Tis' the Christmas season...

Five days and it will be upon us... so taunts my pesky internal calender, or shall I say, my 'confused' internal calender. While in Colorado, I experienced a brief moment of commercial holiday excess, malls packed with early Christmas enthusiasts and merry, Christmas jingles rang (not yet too obnoxiously) everywhere from Target to sentimental adverts on television. I spent cozy evenings curled up on my parent's sofa, engrossed in bantery family drama and comfortable conversation. These moments felt like Christmas, as I baked with my mother and lunched with my father... yet the days were longer and the sun beat a little bit stronger than during the month of December.

While in Poland I fully embraced my winter wonderland of Christmas glee -strolled through the Christmas market, like a little girl, returning to her homeland. Wrapped up in Eastern European nostalgia, my heart pleaded with me to stay in this cold, winter drudgery for another year. 'Why would you leave this?' questioned my very core, down to my bones. I sighed and continued to walk past pottery stands, grilling osepik and mulled wine - welcoming in the familiar smells of Krakow in the winter, quickly, before hurrying off to a warmer location to chat and drink Sunday afternoon wine with friends. Ah, it was good to be back.

Nevertheless, I boarded a plane to Turkey, sat on the runway for over four hours and watched the first blizzard of the season tear into Eastern Europe from the comfort of my Turkish Airline's window seat. I landed and began my Turkish adventure – a new chapter, blank and staring me in the face like a lost puppy in a wind storm.

Ah, the Mediterranean... sounds romantic and enchanting, no? The sea does sparkle a heavenly hue of blue, the sun DID shine profusely for the first week after my arrival... however, someone must have informed the weather gods that I had come to escape the cold of winter and had only packed 'Mediterranean' style clothes. HAHA! The irony abounds as I sit, huddled up on my couch, wrapped in scarf, leg warmers and slippers – fingerless gloves and my only hoodie. I write to the glorious flicker of candle light as my computer's battery light flashes... yes, no electricity. So soon I will be sitting here, with no music and no outlit to express these grave concerns. I will scrounge for more candles so I can perhaps paint a dark, melancholic picture of my life thus far in my Mediterranean paradise. :-D

and the walls were made of windows

Ok – so let's cut to the chase here why don't we. You may be asking why I am sitting on the balcony of a sixth floor apartment in Antalya, Turkey. So, let me take a minute to explain.

I am currently staring out upon a slowly approaching storm as clouds swallow up the mountains and the sun sets heavy at the end of this productive-less, hungover Sunday. Groggy from a night of new-friend merry making, I clasp onto a cup of chamomile tea and stare out curiously at my new world below me. The storms here have been spoken of quite highly, so I await the coming moments, hours, (who knows) in anticipation – hoping for electrical volts of energy to transport and inspire. Watching a storm for the first time in a new location is always a magical experience – what will the thunder sound like? Crisp and sharp or deep and rumblely? Will the lightening crack with bright wonder and intensity or dance across the sky as if performing a waltz for the mesmerized onlookers below? I have front row seats and it's opening night – need I say more?

I am here on a 90 day tourist visa – one that is clearly marked with “NOT ALLOWED TO WORK” - yet work is exactly what I intend to do– starting tomorrow actually. I have no contract, just a mutual understanding and a handshake, which others may be distrustful of, yet I am relieved of any committal duties, so that brings me a strange sense of calm. No, I do not plan to stay here long – but I do plan to wake up every morning I am here and study the language, find short-cuts through winding, slopping alleys, play nice with the children, make friends not enemies and embrace a culture I know far too little about.

Why? Why not? In a time awash in fear, uncertainty and financial and political turmoil, why not? There are no certainties in life, so trying to surround myself in a false security blanket will only leave me naked when it inevitably comes undone. If the decisions you make really are what define you, I choose my identity to be carved with the lines of paths traversed curiously and courageously. I humbly try to leave trepidation behind, under the auspicious care of my past and baby-step my way to a more promising present. If you need further explanation – I am sorry, for I have none to give. You may find me flaky and careless, fearful for my tumbling fall from grace, but I promise you this; these steps only take me closer, not further from 'enlightenment'... if that is in fact what we are seeking. ;-)

Oh – in case you were wondering, they rumble beautifully.

