tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81017637226687319582024-02-06T21:44:40.296-08:00The World That We Live InUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger344125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-38981653562694909052018-02-27T11:08:00.002-08:002018-02-27T11:08:48.549-08:00Urban Birding <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few years ago, at our previous post, I had this discussion with a visiting
children’s author about our lifestyle of moving around every few years. This author is a trained zoologist and fierce
environmentalist. She said her only real concern was that children raised
in this lifestyle will probably never have a native knowledge and love of their
natural surroundings. They will never be in one place long enough to learn the
local species or get lost in the same forest summer after summer. And I said to
her, in some silly high minded expat way, “Sure, but I hope they’ll have a
greater sense of their place in the world as a whole. Their sphere of
stewardship won’t just be their backyard but the whole world. You know, in a
general sense.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And in her great wisdom she said “Ah, but the power of nature
lies in its particularities.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This phrase inspires me/haunts me often. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course the power is in its particularity! A “general”
sense of things is fine, great even. But nothing can replace having a specific
experience with a specific landscape. I grew up in the foothills of the rocky
mountains and their snowy peaks are part of my very self. I wasn’t an avid
hiker and didn’t wade through mountain streams each spring, but their outline shades
and protects every memory of my childhood. Wee Felix won’t have one set of
mountains or one coastline running through the decades of his life like a thread. Rereading this exchange from my journal reminded me how important exploring the natural world is. For this baby guy, but also for me. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX52I_6N4ihX8RktGfH3MjDn-f3h5hIUJnen16EKAxzgK49viVrxPs_a6wAQESFQ422bz0Nyj8vZHag5T4LIXl5MSfP4kKc_6qIPImWOq7g8Dd-DacXOzOTjfvc0O66Bs09TSdhq36Ew/s1600/Heron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1085" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX52I_6N4ihX8RktGfH3MjDn-f3h5hIUJnen16EKAxzgK49viVrxPs_a6wAQESFQ422bz0Nyj8vZHag5T4LIXl5MSfP4kKc_6qIPImWOq7g8Dd-DacXOzOTjfvc0O66Bs09TSdhq36Ew/s320/Heron.jpg" width="216" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Just teach them the birds
every time you move. At least the birds.”
She assured me this would be an adequate start. <!--EndFragment--></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, in that spirit, Felix and I have been urban birding around Cairo. On our first day out we spotted a Eurasian Hoopoe at the botanical gardens. And one afternoon I discovered Max and Felix, halfway out the church door (in a possible escape attempt) staring up at the trees. A small green parakeet had made perch high in the branches. There are terns everywhere as well as the ubiquitous Palm Dove, or, it's better name, the Laughing Dove. Herons dot the marshy receding edges of the Nile, which variety I'm not sure yet. And last week, out of the corner of my eye I swear I saw the impressively dotted wingspan of a black and white Pied Kingfisher just before it flew under the bridge to Tahrir square.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-66864218433687690992018-01-17T00:40:00.000-08:002018-01-17T00:47:42.602-08:00In Which the Red Sea Teaches Me Things <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Journal 9.9.17 Soma Bay, Red Sea, Egypt<br />
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<i>I left Max to put the baby guy to sleep and headed for the Sea. 15 months since I've been in the ocean. Too long. I've moved to another country, quit my job and had a baby since then. But the Sea is the same. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The reef is beautiful and I swim a bit too close from time to time, my body stretched tall and thin like superman. Holding my breath. The reef is populated by giant blue clams that flash their ruched insides like skirts of flamenco dancers. If I watch carefully, slowly, I can see them breathing. See their shells open slightly and then close. Their cobalt interior flesh quiver, expand and then retreat. I am particularly mesmerized by a lime green shelled clam and watch it breath for some time. The wind is picking up above water and the clam is speckled with sunlight slanting through water. </i><br />
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<i>Later I will introduce my baby to the ocean. His Dad will hold him in his lap while waves dribble over their legs, delighting both. But this morning it is just me and the giant clam. Breathing slowly and deliberately. </i><br />
<br />
I read later the Red Sea coral reefs contain unique species that defy categorization, that are found no where else in the world. As the underlying Arabian and African tectonic plates shift apart, it is expanding, essentially becoming something different every day. The sea is also growing warmer and saltier and experiences frequent turbidity due to sand storms in the region. While these difficult conditions would normally damage reef and dependent life, the Red Sea reefs have adapted over time to become tolerant of the environmental extremes. Thriving even.<br />
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When I first wrote this I was riding a moment of new-country-new-mom abundance, but it has been a hard winter. These ideas of resilience and intentionality are much more valuable to me now. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-36661297070647873482017-09-25T06:03:00.000-07:002017-09-25T06:03:33.982-07:00The Kindness of Strangers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few days ago My husband had to work late and the baby guy and I didn't feel like cooking dinner. Nothing says "night on the town" like walking to KFC with your 6 month old for some piping hot chicken-like products. While we were ordering (yes, spicy) the manager pulled out a little plastic container of something white and handed it to me.<br />
<br />
"For the baby" he smiled. It looked a bit like milky rice pudding. Then he rustled around until he found an orange Marinda soda under the counter. "For when he grows up" he said, thrusting it at me with a pumpkin grin.<br />
<br />
Halfway through the meal, after a handful of people had stopped to kiss baby guy on the noggin, the manager came back over and brought us an extra piece of chicken. Instead of explaining that my baby has no teeth (and also that he doesn't generally eat food given to him by strangers with their bare hands directly after a smoke break) I discreetly added it to the things at the bottom of my bag I was grateful for but would not be eating.<br />
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This baby is a big deal around here.<br />
<br />
There are at least six people, and often times more, that little "Master Felix" pays homage to every time we walk the neighborhood. I'm not sure if they are actually calling him "Master" or "Mister" but either way, he is King of the block. The boab with a shock of white hair gets the best grins out of Fix and he will often take him by the hand and kiss his chubby knuckles. The man who sits in front of the optometry clinic, who once offered the dog his fried chicken, is a bit more wary of the baby, but still gives a nod of respect. Walking one length of our block takes about ten minutes, as we ping back and forth across the street to greet the regulars. <br />
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And these are just some of the many kindnesses I've noted in my journal over the last few months.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanu_EsO4_plLDoVjON0TvmqDYvlYpB4YDHx3l-z1vj3Xa22FygyF9wD0DQ3SLj6Z37e1BOj0YaPMxyv_-uYwzMhjY3m4SJMimBeVi8Sxqr_xXwnLRYI8Y91CXF4lESi__i_KN9w3NLZw/s1600/IMG_2576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanu_EsO4_plLDoVjON0TvmqDYvlYpB4YDHx3l-z1vj3Xa22FygyF9wD0DQ3SLj6Z37e1BOj0YaPMxyv_-uYwzMhjY3m4SJMimBeVi8Sxqr_xXwnLRYI8Y91CXF4lESi__i_KN9w3NLZw/s320/IMG_2576.JPG" width="240" /></a>Last week I took baby guy to the fruit and vegetable souk and en route an Egyptian woman caught my eye and asked about the baby. We walked a few blocks in step while I tried to ask her basic, very basic, questions in Arabic. Sharboot said to me as we parted "Your Arabic will come, Shwayuh Shwayuh. Inshalla." <i>Little by Little. If God wills it. </i>And then she welcomed me to the souk.<br />
<br />
A large woman with filthy fingernails at the market wrapped an extra bushel of mint in an already bulging bouquet as I fished in my pocket for money.<br />
<br />
I found a lovely local bookshop this week with English titles and they basically let me treat it as a reading library. Without access to a local library this has rocked my world.<br />
<br />
I sometimes stress that I've gotten every parenting thing wrong, every expat thing wrong, every modern feminist thing wrong. But these small kindnesses remind me to be as generous to myself and others as people have been to me. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-72701103655322651252017-07-31T03:21:00.002-07:002017-07-31T03:23:16.757-07:00Takin' It to the Streets: Cairo From the Ground <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have a theory that the more you walk the streets (paths/beaches/bridges) of a place the more you can love it. Something about the sweat and mild leg cramps just ties you to a physical location in an emotional way. So I've been pounding the pavement around downtown Cairo in hopes to crack this city open a little wider.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMIU6kQzAlhIBvVTtOcqCyFYOQAd0EROMbhSqGkle2-5XwhEr9BNEdekHqURziAHmdjkmcS2yafFYksy4HrmRMVw1v2MwMd-um9r-yhMrFYVqnpW7tKkIXYuahNrrHlbllZXUusRh3iQ/s1600/Egypt+Streets+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1317" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMIU6kQzAlhIBvVTtOcqCyFYOQAd0EROMbhSqGkle2-5XwhEr9BNEdekHqURziAHmdjkmcS2yafFYksy4HrmRMVw1v2MwMd-um9r-yhMrFYVqnpW7tKkIXYuahNrrHlbllZXUusRh3iQ/s640/Egypt+Streets+2.png" width="526" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPDvyoXjIA32uN3fXUvKlloSa_L1AQYCcPJNgPksRZvTGFG2H5lwSQl8VvYlqjEIl4bV7AHer44NXIxW1LzzRKbg4iAFwxy2CcCpKuLNaI3gOHSARpqwaO8D8a52D7huvV56YFPJhLfU/s1600/Egypt+Streetssmaller.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPDvyoXjIA32uN3fXUvKlloSa_L1AQYCcPJNgPksRZvTGFG2H5lwSQl8VvYlqjEIl4bV7AHer44NXIxW1LzzRKbg4iAFwxy2CcCpKuLNaI3gOHSARpqwaO8D8a52D7huvV56YFPJhLfU/s640/Egypt+Streetssmaller.png" width="480" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-42749822754311009252017-07-12T03:43:00.000-07:002018-01-31T06:24:01.273-08:00And Also <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out and about with baby guy</td></tr>
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x</div>
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A
few weeks before I gave birth to our son Felix, Max discovered a well-worn
vinyl of the soundtrack to the movie Shaft in my Mom’s basement.</div>
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I
know, that’s a sentence with a lot to unpack. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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If
you know my mom, you probably can’t imagine her grooving to Shaft today or any
day in the past. But people are complicated, aren’t they? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And
yes, we came home from a gloriously long home leave with a perfect baby boy.
