Sometimes you just have to laugh about it...because my life is so absolutely ridiculous.
There's nothing to do but laugh. Sometimes it's only to keep from crying, but after that, it's because I realize that my "problems" are silly, and I should really have my own reality show.
My heart is broken, but I'm pretty sure it'll get better.
But for now, I will lick my wounds and wait out this hangover.
Chins up, little ones!
"Hey! Guys! No touching the ancient inscriptions!"
On the 20th, I took a field trip with my Egyptology class to Dahshur, Memphis, and Saqqara to play in the pyramids. Of course, spending half of my weekend on a class trip was not ideal for me, but I suppose if you have to, spending Saturday spelunking in pyramids dating back thousands of years before Christ isn't terrible. First, we visited the Red [or Northern] Pyramid at Dahshur. We rode an hour into the palm tree forests, through rural villages, and finally out into the desert to one of the lesser visited pyramids, which was blissfully almost tourist-free. Looming in the smog, one could just decipher the famous Bent Pyramid on the horizon. We hiked about a third of the way up the Red Pyramid, built by King Sneferu. Standing at the entrance and already panting, I cursed my cigarettes and chugged water. It would only get worse.
Upon entering the pyramid, one begins a gradual descent through a passage roughly three feet high and three feet wide, at a 40 degree angle. This causes one to crouch in a terribly uncomfortably position and shimmy down a ladder-like ramp into the hot, dank dark for hundreds of feet. I was not prepared for the heat. It has nearly 100 degrees outside in the desert, but for some reason I expected the tomb to be chilly. Instead, it was hot and humid and I was pouring sweat. The smell that greets you as you step out of the passage into the corbelled receiving room is terrible: something like rubbing alcohol and mothballs; it is certainly not a stretch to believe that a dead body lay here and decomposed for thousands of years. In addition, as one might expect, it was difficult to breathe. Beyond the smell and the humidity, the shaft we had just come down was the only source of air, and my breathing was labored. Panicking slightly, I made my way to the tomb, but there was not much to see; much of it had been torn apart my earlier explorers who were sure there was more to the tomb than what met the eye..but they were wrong, and sadly, desecrated the ancient tomb for no reason.
I never imagined the scorching desert heat would be a welcome sensation, but after emerging from the heat of the pyramid, it was a relief. My legs were already on fire from the descent and corresponding climb back to the world of the living. Grateful for rudimentary air conditioning, I boarded the bus for Memphis. Honestly, Memphis, once the capital of ancient Egypt, was not very interesting. We toured a statuary garden and then headed to Saqqara. There we toured a museum, where I had my first run-in with a mummy [I know, I know, I've been in Egypt since August and just now saw my first mummy..it's a shame]. Afterwards, we toured the Step Pyramid complex. Built for King Djoser, it was the world's first pyramid, and though not a "true" pyramid, was also the first man-made structure constructed completely of stone. Finally, we continued to a small, collapsed pyramid, which we entered. This was not as taxing as the Red Pyramid. The descent was shorter and the passage larger, and there is believed to be another air source lying undiscovered somewhere within the tomb, so it is cooler and easier to breathe. The draw to this otherwise unremarkable, and even pitiful looking, pyramid, is the hieroglyphs which are still beautifully intact on the walls and ceilings of the tombs. It is literally awe-inspiring to look at something long-dead hands etched into solid stone to act as a resurrection machine for a king. Stars dot the ceilings, etched there to recreate the night sky to which the king would ascend to become an "imperishable star" and also to denote royalty.
Finally, we entered the mastaba of Mereuka, filled with beautiful carvings depicting every aspect of life, and beautiful Nile scenes, where hippos and crocodiles battled and men fished and sailed. In some places, the original paint used by the ancients was still visible. The urge to touch something so old and enduring was almost overwhelming, but I controlled myself. Others didn't, and our teacher was not thrilled.
"Hey! Guys! No touching the ancient inscriptions!"
Sweaty, smelly, and covered in dust older than Christ [...literally], I got off the bus in Tahrir Square, where Becky and Megan were waiting on me to go to Khan al-Khalili, our favorite market, and also the site of a terrorist attack last year. We had a special errand to run. You see, we have a ghost. His name is Gus, and he comes to visit every other day or so. He knocks things down, breaks things, pulls my posters off of the wall, and hangs out with Becky when I'm not around. No, I'm not kidding. So there I am, disgusting and all Lara Croft:Tomb Raider-ed out, in Khan al-Khalili shopping for the biggest evil eye I can find to keep the ghost out of our room. Really> This is my life.
Only in Egypt. Oh, Masr.
Upon entering the pyramid, one begins a gradual descent through a passage roughly three feet high and three feet wide, at a 40 degree angle. This causes one to crouch in a terribly uncomfortably position and shimmy down a ladder-like ramp into the hot, dank dark for hundreds of feet. I was not prepared for the heat. It has nearly 100 degrees outside in the desert, but for some reason I expected the tomb to be chilly. Instead, it was hot and humid and I was pouring sweat. The smell that greets you as you step out of the passage into the corbelled receiving room is terrible: something like rubbing alcohol and mothballs; it is certainly not a stretch to believe that a dead body lay here and decomposed for thousands of years. In addition, as one might expect, it was difficult to breathe. Beyond the smell and the humidity, the shaft we had just come down was the only source of air, and my breathing was labored. Panicking slightly, I made my way to the tomb, but there was not much to see; much of it had been torn apart my earlier explorers who were sure there was more to the tomb than what met the eye..but they were wrong, and sadly, desecrated the ancient tomb for no reason.
I never imagined the scorching desert heat would be a welcome sensation, but after emerging from the heat of the pyramid, it was a relief. My legs were already on fire from the descent and corresponding climb back to the world of the living. Grateful for rudimentary air conditioning, I boarded the bus for Memphis. Honestly, Memphis, once the capital of ancient Egypt, was not very interesting. We toured a statuary garden and then headed to Saqqara. There we toured a museum, where I had my first run-in with a mummy [I know, I know, I've been in Egypt since August and just now saw my first mummy..it's a shame]. Afterwards, we toured the Step Pyramid complex. Built for King Djoser, it was the world's first pyramid, and though not a "true" pyramid, was also the first man-made structure constructed completely of stone. Finally, we continued to a small, collapsed pyramid, which we entered. This was not as taxing as the Red Pyramid. The descent was shorter and the passage larger, and there is believed to be another air source lying undiscovered somewhere within the tomb, so it is cooler and easier to breathe. The draw to this otherwise unremarkable, and even pitiful looking, pyramid, is the hieroglyphs which are still beautifully intact on the walls and ceilings of the tombs. It is literally awe-inspiring to look at something long-dead hands etched into solid stone to act as a resurrection machine for a king. Stars dot the ceilings, etched there to recreate the night sky to which the king would ascend to become an "imperishable star" and also to denote royalty.
Finally, we entered the mastaba of Mereuka, filled with beautiful carvings depicting every aspect of life, and beautiful Nile scenes, where hippos and crocodiles battled and men fished and sailed. In some places, the original paint used by the ancients was still visible. The urge to touch something so old and enduring was almost overwhelming, but I controlled myself. Others didn't, and our teacher was not thrilled.
"Hey! Guys! No touching the ancient inscriptions!"
Sweaty, smelly, and covered in dust older than Christ [...literally], I got off the bus in Tahrir Square, where Becky and Megan were waiting on me to go to Khan al-Khalili, our favorite market, and also the site of a terrorist attack last year. We had a special errand to run. You see, we have a ghost. His name is Gus, and he comes to visit every other day or so. He knocks things down, breaks things, pulls my posters off of the wall, and hangs out with Becky when I'm not around. No, I'm not kidding. So there I am, disgusting and all Lara Croft:Tomb Raider-ed out, in Khan al-Khalili shopping for the biggest evil eye I can find to keep the ghost out of our room. Really> This is my life.
Only in Egypt. Oh, Masr.
Updated Book List
I just wanted to add two more books to my list of those which have been particularly influential in my life. You should read them.
-The Lemon Tree
I hate to admit, before I read this book I had only a superficial understanding of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It is so difficult for anyone to take a neutral stance on this issue, and Sandy Tolan gives the best effort I can imagine. He doesn't take sides or convey biases, but rather leaves the reader to draw their own conclusions instead of leading them down a path of his own personal feelings. It acheives two ends: it humanizes the conflict through the story of a Palestinian longing for the right to return home and a first generation Israeli girl who moved into his "abandoned" house, but it also explains all of the political posturing that took place, giving thorough accounts of various resolutions that were passed and individual conflicts that occurred.
-The Memoirs of Cleopatra
I chose this book for my flight back to America in December because it was 1500 pages and I figured if anything could sustain me through 24+ hours of travel, 1500 pages could. Granted, I didn't touch it on my flight because I was too deep into my complimentary wine-induced stupor and subsequent passing out, but I did turn to it when I started to get homesick for Egypt at my parent's home in Huntsville. The end result is that I am now completely obsessed with Cleopatra. She was a mother, a lover, a wife, a queen, a daughter, a warrior, and so much more. She is a strong, independent woman whose sole goal in life is to live on her own terms and preserve her country above all else. She handled difficult situations with grace and poise, and her creative strategies always gave her an edge. Even in her suicide, she was creative and fearless, outwitting the conquering Caesar Augustus. She always tried to take the high road, choosing dignity and honor above courses of action which would be easier for her own person. Even after growing up surrounded by deceit and treachery, she maintained a high moral character til the very end. Aside from that, she bedded two of the most powerful men in history: Julius Caesar and Marc Antony. A real go-getter, that Cleopatra.
So, that's that, my dears. If you have any extra time, both of these books are incredible. Plus, for all of my friends back home, an understanding of conflict in the modern Middle East or of ancient Egypt could prove enlightening. Just sayin. Enjoy.
-The Lemon Tree
I hate to admit, before I read this book I had only a superficial understanding of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It is so difficult for anyone to take a neutral stance on this issue, and Sandy Tolan gives the best effort I can imagine. He doesn't take sides or convey biases, but rather leaves the reader to draw their own conclusions instead of leading them down a path of his own personal feelings. It acheives two ends: it humanizes the conflict through the story of a Palestinian longing for the right to return home and a first generation Israeli girl who moved into his "abandoned" house, but it also explains all of the political posturing that took place, giving thorough accounts of various resolutions that were passed and individual conflicts that occurred.
