Merry Christmas and a Happy Sylvester

If you haven't heard this story already (so not Emily, Joanna, Marian, my parents, Scott, Ashley, is there anyone else who even reads this?), you may be a bit confused by the title. The first time I heard this traditional English greeting, I was also slightly unsure of it's exact meaning. I was quickly enlightened by my landlord, who loves to tell me new words in the English language that no one who actually speaks English has ever heard of. Apparently, in some places (maybe a remote South Pacific Island formerly colonized by the British...I haven't been able to to confirm this yet, but I'm working on it), "sylvester" is another way to refer to the New Year. We asked a British girl if it was some random British thing, like sardines on toast or spelling "color" with a 'u,' but she said it wasn't. At least it was a way of breaking up our traditional conversation that we have every time my landlord actually shows up to collect the rent (he was supposed to come tonight and didn't show). Every time he comes, he reminds me of the time that the French UNIFIL guys left for vacation and didn't shut the water valves. He got a call at 4.00am telling him that there was water flowing over the balcony of his apartment. When they got back from their vacation and saw the damage, all they could say was "Mr. Abbas, you told us. And you were right. And now we will pay for everything because you were right. If only we had listened to you and shut off the water valves." And so you see, Miss Amanda, you must close the water when you leave the house! Also, give me more money because you use too much electricity.

Mr. Abbas isn't the only Arab man who has helped me learn more about my language. One of my friends in Jordan had a father who was a lawyer and also an expert in every language in the world. Of course, as he informed me, all languages are derived from Arabic. He took my raised eyebrows as a sign of my interest and continued. "For example, your word "genie" comes from our word 'jinn'." I nodded. This is true. Of course, considering the fact that we don't actually talk about genies on a daily basis and that they generally only come up in conversations involving Arabian Nights or Scheherezade, this wasn't exactly an earth-shattering revelation. But Abu Mohammad was not finished yet. "Your word 'good' comes from the Arabic word 'jayid' which is sometimes pronounced 'gayid' and therefore 'good'." I murmured something about the German word 'gut,' but he ignored me and began to clear up another commonly misconception. "Your word 'technology' comes from the Arabic word 'teknolojia'." So you see why everyone needs to learn Arabic. It's the only way to honestly be able to communicate what you truly feel. Or so Abu Mohammad told me...

So that’s your little language lesson from me and my linguist friends. I hope you all have a happy Christmas and a wonderful Sylvester. I also hope you have some great friends who will give you exciting presents like some of the ones I have received- Guccirash perfume and a shiny porcelain picture frame with a dolphin on a spring leaping in front of the photo that will be inserted there someday. Enjoy your fake or real trees as I enjoy the dead one I spray-painted silver. And have fun with your families as I am enjoying mine…see you in 20 minutes, Emily, with the dressing, the rolls, the chocolate mint dessert and the marshmallows for your sweet potatoes. Bejewelled or Family Band tonight?

This is my Christmas photo with my tree and the Fuzz.

The Great Thanksgiving Melon Pumpkin Adventure-how I saved Thanksgiving

This week there have been two recurring themes in Emily's and my lives: Thanksgiving is ruined or Thanksgiving is saved! Can't find pumpkin pie filling...Thanksgiving is ruined. Find pumpkins...Thanksgiving is saved! No canned green beans...ruined. Frozen broccoli...saved! Burned rolls...ruined. Successful pies made in glass bowls instead of pie pans...saved!

This week has certainly been a shopping adventure for us. We hoped to find pumpkin pie filling in cans somewhere in Beirut, but we lucked out. Still, we did find a beautiful pumpkin that I'll tell you about later. Since last year I'd had to use a real pumpkin, I wasn't too worried about doing again this year. Dreading it, yes, because it is a lot of work, but now I knew it would be ok. Also, I was greatly cheered by the presence of Hello Panda in the grocery store.

Probably our biggest shopping adventure was the saga of the Turkey. Naturally, we assumed that the butcher area at our local grocery store would sell turkeys. And when I asked him for turkey, he had it available. He politely asked how many slices we wanted. When I told him we wanted a whole turkey, he looked confused for a brief moment, and then brightened up and offered us the whole package of processed turkey sandwich meat. No, we said, we want a whole one...we shaped a turkey carcass with our hands in the air to make our point. He smiled and brought out a package that we thought must be what we wanted. Emily noted that you could see the legs in the shape of the package. I agreed that it looked right, but I felt vaguely suspicious of it. I told the guy that I thought that was right, but I wanted to feel it first. He looked at me with concern, but handed it over. To test it, I gave it a little squeeze. It squished. Obviously not what we wanted. We explained that we wanted to put it in the oven. The butcher shook his head sadly and offered us a whole chicken instead. We were on the point of accepting it when the butcher's assistant motioned for us to follow him. He took us out to the frozen vegetable section where they had a wide selection of ridiculously over-priced butterball turkeys! Thanksgiving was saved!!

Later that night we got out the pumpkin purchased earlier in Beirut. Emily put on Avonlea, so that we could enjoy old TV shows and marvel at the abilities of Canadian child actresses. Then we went to work. OK, I have to confess, I allowed Emily to do most of the work. I mean, if she's willing, why not? Soon, though, we noticed something a bit odd about our beautiful pumpkin. First, it smelled like a melon and second, it was greenish inside. Scott began to insist that we'd gotten some weird hybrid pumpkin-melon hybrid. He hinted that he would never have made the same mistake (although we had earlier given him the opportunity to go out and buy them for us and he had declined). We worried that it wouldn't work for our pie and bread, but chopped away anyway. We decided to risk it, and amazingly I can testify that the bread and pie were successful. There were some lumps, but that was because we didn't cook it long enough and we had to beat it out by hand because we have no blender. I actually had to sift through the pumpkin pie batter with my fingers to find the biggest lumps. (I didn't tell you that before, Emily, but don't worry-my hands were clean.)

Meanwhile, Emily decided to prove to the world that she is capable of cooking EVERYTHING required for a complete Thanksgiving feast by herself. I mean, it's possible that I could be expected to chip in a bit, but really she knows that the kitchen isn't exactly my happy place. I agreed to sit in there with her and chop and stir, which I did. (Yet another example of me saving Thanksgiving.) She made broccoli casserole, corn casserole, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, pineapple salad, green bean casserole, crescent rolls, dressing, and turkey. Also pecan pie with no corn syrup. It was all amazing-mostly because she did it all herself. I tried to help out by offering to let her use instant mashed potato stuff that I have at my house from its previous owner. But when I mentioned this, Emily looked at me like I'd suggested to let her roast up her cat instead of getting a turkey.

So in all, it was a successful Thanksgiving. We ate until we were very full and then laid around on the couch watching stupid things on TV. I'll put up photos on facebook soon. Those photos will include the ones we took when decorating the house for Christmas as well. That was also an exciting time involving stringing popcorn, making snowflakes and homemade clay ornaments. I think I'm going to get a job with Hallmark selling a new line of Christmas ornaments entitled: random animals eating Santa Claus. So far we have a crocodile and a whale eating up the old fat guy. We'll do some market research to decide which animal is next for the collection. Precious Moments? What is that crap?

Hello Panda!