Honestly, I was worried a new baby would be boring. Just being real. They don’t
talk politics or play guitar or make books with you. I thought he would grow on
me as he got older and more fun. But I have been completely delighted with
everything about this baby. I love all of his baby noises, every sweaty walk through
the neighborhood and his adorable fat feet. This kid is great and being a mom
is great. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But
I’ve also had moments of identity crisis. Pretty mild, since I was expecting
them, but still. Moments when I’m not sure quite how to integrate this new role
into my old self. <o:p></o:p></div>
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These
moments usually occur during one of the many harried sitcom mom scenes I have
found myself enacting since returning to Egypt. Last week I answered the phone with
dog poop in one hand from my apparently newly un-house-trained dog who was barking
maniacally at the phone, a squirmy baby rocking a gnarly spit-up beard in the
other hand, and most of my chest covered by the dripping spit up beard. I then
tried to put on my shoes hands-free before walking down three hot flights of
stairs with the baby for a delivery where they almost never have change and
I either have to trudge back up the stairs and search for small coins or find an
ATM outside with a baby on my hip. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So,
as much as I hate TV Mom stereotypes, sometimes that’s me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is this who I am now? My
former self, suffocated by drool?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
But
before we left home, I had a moment of clarity at the local Target. (Not the
first of these moments to occur at a Target, I’m sure. It’s a magical place.) I
reached for my wallet to pay for a box of diapers and the contents of my purse spilled
out onto the counter in front of the red-vested cashier. I picked up my keys and
also a handful of Egyptian pounds, a package of wet wipes and also a water
color pencil, a stick of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>gum and
also a guitar pick, a tube of chaptsick and also my three day pass to see the temples
at Angkor Wat from last spring. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And Also. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I
am a mom, and also a person. A mom, and also a traveler. A mom, and also an
artist. A mom, and also a mediocre-but-getting-better bassist. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I’ve
been a little gun shy about blogging because I didn’t want to drift into the
land of boring, naval gazing baby poop stories. Sure, it’s a large portion of
how I spend my day, but the circle of people interested in my baby’s poop is
very small. And said poop doesn’t define me anyway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The
mothers in my life knew this. I’m lucky. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
So
here’s to writing, to making art, to living, and also, to momming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-25735823824223197342017-01-11T04:38:00.000-08:002017-01-11T04:39:02.230-08:00Expectations <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvIYNMB_NgDwQt9WRQ4zbX4ZH8cE54XM39jdFX5goZbxjktvBz7FP0WAxglNPyvGAIdNfLbWoSZK7pjiyOffnKjwJTLuc0omJNv_i6rRlIMwm7-suy8Xvtn40DL4PSwPbgiUMVJa49fY/s1600/Brooke+Prego+Edfu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvIYNMB_NgDwQt9WRQ4zbX4ZH8cE54XM39jdFX5goZbxjktvBz7FP0WAxglNPyvGAIdNfLbWoSZK7pjiyOffnKjwJTLuc0omJNv_i6rRlIMwm7-suy8Xvtn40DL4PSwPbgiUMVJa49fY/s320/Brooke+Prego+Edfu.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a breather at Horus' Temple in Edfu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue", helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; text-align: left;">
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
On our first trip to Egypt, we visited an old house with a whale bone affixed to the floor.<br />
<br />
"Walk around it 7 times and you will be sure to have a baby!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Well, I didn't because...that's dumb. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Now here we are in Egypt again, almost nine years later, finally getting ready to welcome a wee baby in March. A boy. <span style="font-family: inherit;">It wasn't easy for us to start a family, and it certainly took a lot more than a whale bone.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
I've heard a lot of advice over the years. </div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
"Put a thread of saffron in carbonated volcanic water. Drink it while you are at the Hammam and then make sure to stay wrapped in blankets after you...you know...chika..chika" came from Morocco. </div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
In an incredibly kind gesture, s<a href="http://www.theworldthatwelivein.com/2013/05/the-dates-of-mohammed.html" target="_blank">omeone brought me water from the Zam Zam well of Mecca</a> after attending Hajj for the first time.</div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
"Each morning, for seven days you should eat two dates and drink the Zam Zam water and ask Allah for a baby" </div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
Taxi drivers from one end of the Middle East to the other have offered many unsolicited opinions that Max had the foresight not to translate for me. </div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">People often </span></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">recommend</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> that you quit your job, or get a job, or take up Yoga or quit running. Adopt, don't have kids, try every treatment available as soon as possible. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Here's what I say. It's personal and everyone will figure out what works best for them.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">When someone in the Middle East asks you why you don't have a baby, and they will, all of them will, the best Arabic response is to say "Illy begeebu arrabb kuweis".<br /><br /><i>What God gives is good enough. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">And it is.<br /><br />We are thrilled for this baby guy to join our family and to show him the world that we live in.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-46671157307056546602016-11-15T00:29:00.000-08:002016-11-15T00:29:33.663-08:00Saying Yes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhUSj4vcJtqi4Ez0MdyhYBbad48KCdOdHmNKH0oZKeoUGu65os5XfY8mQKkmFiEdhyb92_KM5x11yDRTQT-xxFDUFaNHp90uYpES1y6mfddBAwWOdzLNhfVSiV9hJGU0uVWXxwRqO3xg/s1600/image1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhUSj4vcJtqi4Ez0MdyhYBbad48KCdOdHmNKH0oZKeoUGu65os5XfY8mQKkmFiEdhyb92_KM5x11yDRTQT-xxFDUFaNHp90uYpES1y6mfddBAwWOdzLNhfVSiV9hJGU0uVWXxwRqO3xg/s320/image1.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Islamic Cairo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Saying yes has gotten me pretty far in life. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Saying yes to my husband when we were barely old enough to give our own consent, saying yes to moving to the Middle East with basically a suitcase and a smile, saying yes to graduate school one afternoon after doing some pondering but not that much. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div 12px="" class="m_914165244365825559gmail-p1" font-family:="" font-size:="" font-stretch:="" helvetica="" line-height:="" normal="">
So when the blind man sitting in front of a Mamluk mosque off sharia khayamiya (tentmaker's street) in Islamic Cairo invited us to come inside, I said yes. Many great adventures have started this way for us. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This was not one of them. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I hadn't brought a scarf to cover my head, but the nice man offered me his own neck/armpit scarf. Who could refuse such a gift? Max took it from his shaking hands, wrapped it around my head and whispered "It might be a little soggy". </div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl-HAvayDhlmOefZIjqQ4DOTbc9gNI0dtUhJoSvvo-pmlOx6tMaakUH-ZOIWpsD-MTsMMj_-nd2I4EZ2Ii5PjUxvN0Vq2vXeIHJqUiLdZHTTsRjajVcvFh7dxwpjDFRVF90ZzwnRwrRM4/s1600/image2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl-HAvayDhlmOefZIjqQ4DOTbc9gNI0dtUhJoSvvo-pmlOx6tMaakUH-ZOIWpsD-MTsMMj_-nd2I4EZ2Ii5PjUxvN0Vq2vXeIHJqUiLdZHTTsRjajVcvFh7dxwpjDFRVF90ZzwnRwrRM4/s320/image2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Islamic Cairo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What's a soggy armpit scarf in pursuit of a private tour of a 14th century Mamluk mosque with who knows what treasures inside!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Our new friend led us to a small prayer room and beckoned us to sit on the chairs. At this point I realized the mosque was mostly non-existent. A few stone walls, generic carpets and mish mash roof. Maybe it was from the Mamluk period, it probably wasn't.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He took Max's hand and blessed him. After some time he scurried around to take my hand and bless me. His body stood between us and the exit, holding us, perhaps, just a bit hostage. My knuckle cracked under the weight of his grip. He was not unkind, just a little overly familiar. I gave Max the bat signal. Everyone should perfect their "let's scram" face for moments just like this. We thanked the man, paid him and went on our way. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This is a pretty common tactic to coax a bit of cash out of wide eyed dummies...of which I am sometimes one. I should have seen it coming. </div>
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<br /></div>
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"Sorry" I said to Max as we stumbled out into the sunlight.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But really, I'm not sorry. You can't let one sweaty armpit scarf get in the way of potential awesomeness.<br />
<br />
And yes, Mom, I could see the exit at all times.</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-70735143493823176972016-10-24T01:20:00.000-07:002016-10-24T01:21:02.128-07:00Arriving in Cairo...And There Are Birds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1">
It's a pretty intimidating drive. From the Cairo airport to downtown. Hours through hundreds of people sardined together and as many cars and busses just as close. The buildings raise up from every direction, most half finished and surrounded by rubble and sand. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
This is the time of year when pollution swarms through the city and gets trapped between brown cement buildings. Combined with street exhaust, transatlantic jet lag, and car sickness, my first foray into Cairo was a little overwhelming. <i>Where will I get food? Walk the dog? Get fresh air? </i></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
When we reached our new apartment, I took a bath, lay down and fell immediately to sleep. There is only so much you can take in in a day.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But I woke up just after dawn and made my way to the balcony. The streets were empty, but I could hear Cairo slowly waking up. Small radios flickering to life, buckets of water sluicing over sidewalks, motorbike engines sputtering. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And birds chiriping. When I looked up into the trees framing our street I saw flocks of birds soaring between branches and resting on rooftops. Birds. Lots of them. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And I remembered the look on the face of the Egyptian woman sitting across the isle from me in the plane as we made our descent. She beamed with pride as she gazed out over the city. Fierce pride. For some reason it almost brought me to tears. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The birds flourish and the people are proud. Certainly, I too can thrive. </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-59501451071363178652016-05-06T10:13:00.000-07:002016-11-15T00:31:14.653-08:00Buying Bangkok<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFRfk495QQzw-yuPWIrKbilp8Y66swREg4pCQV6sB8U1n7vuv0lmTgYn2oCfP9MRTvuQRDHiYG5xZP7XMiUWazfgYhfhAHrVTHzGmNmEq2oiUlhZqQLQ8DhjsfcIDOFLcvrA4uTihOBSU/s1600/night+market+_+2+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFRfk495QQzw-yuPWIrKbilp8Y66swREg4pCQV6sB8U1n7vuv0lmTgYn2oCfP9MRTvuQRDHiYG5xZP7XMiUWazfgYhfhAHrVTHzGmNmEq2oiUlhZqQLQ8DhjsfcIDOFLcvrA4uTihOBSU/s320/night+market+_+2+.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chiang Mai Night Market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I hate sentences that start with "I got this beautiful "X" and it only cost me this much!" or "Have you been to "Y"? It has the most amazing "Z" and it's so cheap." When conversations start this way I usually discover an urgent need to pee. Or get a drink. Or "Hey look! Someone I'd better say hi to on the opposite side of the room." </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I firmly believe that places are more than our purchases. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And yet, here I am in Asia's biggest open air market with more bags than I can carry. I've purchased a painting that I have to come back for at the end of the day and I've already made plans to have a Thai silk dress made before I leave the country in 24 hours. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4k_N5-4HEWG9svKj3N2YscS0a76SGyKbpBKadhBIJUNKoeNAT-pYVpocC2rL-IaenK8_vVAKAEsqw67EVJjAfHLhcM1_t4VbFjMNSdaoYqwjpqMklbBtly_wNe7XXXxk32Lr6zElgBmM/s1600/Night+market_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4k_N5-4HEWG9svKj3N2YscS0a76SGyKbpBKadhBIJUNKoeNAT-pYVpocC2rL-IaenK8_vVAKAEsqw67EVJjAfHLhcM1_t4VbFjMNSdaoYqwjpqMklbBtly_wNe7XXXxk32Lr6zElgBmM/s320/Night+market_1.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chiang Mai Night Market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
These beautiful this's and amazing that's will later stuff my suitcase to the point of seam bursting proportions. I will have to negotiate with the baggage handler to get them all on board, shifting things from one bag to another in the airport lobby. But I have to because now I'm committed to my tiny Buddha amulets, triple pack of paper lanterns, sack of scarves, new printed tablecloth, wooden candlesticks, woven bag, tacky t-shirts that I love, ubiquitous baggy Thailand pants, and two new watches. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