-The Memoirs of Cleopatra
I chose this book for my flight back to America in December because it was 1500 pages and I figured if anything could sustain me through 24+ hours of travel, 1500 pages could. Granted, I didn't touch it on my flight because I was too deep into my complimentary wine-induced stupor and subsequent passing out, but I did turn to it when I started to get homesick for Egypt at my parent's home in Huntsville. The end result is that I am now completely obsessed with Cleopatra. She was a mother, a lover, a wife, a queen, a daughter, a warrior, and so much more. She is a strong, independent woman whose sole goal in life is to live on her own terms and preserve her country above all else. She handled difficult situations with grace and poise, and her creative strategies always gave her an edge. Even in her suicide, she was creative and fearless, outwitting the conquering Caesar Augustus. She always tried to take the high road, choosing dignity and honor above courses of action which would be easier for her own person. Even after growing up surrounded by deceit and treachery, she maintained a high moral character til the very end. Aside from that, she bedded two of the most powerful men in history: Julius Caesar and Marc Antony. A real go-getter, that Cleopatra.
So, that's that, my dears. If you have any extra time, both of these books are incredible. Plus, for all of my friends back home, an understanding of conflict in the modern Middle East or of ancient Egypt could prove enlightening. Just sayin. Enjoy.
Constructions of Masculinity in the Modern Middle East in Comparison to the Western World
When someone refers to a man who is inherently masculine, what vignette is conjured in your mind? If you are from the West, particularly America, chances are that a physically fit, morally sound, silent-but-strong, somewhat reserved man with few effeminate characteristics springs to mind. For me, I picture my father: a soldier, solidly built, reserved, quiet, yet inherently intimidating; a silent enforcer, well groomed without particular attention to sartorial pursuits, who engages in "manly" activities: physical fitness, a steady job, fixing things, being the head of the household and ruling with a firm yet gentle hand. Of course, as American society evolves and changes, this concept of masculinity changes- for some, masculinity means a rustic-type man who hunts, drives a truck, and enjoys hands-on tasks. For others, the word can evoke a Wall Street banker: successful, busy, who wears a smart suit and carries a briefcase as he earns the salary which will provide for his children, wife, and any mistresses he may have, a la Tiger Woods. While the details are interchangeable, depending upon one's social status, income, and geographical location (one is much more likely to associate owning a rifle with "manliness" in the southeast United States than someone from the West Coast, who may tend to associate a Bluetooth headset and a Rolex wristwatch more with the masculine identity).
However, after having spent the better part of the past few years in the Arab world- Morocco and Egypt with excursions to Jordan and, very shortly, Turkey- my idea of masculinity is slowly changing. Some of the most innately masculine men I have encountered here share very few of the attributes I once considered essential to the characteristic repertoire of a male. Masculinity here means something altogether different than in the Western world. In America, would a man with oil-drenched hair, a prominently displayed pot belly, chest hair spilling out of his open button-down, tighter-than-necessary pants, a unibrow, glittering jewelry- especially in the form of rings, shiny black dress shoes, gingerly smoking a water pipe be considered the archetype of a "man's man"? Probably not. In fact, most of the men I have recently found myself drawn to here in Egypt would be considered "metrosexual" at best in the context of American society. They belly-dance in public; sing at the top of their lungs; hug, kiss, and even hold hands with other men in public; they have no problem straddling another man, very closely, in close crotch-to-butt proximity, on the back of a dilapidated motorcycle weaving through Cairo traffic. But somehow, these are some of the most inherently "manly" men I have ever encountered. How is this? I have been pondering this question for quite some time, and I'm not sure I fully understand it yet.
For one, these men are, cliché as it may sound, completely comfortable with their sexuality. Of course, this is the way in which they have been raised, but beyond that, they exude such an innate bravado that posturing or acting "macho" is rendered completely unnecessary. There is no societal taboo on holding another man close in an embrace. This could be for several reasons:
1. Such close public contact between men and women is prohibited- since this kind of public affection is forbidden, or haram, who, then, can you share your affections with? Should one live a solitary public existence, completely devoid of physical contact or expressions of warmth? Of course not! There's Mohammed, the shopkeeper; and Mostafa, the doorman, and Ali, the friend of your cousin's wife who you met once, at their wedding.
2. The post-colonial remnant of European occupation- France and the British Empire at one time or another controlled large portions of North Africa and the Middle East. When a people are colonized, it is inevitable they will adopt some of the customs of their colonizers. This comfort with what could, in other spheres, be construed as evidence of sexual deviance from the norm, may perhaps be a mannerism introduced into the Middle Eastern social scene by their European conquerors. Which raises another point: if the Middle East is (mistakenly in large part, might I add) considered archaic, backwards, and stagnant socially, politically, and economically, why do they retain European traits, which are considered too "progressive" or "liberal" for many in the United States? But I digress..
3. The alleged "lack of homosexuals" in the Middle East- if there are no homosexuals in Muslim countries as the governments claim, there is no fear in being accused of being gay ifyou act on familiar terms with another man in public. After all, the posturing that occurs in America between men is restricted largely due to a machismo desire to avoid being called "gay" or having their sexuality, their most prized possession, questioned in any way. Without that threat, why not express your fondness for your friend Ahmed in the public domain?
But without regard as to the reason for this social anomaly, how is it possible that even to me, a woman raised in the US and filled with American concepts of sexuality and the like, these Arab men can still be so completely manly, sexy, and desirable? Perhaps because, as a student of Middle Eastern culture, I am aware that while a man may exhibit some less-than-manly behaviors in the public sphere, one can be absolutely certain that he (assuming he is of an earlier generation than my own) is nothing short of paradigm of masculine strength and vigor at home, where most Arab men rule their homes with an iron fist: unquestioned, immovable, the be-all end-all of their family's world. They expect their wives to submit and cater to their needs, their children to obey without question, and their servants to perform their duties perfectly and without prompting. Also, the abundance of testosterone, as evidenced in the staggering amount of body hair, can't hurt their case, can it?
I'm sure to revisit this topic, because it is endlessly fascinating to me, and as my familiarity with Arab society grows, I'm sure my perception of this phenomenon will continue to evolve.
What are your thoughts, my dears?
However, after having spent the better part of the past few years in the Arab world- Morocco and Egypt with excursions to Jordan and, very shortly, Turkey- my idea of masculinity is slowly changing. Some of the most innately masculine men I have encountered here share very few of the attributes I once considered essential to the characteristic repertoire of a male. Masculinity here means something altogether different than in the Western world. In America, would a man with oil-drenched hair, a prominently displayed pot belly, chest hair spilling out of his open button-down, tighter-than-necessary pants, a unibrow, glittering jewelry- especially in the form of rings, shiny black dress shoes, gingerly smoking a water pipe be considered the archetype of a "man's man"? Probably not. In fact, most of the men I have recently found myself drawn to here in Egypt would be considered "metrosexual" at best in the context of American society. They belly-dance in public; sing at the top of their lungs; hug, kiss, and even hold hands with other men in public; they have no problem straddling another man, very closely, in close crotch-to-butt proximity, on the back of a dilapidated motorcycle weaving through Cairo traffic. But somehow, these are some of the most inherently "manly" men I have ever encountered. How is this? I have been pondering this question for quite some time, and I'm not sure I fully understand it yet.
For one, these men are, cliché as it may sound, completely comfortable with their sexuality. Of course, this is the way in which they have been raised, but beyond that, they exude such an innate bravado that posturing or acting "macho" is rendered completely unnecessary. There is no societal taboo on holding another man close in an embrace. This could be for several reasons:
1. Such close public contact between men and women is prohibited- since this kind of public affection is forbidden, or haram, who, then, can you share your affections with? Should one live a solitary public existence, completely devoid of physical contact or expressions of warmth? Of course not! There's Mohammed, the shopkeeper; and Mostafa, the doorman, and Ali, the friend of your cousin's wife who you met once, at their wedding.
2. The post-colonial remnant of European occupation- France and the British Empire at one time or another controlled large portions of North Africa and the Middle East. When a people are colonized, it is inevitable they will adopt some of the customs of their colonizers. This comfort with what could, in other spheres, be construed as evidence of sexual deviance from the norm, may perhaps be a mannerism introduced into the Middle Eastern social scene by their European conquerors. Which raises another point: if the Middle East is (mistakenly in large part, might I add) considered archaic, backwards, and stagnant socially, politically, and economically, why do they retain European traits, which are considered too "progressive" or "liberal" for many in the United States? But I digress..
3. The alleged "lack of homosexuals" in the Middle East- if there are no homosexuals in Muslim countries as the governments claim, there is no fear in being accused of being gay ifyou act on familiar terms with another man in public. After all, the posturing that occurs in America between men is restricted largely due to a machismo desire to avoid being called "gay" or having their sexuality, their most prized possession, questioned in any way. Without that threat, why not express your fondness for your friend Ahmed in the public domain?
But without regard as to the reason for this social anomaly, how is it possible that even to me, a woman raised in the US and filled with American concepts of sexuality and the like, these Arab men can still be so completely manly, sexy, and desirable? Perhaps because, as a student of Middle Eastern culture, I am aware that while a man may exhibit some less-than-manly behaviors in the public sphere, one can be absolutely certain that he (assuming he is of an earlier generation than my own) is nothing short of paradigm of masculine strength and vigor at home, where most Arab men rule their homes with an iron fist: unquestioned, immovable, the be-all end-all of their family's world. They expect their wives to submit and cater to their needs, their children to obey without question, and their servants to perform their duties perfectly and without prompting. Also, the abundance of testosterone, as evidenced in the staggering amount of body hair, can't hurt their case, can it?
I'm sure to revisit this topic, because it is endlessly fascinating to me, and as my familiarity with Arab society grows, I'm sure my perception of this phenomenon will continue to evolve.
What are your thoughts, my dears?
An pseudo-intellectual off-color joke about colonialism and the Holocaust
Two Jews are sitting together reading their newspapers in 1940s Germany. One looks to the other, and says, "You know, I'm getting really fed up with our leader."
The other looks back, horrified, and says, "You can't talk about Hitler that way, or we'll both end up in a concentration camp!"
The first, confused, replies, "Hitler? Who's talking about Hitler? I'm talking about Moses! If it weren't for him leading us out of Egypt, we'd all have British passports!"
The other looks back, horrified, and says, "You can't talk about Hitler that way, or we'll both end up in a concentration camp!"
The first, confused, replies, "Hitler? Who's talking about Hitler? I'm talking about Moses! If it weren't for him leading us out of Egypt, we'd all have British passports!"