Welcome to Turkey

1 December 2010

Well, here we begin the final month of 2010. I am beginning it in my fourth country to live in within four months. How is that for an impressive, or exhausting feet? This first of December I opened my eyes in Antalya, Turkey. (I actually opened them for the first time here on the 30th of November, but the day is but a very bazaar haze, so I am discounting it on premise of travel-brain inefficiency). Anyway, this morning was a beautiful morning in Antalya – however, I began the day in a bit of a jet-lagged, antibiotic-laden, pms delirium. Panic! I somehow managed to yoga, coffee and shower it away and continued my day with renewed vim and vigor. I walked down to the center of town, past alluring shoe shops, and other such consumer paraphernalia. I walked down to the cliffs where the land meets the sea and stared mesmerized out at the sparkling water – as the sun hit the surface just ever so glamorously. I strolled back into town, past ancient city gates and city wall fortifications that rival being some of the oldest structures I have ever laid eyes on.

Insights so far are brief and perhaps quite uninspiring – but here is one of my favorite things about Antalya thus far. There is a comical amount of cats and dogs that roam around the city. Yes, while they may be stray street creatures, they definitely do not act like any stray street creature that I have ever met. Instead of the feeble, skin and bone strays that I am use to seeing in Oman and Mexico - these are nicely fed and incredibly friendly! The dogs; goldens, labs, and a wide variety of mutty mixes will run right up to you – give you a wiggle and a smile, let you scratch him behind the ears and off he goes on a new smelling adventure. The greatest thing is the city catches them, spay and neuters them, makes sure they are healthy, then gives them a lovely plastic earing and releases them back on the streets to carry on with their carefree existence. Many shops have water dishes outside their doors where the dogs stop for a a brief refresher. You often see a pack of dogs of all shapes and sizes lounging about in parks that are littered up and down the coast. This afternoon while walking down a busy street, the dog that I had just parted ways with was rolling on it's back in the green grass of the median... it's a wonder they don't get hit, but they seem to look both ways and have a keen respect for the oncoming traffic.
As the cars are concerned, they are everywhere like squirrels. They weave their way in and out of restaurants and busily walking legs. If you give them a bit to nibble on they will reward the favor by curling up on your lap and purring themselves to sleep while you type on your computer at the nice little coffee shop down the street that offers free wifi... :-) The people seem to love their cuddly street creatures and respect and and pet them, perhaps even unconsciously, as they go about their day – letting their hands rest upon a furry head at a cross walk, or dropping a piece of food under their table as they are out for lunch.

While I will try my best not to invite any of these charming Mediterranean critters into my sixth floor apartment home (which has an elevator by the way), I make no promises. Either way, they make the perfect addition to this gorgeous Turkish city and are a welcome surprise as I have long missed the feel of fur gracing my fingertips.

something wicked this way comes

A fire burns in the Boulder hills. I can watch it burn from the porch I am perched on. The angry winds propel the flames and I am sitting enveloped in the motion, trying to embrace its fury. It sways the swing I am curled up on, rocking me from front to back, reassuring me to remain calm amongst the chaos. My lips are dry, I lick them to restore moisture but the wind robs them of their temporary relief far too quickly. I should go inside and find lip balm, but I am captivated by the howling and the sun has just reached up over the top of the conifer trees and is warming me into submission. So I will remain, watching as the dying ladybugs make their final traverses across the banister and leaves slam helplessly against the screen. Birds battle against the wind, some look desperate to continue south, while others give in and let themselves be carried effortlessly north. My eyes burn, my entire body is dry – damn arid climate – can never seem to be able to drink enough water to remain sufficiently lubricated in this state!

