July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
While in Africa, I stayed in the home of some American friends who have lived there for something like 10 years. The husband was always busy with work, but the wife and kids would sit around and tell us stories that kept us rolling with laughter. We'll call the wife Jem and the son Vol.
I came downstairs around 7am one morning for some coffee. While this early hour may surprise some of you who know me, let me say this: call to prayer went off right outside our open window before 5am, which then sets off ALL the animals...donkeys, dogs, chickens... and then the sun comes up and the main path between the mountain village and the valley village was right beneath my window. It was a miracle when I slept until 7.
So, coffee. I'm curled up on their couch, ever so thankful to be in the home of an American, where I can wake up to brewed coffee and not Nescafe. Jem comes in, plops down, and says, "There's a rat in the house."
I think she expected a more shocked look to appear on my face. I had not shared the rat-in-the-ceiling-stories, but they appeared quite quickly in the front of my mind and memory. "A rat? Did you see it?"
"No, but we saw all sorts of evidence of him. And we've had them before." And she goes into the following tale.
One night, the whole family is curled up on the couch together watching one of the Star Wars episodes. They have all the lights out for full movie enjoyment. She sees something in the hallway, and says, "Oh look...a neighborhood cat has wandered into the house." Vol looks at the large creature and says, "Mom, that's no cat." She sees the give away tail and realizes it is a cat-sized rat, but her screams for her husband to catch it scare the unwanted creature away before Mr. Jem can catch it. Cute as Ratatouille may be, when they're live instead of animated, and in your home...not so cute.
So Jem is on the war path. The next morning, she is scrubbing and cleaning and trying to remove all evidence that this rat has ever invaded her home. She hears a noise and realises--it's in the oven. She runs up the stairs into Mr. Jem's office, and says, "It's in the oven! It's IN THE OVEN! Please go take care of it."
He tells her that he is busy with work, and he'll come down when he's finished. She goes and finds Vol, and says, "It's in the oven! Please come take care of it." He also comes up with some excuse for why he can't come that minute.
So Jem wanders back into the kitchen, stressing out over a RAT IN THE OVEN. When recounting this story to us, she admits she acted a bit out of culture shock. She decided to smoke him out. Yep, folks, Jem turned the oven on as high as it could go. She even spoke some sinister words to it as she imagined him starting to fry a bit. I must say, as one who has had to deal with rats in the home...I can relate. I talked to my rats once upon a time. And it wasn't nice or pretty.
So Vol comes into the kitchen ready to help Mom. She spins around, and with a sort of wicked gleam in her eye says, "I turned on the oven. I'm going to roast him to death." Vol looks at his mom, looks at the oven (from which there are coming high pitched screeching noises and scratching sounds), grabs his mom by the shoulders and starts shaking her.
"Mom! You've got to snap out of it! What if it explodes? Can you imagine the mess and grossness and ick that you will have to clean up AFTER you've roasted the rat in the oven?" She said it took several minutes of him shaking her for her to realize she must turn off the oven. The rat, after he'd cooled off, crawled back out of whatever pipe through which he'd originally entered, and was killed in a trap later that day.
So she shares her rat story, I share mine, and the day goes on. We see no rat.
Next morning, 7am coffee again. Jem comes in and says, "Well, you've missed all the excitement this morning."
"What?! It's only 7! What happened? Was it the rat?"
"Oh no," Jem says, "Not a rat. A BAT."
What!? Apparently, a bat had flown into the house helper's room, and fluttered around all night long. By 5am, she was ready to admit she was freaked out by it, and started making small shrieking noises while trying to shoo it still so she could catch it. Jem walked in, and the house helper showed her the captured creature: IN A BOWL. They kept the bowl upside down until Vol got up and could take it outside to let it fly away.
So our last night at the house, we three girls had to stay there by our selves. As we locked up, we kept muttering our motto to ourselves: No rats, no bats. And when we woke up the next morning, sure enough...no rats, no bats!
Friday, July 27, 2007
No plum for you!
July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
One of my friends from Paris is down where I was last week for the summer to learn the local language there. It was sort of a fluke thing that we ended up getting to see each other, but made it fun at the same time. On two separate afternoons, when I had time, we went for walks during the time of the day when the local village women are all out and about walking as well. Not only would that be an appropriate time for us to be out walking as women, but it would give my friend a chance to practise language with some local ladies as well. One day, Sue-Wee joined us too.
We walked and walked, I took a lot of pictures. We stopped a few times for A to practise talking. Right before we returned to our house, these two ladies sitting on the corner wave us over. We wander over to say hello. Sue-Wee and I offer all we really know, "a salaam alaykum," the traditional Arabic greeting that'll get you around most Muslim parts, whether they speak Arabic or not.
A gabs it up really well with them, and I just take in what they look like, since I don't understand a single word. One woman is about 30 (or younger), with two children hanging off of her. (Sue-Wee is great with kids and is hamming it up with one of the younguns.) She is wearing thick socks, several layers of clothing, and a wool poncho. (And of course her head is covered). I'm all about modesty, but I thought...she has got to be roasting!
The other woman, we learn, is the 1st woman's grandmother. She's not wearing as thick of clothes, but what she lacks in thickness, she made up for in color! I look at her eyes and see that she is wearing blue eyeliner. Her cheekbones are exaggerated and dominate, in a most beautiful kind of way. You can tell that she had the clearest of skin her entire life. I whisper to A, "She's the prettiest old lady I've ever seen." A nods in agreement.
Suddenly, the old woman pulls her shirt by the collar out in front of her so that she can look down it. Sue-Wee and I try not to get too wide-eyed or laugh. With her left hand holding the shirt way out, and her face stuck down in it, she plunges her right hand down into her shirt, feeling all around until she finds what she's searching for. She pulls out a plum and hands it with pride to Sue-Wee. She digs down for another another, searching deeper and deeper into her shirt through the neck hole. Out comes another plum, which she hands to me.
She makes a motion for A to hold on one second, and searches a third time. She can't find it, and so begins using both hands to search for plums that are hidden down her shirt somewhere. Finally, she looks up at us, shrugs her shoulders, and makes the universal hand symbol, of "I'm all out." No plum for A.
I really, really, really wish I'd had a secret video camera. It was hysterical. I have never--in my life--been offered plums out of a woman's chest before.
One of my friends from Paris is down where I was last week for the summer to learn the local language there. It was sort of a fluke thing that we ended up getting to see each other, but made it fun at the same time. On two separate afternoons, when I had time, we went for walks during the time of the day when the local village women are all out and about walking as well. Not only would that be an appropriate time for us to be out walking as women, but it would give my friend a chance to practise language with some local ladies as well. One day, Sue-Wee joined us too.
We walked and walked, I took a lot of pictures. We stopped a few times for A to practise talking. Right before we returned to our house, these two ladies sitting on the corner wave us over. We wander over to say hello. Sue-Wee and I offer all we really know, "a salaam alaykum," the traditional Arabic greeting that'll get you around most Muslim parts, whether they speak Arabic or not.