Twofer
This weekend was ridiculous. I figured moving to the city would make going out and having fun in Cairo easier, and boy...I was right.
Thursday night, me, Becky, Megan, Romani, Joe and his friend Remy from Bahrain decided to go out and have some fun. We left the apartment a little after midnight and headed to our favorite bar, Hurriya, where they have 8 LE Stellas, and proceeded to get drunk. When [our dear friend and beer-tender] Milad finally kicked us out around 3am, shisha at Pottery Cafe was the obvious next step. Fast forward to 6:30am, when we finally found our way back to the dorms and promptly ordered KFC. We crawled into bed around 8am and slept Friday away.
Exhausted from the previous night's adventure, we opted to stay in Friday night. After a quick trip to Metro to stock up on popcorn and other necessities, we spent the better part of the next 3 hours watching Romani [the Resident Director here in Zamalek] attempt to hook up a laptop to the big screen in the lobby so we could watch Sweeney Todd. Rarely have I been prouder of a boy than I was when he finally succeeded in syncing the two up. We watched Sweeney Todd, ordered some Papa John's, then watched some bizarre music videos until 4am. Did you know Akon did a collaboration in Arabic? Hello, awesomeness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYPeGvYEJpI
We slept again all day Saturday, and were planning on getting a good night's rest Saturday night since we have school Sunday. But alas, it was not to be. Frankie invited us out for a felucca ride with a few friends, and, thinking it would be an hourlong thing, we said sure. We showed up in Garden City at 9:30 and ended up boarding a yacht with about 30 random people- friends of friends of friends. Lots of alcohol-fueled ridiculousness ensued. Finally, around 3am, I looked around and thought, it's 3am. I have a bus to catch at 9:30. It's a school night. And I'm on a yacht in the middle of the f------ Nile drinking Stella and chainsmoking. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?!
Having a damn good time, apparently.
My life is ridiculous.
The bad news from this weekend: my beloved 12 year old golden retriever Cody died on Saturday. Living in the alternate universe I inhabit here, I don't think it's totally hit me yet. He was a dear, dear friend. We had had him since I was in the 4th grade and he and I went through so much together. There's no telling how many hundreds of tears I sobbed into his fur over the years. I will miss him terribly.
Another recent development: I have become really, ridiculously insecure, seemingly overnight. I have always been a fairly confident person. But suddenly, I am so consumed with self-doubt it's nearly debilitating. Some of this has to do with the Murphy debacle [recap: Murphy was one of my three best friends in college. My sophomore year, we briefly dated. We decided it was a bad idea and I feel head over heels for my other best friend and his roommate, Kenny. Murphy had a hard time dealing with this and cut me out of his life. We reconciled days before I moved to Egypt and everything was great. Once I got back to the States in December, however, he decided once again that we shouldn't be friends, and told me, much to my surprise that we "haven't been friends for nearly a year". That was news to me.]. Because I was so taken aback by this, and because I thought things between us were fine, I am suddenly completely unsure of all of my relationships. I am constantly wondering if my friends are really my friends, or if they feel obligated to hang out with me. Even when I'm hanging out with my best friends here, I'm wondering if they would rather be somewhere else, if they like me at all. Let it be known: I have amazing friends. Becky and Megan picked me up from the airport when I flew back in to Cairo, Frankie brought me my favorite cigarettes all the way from Amsterdam, and Sachi, Joe, and Romani are the first people to come to my aid if I need anything, day or night. I can feel my insecurities straining my friendships, but a large part of me keeps nagging...if Murphy, your nearest and dearest, felt that way about you and you had no clue, what makes you think these people really like you? It's terrible, and I hate the needy, clingy person it's made me.
Other insecurities have arisen too. It is no secret that I like to have fun; I love nothing more than to waste away and evening drinking, being vulgar, talking about football, shaking my ass, and being silly. However, it seems people have begun to equate this light-heartedness for light-headedness. Two of my best friends routinely have intellectual conversations about the Middle East right in front of me, and blatanly leave me out of them, and I've begun to feel like maybe they think that because I'm not as serious as they are, perhaps I'm not as smart as they are, either. It's really started to get to me, but instead of piping up and defending my intellect, I've started doing something I've never, ever done before: wonder if maybe I am stupid. I mean sure, I know about a lot of things, but I'm not an expert in any one topic. It's a bizarre feeling; after being so confident in myself for so long, suddenly starting to wonder what my worth is on so many different levels. It's frustrating.
Ugh. Enough of my pity party. This is a travel blog, not a therapist's office.
If you need a lift after that depressing entry, here's the most bizarre music video EVER for your enjoyment:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kypb12ezLVE
Love.
Thursday night, me, Becky, Megan, Romani, Joe and his friend Remy from Bahrain decided to go out and have some fun. We left the apartment a little after midnight and headed to our favorite bar, Hurriya, where they have 8 LE Stellas, and proceeded to get drunk. When [our dear friend and beer-tender] Milad finally kicked us out around 3am, shisha at Pottery Cafe was the obvious next step. Fast forward to 6:30am, when we finally found our way back to the dorms and promptly ordered KFC. We crawled into bed around 8am and slept Friday away.
Exhausted from the previous night's adventure, we opted to stay in Friday night. After a quick trip to Metro to stock up on popcorn and other necessities, we spent the better part of the next 3 hours watching Romani [the Resident Director here in Zamalek] attempt to hook up a laptop to the big screen in the lobby so we could watch Sweeney Todd. Rarely have I been prouder of a boy than I was when he finally succeeded in syncing the two up. We watched Sweeney Todd, ordered some Papa John's, then watched some bizarre music videos until 4am. Did you know Akon did a collaboration in Arabic? Hello, awesomeness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYPeGvYEJpI
We slept again all day Saturday, and were planning on getting a good night's rest Saturday night since we have school Sunday. But alas, it was not to be. Frankie invited us out for a felucca ride with a few friends, and, thinking it would be an hourlong thing, we said sure. We showed up in Garden City at 9:30 and ended up boarding a yacht with about 30 random people- friends of friends of friends. Lots of alcohol-fueled ridiculousness ensued. Finally, around 3am, I looked around and thought, it's 3am. I have a bus to catch at 9:30. It's a school night. And I'm on a yacht in the middle of the f------ Nile drinking Stella and chainsmoking. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?!
Having a damn good time, apparently.
My life is ridiculous.
The bad news from this weekend: my beloved 12 year old golden retriever Cody died on Saturday. Living in the alternate universe I inhabit here, I don't think it's totally hit me yet. He was a dear, dear friend. We had had him since I was in the 4th grade and he and I went through so much together. There's no telling how many hundreds of tears I sobbed into his fur over the years. I will miss him terribly.
Another recent development: I have become really, ridiculously insecure, seemingly overnight. I have always been a fairly confident person. But suddenly, I am so consumed with self-doubt it's nearly debilitating. Some of this has to do with the Murphy debacle [recap: Murphy was one of my three best friends in college. My sophomore year, we briefly dated. We decided it was a bad idea and I feel head over heels for my other best friend and his roommate, Kenny. Murphy had a hard time dealing with this and cut me out of his life. We reconciled days before I moved to Egypt and everything was great. Once I got back to the States in December, however, he decided once again that we shouldn't be friends, and told me, much to my surprise that we "haven't been friends for nearly a year". That was news to me.]. Because I was so taken aback by this, and because I thought things between us were fine, I am suddenly completely unsure of all of my relationships. I am constantly wondering if my friends are really my friends, or if they feel obligated to hang out with me. Even when I'm hanging out with my best friends here, I'm wondering if they would rather be somewhere else, if they like me at all. Let it be known: I have amazing friends. Becky and Megan picked me up from the airport when I flew back in to Cairo, Frankie brought me my favorite cigarettes all the way from Amsterdam, and Sachi, Joe, and Romani are the first people to come to my aid if I need anything, day or night. I can feel my insecurities straining my friendships, but a large part of me keeps nagging...if Murphy, your nearest and dearest, felt that way about you and you had no clue, what makes you think these people really like you? It's terrible, and I hate the needy, clingy person it's made me.
Other insecurities have arisen too. It is no secret that I like to have fun; I love nothing more than to waste away and evening drinking, being vulgar, talking about football, shaking my ass, and being silly. However, it seems people have begun to equate this light-heartedness for light-headedness. Two of my best friends routinely have intellectual conversations about the Middle East right in front of me, and blatanly leave me out of them, and I've begun to feel like maybe they think that because I'm not as serious as they are, perhaps I'm not as smart as they are, either. It's really started to get to me, but instead of piping up and defending my intellect, I've started doing something I've never, ever done before: wonder if maybe I am stupid. I mean sure, I know about a lot of things, but I'm not an expert in any one topic. It's a bizarre feeling; after being so confident in myself for so long, suddenly starting to wonder what my worth is on so many different levels. It's frustrating.
Ugh. Enough of my pity party. This is a travel blog, not a therapist's office.
If you need a lift after that depressing entry, here's the most bizarre music video EVER for your enjoyment:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kypb12ezLVE
Love.
Starting over
As a child coloring in my basement playroom, nine times out of ten I would become disenchanted with "the rules"- staying inside the lines, coloring people peach instead of green or blue, making the typical pretty picture all seemed silly and pointless to me. So I would create a radically abstract picture, damn the rules to hell. After I had created my masterpiece, which seconds before I had been so passionate about, I would step back, cock my head to the side, and realize with a sinking feeling, that my different picture was..ugly. So I crumpled it up, threw it away, and started over, abiding by the rules this time.
This weekend, I am drawing far too many parallels between my life as an adult and my coloring escapades as a child. With more and more of my facebook friends slowly changing their relationship statuses to "engaged", a nauseating anxiety is rising in me. Yet another of my best friends from high school has a rock on her finger and will soon be planning another wedding that I won't be invited to, because I veered off the "right" path; as everyone was beginning to settle down, I did the exact opposite and hopped a flight to the Middle East. And I'm left wondering...am I doing something wrong? If everyone seems to be so caught up in this marriage thing, there must be a reason for it, right? If I'm the only one not down with this whole marriage deal, the problem must be me. Sometimes I feel like maybe I only ran away to the Middle East to avoid the prospect of marriage, so as not to be embarrassed if it never happened to me. Living here, I have an excuse. But now I'm starting to wonder if I'll regret this radical deviation from the norm in 5, 7, 9 years. I certainly don't now, but when I'm done with my picture, I might look at it, decide it's ugly, and want to start over. Unfortunately, this is one picture that can't be erased or redone. This is my life. God knows I hope I'm doing it right.