I am trying to learn to appreciate the wind and all its power - it does after all signify change - and change is what I claim to embrace... so am focusing on the embracement of the wind. Easier said than done, but I am trying to take the violence out it and look at it only as pure movement of air... rapid, destructive movement of air... but... oh christ, it's violent, there is no way around it! So perhaps I will search for the calm within the storm, the peace that can be found in the swirling of energy that brings down branches and spreads forest fire ragingly across the brittlely dry foothills. Yes, there is peace to be found here, I am sure of it. The simple fact that I am not crawling out of skin as I sit out here is reassurance enough for me.

It is the end of October, and Halloween quickly approaches. I've been here longer than anticipated and the wind becomes symbolic of the emotions that begin to pick up force if I am here too long, and trying to find 'peace' in the cluster of downed trees and charred forests becomes more and more of a challenge. I cherish my homeland and all of the beautiful contrasts of the chaos and calm. I came here to rejoice in glory of autumn, to sit engrossed in chatter with my family for cocktail hour and perhaps leave them with a greater understanding of who I am... and while not all can be accomplished, I rest content in the acceptance of humble human-ness and take another step forward... ever cautious of the dying ladybugs and those pesky rotting grapes.

Iced Coffee and the Penetrating Colorado Sunshine

I was recently asked by a curious new acquaintance; when I am writing, who do I write for? Who do I write for? Good question, was my response. Perhaps for my suffering ego which sits ever so pretty up on her tin box– looking down upon me with her unsavory grin, the occasional sneer waxing prophetic across her unapologetic face - or for that boy sipping an espresso and playing guitar in the corner – the one I have yet to meet, yet earn for ever so righteously, as if I am owed his eventual presence in my convoluted world – or for them – in hopes of some skewed sense of understanding of a life purpose I can only even convey to myself in twisted dreams and brief striking moments of self-realization ... Really? Do I have to write for anyone? To my adoring public which encompasses all of... four perhaps? Some of my closest friends and the random slew of drop-ins who are captivated by comings and goings – waiting on edge (I am sure) to see what I will come up with next - if I will fall or press on, ever diligent and determined in this ever-more-complex web of whispers and shouts in which I weave. Honestly, I think I write to amuse myself – to keep me occupied (or out of trouble) as I find myself having far too much free-time.

"Be free"... says the brown grasshopper to the Canadian goose

24 September 2010

Westward bound, I rest temporarily in an unfamiliar homeland. Not much remains constant in this ever-changing, urban-sprawling landscape. Where there is no 'sprawl' there are old buildings torn down, and streamlined, more efficient ones quickly erected in their place. I find myself getting lost in the towns I grew up in, not due to my loyalty to my Boulder pot smoking heritage, but because the streets get changed around, diverted or simply disappear.

People here have such a relaxed, nonchalantness about them that I always seem to forget about while I am away. The at-home-comfort that people seem to posses as they lounge around a coffee shop with legs kicked up, shoes off, guzzling down their large double mochachinos is only found here in America. The overly friendly customer service, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes painfully forced is hard to get accustomed to again, but those toothy grins are contagious and it's hard to resist them for long.


I sit in the Denver coffee shop next to the apartment I lived in 10 years ago. I listen to mundane conversations; a couple preparing a fall Ayurvedic diet, a little girl reciting the ABC's to her young mother, an old man swatting flies and commiserating with the slender woman diligently pounding away at an email on her laptop, a serious debate about who to vote for in November... the garage-style, glass door opens and welcomes in the late September breeze, providing relief from the hot Colorado sun that pounds through the glass. An older black man with a marvelous gray speckled beard saunters across the street, leaning on his cane and sporting a charming 'I love you dad' t-shirt. Cute couples pull at my heart strings – with their not so in-your-face affection that often makes me want to vomit on their shoes as they shove tongues down one another's throats. Their relaxed demeanor reeks of a sincerity I am unsure of, but a tinge of jealousy creeps into my being nonetheless. I push it away, along with the remnants of a blueberry scone which is too big for anyone to really consider as a breakfast option.