To consume means to use up a resource and in some cases to completely destroy. As in a fire. I imagine myself a blazing, sucking ball of greed prowling the streets of Bangkok. Flaming lassos reach out for shiny things in my periphery. All of the shiny things. Consumption was once defined as a "wasting disease." A wasting of. A wasting away. I don't want to waste, to be wasted. Will I cherish all of these things in my hands or lose them, break them, become embarrassed of my pillage and hide them? </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I think about all of this wasting, this consuming during a massage later that week. Yes, this is true. The irony of contemplating excess while relaxing through your second massage of the day is not lost on me. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But then I have these glowing moments where the haggling, the inspecting, the exchanging of money for goods and services so firmly root me in place. I snuck out one afternoon and found a busy noodle shop full of after work Thais. Not much more than a shop face, I squeezed past the steaming cart of broths and delicate rice noodles stuffed in a glass window. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"Noodles?"</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I point. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"Tom Yum? Spicy?" </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I slurp and enjoy and savor and panic when I hit a pepper. It's so delicious. The sun is streaming in through the tiny, open store front and people flood the streets to buy things. Peeled durian wrapped tightly in plastic wrap to mask its gasoline smell, sacks of broth and noodles to feed the family at home, toasted peanuts, fried duck chopped on a wooden cutting block, fresh juice. T-shirts, flip flops, toys, DVDs, office supplies. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4k5ww8wjktqzOjTme82YOzN1aR1FpofUSEswkTKfzQ5L_H1YJWsWVuC3hpDFYY7fN2N7q3BjZ5AQr1_8YH6jKsMcVq6CLbYUb3bryOHpLgn3Uie7sxDP4Wa5izgsx1caE2QQ1Rv6980/s1600/noodles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4k5ww8wjktqzOjTme82YOzN1aR1FpofUSEswkTKfzQ5L_H1YJWsWVuC3hpDFYY7fN2N7q3BjZ5AQr1_8YH6jKsMcVq6CLbYUb3bryOHpLgn3Uie7sxDP4Wa5izgsx1caE2QQ1Rv6980/s400/noodles.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pink Pad Thai! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And I realize it's not just me out there eating and spending money - all of Bangkok seems to be buying and selling, squeezing melons and demanding lower prices.<br />
<br />
After my throat of fire is soothed by a Coke, I push back onto the busy street. My shoulders brushing against Thai shoulders. All of us carrying something in our hands. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-74996943683286239852016-03-02T10:40:00.000-08:002016-03-02T10:49:44.081-08:00Jebel Shams Balcony Walk & Misfat Village <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97MWqUb2urJ_Em1d87cd649miMeJlur3SuUKbDvMHS3o2Rr8O6nKtWGSobq14G19h73Fi9SrAiY9cREgKHVvdqHmGOGEMxOrLBqhU5fwNVf8F_1nXERUra6iWKpgF1FIMlsscSDltj78/s1600/IMG_4650_0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97MWqUb2urJ_Em1d87cd649miMeJlur3SuUKbDvMHS3o2Rr8O6nKtWGSobq14G19h73Fi9SrAiY9cREgKHVvdqHmGOGEMxOrLBqhU5fwNVf8F_1nXERUra6iWKpgF1FIMlsscSDltj78/s640/IMG_4650_0007.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jebel Shams</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7CFCTyihG-gIUXeThgfgXfrkt3Qmjn_5RjKAAyByCw0-n5WJukrRCpf5rCZVVsLkaVGVkcmh8Fk9NvEjL7wR-F2WG01sL0sxLsS4ZxtfMlZfQzykemLil5CJLXKE0aae_40-UlyOUjIk/s1600/IMG_4641_0254.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7CFCTyihG-gIUXeThgfgXfrkt3Qmjn_5RjKAAyByCw0-n5WJukrRCpf5rCZVVsLkaVGVkcmh8Fk9NvEjL7wR-F2WG01sL0sxLsS4ZxtfMlZfQzykemLil5CJLXKE0aae_40-UlyOUjIk/s640/IMG_4641_0254.jpg" width="422" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jebel Shams</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Last week an Omani told me that he wanted to build a new home with a great big yard. "To host the moon and the stars at night." My gosh Oman. You are great.<br />
<br />
Here are two more great things about Oman: the Jebel Shams Balcony Walk and Misfat Village.<br />
<br />
The Balcony Walk is just what it sounds like - a thin ledge that leads you around Oman's "Grand Canyon." A small village is tucked into the rocks as the canyon horseshoes. Had the spit scared out of me a time or two. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ApPn3u-1gxtu2_QS3FEdTHNPaBVPWOFpSRfxstGSLO9B_nMxbwDX074rmSEMxdhTTzZwlJJYIfFKOsPCP8Jg19DDTIZljzr_WSsXLwB8Resbweecl5qWmGIb424SseNskhDwyeUZGf4/s1600/jebel+shams+1+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ApPn3u-1gxtu2_QS3FEdTHNPaBVPWOFpSRfxstGSLO9B_nMxbwDX074rmSEMxdhTTzZwlJJYIfFKOsPCP8Jg19DDTIZljzr_WSsXLwB8Resbweecl5qWmGIb424SseNskhDwyeUZGf4/s640/jebel+shams+1+.png" width="340" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly, we were owning that ridiculous adventure stance </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Misfat is a lovely mountain village with a functioning falaj system. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc40U8Ieo9U2hYsu5bKN7_tDIAiqh0zLhs_NtEpcy2HkEr_pbYBBJowpv-HPqwNdpQJ69UpiGWGw1bvSpQ_TjLq7z9GmaKw2TdFf-k9IQRUCl4quS4SeA2yehyF-vkM4PnX-7JeTQ5X8I/s1600/IMG_4621_0235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc40U8Ieo9U2hYsu5bKN7_tDIAiqh0zLhs_NtEpcy2HkEr_pbYBBJowpv-HPqwNdpQJ69UpiGWGw1bvSpQ_TjLq7z9GmaKw2TdFf-k9IQRUCl4quS4SeA2yehyF-vkM4PnX-7JeTQ5X8I/s640/IMG_4621_0235.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUuF0piuEdPwLmpavykWZp2-5_FSXPAKV5OL2LSKIN4FX7BkfOVNY81u2JsAEKEdlITL8rxyKOoBhLdBizYLQV38gAAyhVQ3BIbyE4-whzigbc_z1mcQTMXhVM56C7f_Hz1gNlamy-8s/s1600/IMG_4573_0187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUuF0piuEdPwLmpavykWZp2-5_FSXPAKV5OL2LSKIN4FX7BkfOVNY81u2JsAEKEdlITL8rxyKOoBhLdBizYLQV38gAAyhVQ3BIbyE4-whzigbc_z1mcQTMXhVM56C7f_Hz1gNlamy-8s/s640/IMG_4573_0187.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffMqFjWFR0-WzJzM_xuBB0Ve40AWnagyRNjA96IxMtIXM_FLpHV0dKaoGGXSPb0G7Pm1CDcPl7HylKhnOu-uclThDq6T8T1irwBgXliov-KQ6VuYIkGZDqCUDyeeWTLqgPQEWctZAoEo/s1600/Falaj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffMqFjWFR0-WzJzM_xuBB0Ve40AWnagyRNjA96IxMtIXM_FLpHV0dKaoGGXSPb0G7Pm1CDcPl7HylKhnOu-uclThDq6T8T1irwBgXliov-KQ6VuYIkGZDqCUDyeeWTLqgPQEWctZAoEo/s400/Falaj.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Misfat Falaj</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-87010572290929464762015-12-02T01:56:00.000-08:002015-12-02T01:58:39.847-08:00After Dinner <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
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There is a Bedouin adage of sorts about hospitality, it goes like this: If an unexpected visitor arrives at your door, he should be welcomed, fed and given rest in your home for three days. He is your esteemed guest. Only after three days can you ask the person's name, where he comes from, and what he wants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This spirit of
warmth and welcoming has, almost without exception, been our experience in the
Middle East over the past decade. I was reminded of this a few nights ago as Max
and I shared sushi, of all things, with an Omani friend. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"In the
region of Batinah, where I'm from, you must first share a meal together
before asking about serious things. After the meal is cleared you can ask <i>how is your family? how is your health?" </i> If
you just sit down and ask about someone right away, he continued in broken
English, this signals to your host that you are anxious to eat and then leave
their company as quickly as possible.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, after eating he leaned back and we talked about politics and
shared stories for a few hours. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Throughout our
years in the Middle East, Max and I have been welcomed into dozens of homes by
people who were often not much more than strangers. They shared their
traditions, asked about our families, and offered us their best meals. They
lived Islam in a way that exemplified generosity, moderation, and sincere
devotion. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In this season
of gratitude and reflection, I’m thankful for the many meals over which I’ve
come to better understand Arabs and Islam. For the many friends we’ve made in
the Middle East who have taught us how to build relationships on shared values
despite coming from very different places. I’m thankful for the space it’s made
in my brain and my heart. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you are
having a hard time separating the heinous acts of groups or individuals
claiming to represent Islam from the regular folks with the same concerns and
joys as you, lean on my experiences for a while. And if you have the chance to
make real life connections with people who believe differently than you –don’t
turn it down. In fact, seek after them. You’ll be surprised how much the people<i> </i>you get to know are different from the narratives
we often accept about them. You’ll learn about their daughter’s acceptance into
University. You’ll learn about their bad bosses and their favorite picnic spot.
You’ll learn about their best chicken recipe and their retirement plans. You’ll
find you have a lot more in common than you thought. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
All after dinner of course. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-71869630337256395892015-11-13T23:05:00.000-08:002015-11-24T07:25:42.676-08:00Light Over Darkness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week Hindus celebrate Diwali. My Indian colleagues
explain it to me as they light <i>diyas</i> or small candles. On the first day
they wear new clothing and shining hair as they fill a banquet table full of Diwali
sweets: Maaladu, Ladoo, Burfi made of coconut, almond and cardamom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We celebrate the victory of light over darkness, knowledge
over ignorance, good over evil, and hope over despair."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the five days of celebration I contemplated the
symbolic timing of Diwali<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-
the first night coincides with the darkest night of the year. <br />
<br />
I have been thinking about this all week as a kind of beautiful, hopeful
defiance. In the darkness they put on their best clothing and light candles –
small acts that some could argue won’t make a difference to the overall status
of mid-winter despair. They recognize the realities of light and dark, good and
evil, and symbolically participate in the gradual return to light, goodness,
hope, wisdom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I awoke to the terrible news of terrorist attacks in
Paris and Beirut. Over 120 dead in Paris, over 40 in Beirut and many more wounded. Borders are tightening up and
people are, understandably, afraid. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought about that phrase “light over darkness,
knowledge over ignorance, good over evil, and hope over despair.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to believe it’s possible. </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-50283068106528172982015-10-14T23:36:00.000-07:002015-10-15T02:56:37.105-07:00Palimpsest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKJIHsVM2RgaciZHV4XoqFMLO64nHIs57EH9fjnVO6LvZ8P4lgMyh8JSvL5vFD82g-IYcIW6Z98nLTyWmP_1jk88atSuKHFgBb-zMLOhK9CT6wOg_xXP1n42G1Gv7pMtdjzenVhUjHHc/s1600/Palimpsest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKJIHsVM2RgaciZHV4XoqFMLO64nHIs57EH9fjnVO6LvZ8P4lgMyh8JSvL5vFD82g-IYcIW6Z98nLTyWmP_1jk88atSuKHFgBb-zMLOhK9CT6wOg_xXP1n42G1Gv7pMtdjzenVhUjHHc/s400/Palimpsest.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why yes, I did study Medieval Manuscripts in Graduate School</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Blend in, adapt.” He says while kneading gnarled,
woodworkers hands. "That is what we did when we moved here 30 years ago. We
didn’t want to change things, we wanted to understand, to add our lives to
whatever they were already doing here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The elderly couple before us seem as central to this small town as anybody
we’ve met over the last few years of visiting, but he went on to describe the not
so subtle warning spoken over the pulpit their first week in town “We don’t
need nobody with college degrees coming to our town and tellin' us what to do!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our new friend was the former director of the Anasazi State Park in Boulder Utah and even though we
had walked the packed gravel road to find a notary for some important
mid-vacation legal work, we spent a good portion of that morning talking to the historian and his wife about Ancestral Puebloan funerary rites, uncovering ancient burial plots, the national woodworking conference from which he had just returned and their life in this small town. I couldn’t help
but comparing their philosophy to that of those he spent his life
studying. Adapt, study the local flora and fauna, expand on the strengths of your tribe and find a way to make your identity compliment your
circumstances. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last year, after returning from home leave I felt that <a href="http://www.theworldthatwelivein.com/search/label/Home%20Leave" target="_blank">familiar expat split</a>: part of two worlds and not really sure of either. But as each year
passes I’m getting better at integrating my experiences into
something relevant and meaningful in the present. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My past selves into one life, one identity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbLPwlJO_FwqaDcAy8b8KI2-rogAiR_4yjolhVLjldK2tT2kWeQ1b4j4ZW7PRJlbLmlQTaHKwKoInC0Y5DD1yZQGOcKUVW3g8Skj8a-BVERLrZYi6N8IrT0NHH6ko4una-Uax6MuFYN7M/s1600/press.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbLPwlJO_FwqaDcAy8b8KI2-rogAiR_4yjolhVLjldK2tT2kWeQ1b4j4ZW7PRJlbLmlQTaHKwKoInC0Y5DD1yZQGOcKUVW3g8Skj8a-BVERLrZYi6N8IrT0NHH6ko4una-Uax6MuFYN7M/s320/press.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week back in Muscat we fought the terrible traffic to
little India and picked up a 100 year old book press My husband’s family unearthed in Salt Lake City a few years ago. Literally unearthed. It was hidden under the porch of the
century old family home and covered in rust. I’ve packed this beast from DC to
Morocco to Oman hoping that I could someday use it in my bookbinding studio.