A gabs it up really well with them, and I just take in what they look like, since I don't understand a single word. One woman is about 30 (or younger), with two children hanging off of her. (Sue-Wee is great with kids and is hamming it up with one of the younguns.) She is wearing thick socks, several layers of clothing, and a wool poncho. (And of course her head is covered). I'm all about modesty, but I thought...she has got to be roasting!
The other woman, we learn, is the 1st woman's grandmother. She's not wearing as thick of clothes, but what she lacks in thickness, she made up for in color! I look at her eyes and see that she is wearing blue eyeliner. Her cheekbones are exaggerated and dominate, in a most beautiful kind of way. You can tell that she had the clearest of skin her entire life. I whisper to A, "She's the prettiest old lady I've ever seen." A nods in agreement.
Suddenly, the old woman pulls her shirt by the collar out in front of her so that she can look down it. Sue-Wee and I try not to get too wide-eyed or laugh. With her left hand holding the shirt way out, and her face stuck down in it, she plunges her right hand down into her shirt, feeling all around until she finds what she's searching for. She pulls out a plum and hands it with pride to Sue-Wee. She digs down for another another, searching deeper and deeper into her shirt through the neck hole. Out comes another plum, which she hands to me.
She makes a motion for A to hold on one second, and searches a third time. She can't find it, and so begins using both hands to search for plums that are hidden down her shirt somewhere. Finally, she looks up at us, shrugs her shoulders, and makes the universal hand symbol, of "I'm all out." No plum for A.
I really, really, really wish I'd had a secret video camera. It was hysterical. I have never--in my life--been offered plums out of a woman's chest before.
The Price is Right
July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
One of the main purposes of this trip for was for me, Sue-Wee, and our other companion, Svia, to learn the local culture and see what life is like in this particular country. Our boss set up several ways for us to do that, and one of them included us going to two different markets, called souq's.
The first one we went to was a local one, when we were still up in the mountians, the rural area. This particular souq is frequented 97% or so by men. The three of us girls were standing outside, wearing pants underneath ankle-length skirts, long sleeved shirts that were long enough to cover our bums, our heads covered, and sun-glasses. We were as covered and as modest as we knew how to be. But it was still obvious that we were women about to enter a man's world.
Out of the three of us, I am the one who loves cultural experiences the most. I figured, if I said that I didn't want to experience it, than surely the other two didn't either. I spoke up and said, "J...if this is a man's market, I really don't feel the need to experience this. I'm okay, really. We all know what markets look like." He insisted. He later told me he was surprised by my reaction. I told him, "I wasn't scared or anything. We had you with us, and it would be way too shaming for any of them to do anything to us. I just felt uncomfortable." Maybe that was part of the lesson.
I wish I could have had those secret sunglasses cameras like in Mission Impossible. Never before had I been somewhere so entirely a man's place. I'm glad we went in...but I prefer Parisian markets, where women are welcome and the norm.
We left that market and packed all 8 of us, and our luggage into a taxi (driver makes 9) to head to the next location. We were finally in the big city. We were going to the biggest souq in the country, of which I had heard many tales from friends. Oh boy, was I excited. It felt like too long since I'd gotten to barter for some good purchases.
We had only two hours to make our way through the gargantuan souq and make all our purchases. We raced through, got lost, spent nearly all our money, and stumbled back out into the hot African sunshine ready for some dinner. Sue-Wee looked at A, and said, "How much did you pay for those?" She groaned when she heard how much she'd overpaid. Svia decided she wanted some of the same thing, and could we go back in for just a little more shopping?
A's 13 year old daughter wanted a t-shirt that matched mine (my new Skype picture), and so I said I would take her to that store and we'd all meet back in the middle. It took no time to buy the t-shirt, so 13yearold and I decide to wander over to another shop.
I'd been wanting a traditional tunic, and this store had one hanging that I really liked. When the shop owner saw me eying it, he says, "Come in, come in." Turns out his "in" is really "up,"...we had to go upstairs. I already feel in over my head. I'd only wanted to look at the tunic.
He shows it too me, and says, "600 dirhams." Now we'd been advised on batering skills. It's all a game. Take the price they offer, and counter-offer 1/3. Don't pay more than half the originally offered price. I looked at the tunic and groaned inside. It was made of beautiful linen, with two separate colors of hand stitching. It was beautiful. I didn't want to insult him with a ridiculous price, but all I honestly had left in my wallet was 130 dirhams. And I knew that tunic was worth more than that.
I try to explain that I cannot afford this beautiful tunic, does he have something for less? I try on one that does not cover my bum. I explain that I want something modest, but that I only have 130 dirhams. He says, "One color only!" Meaning, I can't have a multi-colored shirt. I'm okay with that.
He pulls out a beautiful tunic that comes almost to my knees. It's multi-colored, but he'd pulled it out of his "one color only!" stack. I try it on and it fits great. 13yearold tells me it looks nice, but do I really think he'll give it to me for 13o dirhams? I shrug my shoulders and say it worth a try.
He says to me, "Beautiful shirt. 350 dirhams."
"I'm sorry, but I already told you, I only have 130 dirhams."
"Okay, okay. 250 dirhams. It is a good price. Nice shirt for you. 250 dirhams."
"Monsieur, really. I only have 130 dirhams."
"You tell me your price."
"130 dirhams." To which I empty my wallet to prove that's all I have.
"Okay...180 is the lowest I go. You pay 180 dirhams, you have nice shirt."
I spread out the 130 dirhams so he can see that it is really all I have. I know I went about this all wrong. I shouldn't have gone up the stairs. I shouldn't have tried any shirts on. I shouldn't have explained how much I had from the get-go. I'm much better at bartering than this. AND--I don't know that I even want the shirt all that badly...not enough to be making him so mad.
I pick up my money and say to 13yearold, "Let's just go."
"Wait! Wait! What is your price? You tell me, and you have the shirt."
"130 dirhams." I lay it back down on the counter.
The man picks up the money, grumbles, throws the shirt at me and makes it clear he is not happy with this price. 13yearold turns and runs before he throws more at us than just a shirt. I scurry down the stairs, and we get outside laughing.
We'd been told that batering is all a game. I guess I won that one.
One of the main purposes of this trip for was for me, Sue-Wee, and our other companion, Svia, to learn the local culture and see what life is like in this particular country. Our boss set up several ways for us to do that, and one of them included us going to two different markets, called souq's.
The first one we went to was a local one, when we were still up in the mountians, the rural area. This particular souq is frequented 97% or so by men. The three of us girls were standing outside, wearing pants underneath ankle-length skirts, long sleeved shirts that were long enough to cover our bums, our heads covered, and sun-glasses. We were as covered and as modest as we knew how to be. But it was still obvious that we were women about to enter a man's world.