"Hello Panda is a brand of Japanese biscuits (cookies), manufactured by Meiji Seika. Each biscuit consists of a small hollow shortbread layer, filled with either vanilla, strawberry, peanut butter or chocolate filling; chocolate is the most commonly available variety. Recently a yellow-boxed version containing the biscuits with a chocolate shell (instead of the usual shortbread) was released.
It was first released in Japan during the Summer of 1979. Printed on the biscuits are cartoon style depictions of giant pandas; presumably this is where the product derives its name.
Hello Panda was originally baked in Japan by Meiji Seika, but production later began in Singapore, Philippines and Indonesia.^[1] The Singapore bakery facilities started producing other Meiji products in 1974. The biscuits are exported to most developed countries, such as the United States.
The biscuits are commonly sold in a tall, hexagonal box with 2 oz or 57.5 g. In some countries, Hello Panda biscuits are available in small 21 and 35g aluminum pouches, as well as 350g boxes and 450g tins."


The article above was from that acclaimed website Wikipedia to which all dedicated scholars must go at various times in their lives when they desire some important piece of knowledge that cannot be found anywhere else. In this case, I'm cutting out the middle man for all of those scholars. I already know what Hello Panda is, and, true to my generous nature, I thought I'd share with all of you the joys of this cute snack little from Japan.

I discovered Hello Panda while living and studying in Jordan. Jordan does not completely fit into the "developed countries" list that Wikipedia mentioned in the second to last paragraph of the article above, but Jordan is moving up in the world, and evidence of that is the availability of Hello Panda in most small convenience stores in the capital city of Amman. The delectable flavor of this scrumptious treat is described above so I do not need to go into much more detail, but truly the Japanese outdid themselves with this one. Hello Panda certainly kicks Hello Kitty in her non-existent tail. I mean, does Hello Kitty come with chocolate in her face? I don't think so... You can see that Hello Panda is vastly superior to a great number of other Hello Animals. So naturally, when I left Jordan behind, I was very sad to say goodbye to my Hello Panda friend. Until yesterday when my life re-gained its meaning.

Yesterday, after an hour of driving around in circles trying to find an entrance to City Mall that was not under construction, we finally made it in. Scott had been waiting for us in the mall for several hours at this point. His original intent was to watch a nerdy Star Wars cartoon that Emily and I, being the true film connoisseurs that we are, refused to watch with him. Instead we went to the travel agent where I was planning to buy a ticket to the States for my sister's wedding. I didn't end up getting the ticket there due to a small error on the travel agent's part where she told me the ticket was $380 cheaper than it actually was. I ended up buying the cheaper ticket online because I am a nice person who tries to save her sister money even though that sister didn't have the courtesy to wait for me to get home before she decided to get married. At least this way I get to see her early... As it turned out, the geek-movie was not playing contrary to internet information (not everything on the internet is as reliable as Wikipedia). So Scott went on to the grocery store to wait for us to come back from what was supposed to be a short trip. Several hours later we met up with him in the store, relieved (Emily was anyway) to find he had not yet spent all their hard-earned money on random crap. He was also relieved to see us and proceeded to play grocery store tour guide for us. He has since contacted an agent and will soon be publishing a map and book detailing the finer points of the store layout and product availability.

Happy to have companionship again, Scott quickly ushered us towards the shining aisles. "Here we have Taco Bell salsa! And here on your right there are Fritos! Look up to your left-Poptarts!" We ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the appropriate moments, and Emily, competent housewife that she is, selected the least over-priced items that will make great meals for when I come over accidentally on purpose at dinner time. I admit to being tempted by things like salsa (a staple food for me that fulfills the vegetable requirement on my food pyramid), but I am also almost as cheap as the man who raised me. (We never got to buy cheese puffs because you got more grams for your money if you bought pretzels.) But then, while Scott and Emily were looking at some kind of sauce that I didn't know existed, I saw it!! A beam of light illuminated them on the shelf of assorted crackers and cookies. That's right! HELLO PANDA!!! I did a little happy dance and began to sing the song inspired by Hello Panda right there in the store while Scott and Emily pretended not to know me. I selected a bag of individual Panda packs and then floated after them throughout the store, no longer minding the monotony of the Great Search for Quaker Oats by Emily that is still going on today. Occasionally I would burst into song whenever I glanced down lovingly at the package of Hello Pandas cradled in my arms like a baby.

The real test came later in the car when I, being the selfless person that I am, tried to share my Hello Panda joy with Scott and Emily. For some reason, they were hesitant to trust my cultured taste buds' testimony. They claim it was the chocolate jam-filled marshmallows that I made them try. I maintain that those are an amazing feat of edible chemical engineering. But eventually Emily agreed that Hello Pandas are quite tasty. I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm, but Emily can't help not being as refined as I am. She grew up in America and thus derives her joy from such mundane things as Reese's Cups. Reese's cups...they don't even have a face!

Martyr's Day

November 11th is the day to remember those who blew themselves up in crowded marketplaces or died a suspicious death in a hospital. I also recently found out that it is something called "Memorial Day" in the land of my birth...I'm not sure what Memorial Day is but I think it's something similar to Martyr's Day. You know, one of those days that are not special enough to be an official holiday but are still marked on calendars for some reason. Still, it was a memorable event for us over here.

Last night, I put on high heels and hobbled out the door to the Yasser Arafat memorial show. Once there we found a nearby place to park (for which I was happy because of the aforementioned painful shoes), we followed the crowd into the brightly-lit arena. The important men sat soberly in front, impeccably attired in their camouflage outfits which rendered them almost unnoticeable amongst the concrete and plastic chairs surrounding them. There were many AK-47s present as well. Scott kindly described to me, with intricate detail, the many differences between the AK-47 and the M16. And what I remember from that discussion is that, contrary to popular belief, there is no such thing as an AK-45 or an M13.

As the only foreigners, we were given special seats in the front, right beside the loud speaker which we appreciated greatly. Throughout the whole show, helpful camera men took many videos and photos of the crowd directly behind us. Since we were politely watching the show, we never discovered what was so fascinating about our particular part of the crowd, but whatever it was definitely deserved an infinite number of photos and videos for posterity's sake.

The show was a typical one. There were several passionate speeches yelled loudly in classical Arabic. Interspersed throughout the whole program were various emotional poems also delivered with great feeling and volume. Finally there were many dances involving shiny costumes and flags turned into dresses. As is also typical of these kinds of programs, the speaker volume was so loud that you couldn't actually hear what people were saying (screaming) into the microphones. My brain was throbbing in my skull to the beat of each syllable that came bursting out of the impressive sound system.

Throughout the program I concentrated carefully on my attentive face. I had to maintain the right mix of enjoying the program while soberly pondering the reason for the season. Facial expressions are always crucial to your foreigner image. Still, while I'm mocking, because that's what I do, it always makes me sad to see children dancing around with coffins and authentic-looking fake guns to violent songs calling for war and martyrdom. These people have suffered a great deal, but continuing to foster a culture of violence in their young hasn't helped them either. Case in point: an exciting little fight broke out in the back section of plastic chairs during one of the acts. Everyone got up and turned to watch the fight instead of the cute little boys who were actually putting on the best act of the night (Arabic drums). The men broke up the fight and kicked out the perpetrators, but these kids have a lot of frustration that they want to get out. They can't get certain jobs or educational opportunities because of their lack of citizenship in the country where they live. They are doomed to follow in the footsteps of their fathers, fixing cars or running a little store no matter what their education level. But I have hope that things will change. I overheard one of my friends emphatically telling another lady that they need to take all the violence out of these kinds of programs. I was surprised to hear her say that, but happy. Of course, there's always the chance that I misunderstood and she was actually calling for more violence. The loudspeaker was right over my left ear...