Being here in the autumn is definitely the way to go, as the unbearable heaviness of a winter visit is lifted and I am free to lie weightless amongst the falling leaves. It becomes easier and easier for me to embrace the cultural bubble of this dry, mountainous state and as I come to terms with the seeming unlikeliness that I will ever 'really' return, I begin to love it for all its peculiar oddities which I now realize make it so great.

as the bridges collapse into muddy water

1 September 2010

The rain beats incessantly, all too reminiscent of the previous Polish spring; with flooding river banks, damp kisses and soaking wet midnight bike rides. The lighting is about the same, the temperature constant with the memories which seem to nullify the very existence of this summer. This all creates a strange eeriness I can't quite wrap my mind around.

Alone in my friend's apartment, I have spent the rainy evening watching films. The first was an indie film titled; Brief Interviews with Hideous Men – the second; The Stoning of Soyara M. The first is about a female graduate student, left broken hearted by her lover she attempts to sort out why men are so... well, mental. Why they tell us one thing, and then do another – why they are so terrified of what they claim to want the most. I was amused, 'briefly'. The second was a film about a couple of Iranian women – and well, as the title suggests – you know all too well how this story ends. It made my first film feel so frivolous – the questions posed... so irrelevant. Yet at the same time I struggled with the irrelevance – as this first film is my culture – the problems western women face – as irrelevant as they may feel or in fact be – they are ours – and yes, are problems I would much rather be afflicted with, than of the women of Iran.

In between my film watching, I have had yet another circular conversation regarding the controversy surrounding the Muslim cultural center at “ground zero”, and a request from my favorite Canadian ginger freak to move to the west coast and rest content and carefree in the land of maple syrup and happy jovial bliss.... I have also been kindly requested to venture a bit further west, to Hawaii – the land of rainbows and eternally smiling islanders. The people I love the most rest peacefully in this small corner of the planet – and really, I would love nothing more than to share in their lives, to see their shining faces every day and live in their worlds. However, something else pulls at me that I can't quite explain. At the moment it's the desert - life in the Middle East fascinates me to no end. Despite the fact that I can't stand the heat, (overheating is one of my least favorite occurrences and is something that makes me feel altogether utterly insane). Life without green, without an abundance of flowers and trees is practically traumatizing, isolation – intimidating, and lack of total, uninhibited female freedom - defies all I know... so perhaps this partially answers my question. Like a sick fascination with swimming with sharks or jumping out of airplanes – I crave to walk the streets of Beirut, Damascus, Gaza City... to make me feel, alive? Perhaps. However, my sociologist's curiosity may be a better explanation. So the next question is... why? Why do I gravitate to something that conflicts me? That I know I will not fully enjoy? I look at my life in Poland and there is so much of it that I love. Most all of it actually. Waking to the sound of horse hooves on cobblestone streets and church bells, art galleries, train rides and 4am drunken walks home in the ever-promising rising sun. I came here for the tragedy of this country – so perhaps it is the confliction that I seek. The company in Iraq still beckons for me to accept their offer – and it is because of this internal push that I am tempted. I refrain however, not wishing to add to my parents endless worrying about their only remaining child, regardless of the level of safety that I would be assured. No, that's really not even it – as I must admit I am much more selfish than I am often 'accused' of being. I would gladly take the offer, yet the school's reputation is plagued with threats of rigid teaching by the book and very little creative freedom, which is something I require as a teacher and well, in all aspects of my life. So again, I turn down their offer and pour another glass of Bulgarian wine into my empty glass, continue my multiple 'stimulating' google chat conversations and appreciate the pounding rain outside my window.

