuned, please, if you haven't already given up all hope of this blog ever coming back to life! It's coming back.

30. A year of Balance.

So I hope, anyhow, that 30 will be my year of balance. I say that only because I DO feel so balanced at this point of my life...and there's something profound about passing into this decade of my life. I know major changes will occur, I will have to make life-changing decisions, and Lord only knows where I'll be at the end of this decade!

My 30th birthday passed with a bang. My mom was here...I had a great party...and happened to be on break during that time so I could really take advantage of the time with my Mom...and just enjoy the moment!

And there's something intensely satisfying to be completely unattached right now. I know that Buddhism teaches that we have to let go of "holding on" to things...to people, to the past, to expectations, ideals. And this isn't easy. To let go of the ground beneath our feet. It's a contradictory message to all the other stuff we here...get "grounded," settle down, make roots, solid ground solid ground. But I get this, and it resonates with me. I do not want to lean, to depend, to be "figé" (stuck) in some place, some time, with some person...I need to feel completely whole and fulfilled just with me. Paris helps me do that. In some ways, it forces it, I guess...makes me think of a conversation I had over a glass of wine with an ex-boyfriend turned friend. I asked him if he goes into every relationship thinking long-term. His response, "Well, I am 32 now, Amanda! And what do you go into a relationship thinking?" Something new, something challenging and yet complimentary, somebody to ignite that which is latent but needs help shining, somebody with whom I can just "be"...in this moment. But that's because I'm here for who-knows how long. This is home, but not home. So how can I think long-term in the short-term...when this is on uncertain terms? And so I just am me. I'm not saying this works for everyone....cuz I know that people like to put down roots. Heck, I've GOT roots here...roots that I can't imagine yanking out right now! But as I walked home from an increadibly hard yoga class last night...after meeting some friends for dinner at a friend's new restaurant...sitting outside, walking home in my moccasins, making no sound, seeing the Seine sparkle and the warm breeze float over my bare shoulders...I just felt so free. No drama. No waiting. No wondering. No big decisions right now. Just here and now. And I want to maintain this balance. 30 is great. Now to maintain it without thinking about its "maintenance"!