This photo isn't from the Martyr Day event, but it is an example of the same sort of costumes and dances that are typical of these types of events.

The Wedding-by popular demand

As many people have requested this story in print, I am taking this time to tell it.

While all weddings have their special moments, the last wedding I went to was especially exciting. It may be the fact that we had to leave early due to an altercation involving my friends, but that's just an assumption.

It began in the usual way. We were told to meet at a certain place at 7.00 even though the wedding would begin around 8.00. In Lebanon, as in much of the Middle East, weddings don't necessarily begin at a certain time. People show up, sit down at a table and wait for the bride and groom to arrive. Lebanon is unique, though, as most weddings are mixed. Men and women attend together and even dance together! This would cause great scandal in most other places, but people here don't seem to mind.

So we were running a bit late as we were visiting another friend in the same camp, and she was not ready to let us go yet. Nor was her daughter who has a fondness for Scott and biting people who don't do what she wants. You can see our dilemma. I called the house to see if they were really ready for us or if they were running late as is usually the case. I was informed that the girl we were meeting was not there. She'd already left for the party. This made us a bit concerned as we didn't actually know the way to the hall where the wedding was to be held. So I called her cell and she actually hadn't left yet, just her brother thought she was gone. But she did tell us to hurry over as everyone was waiting for us. So we hurried over (leaving before the biting kid realized we were gone) and then waited at the meeting spot for 30 minutes for the people who were all supposed to be ready and waiting for us.

Finally we made it to the wedding. We parked near the hall while our friends parked near the gate. So we waited at the entrance to the hall for our friends to meet us to go in. While we stood there, the nervous wedding coordinator tried to hustle us inside. We told him we were waiting for our friends, but we could see the wedding drummers assembled outside, ready to enter, and I wanted to go in so that we wouldn't miss the excitement. After several long agonizing minutes of waiting for girls in high heels to amble our way, we went in and found a semi-empty table near the front. We were just in time to watch on the projector screen in front of us the arrival of the drummers and the bride and groom. We quickly noticed that had we still been standing at the spot where we'd been waiting for our friends, we would have been in the midst of the drumming and dancing and waving. That would have been a bit awkward.

The wedding began typical to most weddings here. Several young men dressed in traditional clothes drummed and tootled on horns and danced around swinging prayer beads over their heads while doing intricate kick dances. Amidst all this fanfare, the bride and groom are escorted in by more kick-dancing young men. They wave amiably at the cheering, ululating crowd that you can't actually hear because of the even louder music. The groom is dressed in a typical tuxedo/suit thing and the bride is wearing a cross between lingerie and a wedding dress. She is the first bride I've seen who wasn't wearing the head-covering and she was definitely willing to show off her body. The bodice of the dress was similar to a corset made of some kind of see-through netting which revealed the excessive curves of her body. While Song of Songs compares the Beloved's neck to the Tower of David, in this case the bride's hair more closely resembled an architectural triumph over gravity. Together they stood awkwardly while the dancers performed several more numbers, including an elaborately choreographed sword fight. No Arab wedding is complete without swords. At this point, I started helping Marian take notes for her own wedding. Finally the happy couple was escorted to the couch throne but not for long. They had to get up and dance the first couple dance. During the dance, the helpful wedding coordinator whispered instructions in their ears at various moments.

Then the festivities began in earnest. People spilled out to the dance floor, joined hands, and began the debke. This is a glorified hokey-pokey dance that really looks cool. The young men make it look good adding in energetic jumps and turns. Emily and I made it look awkward, trying to keep up with the steps that kept changing. Finally the debke was over and we could actually just dance. After the dancing slowed a bit, the lights changed as a signal to all to vacate the dance floor so that the staff could wheel in an enormous 12-layer cake. The soundtrack to this momentous occasion was none other than Vanilla Ice's musical masterpiece "Ice Ice Baby." The crowd at our table went wild. (Emily knows every profound lyric of this work of art). While swaying gently to the music, the bride and groom together grasped a long sword handed to them by the ever-present wedding coordinator and chopped the cake in half. Then, still dancing, now to "I Like to Move It-Move It," they shared cake and linked arms to drink the juice. This looked awkward and possibly threatening to the poofy white gown below. After the exchange of the rings, the dancing got started again.

During this bout of dancing, we were on and off the floor. We were served the sweet but bland tasting cake with crunchy fruit surprises hidden at random places inside. During one of these rest times we noticed a mass exodus of guys from the room. We were informed that a fight was going on outside. We stayed out of it, but later Ashley went out and came back with the exciting news that there was blood on the steps outside. Later when we ourselves were quickly vacating the premises, we noticed this blood. We thought that would be the most exciting part of our night there when another fight began. Apparently, our friends were dancing when an aunt of the groom told our friend (a relative of the bride) that she couldn't dance in the middle of the debke circle which is traditionally reserved for relatives. Then someone pushed our other friend who was dancing with the relative. Her brother went up to defend her honor, but he is a little guy, and he was grabbed by the throat by the aunt's relative. Our friend inserted herself between her brother and the other guy while the other brother rushed back to our table and told us to get up because we all had to leave now. We quickly gathered up our stuff, and left the hall.

Outside there was much confusion about whether or not we should go back in and make nice or just leave. When the lady who had been told she couldn't dance in the circle came out, she made the decision for us. She said she was not going back in and we all should leave. So we did. We tried to be very huffy about it to make a point.

So on the whole, the evening was a great success. Emily and I had wanted our sisters to experience an Arab wedding. And we'd had the bonus of getting to see a fight and being involved in another fight and best of all, we didn't have to stay until midnight because we got kicked out early!

Little added tidbit for your benefit: the next day while ordering food to go in a restaurant near my house, the waiter recognized me and Marian. "You were at the wedding last night, right?" He queried. "Yes," I told him. "Pretty wild night, huh?" That it was!

A photo of the sword cutting the cake that was obscured by the many guests and the staff. Use your imagination!

Wintertime

So, it's winter now. Or so I've been told. I was informed of this fact several times last week. First when trying to get a bus home from Sidon. Here is a snippet of our conversation, translated for the benefit of my 2 readers.

"We need to get on the bus to Tyre. Where is it?"

"Bus to Tyre? There are no more buses to Tyre. It's 8.30 at night!"

"I know it's 8.30. That's why there should be buses still going. I've taken a bus from here at 10.00 at night. Why did the buses stop so early?"

"Because it's wintertime! In the winter, we stop the buses at 6.00."

Instead of a bus, we ended up catching a taxi home, which cost way more, but we were mildly entertained by the Elvis figurine hanging from the rear view mirror. Apparently, according to my very wise taxi driver, Elvis died of AIDS. I'm sure if I'd given him the chance, he would have told me how the Jews managed to infect him with the disease and cover it up so that no one could find out, but we made it home before he could get to that part of the story. Amazing how we did it without snow chains on the tires!