This year we found a metalworker who could grind off the dirt and rust, paint the turning wheel, lubricate the spindle and re-attach the press plate. Suresh, from Bangladesh, finally fixed our early 20<sup>th</sup>
century cast iron book press once used by Max’s
English Great Grandfather. With my new excitement over the press, I just started
teaching a bookbinding class, a skill I first learned in
college before studying with a bookbinder in Jerusalem.</div>
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A palimpsest is a manuscript that, as textual needs and circumstances change, has
been prepared and written over again and again. Much of the previous text is
altered or erased, but there is a still a trace of the preceding texts in the
final product. Over the centuries a medieval manuscript could have acquired
four, five, six different surface writings – all previous writings mostly hidden
from view but still part of the integral makeup. In fact, the building up of
the text surface can make the book stronger. Unusual, perhaps, but more able
to receive the next text and maintain its usefulness and beauty.</div>
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I should be so lucky. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-28534104253195381472015-06-23T01:47:00.000-07:002015-06-23T01:50:55.628-07:00Sri Lanka: Wonder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsMQtqNXIR7kupqRLDY349k51apsUT4pYUPA4fI5tvmtFkxXk_A6ev5wf0uiflVRtgjGjPMKqwwqBikelzO59JkEpezR8Ur7HPtH5yk6Ft1ORSs6D6to0a4IYtSMhNzVlHT1bnn0Rl48/s1600/sunset_lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsMQtqNXIR7kupqRLDY349k51apsUT4pYUPA4fI5tvmtFkxXk_A6ev5wf0uiflVRtgjGjPMKqwwqBikelzO59JkEpezR8Ur7HPtH5yk6Ft1ORSs6D6to0a4IYtSMhNzVlHT1bnn0Rl48/s640/sunset_lake.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kandy Lake</td></tr>
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“The Buddha did not deny the existence of suffering, but he also did not deny the existence of joy and happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you think that Buddhism says, “Everything is suffering and we cannot do anything about it,” that is the opposite of the Buddha’s message.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
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Thich Nhat Hanh <i>The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoBTs2J-o5Zh1z_uozhpi-buRxtVLhHegGp5AuzSZQkcj0zI0vR9g41LfIgMYzzom_20Tnjivh2K1ArraA0JW0C4DyXUoupBlBfxoIGNVQGHDQrTHRrOw3gMrY3Nc84-z26Tukh2PjEA/s1600/big+bug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoBTs2J-o5Zh1z_uozhpi-buRxtVLhHegGp5AuzSZQkcj0zI0vR9g41LfIgMYzzom_20Tnjivh2K1ArraA0JW0C4DyXUoupBlBfxoIGNVQGHDQrTHRrOw3gMrY3Nc84-z26Tukh2PjEA/s200/big+bug.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">friendly critter</td></tr>
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Lest you think Max and I moped about in paradise being sad sacks the whole time, there was also much joy and happiness. We stayed in an insane bungalow, hidden in the mountains of Kandy by verdant, jungle canopy but also by thick morning fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fulfilled what was, until that moment, an un-realized life goal to bath <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">al fresco</i> in a rooftop bathtub enclosed by trees. Sure, I had to watch for critters what might fall from said trees and into my bath, but vigilance was a small price to pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Later, o</span>ver a candlelight dinner of spicy curries we took turns watching for snakes slithering from the foliage to join our meal unbidden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frogs perched in the eves above us and croaked their night song.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our "jungalow" surrounded in fog.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7kNOyjM0HlXrktDZb4NWh6_V4N39P7authDUQp_IhI2sdUHJd0WRMXE7qKGwQ3x_Z9OXlL8tTvsUYImWiuROC6rZKDLqS5JwKplX4hQKTEqTqph2P_G0JSE4ukPnEsuUEGqE7QIN0zk/s1600/sri_lanka_us3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7kNOyjM0HlXrktDZb4NWh6_V4N39P7authDUQp_IhI2sdUHJd0WRMXE7qKGwQ3x_Z9OXlL8tTvsUYImWiuROC6rZKDLqS5JwKplX4hQKTEqTqph2P_G0JSE4ukPnEsuUEGqE7QIN0zk/s320/sri_lanka_us3.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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We spotted black hooded orioles and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> a ceylon blue magpie </span>while riding an Elephant, hands resting on his massive ears, and toured tea factories after winding through hills being harvested by Sri Lankan women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbkjtAYQTtaFdSyNOPm7oR9SfxVjGEwTypro7f0ezaLPImvwjvMkkwyC11IVKntpcUu-hA2UtrdZss6aEGfFt2Lw8chyphenhyphenzHF4k1whIVh6R7Qk46AmYkFHra-PI25uISAaXm7mrnaYtNXo/s1600/sigiryia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbkjtAYQTtaFdSyNOPm7oR9SfxVjGEwTypro7f0ezaLPImvwjvMkkwyC11IVKntpcUu-hA2UtrdZss6aEGfFt2Lw8chyphenhyphenzHF4k1whIVh6R7Qk46AmYkFHra-PI25uISAaXm7mrnaYtNXo/s320/sigiryia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sigiriya</td></tr>
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We climbed 1200 steps to the top of a 5<sup>th</sup> century citadel at Sigiriya and inspected remarkably preserved paintings before exiting through<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> enormous </span>lion paws carved into rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpCl_q25yJgFsA9R1EHrjl2NmQMbx3FeI-iZkSI5v3jfPnJdcgYtsQM5Q6oLVl87TNkToQyMi1cNXbzWyEvOvdZacYz__iNjmeAfpFygPUwmVKDWE2Ucad7i18SC7jw26An1ORz3ZHrU/s1600/sigirya.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpCl_q25yJgFsA9R1EHrjl2NmQMbx3FeI-iZkSI5v3jfPnJdcgYtsQM5Q6oLVl87TNkToQyMi1cNXbzWyEvOvdZacYz__iNjmeAfpFygPUwmVKDWE2Ucad7i18SC7jw26An1ORz3ZHrU/s640/sigirya.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So. Many. Steps. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfu-3UTJezp8gGR5sQjEjTfFpepefSJjLVAduuQZz69rgr9OJtNi0yk0YzKRjilA1uZ57El9QjMsDId9QDRvwvgPCc80G8yzGpIHlIrGg73QHOAnfjppSs8TIplX4EZAFST8QKrDs9Dus/s1600/sigirya+cave+paintings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfu-3UTJezp8gGR5sQjEjTfFpepefSJjLVAduuQZz69rgr9OJtNi0yk0YzKRjilA1uZ57El9QjMsDId9QDRvwvgPCc80G8yzGpIHlIrGg73QHOAnfjppSs8TIplX4EZAFST8QKrDs9Dus/s640/sigirya+cave+paintings.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful frescos - half way up the citadel face.</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;">But the business of writing about travel is fraught with temptations of vanity and dishonesty. It makes for great facebook updates and crafted high adventure identities based on a few photos, but its author is
constantly at risk of boiling complex people and places to one-dimensional
objects of consumption existing only for personal pleasure.</span></div>
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I think about this so often I am paralyzed by it. </div>
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It felt a bit disingenuous to share only photographs of lush
green forests and majestic Elephant baths from our trip to Sri Lanka without
placing them in context of Sri Lanka's recent troubles. …but there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were </i>incredible creatures swinging from
trees above our private bungalow terrace, glorious rain and lightening storms
that stretched over the highlands and tea plantations so green and misty that
we lost ourselves inside. To ignore the wonder of a place feels just as
dishonest as to focus on its grittier aspects. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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And the world is too amazing not to share. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6auS1rY2lpOVy-JGy9_uX3krRe4G3RDcUARvaa9fVUtrMeVd8RzBfMGAXXHho-_61lRhux5yn-1CCSbHJBxyoNGIlE_4odOor_iK8XFXFbUE4k1XFOLaf594Rxs5cMG1dfNgSayk07ys/s1600/lightning+storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6auS1rY2lpOVy-JGy9_uX3krRe4G3RDcUARvaa9fVUtrMeVd8RzBfMGAXXHho-_61lRhux5yn-1CCSbHJBxyoNGIlE_4odOor_iK8XFXFbUE4k1XFOLaf594Rxs5cMG1dfNgSayk07ys/s640/lightning+storm.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lightening Overlooking Kandy</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXF9B_8q59pcMNUMP0XFk9mPhpTpDxTuKqv8qqARAiHK8FRposJEhG5UsDUB2e-iDFLu5xiwb-jVmxeNoGwws1qlzBlmvz9cG9Vgdp4aMbwja0i8Sn6dbHdaGVf83Rtz5_npRNd6KScq8/s1600/jungle+mist+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXF9B_8q59pcMNUMP0XFk9mPhpTpDxTuKqv8qqARAiHK8FRposJEhG5UsDUB2e-iDFLu5xiwb-jVmxeNoGwws1qlzBlmvz9cG9Vgdp4aMbwja0i8Sn6dbHdaGVf83Rtz5_npRNd6KScq8/s640/jungle+mist+view.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kandy, Sri Lanka</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-60240931042579970652015-06-23T00:36:00.000-07:002015-06-23T00:36:03.446-07:00Sri Lanka: Suffering<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Offerings at the Dambulla Cave Temples</td></tr>
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<b>“</b>It was a
terrible time. There were bombs
going off everywhere and a lot of innocent people dying.”</div>
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Our local guide Rajita said this to us one night as we
snaked through dark jungle roads lit dimly by naked bulbs in fruit stands. This
was the single comment he offered about Sri Lanka’s horrific 26 year civil war.