Weeding

So here I sit, back in Krakow. Curled up with a comforting cup of French press coffee with a splash of soy and a poppyseed pastry from the market down the street. I love this city – it fills me with life and giddy little girl glee as I traipse continuously ah-inspired through the medieval streets, amazed with my new findings of old city charms that have been walked by, unnoticed a million times before. I am constantly in a state of wonderment and enchantment here. Magical gardens hidden away behind nondescript brick walls, meldewy smelling monasteries and cold, enticingly dark churches lure you into their comforting... well, oldness. The history of this city is what has kept me for so long. The old Jewish quarter with its vast array of hole-in-the-wall cafes, wafting in smoke and intimate vodka laced conversations. Many a night I have wasted away engrossed in stimulating drunken dialogue or danced away in musty cellars to everything from gypsy punk to the sounds of ABBA on repeat. I called this neighborhood home for two years, brooding in the beauty and tragedy of a past that is everywhere yet simultaneously deceivingly allusive. Here I step out my door and am swept down the banks of the Wisła river, carried either by my Nike runners or one of my many stolen pink, blue or silver bikes. I can ride for miles out of the city, past monasteries and quaint village houses I dream of someday calling home, surrounded by nothing but fields of green and rolling hills. The Tatry mountains taunt me in the distance, reminding me of a home long left, at which point I've gone far enough, and turn back to the embrace of my ancient city walls.

It's not all white swans and tulips however. This city does have its downsides, although as I contemplate writing them down, I roll my eyes at their seemingly ridiculousness. No, no place is perfect, and if it were, no one would ever leave, and what fun would that be? No complaining about the weather, annoying cultural miffs or brain dead politicians? How boring! While my heart will always rest in the United States with my family and history, my soul sleeps the quietest in Eastern Europe.

So what do I have for the Middle East? My liver perhaps? Regardless of what my future attachments to a new home will be, leaving a much loved old friend is never easy. It's like finishing a marvelous book that you have dreaded completing... as your page turning gets slower and you begin to re-read passages two, three times before moving on to the next paragraph... knowing all too well that the inevitable end is near. Why so nostalgic for a city that you haven't even left yet? And if you love it so, why leave? The first question is relatively easy to answer, but the second I will have to address at a later date, when perhaps I have figured that out. Krakow is a healing city. As new agey and cheesy as that may sound, it's the best I can come up with. This city wraps itself around your soul, blanket like and whispers sweet nothings into your ear until you are able to breathe steadily again. It has saved me in many ways – much like rehab or religion does for some, yet I find strength in the energy of places; the darkness of a forest, the soothing rhythm of the sea and the hidden memory and unknowable number of untold stories of old cities.

The battles I fight here are of my own making, and I will pack them along with my many pairs of shoes on to my next destination – where I will inevitably continue the good fight. However, for now I remain cozy in my friend's loft, waking each morning to delicious fresh coffee, fruit and pastries, meeting friends for a mixed assortment of more coffee, ice cream and cocktails, and finishing up most evenings with too many glasses of wine, beer or vodka. I walk about this city perpetually captivated, yet the prying feeling of having to leave is ever-present and I can no longer ignore the pestering call to uproot.

Music to breathe to

A long holiday weekend in Oman. 40 years since the Sultan striped power away from his father and has led a successfully peaceful regime ever since. I was hoping for fireworks, dancing in the streets, but no such jubilation seems to be taking place in this windy fishing town. So, I begin my long weekend like I begin most every day, with music.

LCD Soundsystem blasts out of miniature Logitech speakers as I dance around my sand dusted tile floors, and an orphaned desert dog circles around in my footsteps. News drowns on in the background, repeating information I have already heard 30 times today; Obama has signed a much anticipated new bill, Pakistan and India continue to stare stoney-eyed at one another, an Indian cricket player has done something sport worthy, commentators and analysts eternally argue about what to do in regards to Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korean sanctions, the oil spill, the economy... do I really need to continue? No more! TV, AC – off, dog out, music, book and towel grabbed, door slammed shut and locked.