Out of the three of us, I am the one who loves cultural experiences the most. I figured, if I said that I didn't want to experience it, than surely the other two didn't either. I spoke up and said, "J...if this is a man's market, I really don't feel the need to experience this. I'm okay, really. We all know what markets look like." He insisted. He later told me he was surprised by my reaction. I told him, "I wasn't scared or anything. We had you with us, and it would be way too shaming for any of them to do anything to us. I just felt uncomfortable." Maybe that was part of the lesson.
I wish I could have had those secret sunglasses cameras like in Mission Impossible. Never before had I been somewhere so entirely a man's place. I'm glad we went in...but I prefer Parisian markets, where women are welcome and the norm.
We left that market and packed all 8 of us, and our luggage into a taxi (driver makes 9) to head to the next location. We were finally in the big city. We were going to the biggest souq in the country, of which I had heard many tales from friends. Oh boy, was I excited. It felt like too long since I'd gotten to barter for some good purchases.
We had only two hours to make our way through the gargantuan souq and make all our purchases. We raced through, got lost, spent nearly all our money, and stumbled back out into the hot African sunshine ready for some dinner. Sue-Wee looked at A, and said, "How much did you pay for those?" She groaned when she heard how much she'd overpaid. Svia decided she wanted some of the same thing, and could we go back in for just a little more shopping?
A's 13 year old daughter wanted a t-shirt that matched mine (my new Skype picture), and so I said I would take her to that store and we'd all meet back in the middle. It took no time to buy the t-shirt, so 13yearold and I decide to wander over to another shop.
I'd been wanting a traditional tunic, and this store had one hanging that I really liked. When the shop owner saw me eying it, he says, "Come in, come in." Turns out his "in" is really "up,"...we had to go upstairs. I already feel in over my head. I'd only wanted to look at the tunic.
He shows it too me, and says, "600 dirhams." Now we'd been advised on batering skills. It's all a game. Take the price they offer, and counter-offer 1/3. Don't pay more than half the originally offered price. I looked at the tunic and groaned inside. It was made of beautiful linen, with two separate colors of hand stitching. It was beautiful. I didn't want to insult him with a ridiculous price, but all I honestly had left in my wallet was 130 dirhams. And I knew that tunic was worth more than that.
I try to explain that I cannot afford this beautiful tunic, does he have something for less? I try on one that does not cover my bum. I explain that I want something modest, but that I only have 130 dirhams. He says, "One color only!" Meaning, I can't have a multi-colored shirt. I'm okay with that.
He pulls out a beautiful tunic that comes almost to my knees. It's multi-colored, but he'd pulled it out of his "one color only!" stack. I try it on and it fits great. 13yearold tells me it looks nice, but do I really think he'll give it to me for 13o dirhams? I shrug my shoulders and say it worth a try.
He says to me, "Beautiful shirt. 350 dirhams."
"I'm sorry, but I already told you, I only have 130 dirhams."
"Okay, okay. 250 dirhams. It is a good price. Nice shirt for you. 250 dirhams."
"Monsieur, really. I only have 130 dirhams."
"You tell me your price."
"130 dirhams." To which I empty my wallet to prove that's all I have.
"Okay...180 is the lowest I go. You pay 180 dirhams, you have nice shirt."
I spread out the 130 dirhams so he can see that it is really all I have. I know I went about this all wrong. I shouldn't have gone up the stairs. I shouldn't have tried any shirts on. I shouldn't have explained how much I had from the get-go. I'm much better at bartering than this. AND--I don't know that I even want the shirt all that badly...not enough to be making him so mad.
I pick up my money and say to 13yearold, "Let's just go."
"Wait! Wait! What is your price? You tell me, and you have the shirt."
"130 dirhams." I lay it back down on the counter.
The man picks up the money, grumbles, throws the shirt at me and makes it clear he is not happy with this price. 13yearold turns and runs before he throws more at us than just a shirt. I scurry down the stairs, and we get outside laughing.
We'd been told that batering is all a game. I guess I won that one.
A Kid Named Lula
July 27, 2007 (Africa story)
Our hosts down there had a house helper we'll call Minnie. She was a sweet, sweet girl who we loved to have sit with us. She taught us how to wrap our scarfs, conquered the bat, and cook some good eats. One night, she needed to return up to her home way up the mountain to pick up some things. You know I'm always up for a culture experience, and so we all piled in the back of the off-road vehicle and held on tight as Mr. Jem took us up the mountain. It was about 30 minutes or so of non-paved, curvy roads, and cliffs down below us. Not for the week stomach. I rode in the back, where it's more bumpy! :)
We get to Minnie's house, and her family is so gracious and hospitable. They lay out blankets for us to sit on, bring in all their cushions, and heat up the tea. I lean over to Jem and ask, "I'm not being rude, I'm just curious...how do they pay for the electricity? I don't mean, financially...I mean, I'm a city girl. My electricity bill always comes in the mailbox. I didn't expect to see electricity up here, and surely they don't have a mail box. So how do they pay it?" She laughed and said, "A guy comes around on his donkey every once in awhile, and everyone just pays him a lump sum, which he puts in his pouch and takes back down to someone else, who will drive it off to the city." Amazing.
It was another one of those instances where we didn't have a lick of language, so I watched geckos catch moths on the wall while my friends all talked it up with Minnie's family, and we drank our tea. What I didn't know was that A was explaining her dilemma: her 13yearold daughter wants to have a pet goat for the summer while they are there.
A pet goat might seem a far stretch to all of you city folk, like me. But to a girl who grows up overseas, and dogs tend to be mangy...a request for a pet goat is equivelent to a "Daddy, can I have a puppy puuuuhhhhlease?"
So as we're saying our goodbyes, outside under a MILLION stars because there are no lights to still their glory, Minnie's dad starts getting all animated at A. She laughs and says, "No, thank you, that's okay." (I understood that much.) He insists again, and they go back and forth. He finally disappears and I ask what that was about.
"He's loaning us a goat for 13yearold. That way we don't have to buy one, only to have to try to get rid of it next month when we leave."
"What?! How are we going to get it home?" (Remember, we are a 30 minute drive up the mountain, in a village where only one or two houses have a little electricity...)
"We'll hold it in the jeep, of course."
I jump on it--"CAN I HOLD THE GOAT!???"
Sue-Wee gives me a look like I am IN-sane. A laughs and tells me it will have flees. It might pee on me. All the better. I want to hold the goat. Minnie's dad brings it out, and A points to me. They all show me how to hold it so that he won't (hopefully) pee on me.
We walk through the blackest of night. Each of Minnie's family is holding on to us to guide the way, because they seriously know every rock by heart and can see in the dark what we city folk would trip over in an instant. I'm holding the goat and he begins to "baaa" with all his might. He knows he's being taken away and he is not happy.