And really, civil war is too tidy a word for the kind of fractured brutality that
took place. Suicide bombings, kidnapping and dismemberment were daily
occurrences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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While Rajita was, for obvious and good reason, brief about
the war, he did talk at length with us about Buddhism. Sri Lanka has been an
important stronghold for Buddhism since the 3<sup>rd</sup> century BC and Sri
Lankans take credit for initiating the Buddhist monastic movement. 70% of the
population is Buddhist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
To learn about the war and the Buddha at the same made sense to me. The Buddha
found the way to enlightenment as he sought to come to terms with suffering. He
meditated on inevitable truths that all get old, we get sick,we die. All of the
things that we love will be taken at some point in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The slow time frame of these natural
realties is collapsed, pulverized in war. Suffering 2.0. <br />
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Ok, so suffering exits. But what is one to do about it? What responsibilities do we have to each other or, if you are inclined, to God? I have thought about this a lot in different places we’ve lived in the Middle East. What is a morally responsible way to engage with the suffering of others and, by necessity, to manage the suffering of one's self? How ought we to approach and interpret unfair and indiscriminate suffering? Conflict seems to bring these questions to the forefront and the Buddha’s meditations are as important today as they were during his own time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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In her book “Buddha” the religious historian Karen Armstrong wrote “In his view (the Buddha), the spiritual life cannot begin until people allow themselves to be invaded by the reality of suffering, realize how fully it permeates our whole experience and feel the pain of all other beings, even those we don’t find congenial.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocvFVbeBxujO1jk2gpJu9kBB2FtACP2Usy_cWSMpsBj2P9rL6GdChl9wOXTPX2Ec_umUrffkxO31GNqGRSn8buU9JKMBC-8aDAELAMEmCN-_hFoC8lD3p1vjglC9XRZeEPxF06lwdcPc/s1600/temple+of+tooth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocvFVbeBxujO1jk2gpJu9kBB2FtACP2Usy_cWSMpsBj2P9rL6GdChl9wOXTPX2Ec_umUrffkxO31GNqGRSn8buU9JKMBC-8aDAELAMEmCN-_hFoC8lD3p1vjglC9XRZeEPxF06lwdcPc/s320/temple+of+tooth.jpg" width="320" /></a>As we left Sri Lanka to come back to Oman we read about the terrible earthquake in Nepal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nepal is one of the world’s poorest countries and probably one of the least able to deal with the effects of such a devastating natural disaster. A lot of people will suffer for<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a long time. Sri Lanka itself lost more than 35000 people in the horrible 2004 tsunami. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Train Station in Nurya Elia</td></tr>
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It was easy to be naïve in Sri Lanka about the island nation’s painful recent history. It’s beyond beautiful, the people are kind and adventure seems to lurk around every corner. On our trip we read about The Buddha on a train bound for the highest point of the island, Nurya Elia, and shared snippets out loud over the roar of the wind through open windows. We visited the temple of the tooth where ear splitting drummers guarded a relic said to be the Buddha’s tooth. We climbed shin splinting stairs to the cave temples at Dambulla where a distant relative of the Bodhi tree grows. But suffering was never far from our minds. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDmEhNLFjociM03LFXqesnY5epICIJYvgs7XMqov5av6wNOAOgeWZkFEwUEwtk6WJ5UH-8m8OnicKttNYLJZojZMUgV86o89aO25ELpAwD23g2KQIVXQYBUTRuBKO-G6gfFWX7bXvVgA/s1600/buddha_cave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDmEhNLFjociM03LFXqesnY5epICIJYvgs7XMqov5av6wNOAOgeWZkFEwUEwtk6WJ5UH-8m8OnicKttNYLJZojZMUgV86o89aO25ELpAwD23g2KQIVXQYBUTRuBKO-G6gfFWX7bXvVgA/s640/buddha_cave.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dambulla Caves</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqp5c0pg-Ifx7JuZLnCSM1ZgGRt-LIxTj9VtlBN1zQWuuB4Av2l3ANvJyK15_Y-w8_lsihBESICAFssVoL-x9CyhywmdJI-B6iH2hSN4WFh2BkbJGDrrMtMWeQMRVAjiNcu1sH3Xpu_cs/s1600/buddhas_cave_temple_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqp5c0pg-Ifx7JuZLnCSM1ZgGRt-LIxTj9VtlBN1zQWuuB4Av2l3ANvJyK15_Y-w8_lsihBESICAFssVoL-x9CyhywmdJI-B6iH2hSN4WFh2BkbJGDrrMtMWeQMRVAjiNcu1sH3Xpu_cs/s640/buddhas_cave_temple_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dambulla Caves</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Temple of the Tooth - people waiting to give offerings</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-28521473011866617252015-05-06T23:35:00.001-07:002015-05-06T23:39:00.016-07:00Sri Lanka: Remembering How to See<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dumballa Cave Temples</td></tr>
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My family has a mysterious hip dysfunction that, when at
its worse, makes sitting for any period of time agonizing. A few years ago I
spent a sweltering DC summer trying to figure it out which amounted to
basically remembering how to walk and how to sit. I felt like a 4 year
old. </div>
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At breakfast a few days ago I was thinking through how to
write about our recent trip to Sri Lanka when my hip pain became enough to
distract me from thoughts of lush green jungles. I paused,
took a deep breath, lifted my rib cage and tilted my pelvis slightly forward to settle
back onto the chair with purpose. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember how to sit. </i>The phrase
often comes to my head when the pain becomes too much. I sit taller and
re-align my shoulders and I can usually manage the position.<br />
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And it hit me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Remembering how to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>That is what this trip was about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In fact, now that I think about it, for me travel is</span> always about remembering how to
see. How to see the value in people very different from myself, how to see fractured national identities resulting from power and place, how to see the
incredible effects of natural forces over time. How to see God
in practices very unlike my own and how to see suffering that has never directly
affected me.</div>
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We explored temples, ate delicious spicy curries, drove through misty mountain jungle passes, rode elephants and relaxed in what we affectionately think of as our "jungalow" but mostly we remembered how to see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dumballa Cave Temples</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinnawala</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the path from Nur Eliya</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-51755557264691264822015-03-22T06:14:00.000-07:002015-03-22T06:14:11.911-07:00Qantab Beach, Oman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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By eight AM the Qantab fishermen are already pulling their
green boats ashore, faces wrapped in sea crusted checkered scarves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched two men leap from the bow and
run a rope up the beach to a large empty spool operated by a crank. A few
villagers wondered over, as if summoned, and begin to turn the spool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boat slowly crept further onto the
beach to be cleaned and stowed until tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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From a distance I’d been watching two young boys drop a fishing line rolled around a pack of cigarettes into the
ocean below their rocky outcrop for almost an hour. As the masked men pulled
their boat out of the sea the two boys, Jaffer and Hamza, appeared down on the
beach to clean one sizable catch alongside the proper fishermen. Under the
guise of getting a better angle from which to draw the emerging boat I started
a conversation about the fish they’d caught that morning. </div>
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The two fishermen pulled their catch from a cooler and
slapped them on the deck for me to see whole before being gutted.
The younger of the two smiled up at me and through the tightly wrapped scarf,
protecting him from relentless sun and ocean wind, I saw deep green eyes.</div>
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Oman continues to surprise me. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-1050402363624831252015-02-28T00:46:00.000-08:002015-03-06T20:34:01.356-08:00Cairo 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The future never looks like what you thought it would - but it's almost always awesome. It's official folks, we are headed to Cairo in 2016!<br />
<br />
Let me rewind for a minute and tell you that Egypt was the first place I visited outside of America. Unless you count a sunburned afternoon in Tijuana, which I don't. At the Cairo airport I tucked my money belt under a baggy shirt, pulled my hat down and braced myself for what I was told would be an incredible and overwhelming city. And it was. Everything after Cairo has seemed like a breeze in comparison.<br />
<br />
We've been trying to balance romantic expectations with the very real instability and challenges we'll face in Egypt. We can't know exactly what it will be like until we get there, but we are trying to be as clear eyed as possible. <br />
<br />
...but it's Egypt, people. There is so much to learn that my head spins from time to time. I've started a bit early and, as any good librarian would offer, here are a few titles if you want to dive into Egypt's rich literary and archeological history with me:<br />
<br />
<i>The Yacubian Building: </i>Alaa Al Aswany<br />
<i>The Cairo Trilogy: </i> Naguib Mahfouz<br />
<i>The Blue Manuscript: </i>Abiha Al Khemir<i> </i><br />
<i>Crocodile on the Sandbank (Amelia Peabody bk. 1): </i>Elizabeth Peters<br />
<i>Temples, Tombs, and Hieroglyphs: A Popular History of Ancient Egypt: </i>Barbara Mertz<br />
<i>Lawrence in Arabia: War, Deceit, Imperial Folly and the Making of the Modern Middle East: </i>Scott Anderson<br />
<i>A Brief History of Islam: </i>Karen Armstrong (who I love)<br />
<i>The Road to Tahrir Square: </i>Lloyd C. Gardner<br />
<i>The Man in the White Sharkskin Suit; A Jewish Family's Exodus from Old Cairo to the New World: </i>Lucette Lagnado<br />
<i>Cairo the Victorious: </i>Max Rodenbeck<br />
<i>Letters from Egypt:</i> A Journey on the Nile, 1849-1850: Florence Nightingale<br />
<i>The Sisters of Sinai: How Two Lady Adventurers Discovered The Hidden Gospels:</i> Jane Soskice<br />
<br />
Here's to hoping we've grown the chops to take on the city! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-55457205286844053072015-02-14T01:29:00.001-08:002015-02-14T01:29:07.794-08:00You Have Chosen a Good Guru<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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“You have chosen a good guru” the man says as we walk past him and into our yoga class. His head bobs back and forth above a white shawl and loose white pants. His wife wears a traditional sari
and the bindi between her eyebrows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I smile as I pass and think “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have chosen a
guru?” </i>This news is
faintly alarming to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> While performing </span>asanas I try not to think about it and
focus on what I need from the session:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>stretching, core strength, mental clarity, inner calm. But I once overheard my instructor saying that she was making plans to scale a holy mountain. That she would climb to the top, a difficult journey requiring a special permit from the Chinese government, and meditate in the mountain air. So maybe he was right. </div>
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The first time I attended class I was overwhelmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Completely overwhelmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was overwhelmed with how little Hindi
I know (which is to say, none), how difficult maintaining your body perpendicular to a wall with only a rope around your waist is, and the way knowing bodies churned back and forth from room to
room, yoga block to strap, performing poses and breath exercises with eyes
closed. For me it was less churning and more milling and lots of one-eye-opened copying. After the first 90 minute
session I came home with eyes glazed and hamstrings on fire, unsure if I would return for the next session just two days later. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our instructor, part
drill sergeant part Dalai Lama, demonstrates and then walks the room
straightening backs and pulling legs higher. <i>Now, get ready for the royal kick </i>she says and I don't know that this is when I should groan and prepare for a tiny Indian foot to land on my backside and push until I resemble a hunter's bow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s quite a force and I spent the first few weeks trying