Crass spews punk prophetic as I cruise up the Arabian coast at 130km/h. Destination; Turtle Beach Ras Al Haad, a small resort at the joining of the Arabian Sea and The Gulf of Oman. Small, shack-like shelters provide the perfect eco-tourism experience - fully equipped with buzzing flies and insatiable heat. Tourists from all over come for the weekend, to sail, bask in the sun and relax at this desert oasis. I prefer to go for the day; lounge under palm umbrellas, swim in the clear sea waters, watch the Indian, European, Chinese tourists play volleyball and giggle in the humid summer day ... then drive, sand-kissed back to Sur into the 7 o'clock sunset, windows rolled down, AC off. Nothing but music and desert surrounding me as I speed about in the desert, past painted tiger rocks and four tree jungles. This Thursday I have spent three reflective hours on the beach; reading, observing, swatting flies and swimming out past the barrier rope and over to the rocks to spy on crabs. I watch a young family with two small children take photos of each other in the sand, and a group of multinational tourists sip coca cola and smoke cigarettes under the rickety wooden restaurant shelter. Still slightly wet and haphazardly covered, I leave the beach, smile at the guard as he lifts the red and white stripped pole for my car to pass and disappear into the eroding rusted orange dirt road. Still early, I glance down at the petrol gage... ¾ full – just enough to “safely” get lost in the desert. And so instead of turning left back onto the familiar road, I go right, into the unknown. As long as I follow the sun, I'll make it back to Sur by nightfall. I drive, and drive, in circles and figure eights through the desert, watching as the sky turns majestic reds and purples. I pass desert, mountains, abandoned buildings, Bedouin dwellings, turtle reserves, desert and yes, more desert. I slowing make my way back to the coast, to the familiarity of the dusty outskirts of Sur, past the massive wooden fishing boats in for the evening, black ninja ghosts that float in packs of three to five, and Omani boys as they play football...everywhere. Speed bumps disrupt the flow of my graceful “race car” meditation as I am forced back into reality. I am greeted by boys on the street and I smile or nod back, roll up my window to keep out the humidity, turn the AC back to 3 and slow to a stop as a herd of mangy goats cross the road in front of me.


Band of Horses serenades me as I return to the florescent lit apartment and I a smile creeps to my lips as I am reminded of past moments spent with the songs that now soothe me to sleep as I take an evening nap. Blanketed in sand, I dream of dragons and cobblestone streets, awash in glitter and unattainable treats.

Floating through the midnight wind

Anyone who has ever walked down an empty beach in the black of night, knows the magical enticement this act will then have on a person for the rest of their lives, and will also understand the frustration at being so close, yet so far away from taking pleasure in the moon kissed sand between one's toes.

I love the chitter chatter of daytime existence, being acknowledged and spoken to as a fellow member of human kind has always been a custom I am fond of. However, there comes a time, when I desire nothing more, than to slip silently out my front door, may that door reside in Poland, Oman, the USA, or anywhere else in this overstimulating world. I envision myself ghost like, invisible to all, except the passing cats and dogs which sense my presence and nod, or stylishly saunter past accordingly. Usually, I am very good at this. I possess a keen knack at slipping past, unnoticed. I know this may however be completely fabricated in my own mind, and may merely be me, shutting out the rest of the world, letting them slip past unnoticed, as I come off bitch-like and aloof... either way, it is not something I can seem to manage here, in Oman. I can not walk down a dusty street lamp lit street, unnoticed. I can not transform into my preferred invisible night form and float silently to the calling shore. I smell the sea air, see the darkness of the water and I can practically hear the surf, as it pushes it's sea life, back and forth, in a soothing lullaby fashion.

I walk out my door and eyes instantly turn to me. Day, night, men are everywhere in these streets and they watch me, as I move – most, silently, some with whistles or insinuating comments. Manners they would never put forth in front of an Omani woman, but my presence breaks all rules. They're harmless in their prying eyes and mimicked American movie slang, but sometimes it takes all my power not to haughtily tell them to “fuck off”, as I have been so rightfully trained to do, growing up in the US.