This weekend, I am drawing far too many parallels between my life as an adult and my coloring escapades as a child. With more and more of my facebook friends slowly changing their relationship statuses to "engaged", a nauseating anxiety is rising in me. Yet another of my best friends from high school has a rock on her finger and will soon be planning another wedding that I won't be invited to, because I veered off the "right" path; as everyone was beginning to settle down, I did the exact opposite and hopped a flight to the Middle East. And I'm left wondering...am I doing something wrong? If everyone seems to be so caught up in this marriage thing, there must be a reason for it, right? If I'm the only one not down with this whole marriage deal, the problem must be me. Sometimes I feel like maybe I only ran away to the Middle East to avoid the prospect of marriage, so as not to be embarrassed if it never happened to me. Living here, I have an excuse. But now I'm starting to wonder if I'll regret this radical deviation from the norm in 5, 7, 9 years. I certainly don't now, but when I'm done with my picture, I might look at it, decide it's ugly, and want to start over. Unfortunately, this is one picture that can't be erased or redone. This is my life. God knows I hope I'm doing it right.
Exploding Life
I saw the lights of Cairo come into view below me from the plane. After spending 24 hours in transit, and touching down on three continents, here I was, at last. Home.
The time I've been back has reminded me why I love Egypt so much. Simple things, silly little vignettes- the bizzare, the hilarious, the everyday things that constitute life in Cairo which seem absolutely ridiculous.
The traffic is bumper-to-bumper, but hurtles along the Autostrahd at 60 mph; one single unit, moving in unison, honking, yelling, weaving. A tentacle of humanity stretching for miles, snaking across the desert, encompassing it, taking it. Next to my cab is a small flatbed truck, loaded twelve feet high with bundles and crates. Perched precariously atop the load is a twenty-something Egyptian, chainsmoking and digging in his nose. The driver lazily glances in his rearview mirror from time to time, making sure his passenger has not fallen off the mound of cargo and been consumed by the mass. Emblazoned across the back of the truck is the word "Hyunday". I giggle to myself and light a cigarette.
En route to Meedan Tahrir, I pass a pet shop, the size of an American walk-in closet. Birds screech and puppies leashed to various door handles bark heartwrenchingly. A PETA proponent's worst nightmare. A mammoth white birdcage stands to the left of the shop, but there is no bird inside. It takes me a moment to see them- six white puppies cuddled up at the bottom of the cage. Necessity breeds creativity, I suppose.
Less than a mile later, I notice a shop whose window is partially covered by a sheet strung up to obstruct the view inside. Four 80s-era mannequinns stare complacently out into the chaos of the street. I realize with a lauagh that the mannequinns are in a state of undress, and the sheet has been hung to preserve their modesty. Oh Egypt, I love you.
A girl walks boldly through the traffic, her cellphone tucked into the side of her tight hijab- an Egyptian bluetooth headset.
Finally home after hours of sitting in traffic, I settle into my bed to see if I can persuade the internet to work, just this once. As I am beginning to dose off, I am jolted awake by the all-too-familiar warning call of the housekeepers- "Man on the floor!". Outside my door I hear Egyptian girls shriek and scamper into their rooms, not wanting these men, who are probably carrying someone's luggage upstairs, to see them without their hijabs on. I smile and turn off my light. It's good to be home.
The time I've been back has reminded me why I love Egypt so much. Simple things, silly little vignettes- the bizzare, the hilarious, the everyday things that constitute life in Cairo which seem absolutely ridiculous.
The traffic is bumper-to-bumper, but hurtles along the Autostrahd at 60 mph; one single unit, moving in unison, honking, yelling, weaving. A tentacle of humanity stretching for miles, snaking across the desert, encompassing it, taking it. Next to my cab is a small flatbed truck, loaded twelve feet high with bundles and crates. Perched precariously atop the load is a twenty-something Egyptian, chainsmoking and digging in his nose. The driver lazily glances in his rearview mirror from time to time, making sure his passenger has not fallen off the mound of cargo and been consumed by the mass. Emblazoned across the back of the truck is the word "Hyunday". I giggle to myself and light a cigarette.
En route to Meedan Tahrir, I pass a pet shop, the size of an American walk-in closet. Birds screech and puppies leashed to various door handles bark heartwrenchingly. A PETA proponent's worst nightmare. A mammoth white birdcage stands to the left of the shop, but there is no bird inside. It takes me a moment to see them- six white puppies cuddled up at the bottom of the cage. Necessity breeds creativity, I suppose.
Less than a mile later, I notice a shop whose window is partially covered by a sheet strung up to obstruct the view inside. Four 80s-era mannequinns stare complacently out into the chaos of the street. I realize with a lauagh that the mannequinns are in a state of undress, and the sheet has been hung to preserve their modesty. Oh Egypt, I love you.
A girl walks boldly through the traffic, her cellphone tucked into the side of her tight hijab- an Egyptian bluetooth headset.
Finally home after hours of sitting in traffic, I settle into my bed to see if I can persuade the internet to work, just this once. As I am beginning to dose off, I am jolted awake by the all-too-familiar warning call of the housekeepers- "Man on the floor!". Outside my door I hear Egyptian girls shriek and scamper into their rooms, not wanting these men, who are probably carrying someone's luggage upstairs, to see them without their hijabs on. I smile and turn off my light. It's good to be home.
i'm miles from where you are
All too clearly, I remember standing in the airport. As hard as I tried to act like it was no big deal, just moving to Egypt, whatever, I could hardly breathe. Against my will, the lump formed in my throat, tears clouded my eyes, I wondered if it was too late to back out, to slink back to Tuscaloosa...just kidding, I didn't go, I want to stay here with you. I sat there with my parents..stalling, waiting...finally, I realized there was no going back. Better to just get this over with. Goodbye, goodbye, see you at Christmas..
Going back to Egypt this time will not be so hard, I hope. It's home now. I miss it. I miss Cairo; the dirt, the grime, the magnificent decay. The honking, the cacophony of a city in a state of perpetual motion. The smell of shisha wafting on the night air, the sweet aroma of spices in the market, the calls of shopkeepers, the pushing and shoving of people impatient to get wherever they're going, so that they can sit around and do nothing in particular.
I won't miss home so much this semester. I realized in the past month..there's not much left for me here. Somehow, I don't belong here anymore. The people I missed the most...well, only one of them actually deserved my constant longing.
I will miss my family, and I'll miss Kenny...but other than that, I'm ready for another amazing semester in the Middle East. I can't wait to see what adventures are in store for me this time.
Going back to Egypt this time will not be so hard, I hope. It's home now. I miss it. I miss Cairo; the dirt, the grime, the magnificent decay. The honking, the cacophony of a city in a state of perpetual motion. The smell of shisha wafting on the night air, the sweet aroma of spices in the market, the calls of shopkeepers, the pushing and shoving of people impatient to get wherever they're going, so that they can sit around and do nothing in particular.
I won't miss home so much this semester. I realized in the past month..there's not much left for me here. Somehow, I don't belong here anymore. The people I missed the most...well, only one of them actually deserved my constant longing.
I will miss my family, and I'll miss Kenny...but other than that, I'm ready for another amazing semester in the Middle East. I can't wait to see what adventures are in store for me this time.
ROLL TIDE ROLL
Alabama Football...it's 6 All Americans, 22 SEC Championships, a Heisman winner, and 13 National Championships. Roll Tide Roll!
This week, my best friend from high school, Megan, came to Alabama to visit during the National Championship. We went down to Tuscaloosa the day before the game and settled in for the game at Kenny and Murphy's apartment. After a warmup on Wednesday night with Phi Sig and some Sweet Carolina with Kenny, we woke up Thursday afternoon and immediately started pregaming. By gametime, everyone was pumped and pleasantly buzzed. After a rough start, the game took a pleasant turn and the first half ended 24-6. There was a turbulent patch of nausea when Texas staged a fourth quarter comeback, but in the end, the Tide triumphed 37-21.
Chaos broke out in Tuscaloosa. Megan and Kenny, after taking tequila shots after every Bama touchdown, looked on in amazement as fireworks were shot off in the parking lot by raucous fans. Opposite sides of the apartment complex shouted Bama chants back and forth to each other as a gigantic and very illegal fireworks display exploded in the midst of crappy college cars, until a Tuscaloosa PD car turned into the lot. Everyone slowly lowered their drinks and looked on to see if the cop would shut down our city-wide party. Instead, the cop watched the rest of the fireworks display to make sure nothing bad happened, then turned on his loudspeaker, shouted "Roll Tide!" and drove away.
Suddenly someone shouted "Veazey!" and my heart nearly lept out of my chest as I saw the last member of the Cult bound up the stairs and into my arms. Holding a bottle of champagne and a cigarette in one hand, a Natty in a GO TO HELL AUBURN coozie in the other, surrounded by Megan and the Cult, and singing Yea Alabama at the top of my lungs into the frigid night, I realized that this was one of the best moments of my life.
Veazey, Kenny, Megan and I retreated into the apartment to warm up. Soon thereafter, Murphy bounded into the room carrying a giant "yellow hammer" and demanded we follow him to the Strip. "They've shut down the Strip!" He yelled, "There's a mob!"
We sprinted toward the Strip in varied, glorious stages of inebriation, only to find a giant mosh pit of zealous Alabama fans jumping and singing in the middle of the street, chanting "13!", "RTR", "It's great to be from Alabama" and singing Yea Alabama, Sweet Home Alabama, and Rammer Jammer.
Then, we made our way over to the Walk of Champions outside Bryant-Denny stadium. There reside the famous Alabama coaches who have led us to past National Championships. There is an empty spot where Nick Saban will one day reside. In reverent solitude, we erected a sign which sad "Reserved for Nick Saban" and watched as grateful Alabama fans streamed in to place a symbolic rose in the hands of the legendary Bear Bryant's statue.
Walking around campus, shouting Roll Tide to everyone who passed and hearing it shouted right back, you could feel the pride. The tradition. The dynasty. The legend. I'm sure somewhere, the Bear was smiling. And I was in Tuscaloosa, crying from happiness, and a little from nostalgia, of heartache, knowing I'm not a part of it anymore. What a beautiful, beautiful night, what a perfect feeling. God bless Alabama. God bless the Tide.
"I ain't never been nothin' but a winner." -Paul "Bear" Bryant
Now I can cross one more thing off of my Life List. Watch Alabama win a National Championship? Done, son! 13! RTR!
ps..I didn't win that travel writing scholarship, but I read the winner's essay, and she deserved to win. It was very impressive. I'm honored to have been selected for the short list and I'm excited for my writing career. And besides, what could take away from the amazing game last night?