not to disappoint her, which, I came around to understand is completely the
wrong way to approach yoga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I waded through invocations and yogic chants, analogies based on the caste system and moves to stimulate chakras, I discovered that the key to experiences like this and really, living overseas in general, is to sift and select. Try to understand what is happening, appreciate its historical and cultural context and then decide what can add to or modify your values and what you'll leave for someone else. At first I was concerned that perhaps I was offering prayers to Gods I don't believe in. <i>Is this offensive to Hindus? Is this offensive to my own Christian belief? </i>But those aren't quite the right questions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Krister Stendahl, former Harvard Divinity School professor and theologian, wrote about leaving room for "Holy Envy" in our spiritual practices. What Stendahl meant by this is that you should be willing to recognize elements in other religious traditions or faiths that you admire and wish could, in some way, be reflected in your own religious traditions. It's an idea that has guided my interactions in the Middle East for many years now and given me a framework from which to approach other religions. <br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm sad to say that my full work schedule will no longer permit me to sweat it out with my Indian friends twice a week. But this idea of mastering the self and purifying desires became such a tangible process to me over those months I hung from ceilings and practiced breathing. Rejecting the limitations and deceptions of the
physical world. Disciplining the body, controlling the outer life to calm the inner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm not very comfortable with the idea of a "guru" but what I wanted was an authentic experience and I certainly got that. Along with a little more strength and even a few words of Hindi. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-15155421662398619092015-01-25T00:49:00.000-08:002015-01-26T00:12:32.785-08:00Wadis, Wadis, Everywhere<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsOVH6r8ztpe59WEChoTy3L-fZHU6H_qlsoGtIoFeThCh37kQjW7Dr1VLrRoFcg-guMu6tWY7l4Q91Mr2FWB79-FfNXcl2flWN5UwSJ9cOkiXI4Hr461QKyX7d24RVIaW1saPwlu6wcQ/s1600/IMG_0049_0138-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsOVH6r8ztpe59WEChoTy3L-fZHU6H_qlsoGtIoFeThCh37kQjW7Dr1VLrRoFcg-guMu6tWY7l4Q91Mr2FWB79-FfNXcl2flWN5UwSJ9cOkiXI4Hr461QKyX7d24RVIaW1saPwlu6wcQ/s1600/IMG_0049_0138-1.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wadi Shab</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Swimming is mentioned specifically in the collected
teachings, deeds and sayings of the Prophet Muhammad. Along with archery,
walking, and horseracing the Hadith instructs Muslims to teach their children
to swim. This Sunna is often discussed in the context of taking care of the
body, of exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first imaginings of the Middle East were of vast deserts
in every direction. While this is, in part, true, I didn’t take into account
the incredible coastlines along the Atlantic, Indian Ocean, Mediterranean,
Arabian Gulf and the Red Sea. People in the Arab world have as much a history
on the sea as they do in the deserts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2L48Tbx2SnngvvtAPOtsQxd77RYynUnC16E1i0mIWudZVtX7YOWigz_WoGfRpc4RdoOdrBVtzyX2YEJdhIYFYLbr4yxMr-Fsf10IAeh6W7lRP0X3_nA9fdRQ9SVSqlCQQlWB3k7a5c8E/s1600/wadi+sheb+art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2L48Tbx2SnngvvtAPOtsQxd77RYynUnC16E1i0mIWudZVtX7YOWigz_WoGfRpc4RdoOdrBVtzyX2YEJdhIYFYLbr4yxMr-Fsf10IAeh6W7lRP0X3_nA9fdRQ9SVSqlCQQlWB3k7a5c8E/s1600/wadi+sheb+art.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little wadi art</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something else absent from my fantasy geography were the
hundreds of Wadis. Wadis - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sometimes dry trails at the base of valleys
but oftentimes deep pools and rivers bisected by torrents of clean water
running from high soft rock plateaus into larger bodies of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wadis throughout the Levant empty into
the Dead Sea and many closer to the coast find their way to the Ocean. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After hiking and swimming through several wadis over the
past 18 months I understand a little better the holy directive to walk, to
swim. Oman’s landscape is a product of some of the most intense geological
activity to be found on the earth. Plates have been bumping and subducting and pushing up ocean floor for
hundreds of thousands of years. One of the results is a series of mountains and
plateaus that taper, eventually, into the Indian Ocean on the East coast of
Oman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over time water and debris
have carved out pools and paths through the mountains that many hike up into on
hot weekends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Our favorite Wadi to date is Wadi Shab which ends with a tiny
keyhole swim into a cave bearing a secret waterfall. I’ve linked to <a href="http://youtu.be/yWkirg73flE">someone else’s youtube video of the swim</a> since I haven’t quite trusted myself to swim a
giant Canon into the cave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
other pictures I’ve snapped along the way and at other wadis in the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are myriad wadis in Oman left to explore…and it looks
like we just might get a little more time to explore than we’d planned! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
....I know, the teasing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s rude, isn’t it? But after our initially sad-making
experience with bidding I wanted to keep some great news to myself for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> .</span>..and also make sure it’s
real!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINgSzj-iDQfQqPzyxUdlQ2e35wIYJSAWJjx_Dp6mVbmFsXo1cW7UdW9Y4Zdvz83NeyP-3pdAvgZmXyvuMwfzzwEfqqaHnn0yv2Ln2bxDHOXTd1jC9jPFrVkGY8LfxS_C3W4UsZ4azIFc/s1600/IMG_0021_0175-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINgSzj-iDQfQqPzyxUdlQ2e35wIYJSAWJjx_Dp6mVbmFsXo1cW7UdW9Y4Zdvz83NeyP-3pdAvgZmXyvuMwfzzwEfqqaHnn0yv2Ln2bxDHOXTd1jC9jPFrVkGY8LfxS_C3W4UsZ4azIFc/s1600/IMG_0021_0175-1.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance of Wadi where rocks and debris are deposited before water runs into the ocean</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIH4g5Cro-hBIfO0pcaRM5EdWms81AKlctcmsn0VQNB8UdLIiOWT29BZiSjtC8YuAEujebqFU-TsKd479_GiHcuqYcNHo7720KsikIfakWSLuYZhvqGEHVNpwRxJ4EL79jk0-80aisqCw/s1600/IMG_0043_0198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIH4g5Cro-hBIfO0pcaRM5EdWms81AKlctcmsn0VQNB8UdLIiOWT29BZiSjtC8YuAEujebqFU-TsKd479_GiHcuqYcNHo7720KsikIfakWSLuYZhvqGEHVNpwRxJ4EL79jk0-80aisqCw/s1600/IMG_0043_0198.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the left you'll see the falaj system funneling water to crops along the wadi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6UYLht_gledYDbjUOjtTPwbO8GTtcRo1-1pKKEQl5HLid6Ny2I3JPJRNTDnO0io3qqqyOmQNZX8lYm0jM0QjuYEYCYd_-vGQ6rf3Ufx6MxCK6yqbAe_pYnkZquWpagJi3sJA6UU-odQ/s1600/IMG_0044_0135-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6UYLht_gledYDbjUOjtTPwbO8GTtcRo1-1pKKEQl5HLid6Ny2I3JPJRNTDnO0io3qqqyOmQNZX8lYm0jM0QjuYEYCYd_-vGQ6rf3Ufx6MxCK6yqbAe_pYnkZquWpagJi3sJA6UU-odQ/s1600/IMG_0044_0135-1.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not photoshopped people - it is that green/blue and that clear</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKZS4zna5mDidVLzJJABxSNjpyoAuIP_aCKIe4Raa1b-O1oqtRMl-dseM8g-lxLBX2-otWjynlDdGlJA9yUo8uchpGobZur5SFVM3-ljQd33JNKx1-S8Bt2Mn5MR47RciVCPN2ws2olcI/s1600/IMG_0022_0272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKZS4zna5mDidVLzJJABxSNjpyoAuIP_aCKIe4Raa1b-O1oqtRMl-dseM8g-lxLBX2-otWjynlDdGlJA9yUo8uchpGobZur5SFVM3-ljQd33JNKx1-S8Bt2Mn5MR47RciVCPN2ws2olcI/s1600/IMG_0022_0272.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Snake Canyon has drops and waterfalls a plenty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1TrnFQZ7XVIHSkeuKKIoS5-f5mqpcd9tf2dcDsV3k0XwxLMXuXZT6hm7kFBTxXdokcsacO72PS8KJzmM4szalSdgA4Q2M-8aREUW6pgZQwD3Auq6fGo5QpiklyRU5UnB3JlNAlf2CtsY/s1600/IMG_0015_0266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1TrnFQZ7XVIHSkeuKKIoS5-f5mqpcd9tf2dcDsV3k0XwxLMXuXZT6hm7kFBTxXdokcsacO72PS8KJzmM4szalSdgA4Q2M-8aREUW6pgZQwD3Auq6fGo5QpiklyRU5UnB3JlNAlf2CtsY/s1600/IMG_0015_0266.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to another wadi "Little Snake Canyon"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-54995247311248054062015-01-02T04:57:00.001-08:002015-01-25T01:19:17.901-08:00Ridiculous Problems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve just exited the freeway and pulled up behind a miles
long row of yellow sewage trucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m stuck in an industrial zone full of foreign worker trailers and, it
bears mentioning again, trucks full of human waste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears are welling up and a few escape as I wait to turn
around and get back to the freeway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m late for work after missing the correct exit TWICE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s it!” I say out loud in my car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This ends today. I have to get it
together!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve spent the last few months bidding for our next job and
I’ve been sucked into an alternate universe where I only think about bidding,
fuss about where we are going to live, research countries that will let us take
the dog, worry about our timetable, check my phone for messages from Max to see
if there’s news, make plans for all possible options, change and abandon plans
as jobs drop off the list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
know, turn into a crazy person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bidding is the “process” by which you acquire your next
assignment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You tell jobs you are
interested in that you’d like to go there, your references vouch for you, and
if they like you back<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- voila,
onward assignment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it
sounded kind of fun at first, to consider all the possibilities and imagine us
in different cities eating different kinds of food<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- but that was naïve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is pretty much a months long trip to the dentist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of Max’s colleagues were offered
assignments in November while we’ve been blowing about in the wind like an
empty shopping bag for weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
unpredictability of the process and the constant dashing of hopes really wears
on you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels like your
whole life is on hold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last few weeks, even though I knew I was being
melodramatic and ungrateful, I couldn’t shake the afternoon blues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, as my misadventure on the way
to work proved, the morning fogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d get worked up about not getting particular jobs we wanted and then
feel twice as bad when I realized how privileged my “problems” were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have food, shelter, family, books and
regardless of the outcome of this bidding season I will still have those things
in some form.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The turning point of this process was a good cry in my car
after meeting world famous photographer Steve McCurry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steve McCurry is most well known for
his photograph “Afghan Girl” featured on a 1985 cover of National Geographic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His photographs of India, Southeast and
Central Asia were incredible and as I looked at them I felt my heart swelling
for an adventure out in the great world. It looked like we were headed back to
Washington and while a lovely place to live, it wasn’t quite what we had in
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt all of my imagined
adventures slipping away and at the same time felt so embarrassed at how
spoiled I had become.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trucked my
patent leather heels to my car for a good cry and after about 20 minutes I
had another one of those “get it together” epiphanies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You want adventures,
Brooke? You mean, like sitting in your car at this historic port in Muscat,
Oman in a fascinating Shiite enclave ? You mean like not knowing where you’ll
end up in six months, how you’ll plan to start your family around such
uncertainty, and whether or not your beloved dog can come? What could be more
adventurous than that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not for certain yet, but we are getting a better idea
of where we’ll end up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve come
‘round the bend and I’m actually super duper excited about our most promising