The other time I was told of the new season, was by friends of mine when I invited them to come swim with us at the beach. Their response: "WHAT?! You're swimming now? We never swim during October! You will catch a cold and DIE! Don't you know that it's winter now?"

Now I admit that I am not the world's expert on winter, having grown up on a tropical island that is as close to paradise as many people will ever get. But I did think that 25 degrees Celsius (the temperature seen on an outside thermometer) and 86 degrees Fahrenheit (the temperature on our car thermometer) still counted as pleasant weather. I mean, I get cold when I eat ice cream, and at this point I am only in need of a jacket when I get in the car with Scott and Emily. Their way of dealing with culture shock is to make the inside of the car resemble the climate of Alaska (their adopted home state) as much as possible. Usually, when I start being able to see my breath in the car, I politely ask them to turn down the air conditioning. But, in spite of my Emily Post approved etiquette, Scott always thinks it's hilarious to turn the air conditioning colder (I turned it down! Hahaha.). But if I ask him to turn it off, I get the same response. So, I think I'll just leave a blanket in the car from now on. It's always a good idea to have blankets in the car during the winter anyway.

Musalsals (TV Shows)

Watching the most popular musalsal in a cafe with other rabid fans while smoking sheesha (after sundown of course)! That is the life!

It's Ramadan which means that there is no shortage of available TV programming for those fasting and the rest of us who are going to hell anyway. During Ramadan, people stay at home with their families (mostly) and the TV is almost constantly on. In the months preceding Ramadan, people are bombarded with advertisements of upcoming shows, much like Americans are bombarded throughout the entire year. Some shows are more popular than others, and some shows make it to "must watch TV" status. The most famous show in the Bilad Al-Sham (the Levant) is most definitely Bab Al-Hara (door of the village/neighborhood). This show follows the lives of people in a small Syrian village during the 1930s when the French occupied Syria and Palestinians were beginning resistance fighting in then-British occupied Palestine. This show includes amazing acting and intense plot-lines. Last year, living with a Jordanian family, I watched nearly every episode. This year I don't get MBC1 on my TV, which has been a great disappointment to me. But everyone has told me that the series was better last year anyway. Last year I developed a special fondness for Moataz, the young man who walked around forcefully with his eyeballs popping out of his head and yelled every one of his lines with a special passion. The big drama was when his dad divorced his mom for arguing with him and saying rude words. Because of that huge disgrace, the daughter's fiance was forced to break up with her even though he didn't want to. He laid around on his bed, refusing food or water and pined away for her until his father relented. Also the blind beggar was not really blind, he was a spy! And at the end of the show (a new episode is shown every day for the entire month) everything ends up great, with everyone getting married off (one guy got 2 girls!) and living happily ever after...until Ramadan next year when new troubles will inevitably plague their little town.

The popularity of this show also paid off big economically. Vendors began selling masks of the characters' faces to little children and making T-shirts of cast photos. Almost every child can boast of a Bab Al-Hara T-shirt or at least a Bab Al-Hara notebook. You know a show has made it big when the actors get put on T-shirts and other paraphernalia, as was the case with another well-known show from Turkey that was dubbed into Syrian Arabic called simply after the name of the main character "Noor".

"Noor" is a very controversial show in the Middle East, mostly because so many women have fallen madly in love with the lead male, Muhannad, a blonde, blue-eyed former model. This was not a Ramadan show so it has been on the air for quite some time already. This show is very complex. Noor and Muhannad are married because their families want them to be. Muhannad just got out of a unhealthy relationship when his fiance fell out of the car window into a valley and died. A tragic accident that millions all over the world can really relate to. But even though Noor and Muhannad start off as a marriage of convenience, two such beautiful people cannot help but fall in love, in spite of the many difficulties that assail them. Both of them go to jail at different times (unjustly of course), Noor is kidnapped by her psycho co-worker, Muhannad's ex turns out to be alive, in a wheelchair with a blonde kid named Muhannad (they meet up accidentally while vacationing at a ski lodge where all people in wheelchairs go for a bit of fun on the slopes). So between marriage troubles where they teeter on the brink of divorce for various reasons at various times and family troubles where members of their family teeter on the brink of divorce for various reasons at various times, their lives are exciting and romantic. Who wouldn't want to be them? They even look good in jail and in comas and while pregnant. They go from flat toned bellies to holding a bouncing baby. If you didn't know they were pregnant from their exceptional acting skills (holding their tummies occasionally and smiling) you would never guess. They are THAT beautiful. I'll put up some photos so you can see why women all over the Middle East are dreaming of leaving their husbands for Muhannad.



Can't you see why any woman would trade in her husband for him? Biting his own hand because even he can't resist how yummy he is!

Here is the happy couple together! It is also an example of the wonders of photoshop as I mentioned in my last literary masterpiece. The only difference between this photo and others I've seen is that sometimes the couple looks happy.

Personally, I like the idea of ending a show after a month. I think that shows in the States last way too long as a way of getting more money and after a few seasons there is nothing really interesting to include in the story so things get crazy or they just repeat themselves. How many people in Alias will we think are dead only to find them resurrected in someone else's body a few months later? How many times will Ross and Rachel break up? Why are there stupid polar bears on the Island? Who thinks up this stuff? There are many things we can learn from the venerated culture of the Arabs, and the art of creating sensational TV is just one of them.

Photography

When a visit gets dull or even when it's moving along fine, more often than not the big photo album comes out to be shown to the lucky foreign guest. (Side note: this probably doesn't happen to male foreigners too much because many times women who usually veil will take photos without their veils. This is why they can't display these photos for everyone to see. Perusing the family photo albums is just one more benefit of being a girl in the Middle East.)

From weddings to babies, photos are important reminders of the good times in life. Or are they? In fact, it is extremely rare to find a photo of someone who seems to be enjoying himself or herself. Scowling faces or deep ponderous eyes gaze into the camera. Of course, since most of these photos are wedding photos, it really isn't surprising that no one looks too happy. Most wedding photos are elegantly posed on couches taken from old French brothels. Baroque furniture and still life paintings crowd the background, giving the impression that the photo was taken in your grandmother's parlor. But with the advancement of modern technology and photoshop, things have gotten much more exciting!

These days, the classical couch photos still exist, but they are supplemented by others that allow you and the subject to be transported to a different place, often a place not of this world! Indeed, I myself have been allowed to feast my eyes upon photos of brides and grooms floating in space with firecrackers exploding behind them. (People here are amazingly fond of firecrackers, dynamite, and other explosives which may be the subject of another blog someday.) Others prefer an autumn forest of gold and red leaves covering the background of the photo. Still others enjoy posing on a romantic beach at sunset.