We climb into the back of the jeep and the goat begins to freak out--FREAK OUT--and makes it clear he does not want to leave. I laugh with each "baaa" at first. Then half way down the mountian, I become convinced he is going to get carsick and throw up all over me. He keeps turning his head to face me tete-a-tete, and I'm sure he's either going to hurl down my shirt or bite me in the neck.
The goat is three months old and named Lula. I make some bad pun about him being upset about being KID-napped. As we go down the mountain, all I could think was, "I'm in the back of an off-road vehicle, winding down a mountain on unpaved roads in the pitch black of night, in the moutains of Africa, holding a GOAT that is freaking out in my arms." It was surely a moment I will never forget.
We finally made it to A's house, and got the 13yearold out of bed to let her see Lula. Once out of the jeep, Minnie leaned over to Jem and said in the local language, "I don't want to embarrass her, but that girl will want to wash her clothes. It seems the goat poo'd all over her." Yep. The goat poo'd on me.
I love Africa.
Our hosts down there had a house helper we'll call Minnie. She was a sweet, sweet girl who we loved to have sit with us. She taught us how to wrap our scarfs, conquered the bat, and cook some good eats. One night, she needed to return up to her home way up the mountain to pick up some things. You know I'm always up for a culture experience, and so we all piled in the back of the off-road vehicle and held on tight as Mr. Jem took us up the mountain. It was about 30 minutes or so of non-paved, curvy roads, and cliffs down below us. Not for the week stomach. I rode in the back, where it's more bumpy! :)
We get to Minnie's house, and her family is so gracious and hospitable. They lay out blankets for us to sit on, bring in all their cushions, and heat up the tea. I lean over to Jem and ask, "I'm not being rude, I'm just curious...how do they pay for the electricity? I don't mean, financially...I mean, I'm a city girl. My electricity bill always comes in the mailbox. I didn't expect to see electricity up here, and surely they don't have a mail box. So how do they pay it?" She laughed and said, "A guy comes around on his donkey every once in awhile, and everyone just pays him a lump sum, which he puts in his pouch and takes back down to someone else, who will drive it off to the city." Amazing.
It was another one of those instances where we didn't have a lick of language, so I watched geckos catch moths on the wall while my friends all talked it up with Minnie's family, and we drank our tea. What I didn't know was that A was explaining her dilemma: her 13yearold daughter wants to have a pet goat for the summer while they are there.
A pet goat might seem a far stretch to all of you city folk, like me. But to a girl who grows up overseas, and dogs tend to be mangy...a request for a pet goat is equivelent to a "Daddy, can I have a puppy puuuuhhhhlease?"
So as we're saying our goodbyes, outside under a MILLION stars because there are no lights to still their glory, Minnie's dad starts getting all animated at A. She laughs and says, "No, thank you, that's okay." (I understood that much.) He insists again, and they go back and forth. He finally disappears and I ask what that was about.
"He's loaning us a goat for 13yearold. That way we don't have to buy one, only to have to try to get rid of it next month when we leave."
"What?! How are we going to get it home?" (Remember, we are a 30 minute drive up the mountain, in a village where only one or two houses have a little electricity...)
"We'll hold it in the jeep, of course."
I jump on it--"CAN I HOLD THE GOAT!???"
Sue-Wee gives me a look like I am IN-sane. A laughs and tells me it will have flees. It might pee on me. All the better. I want to hold the goat. Minnie's dad brings it out, and A points to me. They all show me how to hold it so that he won't (hopefully) pee on me.
We walk through the blackest of night. Each of Minnie's family is holding on to us to guide the way, because they seriously know every rock by heart and can see in the dark what we city folk would trip over in an instant. I'm holding the goat and he begins to "baaa" with all his might. He knows he's being taken away and he is not happy.
We climb into the back of the jeep and the goat begins to freak out--FREAK OUT--and makes it clear he does not want to leave. I laugh with each "baaa" at first. Then half way down the mountian, I become convinced he is going to get carsick and throw up all over me. He keeps turning his head to face me tete-a-tete, and I'm sure he's either going to hurl down my shirt or bite me in the neck.
The goat is three months old and named Lula. I make some bad pun about him being upset about being KID-napped. As we go down the mountain, all I could think was, "I'm in the back of an off-road vehicle, winding down a mountain on unpaved roads in the pitch black of night, in the moutains of Africa, holding a GOAT that is freaking out in my arms." It was surely a moment I will never forget.
We finally made it to A's house, and got the 13yearold out of bed to let her see Lula. Once out of the jeep, Minnie leaned over to Jem and said in the local language, "I don't want to embarrass her, but that girl will want to wash her clothes. It seems the goat poo'd all over her." Yep. The goat poo'd on me.
I love Africa.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Blame the no-blogging on HP and Mohammed
Wednesday, July 20-something
So I must apologize for not blogging stories from the trip yet. Here are my excuses:
1. I wanted to post pictures first, and that has taken me until today (or tomorrow) to finish.
2. I've been skyping with a few people.
3. My camera broke on the trip--I know!--and I had to go into Paris to take it to the repair shop. (It's been mailed off.)
4. The Book That Must Not Be Named is obviously distracting me from all blogging abilities.
5. But mostly--oh my goodness am I ever sick. Mohammed's Revenge. I went to the doctor today and they're running tests to see if it's a parasite/amoeba, bacteria, or viral something. Whatever it is, it is mean and ugly and just wretched. I had some culture shock at the lab at the doctor's office. Anyway, they won't even give me any results until Saturday or Monday...and no medicine until the results. So I get to just keep a constant path between the bedroom and bathroom. Nice. But I keep saying--better sick here at home than last week in Africa.
I leave Monday for a 10 day work trip down in Southern France. Hope I feel better by then. AND...I hope to have blogged all my Africa stories by then. So look for frequent posting over the next few days.
So I must apologize for not blogging stories from the trip yet. Here are my excuses:
1. I wanted to post pictures first, and that has taken me until today (or tomorrow) to finish.
2. I've been skyping with a few people.
3. My camera broke on the trip--I know!--and I had to go into Paris to take it to the repair shop. (It's been mailed off.)
4. The Book That Must Not Be Named is obviously distracting me from all blogging abilities.
5. But mostly--oh my goodness am I ever sick. Mohammed's Revenge. I went to the doctor today and they're running tests to see if it's a parasite/amoeba, bacteria, or viral something. Whatever it is, it is mean and ugly and just wretched. I had some culture shock at the lab at the doctor's office. Anyway, they won't even give me any results until Saturday or Monday...and no medicine until the results. So I get to just keep a constant path between the bedroom and bathroom. Nice. But I keep saying--better sick here at home than last week in Africa.