option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We won’t know for a few
more days, but here’s to a new year of hope and recognizing adventure when it
smacks you in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-41419519415423876162014-12-27T07:26:00.000-08:002014-12-27T07:29:25.570-08:00Lovely Oman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Where have I been? Oh here. In onward assignment limbo. But I thought I'd break the silence (and the emotional torture) with a little post about lovely, lovely Oman. I haven't posted a lot about our time here and I have developed an idea that it's because it's so lovely and calm and beautiful. Sounds like a crazy reason not to write, I know, but evidently I'm creatively motivated by discomfort and conflict. I'm not sure how to unravel that just yet...<br />
<br />
But anyway, I'm not much for New Year's resolutions but this year I'm going to work harder to share Oman. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYeDjxiEGN3sdWnbhztynCTj_G0PhmH8HVNRe3bbXrwE6_OxyJSYDHaKQkp8EdNQ2QmYnxH1Q_AvIFgFiHH4sZ3xfhMmnT65rhN9N8z17OA3xEjeh3BJcDQ59pZsSBZnh0wpjK9M4BBD4/s1600/Mutrah+Souk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYeDjxiEGN3sdWnbhztynCTj_G0PhmH8HVNRe3bbXrwE6_OxyJSYDHaKQkp8EdNQ2QmYnxH1Q_AvIFgFiHH4sZ3xfhMmnT65rhN9N8z17OA3xEjeh3BJcDQ59pZsSBZnh0wpjK9M4BBD4/s1600/Mutrah+Souk.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muttrah Souk Stained Glass Ceiling</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygUu8DqvsY0mp0LmTr2yZWav1u0RrN5NtvcA5F8_E6b8IP7pG1jtOTZ5BpSJCF6s9Cx95t7VPMQe9Sh0IEbnoIKXgn1VXL6SyQiH4EK9LAKp2SU8lgDSbvg7ADYIcxh61nIUtW8CKvKY/s1600/Jebel+Akhdar+at+Sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygUu8DqvsY0mp0LmTr2yZWav1u0RrN5NtvcA5F8_E6b8IP7pG1jtOTZ5BpSJCF6s9Cx95t7VPMQe9Sh0IEbnoIKXgn1VXL6SyQiH4EK9LAKp2SU8lgDSbvg7ADYIcxh61nIUtW8CKvKY/s1600/Jebel+Akhdar+at+Sunset.jpg" height="640" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jebel Akhdar at Sunset</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0RM36tkSWMmpcpyFLxHNpTk_EyOp0lBWkip-sFz3mXUh9DUCYOCOjDx5-ispPKox-r61Gne0TSmCrMm5DPBLiIesUetRYX1m_yJ5TReXMFrmB1J9mgXNc-OhDFPLtBB-EzhL7MGjesc/s1600/Ras+Al+Had.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0RM36tkSWMmpcpyFLxHNpTk_EyOp0lBWkip-sFz3mXUh9DUCYOCOjDx5-ispPKox-r61Gne0TSmCrMm5DPBLiIesUetRYX1m_yJ5TReXMFrmB1J9mgXNc-OhDFPLtBB-EzhL7MGjesc/s1600/Ras+Al+Had.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ras Al Had</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPtorGzwQljOhhDQS4A8LPsjtZPw3xXe4wvt7WETX9l1nIAetNNxGqLPL0Y45AIiGrrg9tN7DWWYbKYWdAlDxe_bsuahwtma8oTwXp9PaSDzGF0uxDC1Iucb5FDpVLNxsrEDGq9_cvus0/s1600/camel_barka_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPtorGzwQljOhhDQS4A8LPsjtZPw3xXe4wvt7WETX9l1nIAetNNxGqLPL0Y45AIiGrrg9tN7DWWYbKYWdAlDxe_bsuahwtma8oTwXp9PaSDzGF0uxDC1Iucb5FDpVLNxsrEDGq9_cvus0/s1600/camel_barka_0005.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, just a camel ranch</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXAQzdDkKECw7_tTOzh1x-NJY3Gp3tCvGObiHwuKyNWmLTai1q8hdbFX4CJhMlx6VD_No5hMzCYqs4WrGoDIYe_DtG02T-s6rg62WpYy9pcna8wDyfC8439PFpJXQvlUoO98wsBZi48U/s1600/Akhdar_plants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXAQzdDkKECw7_tTOzh1x-NJY3Gp3tCvGObiHwuKyNWmLTai1q8hdbFX4CJhMlx6VD_No5hMzCYqs4WrGoDIYe_DtG02T-s6rg62WpYy9pcna8wDyfC8439PFpJXQvlUoO98wsBZi48U/s1600/Akhdar_plants.jpg" height="640" width="408" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jebal Akhdar Plants</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2wIV9uyHphZw6Sdzn7oyvuzZkwNOXUdgmYZ5p15bA_Dy3qMQmqxdjY5EZMFGjjC1FAF49rVwVeA4v0hINrGh4f6jh_IlOqwcnQdhyphenhyphenq61sys62j32KpqqObcDo8zXKn8VRDRRlNDHpjc/s1600/Max_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2wIV9uyHphZw6Sdzn7oyvuzZkwNOXUdgmYZ5p15bA_Dy3qMQmqxdjY5EZMFGjjC1FAF49rVwVeA4v0hINrGh4f6jh_IlOqwcnQdhyphenhyphenq61sys62j32KpqqObcDo8zXKn8VRDRRlNDHpjc/s1600/Max_1.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The husband, contemplating they mysteries of the Universe<br />
on Jebel Akhdar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0quQ5dwaAkrENtqukKLXIh1o6vRNtniowc4XPbw_8Jk70vQ8JZlrcb0L2SzRCmkaUYr81P19cpXsRZUpvt6l9SpDgkPIyVet1jmtg0Wd4uztPh6G_3xTEoEXPNu_oSsWVNxQyJSsVRQ/s1600/Pool+View.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0quQ5dwaAkrENtqukKLXIh1o6vRNtniowc4XPbw_8Jk70vQ8JZlrcb0L2SzRCmkaUYr81P19cpXsRZUpvt6l9SpDgkPIyVet1jmtg0Wd4uztPh6G_3xTEoEXPNu_oSsWVNxQyJSsVRQ/s1600/Pool+View.jpg" height="640" width="412" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another great view from Jebel Akhdar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSPAjc9g-FW3YYmu_7nmao547tMGuIp2gqD7QNs4sj2wE4GAkUx7BFe_rASA8qo5a7wy0xByb3ASOZ1lovST7enFl4IFIyynpHU232PZgeuwSJc6Q8CoAZ99JaKc6VKdCJED7y31ovx4/s1600/muttrah_+birdlady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSPAjc9g-FW3YYmu_7nmao547tMGuIp2gqD7QNs4sj2wE4GAkUx7BFe_rASA8qo5a7wy0xByb3ASOZ1lovST7enFl4IFIyynpHU232PZgeuwSJc6Q8CoAZ99JaKc6VKdCJED7y31ovx4/s1600/muttrah_+birdlady.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muttrah Souk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-53651122216299188512014-12-27T07:00:00.000-08:002014-12-27T08:11:28.676-08:00Why I Love Maps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SIV7Ih5M0H0O2h7E63MhbZ5aOI8t5ehAOYOwb101UObwXXO5XM4mgwTTnfa76x6zskbGdjNFEBAuB0TTFb22yUd3O0Cqs4fy43AiPf0QdJLgOSXRLVI_lFHnLSOwzltVnBnNEP5R8R4/s1600/Sudan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SIV7Ih5M0H0O2h7E63MhbZ5aOI8t5ehAOYOwb101UObwXXO5XM4mgwTTnfa76x6zskbGdjNFEBAuB0TTFb22yUd3O0Cqs4fy43AiPf0QdJLgOSXRLVI_lFHnLSOwzltVnBnNEP5R8R4/s1600/Sudan.jpg" height="400" width="287" /></span></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline;">A few months ago I met a man from Sudan at the Muscat book fair. He showed me pictures of a recent trip home to Khartoum. I saw his family, traditional Sundanese food, a curly headed nephew pretending to smoke hookah, and lots and lots of sand. One of the pictures was of the inside of a boat.<br /><br /><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">“That was my room” He said to me. </span><br /> </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 1.15;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Sorry, your room?” </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline;"><br />“Yes. On the way to Sudan.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline;">From Oman. On the way to Sudan from Oman...via boat. He then mapped out his route for me: Muscat, Abu Dhabi, Riyadh, Jeddah, Port Sudan, Khartoum. Thousands of miles, multiple borders, many days, land, water, desert. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline;">I had just bought a beautiful book full of infographics and stylized maps from all over the world. It is truly an amazing book, but after listening to my new friend describe his journey I thought THESE are the types of geographies, places and maps I really want to learn about. Geographies of shifting people, migrants, expatriates, people staying put but changing over time. Stories of how people arrive at a certain location, a certain ideology or culture as evidenced by the places from which they come or even by the features of the landscape itself. </span><span style="line-height: 1.15;">Map as story. Map as identity. Map as history. Map as journey. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline;">I have become mildly obsessed with the 7 year journey of Paul Salopek, Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and National Geographic Fellow who is spending 84 months walking around the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline;">From the blog</span><a href="http://outofedenwalk.nationalgeographic.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;"> http://outofedenwalk.nationalgeographic.com/</span></a><span style="vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Paul Salopek’s Out of Eden world walk is an exercise in slow journalism. Moving at the slow beat of his footsteps, Paul is engaging with the major stories of our time—from climate change to technological innovation, from mass migration to cultural survival—by walking alongside the people who inhabit them every day. As he traverses the globe from Africa to South America, he is revealing the texture of the lives of people he encounters: the nomads, villagers, traders, farmers, and fishermen who never make the news." </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.15;">Lately I’ve been circling around the things we can learn about people and history by slowness, by participation instead of voyeurism, by observation instead of consumption. After my first real trip outside of America I proudly ticked off the cities we'd seen to family and friends who were kind enough not to roll their eyes. But, partly prodded by the slower travel habits of my husband and by serious thought about ethical and authentic travel, those kinds of things don’t matter to me anymore. What matters to me are stories and histories, values and traditions, contradictions and identities. All things that are somehow, impossibly captured by the best maps. </span><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /><br />My friend's story might look like miles of sand separated by an ocean strip on a map, but </span><span style="line-height: 1.15;">lurking among the </span><span style="line-height: 17px;">latitudes</span><span style="line-height: 1.15;"> and labels are stories of </span><span style="line-height: 17px;">political and economic instability, familial values across distance, the limits of technology and luxuries of speedy travel. It's all there, we just have to dig. </span><span style="line-height: 17px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.15;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*If you are interested in more "Slow Journalism" I just finished "Beyond The Beautiful Forevers" about a garbage slum in outer Mumbai that will blow you away. Such profound, complete story telling and reporting. If we think the solutions and causes of poverty are simple then we aren't trying hard enough to understand them.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-40682903315046218402014-11-12T08:47:00.000-08:002014-11-12T09:19:05.562-08:00Ghent: The Art, The Mustard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSmUNzmpL-yK0w0T5vYFndYjkHc0XTbKL46G6JokmmENSkW9Ov79XtU_XC8OHPsrssTa7EMdFhc2RKrjWFCcx6PZ1cmsyJrz6gs6963yZVw92ODE9Jg6pMkcDgFq0wqlFRPCvDHYQqzk/s1600/gent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSmUNzmpL-yK0w0T5vYFndYjkHc0XTbKL46G6JokmmENSkW9Ov79XtU_XC8OHPsrssTa7EMdFhc2RKrjWFCcx6PZ1cmsyJrz6gs6963yZVw92ODE9Jg6pMkcDgFq0wqlFRPCvDHYQqzk/s400/gent.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Last! </td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes you feel cool and sometimes you feel like a dummy.</div>
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That’s just the way it goes, I guess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When planning my few days in Brussels I got it in my head
that a trip to Belgium wouldn’t be complete without seeing the famous Ghent
altarpiece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The altarpiece,
painted around 1430 by Jan van Eyck has 12 panels depicting biblical and other
religions scenes. Noted for its then groundbreaking application of realism, it was once described as encompassing "the whole art of painting". This impressive
piece endured the destruction of the iconoclast era and lost panels due to
theft during WWI and WWII – spending some time in a salt mine during the
latter. After a massive
restoration effort the altarpiece is now displayed in St. Bavo’s Cathedral in
Ghent, Belgium – <i>theoretically</i> a 45
minute train ride from Brussels.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite a rocky start of lost luggage and no guide book, I
found my way to the train station and hopped on a train that certainly <i>seemed</i>
to be headed toward Ghent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About
45 minutes in and what felt like an equal number of stops I asked the train
attendant how soon we’d be arriving in Ghent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave me a sympathetic look from under his navy cap</div>
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“Oh no. You should have taken the other train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This train goes to Ghent, but it is the
slow train and stops at every town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It will take 2.5 hours.” </div>
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This is when you feel like a dummy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you feel even more like a dummy
when you finally arrive in Ghent without plans or a map or wifi and expect to
just ask around in French only to realize that in Ghent they speak mostly Dutch, not
French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the train station an automated map showed me the general
direction of the church and I decided to walk instead of navigating what seemed
like a complicated tram system.<br />
<span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">Ghent is medieval and beautiful,
but felt a bit glum after the perpetual sunshine of Oman.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">I was stopped at an intersection,
feeling sorry for my lost self and my incredible-see-great-art-adventure come
wander-about-without-a-clue when a swarm of bike riders charged down the hill