The traditional parlor room pose where lovers and babies repose in silent grandeur and the modern jet-setter pose where love takes people beyond borders without a passport are both moving, yet my personal favorite photoshop technique involves multiple images of the same subject in various poses in but one photo. So often, when many great shots are taken, frugal parents or lovers still do not want to buy that many photos. Instead of wasting these images, they are all moved into one frame. For example, the adorable baby is crawling in the foreground of a deserted island. On her back sits...herself in the same orange-striped outfit. To the side, near the blue-green sea, the same lovely baby giggles in the imaginary sunset, while two familiar baby eyes watch the scene from behind clouds. Proud parents aren't the only ones using this money-saving and artistic technique. Lovers also use it to show their devotion. The bride and groom sit stiffly side by side while the same bride looks down upon herself as part of a happy couple from the inside of a floating heart in the upper-right-hand corner. Sometimes her face is not in a heart, but in a rose or superimposed on the breast of the groom. Another friend of our has a slightly more narcissistic way of making use of this technique. In his self-portrait, his own face looks out at the world from his stomach in a special two-for-one viewing of his manly beauty.

We in the West do not take advantage of the vast scope of technology that sits at our very finger-tips. I rarely see photos in my homeland that rival the depth of those I see so often here. But I plan to change that when I take over photography for Marian and Josh's wedding. I will show the world what it is missing.

Plants and Chocolate

I hate plants. I mean, I'm not opposed to the whole oxygen thing that they help with, but people trying to create indoor jungles-that's what bothers me. Isn't there enough nature around us? Even in the cities, there are those weed things that grow out of the cracks in the sidewalk. And if you get really desperate, go to a park. Here I am, right by the beach. There are plenty of trees and other types of vegetation around me. Why does Anne need all these plants? I am trying hard to keep them alive, but that watering thing is difficult to remember. At present, there are several dead ones. The thing is, I don't care so much about these plants that I can't remember if they were dead when I got here or what. Also, aren't some plants supposed to turn brown at certain times? Should I keep watering them? And isn't it possible to drown plants? I wouldn't want to do that...Actually, I wouldn't really care, but Anne might. That is the main point of her wanting me to stay in her house. That, and not having to pack up everything.

For me, plants and flowers are in the same category of unnecessary things that require excessive attention for the brief period of time when they are still alive. Unfortunately, I'm a girl (I say that a lot for some reason). And people tend to want to give girls flowers. And as a girl, I'm supposed to like that. But what am I supposed to do with those flowers? Flowers are pretty until they die and turn into mulch. So you are supposed to put in them in some kind of vase which means first tearing off all of the frou frou ribbons and glittery cellophane. And then finding a vase is so complicated. Mostly because I don't have one and I tend to live at other people's houses. And other people tend to store those kinds of things on high shelves. I tend not to want to climb up to get things from a high shelf. Unless it's something good to eat. Like chocolate. Some people like to hide chocolate away from others. It's not very nice, but they do. If I have chocolate, it doesn't last long enough to get hidden. When it comes to chocolate or candy or whatever, I eat it in the moment that I want it. Because who knows if you'll ever want it more than that moment? And the enjoyment of the eating is directly related to how much you want to eat it. My Christmas candy never saw the New Year. That's ok though. I used my lack of candy as an excuse to beg from of my tender-hearted sisters.

Kissing

In community-oriented cultures like those in the Middle East, often there are complicated ritual greetings. The Middle Eastern kiss of greeting was made famous by Judas Iscariot in the Bible. Although that kiss was technically part of the Jewish tradition rather than the Arab tradition, a small amount of research will show the vast number of similarities between these two semitic cultures. However, there are some variances in kissing style based on gender, age, and country. This essay will attempt to dissect these differences for the common man's simple understanding with regards to the traditional kiss of the Levant.

In general, a person living or traveling in the Middle East will benefit greatly from the possession of the Y chromosome. But when it comes to kissing, my personal space issues and hatred of unnecessary physical contact make me glad to be female. (Personally, I avoid kissing whenever possible. I don't kiss my sisters or mom. I kiss my dad only if I need something and think that would persuade him. If I do kiss something voluntarily it is usually a cute child under the age of 5 or a cute animal, usually furry but not necessarily. I have kissed many turtles and frogs, but I think they are cute.) Ordinarily, when women kiss each other, there is no lip-cheek contact. Cheeks bump lightly and kissing noises are made. Most of the time, I am still able to be inquiring as to the health and overall well-being of my friend and all her relatives and so manage to skip the kissing noise. On the other hand, when I have observed the kiss of greeting between men, I have noticed that there tends to be exuberant lip-cheek contact. Apparently, this is construed as an acceptable manly display of affection. As is clinging tightly to each other while riding closely on small pink motorbikes...but that is a subject for a different essay.

While I mentioned that women usually refrain from lip-cheek contact, the main exception is
the elderly population. Old women will often pucker their lips intensely and tilt their heads to achieve maximum contact. Only my steely will-power keeps me from cringing. Also, I really like little old women, and I want them to like me.

Finally, my frequent moves have allowed me to compare the varying kissing patterns of different countries. In Jordan and Syria, the pattern goes like this: kiss on the left cheek of your friend, then move to the right cheek. A good friend kisses at least twice on the right cheek. An enthusiastic friend kisses multiple times on the right cheek. It is confusing for foreigners new to the system. We often feel awkward going in for an unexpected kiss or being pulled into an extra kiss we weren't expecting. My way of dealing with this problem is to always go in for the extra kiss with as much enthusiasm as you can muster. This shows your friend that you really love her and, as most pop songs will remind you, love is the most important thing of all. Love will keep us together.

After mastering the kissing technique of Jordan and Syria, I moved to Lebanon where I currently reside. The Lebanese, perhaps more influenced by their Western colonizers that their Levantine neighbors, kiss in a more European style: left cheek, right cheek. Good friends repeat this at least twice. Again, when in doubt, go in for the extra kiss to show you really care and that there's no love like your love and no other can give more love.

Hopefully, this little essay will help you to successfully manage your next encounter with Middle Easterners from the Levant. Although there are various styles amongst genders and those from different generations or countries, kissing is an important part of the culture. And of course, it is very Biblical. Paul frequently admonishes the believers to "greet one another with a holy kiss."

Domesticity

Usually, I describe myself as one who does not have much skill in the domestic arts, but this week I have impressed myself. Ok, it actually started out badly when I nearly exploded by house by lighting the oven twice (I thought it hadn't lit the first time) and then burned the hell (I mean this in a literal sense) out of the cinnamon bread I tried to make for my friend. Fortunately for her, she did not show up for our scheduled visit. So I ate the inside of the charred bread, which wasn't that bad. I never waste food, even food that is almost inedible.

But after that depressing incident, things improved. For one, because I thought my friend was coming over, I vacuumed a few places on the millions of rugs that Anne has all over her house. Or, as we say here, I "hoovered". (Ana 3am bhoofr. Heya 3am bthoovr. It's a great word that is fun to conjugate.) That hoovering inspired me to actually clean my room. No wait. The next day when I had lots of stuff to do that I didn't feel like doing, that's when I got inspired. Anyway, the point is, I don't have suitcases in my room anymore. It is a weird feeling, but kind of nice.

The crowning achievement of my domesticity has been these last few days. First of all, I made buttercrisp chicken (my favorite chicken thing that my mom made a lot because she knew I would make her life happier if she did). This I made from scratch! Which makes me happy because recipes stress me out. I feel like I have to measure everything a billion times and they use words like "fold" and "broil" which confuse me (does "broil" mean "baking something in the oven"?). And the best thing is that the chicken actually tasted good and went well with the salad that I also made. Ok, fine, it went well with the lettuce that was the only vegetable I had in the house because Fuzzy likes to eat it. I did wash the lettuce though.