There are three ways men view western women here (that I have at least been able to assess). The first is that of an easy woman of lose western morals, and lack of values. Yes, she will sleep with anything that has a cock... and yes, that person should probably be me. The second is of debauchery – a viperous, devil worshiping (or Christian) whore. Since you do not abide by the laws of Allah, you are evil and NOT to be trusted. (Thankfully, this is a mindset rarely experienced here). The third and most common is of simple curiosity. While some of the first beliefs might still be present, they are more like teenage boys in a video game shop... overstimulated and super curious at how the, just released game consul works. It's more or less innocent and even sometimes rather endearing.. and I often find myself feeding into these little boy antics.

Neither of these men however, are what I want to deal with while attempting a midnight stroll to the beach. So, out of frustration for my lacking anonymity, I sit in this air conditioned flat, smelling of Indian cooking, I listen to a remix of Abdullah Ibrahim and drink the Campari I obtained through duty free.

A sand storm begins to kick up vengeance outside these walls, so perhaps it was a much better decision to stay indoors this evening anyways...

Back in the Desert

10 July 2010

Hmmm, so I suppose it has been almost a year since my last blog. Apparently, I seem to only have the desire to partake in this silly act of blogging when I'm living in the desert, removed from the comforting embrace of my traitorously enchanted little Krakow.

Perhaps I will write more about my Krakowian life at some point. But for now, I write about the present, and today, I find myself opening my eyes, again in Oman. Waking to the soft buzz of the AC after 16 hours of uninterrupted sleep, I peer out the small sand covered window in the corner of this awkward apartment, try to do yoga on a slippery floor (left yoga mat in the chaos of moving), shower, make coffee and sift through the 300+ middle eastern satellite channels. Iranian cooking show, news form Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi, Dubai, Yemen, etc...but I always return to Aljazeera, and currently am watching a highly heated debate on Iraq Now... ah yes, nothing like listening to overweight diplomats yell back and forth, never answering the direct questions that are put before them.

Today is Saturday, so normally I should begin the working week. However, blessed with a religious holiday, I have a day to catch up on sleep and acclimate to life in the hot, humid Middle East (or shall I say, to the contrast between hot and humid, and stale, air conditioned air ). The past two days are a tad blurry. Left my apartment of two years on Thursday, had breakfast with friends who will have moved to South East Asia by the time I return, was offered a job contract for Kurdistan, enthusiastically decided to take it, did further research at the airport on the company... then, due to their draconian teaching methods, disappointedly decided to 'probably' not take the position. My unwavering optimism often gets me excited about a future that is too good to be true, but alas, I refuse to be deterred. Anyway, despite a stunningly veracious hangover, self inflicted by a night of farewells and celebrations, my body refused to let me sleep on the six hour plane ride to Abu Dhabi, only to soundly crash on the short 45 min flight to Muscat, missing most of the Abu Dhabi coastline, of course. In Oman, beers, pool and Baily's? When I finally arrived at my borrowed apartment, I half curiously, half asleep smiled at an attractive man as he walked down the stairs, unlocked the door, noted the starkness of my new 'home', and fell asleep in my clothes, watching Muholland Drive on channel 223.

A wee bit different from my life here a year ago. Ascetically, the June cyclone and other unseasonal storms have slightly altered the seaside landscape,moving around earth, and leaving the air temporarily clean of blowing dust. The two colleagues I spent my time with last year are both gone – one to the UAE, the other to northern Oman. The one remaining familiar face, is that of an American woman who has lived in the Middle East for some 30 years? Her family was all killed off in the Syrian Lebanon conflict in the 80's, leaving her scattered and broken, with an outlook on life that is a far cry from optimistic, but a fascinating character, to say the least. I am living in a tiny, dark apartment, in a tiny, dusty city, far removed from the comforts of home. The school is riddled with disorganization, and communication and power issues abound, making the return to this position, anything from idyllic. But as long as I am paid (which is another tricky issue), I think I can handle just about anything... hahaha... we shall see.