I leave Monday for a 10 day work trip down in Southern France. Hope I feel better by then. AND...I hope to have blogged all my Africa stories by then. So look for frequent posting over the next few days.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Back in Paris...for the moment
I made it back safe and sound to Paris this evening. It's been a little surreal, after a week in what feels like the opposite of Paris in every way. I truly loved it there--had the best time ever!This picture is a little scandalous, since I'm showing my leg. Please forgive me. The henna on it was covered all week, and so no one got to see it but me. But I was happy knowing it was there. And I didn't do any of that henna except that terrible flower I'm drawing up by my knee. My friend did all the rest. She was pretty awesome at it, I must say!
So...I'm way too tired to write a real post, so I'll answer one of the questions I've been asked the most: What did I buy? Here's the list...
Some wooden puzzles, two pairs of knock-off sunglasses (Prada and Versace), post cards galore, a magic wooden box, some gifts I can't list on this blog, jewelry (a necklace and two pairs of earrings), an awesome picture frame, a painting, a really cool lampshade, some more gifts I can't list on this blog, a long tunic shirt, a wood carving of a woman, a traditional souvenir (story and picture to come), some salt and pepper shakers, a tacky-american looking coffee mug, a t-shirt I'm in love with, and a soccer jersey from the national team.
Riding the camel, getting the henna, climbing the mountain and more...priceless.
In this picture, starting with the painting at 12 oclock: the little pot at 1, the lampshade at 2, the wooden puzzle sort of in the middle at 3, the magic box at 3, the pink tunic, the leather wallets in the middle at 11, and the wooden lady at 11. 
This is the close up of the traditional souvenir I bought. I use the word "traditional" loosely, since the real ones are never this small and never painted with scenes from the country like this. I wanted a little one like this for a shelf, and one day I'll buy a real one that is big and usable. (Story to come).
Thursday, July 19, 2007
I LOVE AFRICA!!!
Thursday, July 19.
Just real quick, live from the big ole' continent.
I rode a camel, on the beach. (There's a video...)
I ate a cactus (I liked it, but the seeds are weird).
I got henna (of course)--and put some on myself!
I've been to two different beaches.
I've been in a thunder storm in the mountains.
I love donkeys. They make me laugh.
I learned how to count from one to ten in what I thought was the local language. Got back to the main place and found out that I'd learned one to five in the local language and six to ten in Arabic. That's how they count wherever I was.
Yes, I've been covering my head, and no--it doesn't bother me at all.
It's warm, but still not as hot as it was in Paris on Bastille day. And still nothing like the desert country that I lived in once upon a time. Very bareable here.
The food is YUMMY. I might become fat.
There's a big, big, big rat in our house. Haven't seen him...just heard there are signs of him, which I don't even want to see.
I love it here and want to put in a transfer request. Think they'll let me? Probably not. Forget Paris.
Just real quick, live from the big ole' continent.
I rode a camel, on the beach. (There's a video...)
I ate a cactus (I liked it, but the seeds are weird).
I got henna (of course)--and put some on myself!
I've been to two different beaches.
I've been in a thunder storm in the mountains.
I love donkeys. They make me laugh.
I learned how to count from one to ten in what I thought was the local language. Got back to the main place and found out that I'd learned one to five in the local language and six to ten in Arabic. That's how they count wherever I was.
Yes, I've been covering my head, and no--it doesn't bother me at all.
It's warm, but still not as hot as it was in Paris on Bastille day. And still nothing like the desert country that I lived in once upon a time. Very bareable here.
The food is YUMMY. I might become fat.
There's a big, big, big rat in our house. Haven't seen him...just heard there are signs of him, which I don't even want to see.
I love it here and want to put in a transfer request. Think they'll let me? Probably not. Forget Paris.
Friday, July 13, 2007
A steady stream of blog posts!
So um, I'm giving yall a bunch of blog posts to tide you over while I'm gone. Yes-sir-ree, I'm leaving the country on Sunday. I'm going to North Africa. Yippee! I've wanted to go to this particular country since around 2000 or so, and have really wanted to go to Africa in general for the past few years. Here I come.
I promise to take lots of pictures (and yes, LoLa, of doors--just for you!), and I'll write in my journal muchly while I'm there and then transfer that to the blog once I return. Yippee. I'll be back on July 22. Give me a day or two to sleep, read a particularly famous book that is coming out on the 21st, and then I'll get yall all caught up.
Tomorrow is Bastille Day, of which I am very excited. My very first one. Happy storming-the-prison-overthrowing-the-government-and-beginning-the-reign-of-terror-all-the-while-becoming-the-brand-new-republic-day! I'm excited to wear red, white, and blue, and watch fireworks and have a picnic and pretend that I'm celebrating the 4th of July. I'll probably have stories to tell about crazy people in Paris (cause I'm still a magent for them)...but they'll come after Africa.
And I've gotten back into posting a daily photo over at the photoblog...so go check those out when you have time.
I promise to take lots of pictures (and yes, LoLa, of doors--just for you!), and I'll write in my journal muchly while I'm there and then transfer that to the blog once I return. Yippee. I'll be back on July 22. Give me a day or two to sleep, read a particularly famous book that is coming out on the 21st, and then I'll get yall all caught up.
Tomorrow is Bastille Day, of which I am very excited. My very first one. Happy storming-the-prison-overthrowing-the-government-and-beginning-the-reign-of-terror-all-the-while-becoming-the-brand-new-republic-day! I'm excited to wear red, white, and blue, and watch fireworks and have a picnic and pretend that I'm celebrating the 4th of July. I'll probably have stories to tell about crazy people in Paris (cause I'm still a magent for them)...but they'll come after Africa.
And I've gotten back into posting a daily photo over at the photoblog...so go check those out when you have time.
French Fireworks
Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Share Photos - Free Video Hosting
Super Secret Under Cover Agent Soj
Sue-Wee has a "special friend" here right now. About a month before he came, Werner emailed me and asked if I was willing to help out on a super secret under cover romance mission. I figure, I'm not getting any romance right now...might as well make sure somebody else gets some, right?
Here's what he wanted: to take Sue-Wee for a walk along the Seine, and just stumble upon a picnic all set up for them. We emailed back and forth about some details of what he was envisioning. Then back in June, I started taking my little handy-dandy camera for a walk and shooting pictures for possible pretty picnics in Parisienne parks. (How's that for alliteration?) Once he was here, he decided on this park, which is on the tip of the Saint Michael island.
He wanted it at the very back tip of the island, where they would look out over this spot, but he still wanted to be IN the park, and not down on the lower level that is seen here with the tree. Okay, got it.
We managed to get all the other details worked out: what the menu would be, what kind of flowers, what time he was to show up. I called a couple of other girls to come help me, cause I didn't think I could carry everything. I prepared all the food yesterday at the MMTAT's, so that Sue-wee wouldn't ask me, "what are you making all this food for? Can I have some?"