This week, my best friend from high school, Megan, came to Alabama to visit during the National Championship. We went down to Tuscaloosa the day before the game and settled in for the game at Kenny and Murphy's apartment. After a warmup on Wednesday night with Phi Sig and some Sweet Carolina with Kenny, we woke up Thursday afternoon and immediately started pregaming. By gametime, everyone was pumped and pleasantly buzzed. After a rough start, the game took a pleasant turn and the first half ended 24-6. There was a turbulent patch of nausea when Texas staged a fourth quarter comeback, but in the end, the Tide triumphed 37-21.
Chaos broke out in Tuscaloosa. Megan and Kenny, after taking tequila shots after every Bama touchdown, looked on in amazement as fireworks were shot off in the parking lot by raucous fans. Opposite sides of the apartment complex shouted Bama chants back and forth to each other as a gigantic and very illegal fireworks display exploded in the midst of crappy college cars, until a Tuscaloosa PD car turned into the lot. Everyone slowly lowered their drinks and looked on to see if the cop would shut down our city-wide party. Instead, the cop watched the rest of the fireworks display to make sure nothing bad happened, then turned on his loudspeaker, shouted "Roll Tide!" and drove away.
Suddenly someone shouted "Veazey!" and my heart nearly lept out of my chest as I saw the last member of the Cult bound up the stairs and into my arms. Holding a bottle of champagne and a cigarette in one hand, a Natty in a GO TO HELL AUBURN coozie in the other, surrounded by Megan and the Cult, and singing Yea Alabama at the top of my lungs into the frigid night, I realized that this was one of the best moments of my life.
Veazey, Kenny, Megan and I retreated into the apartment to warm up. Soon thereafter, Murphy bounded into the room carrying a giant "yellow hammer" and demanded we follow him to the Strip. "They've shut down the Strip!" He yelled, "There's a mob!"
We sprinted toward the Strip in varied, glorious stages of inebriation, only to find a giant mosh pit of zealous Alabama fans jumping and singing in the middle of the street, chanting "13!", "RTR", "It's great to be from Alabama" and singing Yea Alabama, Sweet Home Alabama, and Rammer Jammer.
Then, we made our way over to the Walk of Champions outside Bryant-Denny stadium. There reside the famous Alabama coaches who have led us to past National Championships. There is an empty spot where Nick Saban will one day reside. In reverent solitude, we erected a sign which sad "Reserved for Nick Saban" and watched as grateful Alabama fans streamed in to place a symbolic rose in the hands of the legendary Bear Bryant's statue.
Walking around campus, shouting Roll Tide to everyone who passed and hearing it shouted right back, you could feel the pride. The tradition. The dynasty. The legend. I'm sure somewhere, the Bear was smiling. And I was in Tuscaloosa, crying from happiness, and a little from nostalgia, of heartache, knowing I'm not a part of it anymore. What a beautiful, beautiful night, what a perfect feeling. God bless Alabama. God bless the Tide.
"I ain't never been nothin' but a winner." -Paul "Bear" Bryant
Now I can cross one more thing off of my Life List. Watch Alabama win a National Championship? Done, son! 13! RTR!
ps..I didn't win that travel writing scholarship, but I read the winner's essay, and she deserved to win. It was very impressive. I'm honored to have been selected for the short list and I'm excited for my writing career. And besides, what could take away from the amazing game last night?
Keep your fingers crossed!
So in November I applied for a travel writing scholarship with World Nomads. The winner gets an all expenses paid 11 day trip to Japan in February to shadow a professional travel writer from Rough Guides and write their own chapter in the Rough Guide to Japan. I wasn't expecting to win, but my goal was to make the shortlist. Today I got word that I did, in fact, make the short list of 18 selected from hundreds of entries. The winner will be announced January 8 and the trip starts Feb 15. I've included my entry, which consists of a paragraph stating why I should win the trip, and a 500 word essary written on the prompt "A Strange Experience Involving Food in a Foreign Culture". I've also included the website, if you care to look. Keep your fingers crossed for me!
The original guidelines and info:
http://journals.worldnomads.com/scholarships/post/35985.aspx
The short list:
http://journals.worldnomads.com/scholarships/post/52951.aspx
Why I should get the scholarship:
I was raised a military dependent and have travelled all over the world, which has cultivated in me an insatiable, obsessive wanderlust. I consider myself a "third-culture kid"; I have the wonderful ability to fit in nearly anywhere on the planet, but lack strong roots in any one place. I have lived in Japan in elementary school, which I believe is an advantage as it was long enough ago that the novelty of travelling there would not be lost on me, but I have a basic knowledge of customs and social norms which would give me a foundation to build upon for my writing. I have a passion for language and writing; I am conversational in over five languages. I would love to work as a travel writer one day and combine my restless feet and my need to document everything I experience. This would be an incredible opportunity to introduce me to the world of travel writing and give me invaluable experience. My eventual goal is to write travel guides focusing on the Middle East/ North Africa which would help steer the reader through and illuminate beautiful, ancient and often misunderstood cultures.
The essay:
I looked down at the bun in my hand, cradled in a greasy brown paper, with a mixture of horror and awe. Overstuffed, meat, gelatinous fat, and a curious unknown brown substance oozed out of both ends. I was in Fez, Morocco, where I had been living and studying for the summer, on a weekend excursion to the market. I had been warned about "street meat" over and over, and over and over my stomach had suffered unspeakable devastation for my impudence. Here I was, yet again, on the verge of gastrointestinal desolation, holding a sheep's head sandwich, bought from a haphazardly-constructed kiosk picked at random among the rows which lined the walkway out of the souk. My friends gathered around me, convinced I would not eat it. Testing the proverbial waters, I cautiously squeezed the now-soggy bun. With a deliciously grotesque squish, a mess of brown and gray slop streamed out of the bun and splattered all over my worn sandals. I swallowed hard upon noticing a patch of sticky black hair which had adhered itself to my pant leg. Slowly, warily, I put the bun to my mouth, hesitated, and sunk my teeth into the sandwich. Tearing off the first bite, I reported to my friends that it was delicious, and they were obviously missing out. Emboldened, I hastily bit into the sandwich again. There was a glutinous, cold explosion which drenched my entire mouth in a bitter, basic taste: an eyeball. The vendor, having kept a watchful eye on me throughout the ordeal, offered me a bit of toilet paper to use as a napkin. I wiped the eyeball fluid off my chin and weakly returned the thumbs-up he offered, assuring him in Arabic that it was, in fact, the best sheep's head sandwich I had ever had. Briefly I considered giving up; I had tried it, and this sheep had defeated me from beyond the grave. It was then that a sympathetic friend of mine pulled a small bottle of Texas Pete Hot Sauce from her bag, which I snatched and doused all over the offending sandwich. Suddenly, the scorching summer fog of pollution cleared, the Saharan sun seemed to oppress me less, and all was right with the medina. This sheep's head was, unbelievably, delicious! It took me less than a minute to devour the remaining sandwich. Even pulling a small, sharp piece of skull from my mouth could not dissuade me from my savory endeavor. Shocked, my friends stood speechless as I licked my fingers, one by one. Then, in a collective group, they all turned to the vendor and ordered their own sheep's head sandwiches. Contented, with my stomach already beginning to collapse upon itself in cartwheels and acrobatics stomachs are most definitely not supposed to participate in, I mused to myself about my victory over my opponent from the East, parallel to the journey I had begun. Like all the very best things in life, it simply needed a little spice.
The original guidelines and info:
http://journals.worldnomads.com/scholarships/post/35985.aspx
The short list:
http://journals.worldnomads.com/scholarships/post/52951.aspx
Why I should get the scholarship:
I was raised a military dependent and have travelled all over the world, which has cultivated in me an insatiable, obsessive wanderlust. I consider myself a "third-culture kid"; I have the wonderful ability to fit in nearly anywhere on the planet, but lack strong roots in any one place. I have lived in Japan in elementary school, which I believe is an advantage as it was long enough ago that the novelty of travelling there would not be lost on me, but I have a basic knowledge of customs and social norms which would give me a foundation to build upon for my writing. I have a passion for language and writing; I am conversational in over five languages. I would love to work as a travel writer one day and combine my restless feet and my need to document everything I experience. This would be an incredible opportunity to introduce me to the world of travel writing and give me invaluable experience. My eventual goal is to write travel guides focusing on the Middle East/ North Africa which would help steer the reader through and illuminate beautiful, ancient and often misunderstood cultures.
The essay:
I looked down at the bun in my hand, cradled in a greasy brown paper, with a mixture of horror and awe. Overstuffed, meat, gelatinous fat, and a curious unknown brown substance oozed out of both ends. I was in Fez, Morocco, where I had been living and studying for the summer, on a weekend excursion to the market. I had been warned about "street meat" over and over, and over and over my stomach had suffered unspeakable devastation for my impudence. Here I was, yet again, on the verge of gastrointestinal desolation, holding a sheep's head sandwich, bought from a haphazardly-constructed kiosk picked at random among the rows which lined the walkway out of the souk. My friends gathered around me, convinced I would not eat it. Testing the proverbial waters, I cautiously squeezed the now-soggy bun. With a deliciously grotesque squish, a mess of brown and gray slop streamed out of the bun and splattered all over my worn sandals. I swallowed hard upon noticing a patch of sticky black hair which had adhered itself to my pant leg. Slowly, warily, I put the bun to my mouth, hesitated, and sunk my teeth into the sandwich. Tearing off the first bite, I reported to my friends that it was delicious, and they were obviously missing out. Emboldened, I hastily bit into the sandwich again. There was a glutinous, cold explosion which drenched my entire mouth in a bitter, basic taste: an eyeball. The vendor, having kept a watchful eye on me throughout the ordeal, offered me a bit of toilet paper to use as a napkin. I wiped the eyeball fluid off my chin and weakly returned the thumbs-up he offered, assuring him in Arabic that it was, in fact, the best sheep's head sandwich I had ever had. Briefly I considered giving up; I had tried it, and this sheep had defeated me from beyond the grave. It was then that a sympathetic friend of mine pulled a small bottle of Texas Pete Hot Sauce from her bag, which I snatched and doused all over the offending sandwich. Suddenly, the scorching summer fog of pollution cleared, the Saharan sun seemed to oppress me less, and all was right with the medina. This sheep's head was, unbelievably, delicious! It took me less than a minute to devour the remaining sandwich. Even pulling a small, sharp piece of skull from my mouth could not dissuade me from my savory endeavor. Shocked, my friends stood speechless as I licked my fingers, one by one. Then, in a collective group, they all turned to the vendor and ordered their own sheep's head sandwiches. Contented, with my stomach already beginning to collapse upon itself in cartwheels and acrobatics stomachs are most definitely not supposed to participate in, I mused to myself about my victory over my opponent from the East, parallel to the journey I had begun. Like all the very best things in life, it simply needed a little spice.