toward me and tore through the intersection. </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">There must have been 30 of them all wearing scarves and blazers. </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">It was like a great whooshing, swooping</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">flock of crows - if crows chatted on cell phones and carried back packs. Ghent appeared to be a town ruled by two wheels. Bike riders overran sidewalks and filled entire roads from curb to curb. They held their heads high and wore skirts fearlessly. </span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">When I caught a closer look at these tweeded bike riders I
discovered they looked a lot like me: freckles, sandy red hair and pale skin.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">Which makes sense as </span><i style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">my people </i><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">are, in part, from Northern
Europe.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span><i style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">My People! </i><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">I thought, lengthening my stride.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">This sense of community, albeit completely imagined, breathed life
into my legs and lifted my spirits.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">I ate pickled beets and dried pork for lunch on a sunny park bench and watched dozens more bike riders sail past.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I finally stood in front of the altarpiece it was everything I hoped it would be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I snuck an audio guide off the table
when no one was looking and worked my way through each panel. Even the teenage group of field trippers added to the ambience somehow. If you want a bit more than that
you can read about it <a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ghnt/hd_ghnt.htmhttp://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ghnt/hd_ghnt.htm" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://closertovaneyck.kikirpa.be/" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghent_Altarpiece" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://www.getty.edu/foundation/initiatives/current/panelpaintings/panel_paintings_ghent.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOL471M9PLmYGE1gi02y82sxhPXkMGq8dENwDG4-9dl5HKfZiT_F1laCr7NzWH_bVDdhhTuA9DwxuCEpFUxCEzszsvG3YOW1x9HBhUKlyAXcBf4KZ-JL-vwvXUuGuqHUMoiLI5T-P4KQ8/s1600/ghent+nose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOL471M9PLmYGE1gi02y82sxhPXkMGq8dENwDG4-9dl5HKfZiT_F1laCr7NzWH_bVDdhhTuA9DwxuCEpFUxCEzszsvG3YOW1x9HBhUKlyAXcBf4KZ-JL-vwvXUuGuqHUMoiLI5T-P4KQ8/s200/ghent+nose.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nose Of Ghent</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Later in the day I made friends with the lovely and Flemishly tall Una and asked her about the famous mustard shop I vaguely remembered reading about but didn’t know how to find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lovely and flemishly tall Una led me through town, past
the cart selling “Noses of Ghent”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- a purple jelly candy shaped like, well, a nose – and to what can only
be described as an artisanal mustard shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picked a beautiful stone jar and the …mustarder(?)…mustardier(?)...mustardess(?) dipped a giant wooden ladel into a wooden barrel of mustard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A barrel large enough for an adult sized game of hide and seek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEZjvGy0vjB5RVSgHI57G3ClVxX4tPf0e_rfHM6xqDY3km4jUkY-_Ts4BNCKywNlzCqZh_10YrgxZuAdV4LPJCGC1Iyc_2IzoeFppiRHyjGp2X6g0unUPTS0BQFxl8megiqm1br2QB6A/s1600/ghent_mustard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEZjvGy0vjB5RVSgHI57G3ClVxX4tPf0e_rfHM6xqDY3km4jUkY-_Ts4BNCKywNlzCqZh_10YrgxZuAdV4LPJCGC1Iyc_2IzoeFppiRHyjGp2X6g0unUPTS0BQFxl8megiqm1br2QB6A/s320/ghent_mustard.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...barrel of mustard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
“It has to be wood” she tells me<br />
<span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"><br />“Don’t scoop your mustard with
metal and never leave the spoon. It will split the </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">mustard.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ve been warned people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Una showed me how to ride the tram back and identify the
“fast” train to Brussels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I arrived
in Brussels later than I had hoped and saw less than I would have liked in
Ghent, but a spoonful of that eye watering mustard this morning reminded me that
the trip was definitely worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM66xy_H9WDZLNvuujMRzhjK5I4ADT_AqQ3AO8VzHPj4RNZ0-ghOKGHZvDgk3vEpCpc6o5POHYz0QKuzd79DKY2KWp1r-9zq37QBc1JZPesLQJ9x9dSw-gLGjNZawYoVfKfTg9MXq45PU/s1600/brussels_0088.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM66xy_H9WDZLNvuujMRzhjK5I4ADT_AqQ3AO8VzHPj4RNZ0-ghOKGHZvDgk3vEpCpc6o5POHYz0QKuzd79DKY2KWp1r-9zq37QBc1JZPesLQJ9x9dSw-gLGjNZawYoVfKfTg9MXq45PU/s640/brussels_0088.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best spicy mustard I've ever had</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8101763722668731958.post-1578563846305322092014-10-25T10:08:00.001-07:002014-10-25T10:11:13.128-07:00Brussels, Belgium: Moules Et Frites<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRORL-fRmKOiAe_kWQ0EEgVXZ4D87JqC6dH8JjMO6dO_TO_yfL1cV6gAQ-g33BTJ3YnRSXpxPhxADHkGzrRZIAQcMeKgUPJ2m22AksbkF9tv40hrw5kaJgm01ilwiVY0c3yd7KrQnk2VI/s1600/bruss_central.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRORL-fRmKOiAe_kWQ0EEgVXZ4D87JqC6dH8JjMO6dO_TO_yfL1cV6gAQ-g33BTJ3YnRSXpxPhxADHkGzrRZIAQcMeKgUPJ2m22AksbkF9tv40hrw5kaJgm01ilwiVY0c3yd7KrQnk2VI/s1600/bruss_central.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Grand Place, Brussels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand it now. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGTai2_vAtLTWHZS8X2rPWL0hfkAQx-6vKo_sL50nQfUtpJAAF2N6i0A957HSg9ALEOD5AW7kw-lvrJkA0TdqTYEz2CUj7ZLvZ3bvh_SoxjaSLof3DbxUHxbfAJM52fESxFkWthVOfeU/s1600/bruss_mussels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGTai2_vAtLTWHZS8X2rPWL0hfkAQx-6vKo_sL50nQfUtpJAAF2N6i0A957HSg9ALEOD5AW7kw-lvrJkA0TdqTYEz2CUj7ZLvZ3bvh_SoxjaSLof3DbxUHxbfAJM52fESxFkWthVOfeU/s1600/bruss_mussels.jpg" height="640" width="432" /></a>People, some people anyway, talk about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">moules et frites, </i>mussels and fries, as the pinnacle of simple,
perfect, Belgian/French food. To be honest, I do not know many of these people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But after eating steamy mussels on the
streets of Brussels last month, cooked in tomatoes and fennel, I understand why
these people, who I imagine to effortlessly sport silk scarves around their
necks, would say such things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If I ever opened a restaurant we would serve <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">moules et frites</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">moules et frites</i>” my new friend and much more experienced eater
says to me after we clean our plates on a small table in front of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mer du Nord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>The street corner in front of this walk up restaurant is
packed with Belgians, nubby scarves and shrimp scampi on tiny plates. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nod and say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">absolutely</i> like I have always believed this to be the perfect meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel less fondly about the escargot we slurp out of salty
broth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I would eat them again
with enough butter and garlic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>…but I would eat almost anything with enough butter and garlic.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoc9jZyrI1XeQ_UYrNSFNUY9QSIwMS-AMhHcel8jJfQScQvc-bd7AQ5CXyphub03UbcYFMVcAJyKymqnVFD-iu5D7di4PRrxKUTR0BtOAEhTP_rnfJkVWbNoaUSLQ-KZ4U1nSTl3otW4c/s1600/Bruss_escargot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoc9jZyrI1XeQ_UYrNSFNUY9QSIwMS-AMhHcel8jJfQScQvc-bd7AQ5CXyphub03UbcYFMVcAJyKymqnVFD-iu5D7di4PRrxKUTR0BtOAEhTP_rnfJkVWbNoaUSLQ-KZ4U1nSTl3otW4c/s1600/Bruss_escargot.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">Last month I went to a library
conference in Brussels and I have to say that eating oodles of great food
before, after and sometimes during talking about books makes for pretty much
the best trip ever.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">Before leaving
muscat I pulled my trusty hunter green rain coat from the back of the closet (I
literally had to brush dust from the lapels) and packed my favorite boots.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> W</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">inter clothes also make for
pretty much the best trip ever.</span><span style="text-indent: 11.6pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
<br />
I made new traveling friends in Brussels and met up with a new/old friend who
happened to be there for a conference as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tromped through the night from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">creperie </i>to fry shack, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grand
Place</i> to royal palace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
left her I hiked my black jeans back through town, churches lit up and bars
spilling out into the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
got lost a few times, asked bar keeps for directions in passable French and
flipped my collar up around my ears to keep out the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I’ll just say it – I felt cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I know, hard to imagine </span>I
don’t always feel cool when I’m puttering around the garden at home or soaking
beans for the next day’s lunch - but there you have it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 11.6pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYTiCw0tDqkGIMwLEu8AIlAYoKK3aoj6k7Yn6nv_cRXisB38MEFzgvu4qdKbgIBz-WU6j8QL4i_EI1VnXR_mnyakRRsuEze8O2vZ_PglBnsA5XUX6fqagW5moIqvjMnmi62LCsOZTwkOY/s1600/Brus_central.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYTiCw0tDqkGIMwLEu8AIlAYoKK3aoj6k7Yn6nv_cRXisB38MEFzgvu4qdKbgIBz-WU6j8QL4i_EI1VnXR_mnyakRRsuEze8O2vZ_PglBnsA5XUX6fqagW5moIqvjMnmi62LCsOZTwkOY/s1600/Brus_central.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand Place</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kAL_Vao7BW5pnoOGc5f3KPTaYr25r48JDbONdv0fG-QMel5kVB4HYVwj06AEKpEsqwJbBPTXVnf9b9Xl230d3SKBfUEeUib8M8KbksBZaAhqX-_XwGh-k3EFjiiHdDB4hAhWsSO8Czs/s1600/brus_food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kAL_Vao7BW5pnoOGc5f3KPTaYr25r48JDbONdv0fG-QMel5kVB4HYVwj06AEKpEsqwJbBPTXVnf9b9Xl230d3SKBfUEeUib8M8KbksBZaAhqX-_XwGh-k3EFjiiHdDB4hAhWsSO8Czs/s1600/brus_food.jpg" height="438" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes Please. Oh wait, they cost 9 Euro each? I'll just look.<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbtQlHKJCFPoNRVkALQpkL85r4mBveWEYnGj9xQ96qaj4HPt7CFFEylZ_5p0V1nVVvyXLFeOf8P5ThwuVz3VOiwqrSNSly3QD9NHS1TFZckpdm6yVKyRsosjzqka5L20TaRJXj_uyKtGI/s1600/bruss_nord.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbtQlHKJCFPoNRVkALQpkL85r4mBveWEYnGj9xQ96qaj4HPt7CFFEylZ_5p0V1nVVvyXLFeOf8P5ThwuVz3VOiwqrSNSly3QD9NHS1TFZckpdm6yVKyRsosjzqka5L20TaRJXj_uyKtGI/s1600/bruss_nord.jpg" height="402" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Would that this were on my way to work each day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLw3XG2HA1nTbiuuYtLq_CJLK0NPJZR9-Gg0UgbSvqdbYwdcWOsCGm4vQi27xJkY41R-etn_vknV3Qw8lbzgki1inz9SPq4BIBlqzSxgNciZhpZIylErmRyLcE1cd60w1wItmCQOvsoG8/s1600/Bruss_Restaurant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLw3XG2HA1nTbiuuYtLq_CJLK0NPJZR9-Gg0UgbSvqdbYwdcWOsCGm4vQi27xJkY41R-etn_vknV3Qw8lbzgki1inz9SPq4BIBlqzSxgNciZhpZIylErmRyLcE1cd60w1wItmCQOvsoG8/s1600/Bruss_Restaurant.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cool bistro where I had lunch with friends on our last day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NhID4QVug3S0yzXkt4685_RIa1HoX7mc00BrMYCi-H1fDlPoo0ObKomPll12cL4IPUwAdKSFkewkkD8CmOMs5vphB9qyCBjhAFGpXtKGm1vUFzQRHRDhEs1uQJE9Irr5kta4dYQohxM/s1600/brus_fence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NhID4QVug3S0yzXkt4685_RIa1HoX7mc00BrMYCi-H1fDlPoo0ObKomPll12cL4IPUwAdKSFkewkkD8CmOMs5vphB9qyCBjhAFGpXtKGm1vUFzQRHRDhEs1uQJE9Irr5kta4dYQohxM/s1600/brus_fence.jpg" height="640" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church by our flat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhY7ykFEbd0kUEr8T0pKbTTY-bG0NldwGlFblWoMJe1Jd9TiW-EDpI3nhJtM2XXuDjr32lCxbM3We1DJEIsmXCUsxfLf0dstErIOIxnljm5Zy0fYXA2yBPTQNfe9uMZi0ozSu7WJHbXg/s1600/neighborhood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhY7ykFEbd0kUEr8T0pKbTTY-bG0NldwGlFblWoMJe1Jd9TiW-EDpI3nhJtM2XXuDjr32lCxbM3We1DJEIsmXCUsxfLf0dstErIOIxnljm5Zy0fYXA2yBPTQNfe9uMZi0ozSu7WJHbXg/s1600/neighborhood.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tres Romantique! The streets of Brussels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0