And then I had another friend over. This friend actually came! And I successfully served her, using a tray. Serving drinks on trays is a necessity here. Serving everything on trays is a necessity. People would probably serve tissues on trays if they thought of it (tissues are what we use for napkins here-they're not very sturdy, but they are softer than paper towels). And I really hate trays and breakable dishes. But I didn't think I should serve drinks in brightly colored plastic cups, so I used the glass cups. And of course, the dreaded tray. Every time I carry a tray with anything on it, I have visions of me tripping and flinging food all over the room. I don't think this has actually happened to me, but it's one of my greatest fears. That and being stung by a bee which has also never happened to me. It's the proverbial fear of the unknown, I guess. Still, even if I knew what is was like to lose control of a tray, I don't think it would lessen my fear of it.

Finally, today I made zucchini bread to bring to the Iftar meal. And I didn't burn it. It looked perfect, but I didn't get to try any because they didn't serve it to us. I was kind of annoyed because usually they do. But since we were running late, I didn't have time to arrange it nicely on a plate. So maybe they didn't know how to get it out of the pan and didn't want to risk a faux pas by serving it wrong. Still, the batter tasted good and that is always a good sign.

And the best thing is, after I made the zucchini bread I remembered to turn off the oven. Which is something I didn't remember to do after the chicken. Well, technically, I remembered. Six hours later...

Pick-up Lines

Today, while swimming in the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean with Emily without Scott, we were greeted by a young man whose eloquence and charm inspired me to write this post. He called out, "Mademoiselle!" several times before I glanced over at him. Then, emboldened, he exclaimed, "You Beauty." I'm sure there was something else he wanted to say, but I had already snorted loudly and rolled my eyes, so he turned to Emily who quickly told him she was going to her husband. Yet another time that Scott has come in handy for us as an excuse. I usually use him as the reason to leave visits, claiming that Emily has to make dinner for him or something. When I visit alone, it's all I can do not to have to spend the night as people feel so sorry for me all alone in my house. (They don't know about Fuzzy). Anyway, this experience reminded me of many similar experiences that are definitely worthy of being immortalized here.

First of all, there is the classic "Welcome to Syria/Jordan/Lebanon/Egypt/etc." This is simple, to the point, yet shows a genuine hospitable spirit. I prefer it to that other age-old excuse to talk to girls who may be wearing a watch, "Can you tell me what time it is?" Other lines favored by the many shababes here include "How are you, girl?" and "Oh, your eyes is so beautiful!" or simply "I love you!"

But I can't give credit only to Lebanese shababes. Really the Syrians and Jordanians could give them a run for their money. Once near the Ajloun nature reserve, my friend and I were followed by a man with a pickax over his shoulder who asked us if we were afraid to be walking alone. We told him that we weren't afraid until a guy with a pickax started following us. He then asked for our numbers, which we didn't give him. Ten minutes later, having left him at his farm somehow resisting his invitation to dinner with his family, he ran up behind us. Apparently, he'd realized that he just couldn't let this opportunity slip by him. He informed us that he loved us (well, he was speaking English and the English language is deficient in the use of the second person pronoun and we couldn't be sure if he was talking to both of us or one of us) and then asked for our (same English pronoun question) hand in marriage. Again, somehow we resisted the urge to become sister wives of a Jordanian farmer.

Then there was the time in Syria when a student of mine gave me an ultimatum: marry me or I am going to Canada. I can only hope he found his true love amongst the lemmings and caribou of the Canadian wilderness.

One young Lebanese man, asked me if I'd had plastic surgery or if I was just born beautiful...

And let's not forget the beauty of cell phone love messages. Once after answering a wrong number, the young man fell so deeply in love with the sound of my voice, that he continued to call and text me all night long and well into the next day. While he admired my voice, others have expressed their interest in a different way. Romanticahmad, the email name of this Romeo, asked me to call him as he missed my "sound."

Another common situation is being asked out by someone for someone else. One Lebanese guy came to me asking if I'd be willing to meet his French cousin. "He's not Lebanese. He's French, " he informed me several times. Even as I assured him that I don't speak French and his cousin's Frenchness didn't make me want to meet him more, he persisted.

While I've had many offers of friendship with a hope of something more, taxi drivers usually get right to the point, proposing marriage. One was honest, asking to marry me as a business proposal to get him a visa. Once in the States, I'd be free to divorce him, if I wanted to. Another driver invited me to become his second wife. He told me that American women don't want children, so we wouldn't have to have that burden.

If I leave here without a guy, it is my own fault! Not only have plenty of men asked for my hand in marriage, several mothers and grandmothers have offered me their sons and grandsons. One kind lady told me it was for the good of my soul. How else am I supposed to get to heaven if I don't marry a Muslim man? Also, whenever I see Um Ali, she prays to God that I will meet a beautiful and educated man to whom I will give lots of healthy sons. Inshalla!

Meanwhile, I'm content to be the personification of Beauty. Irresistible in my exotic gorgeousness.

The Photocopy Oven

I am super-motivated to write this right now at this moment because what I really should be doing is heading over to a Ramadan iftar meal where I will end up spending the night. I really don't want to go, but I have to. So instead of going right now, I will wait longer and longer and waste time doing nothing until there is nothing left for me to do but go. I know the food will be good though... So here is a day in the life of Scott, Emily, and me.

Yesterday Scott, Emily and I went to get our permission to enter the camps renewed. We were told that if we called the guy on the phone and gave him Anne's name, that we should be able to renew over the phone. This was not the case and the guy had no idea who Anne was. I think it was a new guy who has decided to implement new permission policies especially in the case of annoying foreigners like us. So we had to get up relatively early and drive to Saida where the army base is. On the way down Emily tried to convince me that I needed to have my appendix taken out because I had a stomachache that she thought sounded like the one she'd had when she'd had her appendix taken out. Anyway, I managed to survive my ruptured appendix, and we arrived at the gate, after finding a convenient parking place. The guard saw our foreign faces, and assumed the purpose of our visit. He informed us that we needed to get photocopies of our passports for this. I ask him to explain the importance of this as they already have photocopies of our passports as well as passport photos on file in the office, but I guess these things get lost easily. He insists that we need photocopies, and even though Scott wanted to stay and argue, we decided not to antagonize the guy with the machine gun. He told us that if we went down to the "furn" (oven-place where they make pizza-like things) we could get copies there. I thought he'd meant go down to where the "furn" is and there will be a photocopy place nearby, but when we arrived at the "furn" and asked the guy putting freshly rolled out dough covered in olive oil and thyme into the hot stone oven, he informed us that he would photo copy our stuff for us. Apparently it's kind of a 2 for 1 thing-get your manaqeesh while you wait for your photocopies. We might have gotten manaqeesh except that it was the second day of Ramadan and it would have been awkward to eat on the street even though there were several obviously Christian Arabs flaunting their ability to eat during the daylight hours. We finally got our photocopies after making sure that the pushy old lady who came after us didn't cut in line! Yeah! Don't mess with us, old lady!

