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.

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!

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!

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.