...
Never before has someone spoken to me with such hatred in their voice.
I live in a region of the world many often mistakenly associate with evil and malevolence...
...and yet it was only in coming back to America that I found such hate.
Life here is so complicated.
I live in a region of the world many often mistakenly associate with evil and malevolence...
...and yet it was only in coming back to America that I found such hate.
Life here is so complicated.
The one that got away
Today I miss him.
It's days like these I spend with my head in my hands, wondering what could have been if I had been content to just go with the flow; not challenged the status quo; accept a normal, safe-yet-stale existence in the Southeast United States. Staring out my window, at the crescent moon, cradling a single star, hanging just above the distant lights of downtown Cairo, effectively transforming the entire city into one blazing, beautiful mosque, I can't help but wonder "what if?" What if I had been less headstrong? What if he had asked me to stay? What if I said yes? What if he had loved me more? I remember one night, shamelessly drunk and standing before him in my purple formal gown, begging him to tell me to stay- for him, for us. I think he loved me enough to refuse, if only because he didn't love me enough to promise that my choice to stay in America would be worth it.
That moon that I'm looking up at has not even thought about rising in his sky yet. 10 AM in his world, where he is comfortably wrapped in the security of the life he has chosen: safe, logical, familiar. That life seems so far from me now, a distant memory, a shadow, a fog. And here I sit smoking on the roof of a building he has never seen, could never imagine, will never know. Is it possible that we have two such opposite realities now?
Today I miss him.
Today I think of the plans we tried to make together, plans for a life together which seemed unavoidable in its rationality. Now, however, I see we were vainly pulling the ends of fraying, mismatched strings, too far apart to be joined; an exercise in futility. Today I think of the plans that remain: innocent, simple, uncomplicated, unambitious. What if, what if, what if?
I would have stayed if he had asked me. I would not know this building, this moon, this country, this life. A sacrifice I was not asked to make. But what did I end up sacrificing for this building, this moon, this country, this life? This man, this friend, these plans, that future, those possibilities.
Was it worth it?
Yes, I think perhaps it was. This world, my new world, has been beckoning me, silently pulling me towards her for too long; she would not be ignored. She wanted me more than he did. I could never have been content in his world, his safe, predictable existence. I know this.
But today I miss him.
It's days like these I spend with my head in my hands, wondering what could have been if I had been content to just go with the flow; not challenged the status quo; accept a normal, safe-yet-stale existence in the Southeast United States. Staring out my window, at the crescent moon, cradling a single star, hanging just above the distant lights of downtown Cairo, effectively transforming the entire city into one blazing, beautiful mosque, I can't help but wonder "what if?" What if I had been less headstrong? What if he had asked me to stay? What if I said yes? What if he had loved me more? I remember one night, shamelessly drunk and standing before him in my purple formal gown, begging him to tell me to stay- for him, for us. I think he loved me enough to refuse, if only because he didn't love me enough to promise that my choice to stay in America would be worth it.
That moon that I'm looking up at has not even thought about rising in his sky yet. 10 AM in his world, where he is comfortably wrapped in the security of the life he has chosen: safe, logical, familiar. That life seems so far from me now, a distant memory, a shadow, a fog. And here I sit smoking on the roof of a building he has never seen, could never imagine, will never know. Is it possible that we have two such opposite realities now?
Today I miss him.
Today I think of the plans we tried to make together, plans for a life together which seemed unavoidable in its rationality. Now, however, I see we were vainly pulling the ends of fraying, mismatched strings, too far apart to be joined; an exercise in futility. Today I think of the plans that remain: innocent, simple, uncomplicated, unambitious. What if, what if, what if?
I would have stayed if he had asked me. I would not know this building, this moon, this country, this life. A sacrifice I was not asked to make. But what did I end up sacrificing for this building, this moon, this country, this life? This man, this friend, these plans, that future, those possibilities.
Was it worth it?
Yes, I think perhaps it was. This world, my new world, has been beckoning me, silently pulling me towards her for too long; she would not be ignored. She wanted me more than he did. I could never have been content in his world, his safe, predictable existence. I know this.
But today I miss him.
Sandstorm
I have sand in my nose, eyes, mouth, and ears.
The sand fills the air; I cannot see the sun.
How appropriate for finals week.
I'm going back to bed.
The sand fills the air; I cannot see the sun.
How appropriate for finals week.
I'm going back to bed.
OH ITS GREAT TO BE FROM ALABAMA
CONGRATULATIONS MARK INGRAM ON WINNING THE HEISMAN TROPHY!
FIRST HEISMAN WINNER IN BAMA HISTORY!
ROLL TIDE FROM EGYPT!!!
Tell me did you think we'd all dream the same?
Isn't it funny the way your passions and goals evolve over time? Have you ever stopped and taken stock of the ways you've grown and changed? Because the past two years of my life have been spent in constant motion- spent bouncing around between Virginia, Alabama, Morocco, Georgia, and Egypt- I have been pretty aware of the changes I've undergone as I have matured and experienced things. But it was only just now that I really started thinking and taking stock of my own personal evolution, in the context of career goals in particular, over the course of my entire life. It's a pretty interesting path.
When I was four, during my bath, I told my mom I wanted to be a model. She smiled encouragingly, at which point I dashed out of the bath, sopping wet and butt naked, to the front door, where I stuck my little four year old leg out the door provocatively, showgirl style. I returned to the bathroom and corrected myself: "A NUDE model."
A few months later, I amended this goal to include bricklaying. A nude bricklayer/model. Isn't that just a centerfold waiting to happen?
A few years later, I wrote a letter to American Girl Magazine [remember them?] imploring them to help me figure out how to become a successful child actor. After all, I wrote, I was much better at acting than all of the girls on the Disney channel..this was my destiny! I also bought all the Harriet the Spy spy equipment and considered becoming an international sleuth.
After a brief, not-so-successful child modelling career in Japan, I decided I very much needed to be a model, get rich, and be on billboards.
Along with three friends in Hawaii, I formed a band called Crush. At the age of 10, I was convinced Crush was the next Spice Girls. Anyone who has heard me sing will attest to the fact that I cannot carry a tune in a bucket.
In middle school I briefly considered joining the Army one day. Fashion designer and best-selling writer followed.
In high school my main goal was to find a husband and get married, and I almost succeeded- twice. My two high school sweethearts both proclaimed their intent to marry me, and at one point I had a real diamond ring on my finger. Looking back, I can't help but laugh at how silly it all was and marvel at how unhappy I would be now had I gone through with those plans.
When I realized I would, at some point, have to have a job, I dreamt of opening my own all-star cheerleading gym or becoming a fashion marketing executive.
As college loomed closer and I began to become more acutely aware of world events, I coupled my love of writing with my support for the American military, and began laying plans to become a wartime correspondent. Little did I know that this interest would blossom into a love of the Middle East and one day lead me to Morocco and Egypt.
To make that dream a reality, I began taking Arabic classes my first semester of college. As I fell in love with the language, I adjusted my plans to include working for the American governemnt and routinely pushed myself to the brink of a breakdown as I began transforming myself into the ideal candidate- restricting my behavior, learning to supress my emotions, devouring every bit of information on the Middle East that I could get my hands on.
Morocco reintroduced me to the beauty of the world, reawakened my senses and my imagination, forced me to remember that life was meant to be really LIVED and not just controlled in pursuit of some distant goal. My plans, so strict and without room for deviation, relaxed and once again I became the author of my plans rather than a cog in the machine propelling me towards some far-off goal. Sure, my plan was much less focused, but I was happier and healthier than I had been in a long time, much more at peace with myself and my future, whatever it may be.
Today my dreams are open and endless, but firmly rooted in the Middle East, this beautiful, crazy, terribly, mysterious, misunderstood corner of the earth that I now call home. I would still be honored to one day serve my country working in an embassy in the Middle East or North Africa, but certainly not at the cost of denying myself the amazing experiences I want to have first. I am determined to experience the world on my own terms, in every conceivable way, beforehand. And if that doesn't work out? I would be more than happy to commit my life to working for any number of beautiful nonprofit organizations devoted to bettering the world I love so much. Or perhaps I will be a travel writer, specializing in ME/NA, sharing with the world this beautiful culture that has so captivated my mind and my heart. We'll see what happens.
I guess this was a long-winded way of saying this: Life is beautiful; the world is beautiful; change is beautiful. Personal evolution is healthy and inevitable and so necessary. Your life is your own; let your cast-off plans become a foundation upon which to build bigger, better dreams; take the broken shards of your old dreams and build beautiful dream mosaic masterpieces. You are the author of your own plan; write "vivid sentences in a bold hand".
When I was four, during my bath, I told my mom I wanted to be a model. She smiled encouragingly, at which point I dashed out of the bath, sopping wet and butt naked, to the front door, where I stuck my little four year old leg out the door provocatively, showgirl style. I returned to the bathroom and corrected myself: "A NUDE model."
A few months later, I amended this goal to include bricklaying. A nude bricklayer/model. Isn't that just a centerfold waiting to happen?
A few years later, I wrote a letter to American Girl Magazine [remember them?] imploring them to help me figure out how to become a successful child actor. After all, I wrote, I was much better at acting than all of the girls on the Disney channel..this was my destiny! I also bought all the Harriet the Spy spy equipment and considered becoming an international sleuth.
After a brief, not-so-successful child modelling career in Japan, I decided I very much needed to be a model, get rich, and be on billboards.
Along with three friends in Hawaii, I formed a band called Crush. At the age of 10, I was convinced Crush was the next Spice Girls. Anyone who has heard me sing will attest to the fact that I cannot carry a tune in a bucket.
In middle school I briefly considered joining the Army one day. Fashion designer and best-selling writer followed.
In high school my main goal was to find a husband and get married, and I almost succeeded- twice. My two high school sweethearts both proclaimed their intent to marry me, and at one point I had a real diamond ring on my finger. Looking back, I can't help but laugh at how silly it all was and marvel at how unhappy I would be now had I gone through with those plans.
