Getting There

Home is Where the Cat Is

2012-05-13T14:28:56Z

Our new house, Day 1. In my next post, you'll see what the front entrance and garden looks like now!

My husband and I arrived home after several weeks of travel (he was returning from the U.S.; I had been in Thailand) to find that the housing assignment we had been waiting for since last November had finally come through. The announcement had been sitting in my husband's work email for two weeks before our arrival back in Saudi Arabia! Once we confirmed that the house had not, in the interim, been given away to somebody else, it was time to get packing. We had two weeks to box up the household and move.

We were being transferred from the company's smallest and most remote family community to its largest. Our new place is in Dhahran, which is the city in the Eastern Province that has an international airport and is connected by bridge to Bahrain. It may not be as small-town friendly as our old hometown--but it sure is nice not to have to drive for two hours to get a crisp head of lettuce or a bag of decent coffee beans. (First-world kvetching, I know, I know!)

The new place is smaller than the old, but we love the open, airy floor plan. We decided when we moved in that this is it: we're not moving again until it's time to pack up and leave the Kingdom for good. So we're nesting. We're settling in. It feels great.

The details are what make this home: on the bookcase are my grandmother's butter mold, a set of Venezuelan maracas that my sister gave us, and a basket made by my husband's grandfather.

Here's the horseshoe-shaped kitchen (at right, you can see that a wall bisects the room.) It's so big that I set up my office in here. Weird for some, but perfect for me. I've often got a loaf of bread rising or a pot of soup on the stove while I work, so this is very convenient. Okay, right here's the the part where you can make comments about the little lady's place being in the kitchen. Go ahead; let it rip. I'm usually barefoot, too (but not pregnant.)

The nerve center: here's where I work. The two clocks show the time in Riyadh and Washington, D.C.

My mom embroidered a set of tea towels as a Christmas present for us one year. They're so sweet and old-fashioned! I recently had them framed, and now they hang in the kitchen next to the pizza peel.

Unlike our former desert home, Dhahran is humid. I'm already seeing that plants grow much more quickly here. We're going to try to sprout some avocado seeds and plant them in the garden. The summer heat is starting to build up already, so it's probably not the best time for this experiment, but we'll see what happens.

We picked up an espresso maker from the classified ads, and a dark, metal-studded Afghani sideboard from a shop in town.

The folding screen came from the same little shop in town. The shopkeeper, Ajab, remembered me by name the second time I visited. The screen is Pakistani, and has a bit of brass inlay.

I bought this inlaid tile in Agra, on the day I visited the Taj Mahal. The materials are so thin and fine that light shines through it! That's why I propped it up in front of a bathroom light fixture (though I couldn't capture its translucence in a photograph.)

When we helped a friend move, oh, a dozen years ago, he told us to throw this poster in the trash. We threw it in our car instead, and it's still one of my favorite things.

In another trash-to-treasure saga, this huge painting was going to be tossed. Before she put it out on the curb, a family friend called me about it, thinking it might be nice for the yoga studio we used to own. It seemed too ominous for Greenbelt Om Community Yoga--but great for our house!

We hung this sheet music cover (from my mother's trunk of sheet music) in the guest bathroom.

We set up a proper guest room because people from the company's other compounds sometimes need to come to Dhahran for meetings and appointments. Instead of getting back on the bus for the two-hour return trip home, friends from our old town can crash here for the night. We've already had several visits, which makes us really happy.

My mother-in-law typed her college papers using the typewriter on top of the cedar armoire. The baskets were made by her father.

The five-star guest suite (as rated by our first houseguest, who may not be the most objective reviewer.)

A Bedouin water jug and a dallah, which is traditionally used to serve coffee in Saudi Arabia. The dallah is also a symbol of hospitality.

Eid al Fahm (Eddie the Lump), ensconced in our new home.

Next I'll give you a tour of the garden, before it gets too hot to go outside during the day!