Back to the army base where it appears to be casual Tuesday for all employees. The guard at the gate was wearing comfy khaki pants and a little polo shirt which went really well with the AK-47 slung across his shoulder. We registered our names and assured the dude at the front that we had no cameras or phones with us, and he trusted that we were telling the truth. Of course, they'd already frisked Scott when we went in (he thought the guy was trying to give him a hug at first and it was a bit awkward), so I guess they knew we were safe. Either that or the extreme care that Emily and I took with our clothing, hair, and makeup paid off. An incident at one of the camp checkpoints a week earlier when we'd known our permission was up but we'd gotten in anyway, reminded us of the importance of using our charms to get what we need.

Once we got into the big man's office (and this guy was a big man!), we didn't have any further problems. Big Man looked kind of cranky. He had some cuts and bruises on his face so we think he's been having some relationship problems, and that might explain the crankiness. He managed to not crack a smile until the end, when I decided that we wanted him to like us, so I used the hair flip and all the excessive Arabic pleasantries that I know, and we parted on good terms, although we are still not allowed to renew over the phone...and I really thought the hair flip would have gotten us phone privileges. It did get me my first visa to Syria...

Reading this, I hope you have a taste of our life here. It is not as exciting as it may seem from this riveting story, but we make it through somehow. Now I should probably go off to iftar with my friends unless I can find a way to actually rupture my appendix...

Fuzzy

I cannot contain myself. Blogs are for letting out these deep feelings, and I have to emote about Fuzzy. Fuzzy is a childhood dream come true. She came to me from a family who was moving back to the States. They have 3 children, one of whom is allergic to everything in the world and should be walking around in a plastic bubble but somehow is surviving without one. Apparently hamsters are hypoallergenic...which I never knew. It's too bad because it might have helped my case when pleading with my mom for one as a kid. Their rodent-ness was the reason for her refusal. But it worked out well for me in the end. On my 9th birthday, after begging for a hamster for weeks and weeks, I received a turtle. Yes, you are correct...they are not anything alike. Still, I have always had a deep abiding love for reptiles and amphibians, and my new pet, which I named Hamster even though he was a turtle, sparked my devotion to turtles which became my new favorite animal. I loved Hamster deeply and was very sad when he was stolen. But that is a story for another day. Besides, it hurts too much to think about it...

Anyway, back to Fuzzy who was originally named Cotton by the aforementioned family. I haven't officially changed the name or anything. Really, I just call all cute animal things 'fuzzy' in a high-pitched squeaky voice to relieve my feelings. The feelings that make me want to squeeze their little heads off. That would probably put me in danger of retaliation from PETA terrorists. So talking with a helium-voice is a better option.

Fuzzy is a special hamster. Not only has he survived 2 weeks with me and my lack of maternal instincts, but he can climb on the top of his cage like he's doing the monkey bars. Also, Fuzzy is a master of Hide and Seek...which kind of freaked me out a bit when she hid behind the desk for several hours. I crawled around the house trying to "think like a hamster" until I finally called Emily, and she came and found her. And now that you are all confused about the gender of my hamster, I will clear that up for you too. Fuzzy is a girl. So I've been told. No one has given me any definite proof of this fact though. But, as I mentioned to Emily when she complained about my incorrect pronoun usage, that I tend to refer to all animals as boys and vice versa. Yes, I thought it was a clever thing to say, but Emily is married and more mature than me and also a better cook, so she had to stay serious and roll her eyes.

Another one of Fuzzy's many talents is escaping the pink hamster ball. She does this by running full speed at stationary objects. I also like to put her under my shirt and wait for her to find her way out. She's not as good at this game, but I think it's funny and it tickles like crazy. Since I live alone, it's ok for me to scream and laugh loudly for no apparent reason. Although there is a reason. Fuzzy. The light of my life.

I will leave you with some photos of my baby. Later, when I finally get a video of Fuzzy doing the monkey bars, I will post it for your enjoyment.

Me and Fuzzy having a moment

Another moment

Fuzzy and I re-enacting a scene from an alien TV show that I watched one long night at Mel's house in Rukkn Ed-din. It was about snake-like aliens that dressed in people skin but ate rats and rabbits and things like that in private. You can really see Fuzzy's acting talent. The horror of this moment is reflected in her piercing black eyes.

Shababes on the Beach

I actually wrote this a while ago but being at the beach today reminded me of it, and I thought I'd share it with the cool and popular people...

Shababes on the Beach

I went to the beach this afternoon, hoping for a little alone time to enjoy the beauty of the water and the feel of sand between my toes. Also, I want to take advantage of the time I have living near the beach because, let’s face it, with my track record, who knows how long I’ll get to stay here? I always thought that if I lived near the beach, I’d hang out there all the time, and I haven’t so far. I have been a little busy with Anne and her crafty projects (which I suck at), but mostly I’ve been lazy about getting up and going outside. So today I did.

I wandered down the street and on to the beach and immediately noticed an infestation of shababes. Shabab is an all-encompassing word for “young men,” which has come to mean so much more to me, but in the Lebanese accent it is pronounced “shababe.” This is something I’ve always made fun of before I knew I’d end up here. Still, there’s something about the pronunciation “shababe” that is fitting. These are the guys with their hair perfectly caked with gel, the tight pants, the long pointy shoes, the forest of chest hair poking out of their shirts…anyway, they were all over the place, but this time in their little shorts or speedos or stylish running outfits (little aside: I have seen more cracks here than anywhere else! I wonder why these guys wear their shorts so tight and low…definitely not enhancing their best feature). With the practiced eye of an introvert, I scout out the nearest alone place where I can sit on a rock out of the way of prying eyes, dangle my feet in the cool water, and read my Arabic poetry. Now I know that reading poetry on the beach is really cliché romantic crap, but reading with a dictionary tends to kill the romance of it enough for my cold and unfeeling personality to tolerate it as an acceptable beach pastime for one such as myself.

I saw him coming from a ways down the beach before he got there. I hoped (in vain!) that he was going beyond me to the scantily clad amateur rock fishermen who were standing a ways away from me waving their fishing rods in the air. But in my heart, I knew his end goal. I quickly put away Nizar Qabbani’s love poems, thinking that it would be too much inspiration for him should he notice what I was reading, and put in my earphones, in an attempt to deter him from talking to me. But alas, undeterred, he settles down beside me, waiting a few minutes before rudely interrupting my music to speak to me. He starts with the classic line, “I haven’t seen you here before.” Then he moves on to the “where are you from,” “how long have you been here,” “your Arabic is a little strange, you must have lived in the States for a long time” (is that a compliment or an insult to my Arabic?), “which one of your parents is Arab” (seriously, if we weren’t in the land of plastic surgery, I would have asked what part of my blondish hair and blue eyes looked Arab to him), and so on. He asked for my name and phone number which I refused to give him. Then I said, “Nice to meet you,” and stood up, in an attempt to get rid of him. This attempt failed, and he continued to follow me down the beach, shamelessly begging to see me again. I continue to refuse him, and he continues to insist that he is a good guy who just wants to get to know me in a one-on-one situation, and I am misunderstanding his proposition. “No,” I say, “I understand you perfectly, and you have no chance.” “Why not?” “Because I’m not giving you one.” “But why won’t you tell me your name?” I really want to answer, “if it’s destiny we’ll meet again” ala that one movie that Ashley told me the whole plot of but graciously never made me watch. However, I restrain myself not wanting to commit the danger of tempting fate and besides this town isn’t that big. Finally, he gives up and leaves, but another guy leaves his soccer game briefly to ask if the first guy (who just left) is bothering me and if so, he’ll take care of it (My white knight!). I tell him I was fine thank you and continue on my walk.