When I realized I would, at some point, have to have a job, I dreamt of opening my own all-star cheerleading gym or becoming a fashion marketing executive.
As college loomed closer and I began to become more acutely aware of world events, I coupled my love of writing with my support for the American military, and began laying plans to become a wartime correspondent. Little did I know that this interest would blossom into a love of the Middle East and one day lead me to Morocco and Egypt.
To make that dream a reality, I began taking Arabic classes my first semester of college. As I fell in love with the language, I adjusted my plans to include working for the American governemnt and routinely pushed myself to the brink of a breakdown as I began transforming myself into the ideal candidate- restricting my behavior, learning to supress my emotions, devouring every bit of information on the Middle East that I could get my hands on.
Morocco reintroduced me to the beauty of the world, reawakened my senses and my imagination, forced me to remember that life was meant to be really LIVED and not just controlled in pursuit of some distant goal. My plans, so strict and without room for deviation, relaxed and once again I became the author of my plans rather than a cog in the machine propelling me towards some far-off goal. Sure, my plan was much less focused, but I was happier and healthier than I had been in a long time, much more at peace with myself and my future, whatever it may be.
Today my dreams are open and endless, but firmly rooted in the Middle East, this beautiful, crazy, terribly, mysterious, misunderstood corner of the earth that I now call home. I would still be honored to one day serve my country working in an embassy in the Middle East or North Africa, but certainly not at the cost of denying myself the amazing experiences I want to have first. I am determined to experience the world on my own terms, in every conceivable way, beforehand. And if that doesn't work out? I would be more than happy to commit my life to working for any number of beautiful nonprofit organizations devoted to bettering the world I love so much. Or perhaps I will be a travel writer, specializing in ME/NA, sharing with the world this beautiful culture that has so captivated my mind and my heart. We'll see what happens.
I guess this was a long-winded way of saying this: Life is beautiful; the world is beautiful; change is beautiful. Personal evolution is healthy and inevitable and so necessary. Your life is your own; let your cast-off plans become a foundation upon which to build bigger, better dreams; take the broken shards of your old dreams and build beautiful dream mosaic masterpieces. You are the author of your own plan; write "vivid sentences in a bold hand".
She yearned for tropical climes, cruel suns, purple horizons..
This here is a literary post! Relating to my life in the Middle East! Holy f! This is rapidly evolving into some strange diasporic lifestyle blog..I even have a fashion post planned for the near future. How strange!
Anyway, now that I'm done talking about how rad my own blog is..
I am in a class at AUC called Modern Arabic Literature in Translation. The term "modern" is used somewhat loosely, and because I am one of only a handful of Americans in the class who is not enrolled in some type of Middle East history class concurrently with this one and is able to tie the historical landscape in with the period of the work, I have had a hard time relating to or enjoying most of the novels we've read.
A few weeks ago, though, changed that. In an uncommon bout of studious fever, I locked myself in my room and read over 200 pages for this class [way ahead of time, too!]. Once I got past the second page I couldn't tear my eyes away. I rushed through the novel, compulsively turning page after page, anxious to see the resolution. The second-to-last chapter was so powerful it actually caused my stomach to turn and a wave of nausea to come over me. I feel that any book well-written to the point of eliciting a physical response like that is a life-changing work. I can only describe it as an Arab interpretation of "Ethan Frome". Somehow, despite being translated from the original Arabic, it retains this very light, whimsical languistic feel and the way in which things are phrased is strikingly beautiful, which stands in stark contrast to the darkness of the work as a whole. The book is "Seasons of Migration to the North"; the translation by Denys Johnson-Davies is fantastic. Freaking read it.
I've included some of the more striking language from the book, because it is so beautifully worded it is begging to be read.
"..that just like us they are born and die, and in the journey from the cradle to the grave they dream dreams some of which come true and some of which are frustrated; that they fear the unknown, search for love and seek contentment in wife and child; that some are strong and some are weak; that some have been given more than they deserve by life, while others have been deprived by it.."
"There are many horizons that must be visited, fruit that must be plucked, books read, and white pages in the scrolls of life to be inscribed with vivid sentences in a bold hand."
"I feel that I am important, that I am continuous and integral. No, I am not a stone thrown into the water but seed sown in a field."
"The whole of the journey I savoured that feeling of being nowhere, alone, before and behind me either eternity or nothingness."
"I am the desert of thirst."
"Such a woman...knows no fear; they accept life with gaeity and curiousity. And I am a thirsty desert, a wilderness of southern desires."
"And I, like millions of mankind, walk and move, generally by force of habit, in a long caravan that ascends and descends, encamps, and then proceeds on its way. Life in this caravan is not altogether bad...The going may be hard day by day, the wildnerness sweeping out before us like shoreless seas; we pour with sweat, our throats are parched with thirst, and we reach the frontier beyond which we think we cannot go."
"The spectres of night dissolve with the dawn, the fever of day is cooled by the night breeze."
"But mysterious things in my soul and in my blood impel me towards faraway parts that loom up before me and cannot be ignored."
"I experience a sense of richness as though I am a note in the heartbeats of the very universe."
As a tangent, I've prepared a list of other books I consider "Life-Changing"*; mainly because I'm pretentious and think you'll rush out and read the books** I recommend. Humor me.
-The Island of Dr. Moreau
Ok, I'll just come right out and say it: I love HG Wells. Y3niyy, love love love him. He makes such fantastic social commentatries. The Island of Dr Moreau was terrifying and riveting and poignant..and just plain awesome. I also identified on some level with a man who lived through terrible things, wishing he was babck home in the civilized world where it was safe and predictable, and then finally getting back after so much stuggle and realizing he no longer belonged there because he had changed too much to go back. I fully understand experiencing something so outside your realm of understanding and wanting so badly to go back to things that are comfortable and safe, and getting there and realizing it had stayed the same and you had changed too much to go back to that stagnant life. I get chills just thinking about how well written it is. I could read it over and over again and find some new metaphor or symbolism every time.
-Into the Wild
This book is touching, and painfully tragic, but also inspiring. Chris McCandless wanted to live life on his own terms no matter what the cost, and that's what he did. So few people have the balls to really take their lives into their own hands and do what they want with it, to hell with those who don't understand. I was afraid when I recognized myself in the ill-fated main character-- he descended into the Alaskan wilderness to live his ultimate adventure, and I want to walk into the forests of Cambodia, build a teepee, and live naturally for an indefinite period. With every amazing adventure comes great risk, and this story is proof of it. But it is a beautiful adventure story, and the fact that it all really happened is sobering and humbling. I haven't seen the movie, but I doubt it could do Jon Krakauer's beautiful writing justice.
-The Time Machine
Once again, I love love love HG Wells' social commentaries. This one is a little more blatant than that of The Island of Dr Moreau- it paints a dark picture of the future of civilization, given the propensity we as humans have for dividing classes and lording over one another. It is terrifyingly poignant, and I have forced it upon some of my nearest and dearest [sorry, Kenny!].
-Lord of the Flies
I read Lord of the Flies the summer before sophomore year, and have remembered it nearly word for word [especially the last few pages] ever since. Yet another social commentary on the futility of war, the ending is sad and beautiful all at the same time. I don't want to give it away for those of you who haven't read it..but the realization of the children at the end is the realization I feel we as people will have one day standing before some greater power than ourselves- silly, embarrassing, afraid, remorseful for the things we have done which seemed so important at the time but end up having been in vain.
-Tales of a Female Nomad
This is the book that validated all my desires to break free of the social norm and gallavant around the world, seeing and doing things on my own terms. It is really inspiring; a woman who took her divorce with grace and dignity and used it as a catalyst to change her life, travelling the world, coming and going as she pleased, doing incredible things and meeting amazing people along the way. I made my mom read it in the hopes that it would help her better understand my obsessive wanderlust. It really was life-changing for me, and helped me form a better idea of what I want out of life, to understand that a life lived on anyone else's terms is a life wasted.
-Animal Farm
Like Lord of the Flies, I read this book in the 9th grade and the message behind it still resonates with me today: those who are oppressed or colonized will eventually revolt, but not without taking on some of the characteristics of their oppressors in order to beat them, sparking a vicious cycle which inevitably leads to destruction. While the message is more overt than in some of the other books I've listed with social commentaries, it is every bit as thought-provoking and insightful, and still relevant even though times have changed since it was written in 1945.
*I also consider "Ethan Frome" one of these, but seeing as I've already mentioned it, I didn't want to be redundant and include it in the list. You're welcome.
**Yeah, ok, some of them are short stories or novellas. Whatever.
Anyway, now that I'm done talking about how rad my own blog is..
I am in a class at AUC called Modern Arabic Literature in Translation. The term "modern" is used somewhat loosely, and because I am one of only a handful of Americans in the class who is not enrolled in some type of Middle East history class concurrently with this one and is able to tie the historical landscape in with the period of the work, I have had a hard time relating to or enjoying most of the novels we've read.
A few weeks ago, though, changed that. In an uncommon bout of studious fever, I locked myself in my room and read over 200 pages for this class [way ahead of time, too!]. Once I got past the second page I couldn't tear my eyes away. I rushed through the novel, compulsively turning page after page, anxious to see the resolution. The second-to-last chapter was so powerful it actually caused my stomach to turn and a wave of nausea to come over me. I feel that any book well-written to the point of eliciting a physical response like that is a life-changing work. I can only describe it as an Arab interpretation of "Ethan Frome". Somehow, despite being translated from the original Arabic, it retains this very light, whimsical languistic feel and the way in which things are phrased is strikingly beautiful, which stands in stark contrast to the darkness of the work as a whole. The book is "Seasons of Migration to the North"; the translation by Denys Johnson-Davies is fantastic. Freaking read it.
I've included some of the more striking language from the book, because it is so beautifully worded it is begging to be read.
"..that just like us they are born and die, and in the journey from the cradle to the grave they dream dreams some of which come true and some of which are frustrated; that they fear the unknown, search for love and seek contentment in wife and child; that some are strong and some are weak; that some have been given more than they deserve by life, while others have been deprived by it.."
"There are many horizons that must be visited, fruit that must be plucked, books read, and white pages in the scrolls of life to be inscribed with vivid sentences in a bold hand."
"I feel that I am important, that I am continuous and integral. No, I am not a stone thrown into the water but seed sown in a field."
"The whole of the journey I savoured that feeling of being nowhere, alone, before and behind me either eternity or nothingness."
"I am the desert of thirst."