Starvation in Thailand

2012-04-14T11:16:18Z

The bed of malaise

I couldn't move. It was a bit warm, but not too hot. This was Thailand, after all. I was aware of being very, very hungry, but the awareness felt like it was coming from far away. I had slept for at least, oh, eleven hours. Maybe that wasn't enough. I formulated a plan to turn my head slightly to the left, so as to look out the window. I executed this move after some minutes, and discovered that the curtain was drawn. I watched the curtain ruffle ever so lightly in the breeze generated by the fan. This kept me occupied for a good twenty minutes. The notion of getting out of bed, dressed, and up the hill for morning yoga class was beyond preposterous. It took my full concentration to make sure that an inhale followed each exhale. Eventually it was time to go to the Wellness Center for my next psyllium and bentonite clay smoothie shake, and the next dose of vitamins. My stomach turned over at the thought.

I had come to Koh Phangan, a small island in Thailand, for a couple of weeks of yoga, quiet retreat, and writing. Turns out, the place I booked, The Sanctuary, specializes in cleanses and fasts--and also in weekly all-night parties (they give out free earplugs for anyone who'd rather sleep!) I had never done a fasting cleanse before, but I'm a yoga teacher. I should try this, right? So said I.

My plans started going sideways when I landed in Thailand and my credit cards started acting finicky. They didn't stop working altogether, but suddenly I was only able to withdraw the equivalent of about $20 at a time from the cash machines at the airport. I learned later that Thailand is notorious for sketchy bank fraud stuff, so my American-issued cards went into lockdown. Meanwhile, as of this writing, it is not possible to pre-pay for your stay at The Sanctuary using a credit card, nor can you use one there; you have to show up with Thai baht in hand. It was with this potent cocktail of financial stress that I arrived in The Sanctuary's private cove at nearly 10 p.m.

The power boat raced up to the shore and I hopped out into the black, knee-deep water, shoes held high and backpack (containing my laptop) biting into my shoulders. I sloshed to shore with almost no money as the motorboat sped back out into the dark waters of the Gulf of Thailand.

The Sanctuary's restaurant is right on the beach, so I dropped my pack and shoes and found a spot at the bar. The bartender was a beautiful, shirtless man with longish blond hair and excellent smile lines around his eyes. He gave me a casual, friendly welcome and got me a quick stir-fry before the kitchen closed.

The resort was crawling with gorgeous people, young and old. Women wore bikinis and sarongs; men generally had battered shorts or bathing suits and, in some cases, shirts. There was a contingent of oh-so-stylishly tattooed and pierced types strutting around purposefully. Otherwise, everyone was relaxed and sun-kissed, going and coming from yoga class, philosophy discussion, massage appointment, tea house, and beach. I felt I could love this place, deeply, if I could sort out how I was going to pay for it.

Then I stopped eating.

I now understand there are several different ways to do a cleanse, including just eating raw foods for a few days. If I ever get it in my head to do a cleanse again, I'll do it that way. But I went hardcore: I chose a five-day package that included a series of supplements and shakes every day, plus a schedule of … colonics. (Cue scary music.)

On the first day of the fast, I had enough energy to enjoy a yoga class and write a little. At 4:00 p.m. a group of us newbies reported to the Wellness Center for our Colonics Lesson. The gleefully enthusiastic Wellness Center manager crowded us all into one of the specially built colonic bathroom huts. A stereo speaker hanging in the corner played Gotan Project's Verve remix of "Whatever Lola Wants" as he showed us how to recline, head lower than our feet, on a specially constructed board. The board was secured at an angle, and had a hole in it over the toilet bowl. He showed us how to control the flow of fluid through the clear plastic tubing, gave us some advice about breathing, massaging the abdomen, and relaxing. He explained that the process could take an hour or more. ("Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through," Sarah Vaughan crooned.)

With trepidation, the little group of us dispersed to our own personal colonics huts. An hour later I emerged, a little shaky but pretty much okay. And just in time for my next shake! Back at the Wellness Center, I chugged the smoothie as fast as I could, because the psyllium in it expands quickly. If you don't drink up right away, you'll have to work your way through a mug of thick, lumpy beige stuff that has the consistency of vomit. (This post covers all the major bodily functions, hey!)

Gulping the shake like a shot of whiskey seemed like a sensible plan. But in ten minutes it all came back up in pretty much the same format in which it had gone down. After that, I felt like I had been hit by a truck. Even the vegetable broth that we got to slurp down that evening (the highlight of every faster's day) didn't bring me round. It took all my energy to drag myself back to the cabin and fall into bed.