Here was the plan: Swimmer and Asia girls would meet me at 11:30 with the blanket, flowers, and vase. We'd catch the 11:45 train in order to have plenty of time to set up at the park for the "rendezvous." Werner (the boy) was going to ring my cell phone right before he entered the park at 1pm sharp, (just giving me a missed call), so I could make sure to skedaddle out of there and not be seen. (I was going to guard the blanket until then.) Well, Swimmer, Asia, and I didn't catch the 11:45, so we were 15 minutes behind schedule. Ruh-roh.
We get to the park at 12:50. Still time to set up a picnic, right? We lay out the blankets and open the basket when Swimmer says, "Is that them?" We all three turn and see Sue-wee and Werner entering the park! It wasn't 1pm sharp! Where was the missed call?! We panic and hide behind a tree, hurrying to get the picnic set up. We see Werner turn Sue-Wee so that her back is to us. I KNOW he saw us, I'm just wondering if she did. We finish in a hurry and try to figure out how to get out of the park without Sue-Wee seeing us.
Swimmer says, "Let's jump over the wall." Sure enough, we can climb the cast-iron pointy-sharp wall and jump down to the lower level by the water. Swimmer is like 8 feet tall (okay, I think she's 6'1" or 2"), and so she scales it no problem. I kick off my flip-flops and hop over. We are now thoroughly entertaining everybody at our end of the park. Asia climbs up, gets one leg over, and then insists that she can't do it. After what felt like the longest minute in the world, she swings her leg back and tells us she's going to have to walk through the park. I throw my umbrella at her and she quickly ducks behind it. (Mind you, it's about 80 degrees and beautiful sunshine). She hurries off.
Swimmer and I start to sneak off along the Seine when we realize that being as tall as we both are, we're still visible. Sue-Wee starts to turn straight towards us and seriously--we hit the ground. You'd think a bomb went off.
Werner called later and told me that Sue-Wee never saw any of us. But he did see us when he came in the park, and when we scaled the wall. He said, "Did one of you sneak off behind an umbrella? And did you hit the ground at one point?"
Yeah. 007 I am not.
Here's what he wanted: to take Sue-Wee for a walk along the Seine, and just stumble upon a picnic all set up for them. We emailed back and forth about some details of what he was envisioning. Then back in June, I started taking my little handy-dandy camera for a walk and shooting pictures for possible pretty picnics in Parisienne parks. (How's that for alliteration?) Once he was here, he decided on this park, which is on the tip of the Saint Michael island.
He wanted it at the very back tip of the island, where they would look out over this spot, but he still wanted to be IN the park, and not down on the lower level that is seen here with the tree. Okay, got it.
We managed to get all the other details worked out: what the menu would be, what kind of flowers, what time he was to show up. I called a couple of other girls to come help me, cause I didn't think I could carry everything. I prepared all the food yesterday at the MMTAT's, so that Sue-wee wouldn't ask me, "what are you making all this food for? Can I have some?" Here was the plan: Swimmer and Asia girls would meet me at 11:30 with the blanket, flowers, and vase. We'd catch the 11:45 train in order to have plenty of time to set up at the park for the "rendezvous." Werner (the boy) was going to ring my cell phone right before he entered the park at 1pm sharp, (just giving me a missed call), so I could make sure to skedaddle out of there and not be seen. (I was going to guard the blanket until then.) Well, Swimmer, Asia, and I didn't catch the 11:45, so we were 15 minutes behind schedule. Ruh-roh.
We get to the park at 12:50. Still time to set up a picnic, right? We lay out the blankets and open the basket when Swimmer says, "Is that them?" We all three turn and see Sue-wee and Werner entering the park! It wasn't 1pm sharp! Where was the missed call?! We panic and hide behind a tree, hurrying to get the picnic set up. We see Werner turn Sue-Wee so that her back is to us. I KNOW he saw us, I'm just wondering if she did. We finish in a hurry and try to figure out how to get out of the park without Sue-Wee seeing us.
Swimmer says, "Let's jump over the wall." Sure enough, we can climb the cast-iron pointy-sharp wall and jump down to the lower level by the water. Swimmer is like 8 feet tall (okay, I think she's 6'1" or 2"), and so she scales it no problem. I kick off my flip-flops and hop over. We are now thoroughly entertaining everybody at our end of the park. Asia climbs up, gets one leg over, and then insists that she can't do it. After what felt like the longest minute in the world, she swings her leg back and tells us she's going to have to walk through the park. I throw my umbrella at her and she quickly ducks behind it. (Mind you, it's about 80 degrees and beautiful sunshine). She hurries off.
Swimmer and I start to sneak off along the Seine when we realize that being as tall as we both are, we're still visible. Sue-Wee starts to turn straight towards us and seriously--we hit the ground. You'd think a bomb went off.
Werner called later and told me that Sue-Wee never saw any of us. But he did see us when he came in the park, and when we scaled the wall. He said, "Did one of you sneak off behind an umbrella? And did you hit the ground at one point?"
Yeah. 007 I am not.
And I thought Baby Schlomo had a long name!
Friday, the 13th (of July)
I just started reading the Scarlet Pimpernel, by:
Baroness Emmuska Magdalena Rosalia Maria Josefa Barbara Orczy
Now THAT's a name!
I just started reading the Scarlet Pimpernel, by:
Baroness Emmuska Magdalena Rosalia Maria Josefa Barbara Orczy
Now THAT's a name!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Paris Rude? Je trouve que non
7.10.07
I've heard it said for as long as I can remember: Parisians are rude. When I returned from Paris for the first time back in 99, that was one of the things many people asked me. "Did you find them to be rude?"
I saw this article on Yahoo today, and it states that in a survey of 60 touristy cities, Paris is the #1 most visited--and the 8th most rude. It made me want to speak up.
I have not found Parisians to be rude--in even the slightest. There are the occasional waiters or salespeople who need attitude checks, but you'll find those wherever you go in the world. I have found that whenever I have needed help, Parisians have been gentle, merciful towards my baby language efforts, and most gracious in giving aid. So where does the stereotype come from?
I wonder if it comes from rude (nearly always American) tourists, who are so accustomed to getting their "rights"--read, way--that when things are different here, they throw a fit and call the bewildered Parisian they're dealing with, rude. For example.
"I asked for lots of ice! Why must they only give me two cubes?" (Because in Europe, they don't use ice. If you ask for ice, you'll get one cube. If you ask for lots of ice, you'll get two.) The waiter was not picking on the American who must drink their Coke nearly frozen, and in his mind--he did what she asked.
"Excuse me, but where is a Metro/the Louvre/the Eiffel Tower?" An American wearing ghastly white shoes and white socks and a baseball cap loudly asks a French mother pushing her child down the street in a stroller. No effort to not scare the mother by greeting her with a 'hello' first, no bother trying to at least say "excuse me" in French, and no tact in demanding this woman help the lost tourist. She probably doesn't speak much English, or doesn't want to butcher the tourists' English, and...she may not feel like playing Mapquest for the person who should be able to navigate themselves in a fairly easy city to navigate. It's no wonder she looks shocked and perhaps a bit frustrated.