"Such a woman...knows no fear; they accept life with gaeity and curiousity. And I am a thirsty desert, a wilderness of southern desires."
"And I, like millions of mankind, walk and move, generally by force of habit, in a long caravan that ascends and descends, encamps, and then proceeds on its way. Life in this caravan is not altogether bad...The going may be hard day by day, the wildnerness sweeping out before us like shoreless seas; we pour with sweat, our throats are parched with thirst, and we reach the frontier beyond which we think we cannot go."
"The spectres of night dissolve with the dawn, the fever of day is cooled by the night breeze."
"But mysterious things in my soul and in my blood impel me towards faraway parts that loom up before me and cannot be ignored."
"I experience a sense of richness as though I am a note in the heartbeats of the very universe."
As a tangent, I've prepared a list of other books I consider "Life-Changing"*; mainly because I'm pretentious and think you'll rush out and read the books** I recommend. Humor me.
-The Island of Dr. Moreau
Ok, I'll just come right out and say it: I love HG Wells. Y3niyy, love love love him. He makes such fantastic social commentatries. The Island of Dr Moreau was terrifying and riveting and poignant..and just plain awesome. I also identified on some level with a man who lived through terrible things, wishing he was babck home in the civilized world where it was safe and predictable, and then finally getting back after so much stuggle and realizing he no longer belonged there because he had changed too much to go back. I fully understand experiencing something so outside your realm of understanding and wanting so badly to go back to things that are comfortable and safe, and getting there and realizing it had stayed the same and you had changed too much to go back to that stagnant life. I get chills just thinking about how well written it is. I could read it over and over again and find some new metaphor or symbolism every time.
-Into the Wild
This book is touching, and painfully tragic, but also inspiring. Chris McCandless wanted to live life on his own terms no matter what the cost, and that's what he did. So few people have the balls to really take their lives into their own hands and do what they want with it, to hell with those who don't understand. I was afraid when I recognized myself in the ill-fated main character-- he descended into the Alaskan wilderness to live his ultimate adventure, and I want to walk into the forests of Cambodia, build a teepee, and live naturally for an indefinite period. With every amazing adventure comes great risk, and this story is proof of it. But it is a beautiful adventure story, and the fact that it all really happened is sobering and humbling. I haven't seen the movie, but I doubt it could do Jon Krakauer's beautiful writing justice.
-The Time Machine
Once again, I love love love HG Wells' social commentaries. This one is a little more blatant than that of The Island of Dr Moreau- it paints a dark picture of the future of civilization, given the propensity we as humans have for dividing classes and lording over one another. It is terrifyingly poignant, and I have forced it upon some of my nearest and dearest [sorry, Kenny!].
-Lord of the Flies
I read Lord of the Flies the summer before sophomore year, and have remembered it nearly word for word [especially the last few pages] ever since. Yet another social commentary on the futility of war, the ending is sad and beautiful all at the same time. I don't want to give it away for those of you who haven't read it..but the realization of the children at the end is the realization I feel we as people will have one day standing before some greater power than ourselves- silly, embarrassing, afraid, remorseful for the things we have done which seemed so important at the time but end up having been in vain.
-Tales of a Female Nomad
This is the book that validated all my desires to break free of the social norm and gallavant around the world, seeing and doing things on my own terms. It is really inspiring; a woman who took her divorce with grace and dignity and used it as a catalyst to change her life, travelling the world, coming and going as she pleased, doing incredible things and meeting amazing people along the way. I made my mom read it in the hopes that it would help her better understand my obsessive wanderlust. It really was life-changing for me, and helped me form a better idea of what I want out of life, to understand that a life lived on anyone else's terms is a life wasted.
-Animal Farm
Like Lord of the Flies, I read this book in the 9th grade and the message behind it still resonates with me today: those who are oppressed or colonized will eventually revolt, but not without taking on some of the characteristics of their oppressors in order to beat them, sparking a vicious cycle which inevitably leads to destruction. While the message is more overt than in some of the other books I've listed with social commentaries, it is every bit as thought-provoking and insightful, and still relevant even though times have changed since it was written in 1945.
*I also consider "Ethan Frome" one of these, but seeing as I've already mentioned it, I didn't want to be redundant and include it in the list. You're welcome.
**Yeah, ok, some of them are short stories or novellas. Whatever.
It's funny how time and distance change you..the road you take don't always lead you home
I moved for the first time when I was nine days old. Since then, my life has been one of constant motion. By the time I graduated from high school, I had been to ten different schools, and spent most of my formative years outside the contiguous United States, living in Japan and Hawaii. When I got to college in Tuscaloosa and the prospect of staying put for four years became a reality, I got restless again, and now here I am, sitting in my room in Cairo, Egypt, typing this. Which all leads me to December 22-- the day I fly "home" to America. I will be visiting friends and family in the states for almost five weeks before I come back to Cairo in January 28.
I've been progressively getting more anxious about returning to the States, mostly because I've come to the realization that it isn't "home" anymore. It's the place I used to call home; the world I left behind in search of something new. I'm excited to see my mom and dad and spend some much-needed time spoiling my precious nephew, but beyond that, I'm absolutely terrified. Terrified I won't have any fun plans for New Years. Terrified that all of my friends won't like me anymore or appreciate the changes I've made in my life. Terrified I'll come to the inevitable conclusion that I don't belong there anymore.
After all, the world didn't stop turning when I left Alabama. My friends' lives didnt halt, frozen in the moment I left them. They've all moved on, created lives that no longer include me. And while I hope that during the time I'm visiting Tuscaloosa, they'll be able to fit me back into their lives, I know the reality of visiting will be painful, albeit necessary. The two people I miss all day, every day, my best friends Murphy and Kenny, are preoccupied with getting ready to graduate, applying to grad school,and figuring out how to get out to Pasadena for the National Championship. None of these things include me. While I left my whole life behind when I came here, only a small part of their lives left. Sometimes I get my feelings hurt when they arent enthusiastic enough about Skyping with me or making plans for the time I'm back, but the truth is: their lives can't stop just because I decided to come back to the States to visit. I made the choice to leave, and I will have to accept the reality of the repercussions from that choice. Don't get me wrong; it was absolutely the right choice for me. But that doesn't make the realization of what I lost any less brutal. It's a very humbling thing to realize that the world doesn't revolve around me, like I was so convinced it did as a teenager, and that my best friends don't spend every waking moment waiting for my return. But that's life.
In the novella I just finished reading [and will soon be posting an entry about], Seasons of Migration to the North, the antagonist, Mustafa Saeed, a prodigy from the Sudan, leaves his homeland to get an education in Europe. One of the defining lines in the book is spoken by his lawyer at his trial for the murder of his wife "Mustafa Saeed...is a noble person whose mind was able to absorb Western civilization but it broke his heart." The reader draws the conclusion that the "infection" or spark on insanity which caused him to kill his wife came from the constant state of limbo Saeed was is- belonging to neither the North [Europe] or the South [the Sudan] anymore; a man without roots.
Sometimes I'm afraid this is the destiny I'm slowly moving towards. Not the killing people part, to be sure, but the slow decay of one's heart that happens when you do not really belong here nor there. America is no longer home, but I will never completely fit in in the Middle East. What space between, then, is left for me? Growing up an Army child, we had a picture that hung on the wall which said "Home is where the heart is". But where is my heart? Half of it is in Alabama, with Murphy and Kenny and the rest of my friends and family, but half of it is here, in Africa, the place which has been beckoning me, incessantly pulling me toward it, absorbing me into itself, for over two years. The bittersweet truth is that I am a "third-culture kid", with the uncanny ability to fit in everywhere, but nowhere at the same time.
So where do I belong? Where is home? The East or the West? When will I know?
I've been progressively getting more anxious about returning to the States, mostly because I've come to the realization that it isn't "home" anymore. It's the place I used to call home; the world I left behind in search of something new. I'm excited to see my mom and dad and spend some much-needed time spoiling my precious nephew, but beyond that, I'm absolutely terrified. Terrified I won't have any fun plans for New Years. Terrified that all of my friends won't like me anymore or appreciate the changes I've made in my life. Terrified I'll come to the inevitable conclusion that I don't belong there anymore.
After all, the world didn't stop turning when I left Alabama. My friends' lives didnt halt, frozen in the moment I left them. They've all moved on, created lives that no longer include me. And while I hope that during the time I'm visiting Tuscaloosa, they'll be able to fit me back into their lives, I know the reality of visiting will be painful, albeit necessary. The two people I miss all day, every day, my best friends Murphy and Kenny, are preoccupied with getting ready to graduate, applying to grad school,and figuring out how to get out to Pasadena for the National Championship. None of these things include me. While I left my whole life behind when I came here, only a small part of their lives left. Sometimes I get my feelings hurt when they arent enthusiastic enough about Skyping with me or making plans for the time I'm back, but the truth is: their lives can't stop just because I decided to come back to the States to visit. I made the choice to leave, and I will have to accept the reality of the repercussions from that choice. Don't get me wrong; it was absolutely the right choice for me. But that doesn't make the realization of what I lost any less brutal. It's a very humbling thing to realize that the world doesn't revolve around me, like I was so convinced it did as a teenager, and that my best friends don't spend every waking moment waiting for my return. But that's life.
In the novella I just finished reading [and will soon be posting an entry about], Seasons of Migration to the North, the antagonist, Mustafa Saeed, a prodigy from the Sudan, leaves his homeland to get an education in Europe. One of the defining lines in the book is spoken by his lawyer at his trial for the murder of his wife "Mustafa Saeed...is a noble person whose mind was able to absorb Western civilization but it broke his heart." The reader draws the conclusion that the "infection" or spark on insanity which caused him to kill his wife came from the constant state of limbo Saeed was is- belonging to neither the North [Europe] or the South [the Sudan] anymore; a man without roots.
Sometimes I'm afraid this is the destiny I'm slowly moving towards. Not the killing people part, to be sure, but the slow decay of one's heart that happens when you do not really belong here nor there. America is no longer home, but I will never completely fit in in the Middle East. What space between, then, is left for me? Growing up an Army child, we had a picture that hung on the wall which said "Home is where the heart is". But where is my heart? Half of it is in Alabama, with Murphy and Kenny and the rest of my friends and family, but half of it is here, in Africa, the place which has been beckoning me, incessantly pulling me toward it, absorbing me into itself, for over two years. The bittersweet truth is that I am a "third-culture kid", with the uncanny ability to fit in everywhere, but nowhere at the same time.
So where do I belong? Where is home? The East or the West? When will I know?