And that, dear reader, is how I came to be staring out the window on that warm Thai morning, sapped of all energy and joie de vivre. I schlumpfed down the hill to the Wellness Center, forcing my brain to pre-construct some sentences to use when I arrived. "I am not feeling very well." No. "This is harder than I thought it would be." No. "I'm having some trouble with the fast. Can you give me some strategies for coping and building up a little bit more energy?" Yes, that's what I would say.

When I arrived, the manager handed me a psyllium shake. "How are you feeling this morning?" he said, beaming at me with boundless energy and good cheer. My fellow fasters sat around the counter chatting and drinking their shakes. I opened my mouth to deliver my prepared statement, and said, "I'm so hungry," and started weeping.

Several people gathered around and offered words of consolation. Almost immediately, the manager cut through everyone's words of advice and said, "If you are hungry, you should eat." I burst into new tears, but these were tears of joy. I was in such a fog that it never occurred to me simply to cut the fast short. The manager gave me a restaurant voucher and told me to go and order a bowl of papaya.

I crossed the little arched bridge to the restaurant, which smelled like cinnamon and coffee and blueberries and every wonderful thing, and I placed my order. I sat with another woman who was just breaking her fast (she had managed to stay on hers for more than 36 hours, though.) The bowls of vivid orange papaya arrived, spritzed with lime juice and smelling fresh, sweet and sharp.

We shared a moment of joy with those first bites, and a few new tears fell. (There is such drama when I'm hungry!) I promised myself that I would never, ever deny myself food again. Eating good food is one of life's most exquisite pleasures, seriously. Now I understand that even better than before. I was also feeling rather proud of myself for quitting. It's a big deal for me to quit. Even after something has proven itself to be a bad idea, I am the type to slog through if I made a commitment to slog through. But not this time.

The bowl of papaya filled me with strength, energy, joy, resolve! Now that I could think straight, I had to figure out the money situation. It was Friday, and the all-night party was looming that evening. I was stressed about the money thing. I was unhappy that I had been in Thailand for four days and had done little yoga and even less writing. I was definitely not looking forward either to partying all night or trying to sleep through the rave outside my grass hut. Falling off the fasting wagon gave me the inspiration I needed: why stick it out here? I could just leave!

Making good my escape

With more complications than should have been necessary, I arranged an electronic payment to settle my Sanctuary bill and took the next boat out. At Koh Phangan's main dock, I hired a taxi truck (a pickup fitted with bench seats and a roof in back) to drive me from the shore to the top of the island's highest peak. I arrived at the gates of Monte Vista Retreat* just in time for lunch. I paid for my stay using Paypal, boom! Done. No problem. Immediately all my tension drained away.

A handmade, homegrown retreat

My home at Monte Vista

I stayed in a little hut perched on a rock at the edge of the jungle, overlooking the sea.

My office at Monte Vista

I set up a little workspace out on my cabin's deck, and I finished the novel that I have been working on for three years. (Yes!)

Office help

Monte Vista even provided me with an office assistant.

I took a yoga class every morning at eight, enjoyed a simple, healthy, communal breakfast, then wrote until lunchtime.

The dining table at Monte Vista

Lunch was another simple, delicious meal served outdoors, followed by an afternoon of writing, napping, rocking in the hammock on my deck. Five in the afternoon was the time for meditation on Monte Vista's top deck, followed by dinner with a view of the sun setting over the Gulf of Thailand.

The view from the main deck at Monte Vista

The only entertainment on offer at Monte Vista, other than relaxed, genuine conversation, was a library of documentary videos for evening viewing. I was in bed by nine or ten, and the only noises were jungly ones.

This was the retreat I had come looking for. I never would have found it, though, without the drama of The Sanctuary to lead me here. I finished the draft of my novel, deepened my yoga and meditation practices, and returned home feeling recharged, ready to dive into real life again. Good thing, too: the pedal of real life was about to hit the floor.

*Monte Vista came under new management a few months ago, and they are in the process of overhauling the web site.