The Yahoo article states that 16 million tourists stay in Parisian hotels every year. I saw in the Metro recently that nearly 42 million tourists descend on the city every year. That's alot of people, folks. I'm not even from here, and the tourists make me grumpy. I can see why Parisians would be rude back when these 42 million people overcrowd their city, fill up their restaurants (demanding ice), and walk around lost asking silly questions.
But I repeat--I haven't seen them be rude. Maybe because I try to speak French. Maybe because I don't wear ghastly white tennis shoes with white socks. Maybe because I've learned some of the (easy-to-learn) local customs and try to follow them. Like reading the Metro maps. Like standing to the right side on the escalators. Like not talking so loud as Americans tend to do. Like learning to cherish the baguette, the crepe, the yogurt.
One thing the article didn't stress but should have: the Mayor, in his efforts to rid Paris of it's rude stereotype, not only asked Parisians to be nice, but he also asked tourists to try a little. I couldn't agree more.
Vive la France!
I've heard it said for as long as I can remember: Parisians are rude. When I returned from Paris for the first time back in 99, that was one of the things many people asked me. "Did you find them to be rude?"
I saw this article on Yahoo today, and it states that in a survey of 60 touristy cities, Paris is the #1 most visited--and the 8th most rude. It made me want to speak up.
I have not found Parisians to be rude--in even the slightest. There are the occasional waiters or salespeople who need attitude checks, but you'll find those wherever you go in the world. I have found that whenever I have needed help, Parisians have been gentle, merciful towards my baby language efforts, and most gracious in giving aid. So where does the stereotype come from?
I wonder if it comes from rude (nearly always American) tourists, who are so accustomed to getting their "rights"--read, way--that when things are different here, they throw a fit and call the bewildered Parisian they're dealing with, rude. For example.
"I asked for lots of ice! Why must they only give me two cubes?" (Because in Europe, they don't use ice. If you ask for ice, you'll get one cube. If you ask for lots of ice, you'll get two.) The waiter was not picking on the American who must drink their Coke nearly frozen, and in his mind--he did what she asked.
"Excuse me, but where is a Metro/the Louvre/the Eiffel Tower?" An American wearing ghastly white shoes and white socks and a baseball cap loudly asks a French mother pushing her child down the street in a stroller. No effort to not scare the mother by greeting her with a 'hello' first, no bother trying to at least say "excuse me" in French, and no tact in demanding this woman help the lost tourist. She probably doesn't speak much English, or doesn't want to butcher the tourists' English, and...she may not feel like playing Mapquest for the person who should be able to navigate themselves in a fairly easy city to navigate. It's no wonder she looks shocked and perhaps a bit frustrated.
The Yahoo article states that 16 million tourists stay in Parisian hotels every year. I saw in the Metro recently that nearly 42 million tourists descend on the city every year. That's alot of people, folks. I'm not even from here, and the tourists make me grumpy. I can see why Parisians would be rude back when these 42 million people overcrowd their city, fill up their restaurants (demanding ice), and walk around lost asking silly questions.
But I repeat--I haven't seen them be rude. Maybe because I try to speak French. Maybe because I don't wear ghastly white tennis shoes with white socks. Maybe because I've learned some of the (easy-to-learn) local customs and try to follow them. Like reading the Metro maps. Like standing to the right side on the escalators. Like not talking so loud as Americans tend to do. Like learning to cherish the baguette, the crepe, the yogurt.
One thing the article didn't stress but should have: the Mayor, in his efforts to rid Paris of it's rude stereotype, not only asked Parisians to be nice, but he also asked tourists to try a little. I couldn't agree more.
Vive la France!
Friday, July 06, 2007
Fish and Fermented Milk
7.7.07
Several years ago I went through training for my first overseas job. One particular session that I remember (and not fondly) was how to be culturally appropriate in matters of eating. We basically learned the rule, "Always eat what is put in front of you."
The trainers set a brown paper bag in front of each of us, and walked us through eating every single item in the bag one at a time. I had no problems with any of the food. I mean--I lived in Asia as a kid. I felt pretty accustomed to eating weird stuff. That, and my mom--love you mom--made me eat liver as a child. If I could get that down, surely I could face what was in that bag, right? I did alright, until...the fish.
One little fish, about the length of my pinky, with his skin and bones and eyeballs. He was all dried out, but he could still stare at me.
The trainer told everyone to pick up the fish. Mine remained on his plastic wrap. The trainer told everyone to eat the fish. Mine remained on his plastic wrap. The trainer asked who still had not even touched the fish. Three of us raised our hands. He walked us through picking it up, touching it to our tongues, and getting it into our mouths. I swallowed the thing whole...I just couldn't stand it being in my mouth long enough to chew.
And ever since then, when faced with gross foreign foods, I remember that fish. I swallowed that thing whole, I can swallow whatever is put in front of me, right? The challenge to all my cultural training (swallowing fish and beyond) came today.
I was visiting with a Moroccan friend today who had made me lunch. Normally, I go see her in the afternoons, when she serves me mint tea and yummy yummy Moroccan bread. But today I went for lunch, so she made me yummy yummy couscous and vegetables. I love me some couscous, so I was pretty excited.
She sets out the mound of couscous. Then she brings out the pot with the vegetables. Next she carries in a tray with glasses, a bottle of water, and a carton of 'laite fermente.' Fermented milk. I eye that carton and wonder if it tastes like buttermilk (which I don't like, but I can tolerate for the sake of being culturally appropriate). She slips upstairs to tend to her children, and I grab the bottle of water and pour myself a glass and set it in front of my plate. I hoped there was a choice between the two drink options, and I'd made it clear what I'd chosen.
No such luck. When she returned, she poured a full glass of fermented milk. Even by looking at it I could tell it was going to be worse than buttermilk. Suck it up, I tell myself, and drink it!
I took a sip. It was terrible. I mean terrible. Like fermented milk terrible.
I shoved a huge bit of the couscous in my mouth to cover up the taste. Pep talk time. Mentally, I'm telling myself, you can do this. You ate that fish. You can drink that milk. You don't have to drink all of it. Half will be enough to show that you made a good effort.
I took another sip. It was worse. Worse than terrible.
I shoved another huge bit of couscous in my mouth. Prayer time. Lord, help me. Give me the strength and courage to drink that milk.
I took another sip. And realized I would throw up all the food she was feeding me if I drank any more of it. I knew--I just couldn't do it. It was just absolutely disgusting. (For those of you who know me, I might even say--it was worse than coconut.) It was like watered down unsweetened yogurt gone bad.
She got up to go tend the kids again, and I seriously thought about running into the kitchen and pouring it down the drain. But I then realized she would think I liked it and pour me a second glass. I was just going to have to tell her.