I come to a nice little deserted stretch of the beach and sit down to enjoy the miniwaves (the Med isn’t like the Indian Ocean on the south coast of Java). Soon a nicely proportioned runner jogs past me. He stops strategically nearby and stretches a bit. Then he dives into the water and starts swimming. I notice him because he swims right in front of me, and I have a brief moment of jealousy, wanting to be swimming in the water myself. Then I forget about him and admire the view of Tyre on my right and the Rashidieh Camp on my left and the afternoon sun shimmering on the sea stretching out in endlessly front of me (see why I should never read poetry?). Soon I notice that the runner/swimmer has stopped swimming and is floating slowly in towards me. A few moments later, he is just floating in the sea directly in front of me. This is awkward because I don’t want to look like I’m looking at him so I have to turn my head which gets uncomfortable after a while. Every few minutes he inches his way in to the shore. Now the theme song from Jaws is in my head. Closer…closer…closer…

Attack! Well, not yet. He has made it to the shore. He starts playing in the sand beside me. Odd and disturbing, but I’m not going to say anything to him. Wondering if my sullen silence will dampen the romantic mood of that shimmering sea water, I hope that he will lose his nerve and go away before I lose control over the desire to laugh that is swelling in my soul (Nizar Qabbani is inspiring). So, I’m really trying hard not to laugh. I know that if I laugh, that will encourage him. There is a saying I heard in Jordan that probably holds true for all the Middle East that a girl who laughs is easy. But the Jaws theme song and the playing in the sand are really getting to me. And then he speaks…

Jaws: “Hello.”

Me: “Emm.”

Jaws: “Don’t be nervous.”

Me (I was intending to do another “em” but this was too much for me): “I’m not nervous.” (added to that statement under my breath: Freak)

Jaws: “I think you have a lot of stress. That is why you come to beach to look at sea.”

Me (thinking: I have stress now!): “Emm.”

Jaws: “Don’t be afraid. I am nice boy. My English is not so good. I know Francais.”

Me: “No problem.”

Jaws: “You are alone here?”

Me (thinking: can’t let him assume I’m alone here if I give another ‘em’): “No. With friends.”

Jaws: “You work here or visit?”

Me (don’t want him to think I’m one of those tourists who is going to fulfill his every fantasy on the beach right now): “Work.”

Jaws: “What is your work?”

Me (let’s use big words fast and break down this little French-speaking Romeo): “Humanitarian aid and community development.”

Jaws: “What?”

Me: repeat myself faster and more mumbly.

Jaws decides to try a new tactic. Goes with first guy’s “I’m really a nice person” tactic. Still gets mumbled responses from me.

Jaws: “I think I am bothering you” (you think?! Finally he must have remembered all that stress I’m trying to relieve by looking at sea). I go now.”

Me: “Ok. Thank you.”

I forgot to mention that in between Jaws swimming in from the sea to sweep me off my feet with his chiseled body and broken English, my white knight had left his soccer game yet again to reassure me of his protective services (he’ll beat up the guy and the call the police) and also tell me of his European travels and his Polish ex-wife and all his relatives living abroad. I thanked him for his offer (again) and failed to mention my name when he mentioned his. I did consider taking him up on his offer when Jaws stopped by, but I don’t like to put myself in other people’s debt.

I walked on down the beach towards the Rashidieh Camp, finally getting to laugh to myself while jumping and spinning around in the waves like an idiot (going for the retarded foreigner look, thinking it might stave off some more hopeful young men). I hear the pitter-patter of a runner behind me, and it’s Jaws! He’s come to warn me against walking any farther.

Jaws: “I sorry. Don’t want to bother you but is dangerous here. I must to go, but you know Palestine? I can’t tell you all because must to go but Palestine! Dangerous!”

Me: “Rashidieh Camp? I know it’s Palestinian. I like Palestinians.”

Jaws: “OK. Is dangerous. Do you want anything?”

Me: “Salamtak. Bye.”

Exit Jaws, stage right.

I keep walking down towards the dangerous Rashidieh Camp where I am going tomorrow for a project. I see a nice little family walking towards me. The mother is muhajibeh and the father walks protectively by her. The daughter and son run up to me after I smiled and waved and ask me, “What is your name?” We strike up a conversation in Arabic and a few words of English that they want to practice and find out that they are from the dangerous camp. They invite me to come in further towards the camp to get some tea or coffee at one of the beachside shacks. I notice that it’s getting late, and I need to be home, so I decline. We part ways amicably.

I start walking back down the beach and five little boys run up to me screaming “What is your name? What is your name?” I feel pride in the successful teaching abilities of English instructors in this area who have evidently engrained those words into the minds of young children here. I soon find out that all of these boys are from the dangerous Rashidieh Camp. I take their photo, which pleases them immensely. They convince me to take off my glasses and have a great time marveling at my blue eyes. We shake hands all around and they scamper off. Most surprising discovery of our little interview: only one of them was named Mohammad!

I continue on back down the beach. I stopped for another brief moment with the sun and the water and the shimmering. A moment was too long because soon another young lad joins me, trying to practice his flirting and his English. He looks about 15. Seriously, do I look that desperate for a guy? We have a very familiar conversation and then he wanders off. I look at my watch again and realize that I have to leave too and that unfortunately that means I have to walk by him and his posse. When I walk through his group, another one of his friends decides to try his luck where his pal failed. He is equally unsuccessful, although he points out that his uncle is right there and so it would be totally appropriate for us to get to know each other in this setting. I decline the offer and continue home. And amazingly I make it without another offer of companionship.

Well, it was an eventful afternoon. I had fun marveling at the persistent ridiculousness of hormone-driven boys. I thought it was pretty funny while being extremely annoying at the same time so I thought I’d share. And Nizar Qabbani says:

“What torments me about your love is that I can’t love you any more!”

---translation by Me

For my sister

Joanna told me that I should start a blog like all the cool and popular people. Of course my main goal in life is to be even cooler and more popular than I am now, so naturally I agreed. Mostly I think she just wanted something else to do when she's bored. As for me, I have avoided the blog thing for a long time now. Partly because I hate doing something everyone else is doing, but mostly because I am lazy. Ironically, it's the laziness right now that convinced me to do this. In spite of promising Joanna that I would, I wasn't really planning to write this weekend. That's not so bad though, because there are lots of things that I have promised her I'd do that I never did (stop reading her diaries, ask before borrowing her clothes, not give her pirated CDs, wash the dishes). So I don't think she would have been heart-broken...bored at work, but not heart-broken. But the laziness won out in the end because right now I should be writing up a report about my time in China, but instead I am writing something completely useless so that I can gain coolness and popularity and avoid doing something that I should be doing. This blog thing will probably become my new favorite pass time. There is actually a lot of stuff I should be doing right now that I do not want to do. But right now, what I want to do even more than waste time on my computer is go to the beach. So while you're at work reading this, Joanna, I will be at the beach. Haha.