I apologized left and right and told her how I'd really tried, but I just didn't like the fermented milk. She laughed and told me it was totally okay. She wasn't offended at all. (She probably thought in her head, "you Americans just don't know what is good!") I enjoyed my next two plates of couscous and vegetables, then fruit for desert, then 5 glasses of mint tea with a peace of mind that I wouldn't throw it all back up from drinking rotten milk.
But I wonder now, after learning that you don't always have to eat what is put in front of you, if I swallowed that fish for nothing.
Several years ago I went through training for my first overseas job. One particular session that I remember (and not fondly) was how to be culturally appropriate in matters of eating. We basically learned the rule, "Always eat what is put in front of you."
The trainers set a brown paper bag in front of each of us, and walked us through eating every single item in the bag one at a time. I had no problems with any of the food. I mean--I lived in Asia as a kid. I felt pretty accustomed to eating weird stuff. That, and my mom--love you mom--made me eat liver as a child. If I could get that down, surely I could face what was in that bag, right? I did alright, until...the fish.
One little fish, about the length of my pinky, with his skin and bones and eyeballs. He was all dried out, but he could still stare at me.
The trainer told everyone to pick up the fish. Mine remained on his plastic wrap. The trainer told everyone to eat the fish. Mine remained on his plastic wrap. The trainer asked who still had not even touched the fish. Three of us raised our hands. He walked us through picking it up, touching it to our tongues, and getting it into our mouths. I swallowed the thing whole...I just couldn't stand it being in my mouth long enough to chew.
And ever since then, when faced with gross foreign foods, I remember that fish. I swallowed that thing whole, I can swallow whatever is put in front of me, right? The challenge to all my cultural training (swallowing fish and beyond) came today.
I was visiting with a Moroccan friend today who had made me lunch. Normally, I go see her in the afternoons, when she serves me mint tea and yummy yummy Moroccan bread. But today I went for lunch, so she made me yummy yummy couscous and vegetables. I love me some couscous, so I was pretty excited.
She sets out the mound of couscous. Then she brings out the pot with the vegetables. Next she carries in a tray with glasses, a bottle of water, and a carton of 'laite fermente.' Fermented milk. I eye that carton and wonder if it tastes like buttermilk (which I don't like, but I can tolerate for the sake of being culturally appropriate). She slips upstairs to tend to her children, and I grab the bottle of water and pour myself a glass and set it in front of my plate. I hoped there was a choice between the two drink options, and I'd made it clear what I'd chosen.
No such luck. When she returned, she poured a full glass of fermented milk. Even by looking at it I could tell it was going to be worse than buttermilk. Suck it up, I tell myself, and drink it!
I took a sip. It was terrible. I mean terrible. Like fermented milk terrible.
I shoved a huge bit of the couscous in my mouth to cover up the taste. Pep talk time. Mentally, I'm telling myself, you can do this. You ate that fish. You can drink that milk. You don't have to drink all of it. Half will be enough to show that you made a good effort.
I took another sip. It was worse. Worse than terrible.
I shoved another huge bit of couscous in my mouth. Prayer time. Lord, help me. Give me the strength and courage to drink that milk.
I took another sip. And realized I would throw up all the food she was feeding me if I drank any more of it. I knew--I just couldn't do it. It was just absolutely disgusting. (For those of you who know me, I might even say--it was worse than coconut.) It was like watered down unsweetened yogurt gone bad.
She got up to go tend the kids again, and I seriously thought about running into the kitchen and pouring it down the drain. But I then realized she would think I liked it and pour me a second glass. I was just going to have to tell her.
I apologized left and right and told her how I'd really tried, but I just didn't like the fermented milk. She laughed and told me it was totally okay. She wasn't offended at all. (She probably thought in her head, "you Americans just don't know what is good!") I enjoyed my next two plates of couscous and vegetables, then fruit for desert, then 5 glasses of mint tea with a peace of mind that I wouldn't throw it all back up from drinking rotten milk.
But I wonder now, after learning that you don't always have to eat what is put in front of you, if I swallowed that fish for nothing.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Bart the Cart
Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Share Photos - Free Video Hosting
Six month reflection
July 2, 2007
I meant to write this on Saturday, but being a little sick still and then having 10 people show up at my house for dinner prevented it. So here we go.
Two years ago, I was in the desert: literally and figuratively. A year ago, I'd left the literal desert but had gained no ground on my wanderings. I longed to settle down somewhere and perhaps start finally establishing some roots. Yet, for reasons still not fully clear to me, instead of settling, I signed up for another short-term contract of two years in Paris. And here I am.
These last six months have been very much a living day-to-day basis. I wanted to survive the adjustment/culture shock phase, get through language school, and settle into life here without any type of significant injury/drama/heartache. I didn't look ahead to what life would be like after language school, and I don't think I even reflected much on the fact that somehow I've been planted in France. And suddenly--here I am.
I feel excited for the road ahead. It feels like a beginning. I'm not fully sure what the next 18 months will look like. And I have no idea what will come after that. I'm only now beginning to think and ask God. But I'm happy. I'm excited. I feel like the girl who disappeared in the desert is emerging again.
And as for France. I do like it here. I don't think I could live in Paris forever. It's a bit too big, a bit too crowded, a bit too noisy for me. But for the time being, I'm enjoying the walks, the river, the bread, the history, the beauty, big city life. I look forward to discovering the rest of France. I look forward to wandering just a little bit longer.
But I really am beginning to feel ready to settle down somewhere and learn what it means to call a place home, a place to say, here I am and here I'll stay.
I meant to write this on Saturday, but being a little sick still and then having 10 people show up at my house for dinner prevented it. So here we go.
Two years ago, I was in the desert: literally and figuratively. A year ago, I'd left the literal desert but had gained no ground on my wanderings. I longed to settle down somewhere and perhaps start finally establishing some roots. Yet, for reasons still not fully clear to me, instead of settling, I signed up for another short-term contract of two years in Paris. And here I am.
These last six months have been very much a living day-to-day basis. I wanted to survive the adjustment/culture shock phase, get through language school, and settle into life here without any type of significant injury/drama/heartache. I didn't look ahead to what life would be like after language school, and I don't think I even reflected much on the fact that somehow I've been planted in France. And suddenly--here I am.
I feel excited for the road ahead. It feels like a beginning. I'm not fully sure what the next 18 months will look like. And I have no idea what will come after that. I'm only now beginning to think and ask God. But I'm happy. I'm excited. I feel like the girl who disappeared in the desert is emerging again.
And as for France. I do like it here. I don't think I could live in Paris forever. It's a bit too big, a bit too crowded, a bit too noisy for me. But for the time being, I'm enjoying the walks, the river, the bread, the history, the beauty, big city life. I look forward to discovering the rest of France. I look forward to wandering just a little bit longer.
But I really am beginning to feel ready to settle down somewhere and learn what it means to call a place home, a place to say, here I am and here I'll stay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)