Give Me 5-Star, or Give Me a Tent

2012-01-29T14:03:52Z

Michael, feathering our tiny nest

My friend's 9-year-old son describes himself as a "5-star kind of guy." In the Middle East, where mere mortals can afford 5-star hotel stays, I can see where he's coming from. I either want a fancy hotel experience, or I want to travel someplace where there are no hotels at all. That said, funky guesthouses, B&Bs, and homestays can also be a lot of fun. But please: no safe, beige, budget-friendly chains.

Last week, I went camping with my family and friends out in the Saudi desert. I mean way, way out in the desert. There is no internet, no electricity, no running water (absolutely none of that), no cell phone service. There is no roadside assistance. No assistance. No roadside. No road. There is nobody to call if, oh, say, you happen to drive your SUV down a steep ravine into a canyon that has no exit. For example.

Woman driver

(I guess I can't leave that one hanging. We managed to get out of the ravine, obviously, because here I am back in my office, snug as a bug in a rug. Thank you, dear husband, for being an excellent uphill driver and for remembering the secret trick of letting most of the air out of the tires for better traction. I pray that you are always with me on outdoor adventures when I drive the car into blind canyons.)

Right. So, I'm fortunate enough to be able to experience a part of the world that is relatively untouched by modern civilization. Have you ever driven across the desert floor, with nothing but sand and a bit of scruffy brush from one horizon to the other? It's at once serene and unsettling. And one thing is for certain: nobody's going to leave the light on for you.

The desert northwest of Dhahran

The first night we camped, I had to get up in the middle of the night to pee (a big camping negative.) I clambered out of the tent, banging an elbow, bruising a kneecap, waking my husband in a blind grope for shoes and toilet paper. I unzipped the tent flap, flopped gracelessly outside, and was greeted by a broad, hazy swath of the Milky Way twinkling down on our desert campsite. I have never seen so many stars. The night was inky black with the campfire burned down to ash. The air was crisp and cold. (Don't you love a brisk alfresco constitutional?) For the first time, I was grateful for a thimble-sized bladder. Otherwise, I may have missed the Milky Way altogether.

Our campsite the second night was nestled at the back of a rift in a sandstone escarpment. The wind whipped up that night, but we were sheltered. It was actually kind of cozy in our little igloo tent, which shook in the wind but remained securely anchored. On day three of the trip, I was over it. Everything smelled of wood smoke and unwashed campers. We headed back home and relished the exquisite luxury of hot showers and real beds.

I.M. Pei's lovely Islamic Art Museum

Several days later, I traveled with my in-laws to Doha, Qatar. This is the first time they have been to the Middle East, and I pretty much insisted that they go and see I.M. Pei's last masterpiece, the Islamic Art Museum. Michael and I spent a day there in 2010, and I wanted to go back. The family flew 18 hours to get to Saudi Arabia; what's one more 45-minute flight?

One of the Oryx Rotana's several swanky dining venues

In Doha, we went 5-star. We stayed at the Oryx Rotana, which has acres of lobby furnished with long, low, white leather couches and festooned (yes, festooned!) with blooming orchids. We ate at their tapas bar, and couldn't believe our good luck when a Cuban trio set up. They began playing songs from the Buena Vista Social Club, which is my father-in-law's favorite CD. He was practically doing the samba in his seat, and the singer kept winking at us. He came over between sets for a visit (thankfully, my family speaks Spanish even if I can barely spit out half a sentence.) The singer, like the other two members of the trio, was Cuban, but he now calls South Africa home. He was fortunate enough to have married a diamond magnate's daughter, and he pursues his music career just for pleasure. Nice work!

In most Middle Eastern countries, alcohol is only served in five-star hotels--another reason to stay in one! We enjoyed several glasses of organic Spanish wine (a red and a white) before calling it a night. Back in my room, I found that my bed had been turned down and my nightgown refolded at the foot of the bed. I kicked off my stylishly impractical shoes, unconcerned about whether a scorpion might take up residence in one overnight. I burrowed into the soft, snowy-white bedlinens for a deeply satisfying sleep. When I got up for a midnight run to the loo, I had only the soft glow of a night light to guide me.

Privacy Please, hon!

2012-01-08T09:14:24Z

You haven't seen me here lately because I am close, SO CLOSE to finishing the first draft of the wildest, goofiest, sexiest thriller ever to hit Ocean City, Maryland. I've mentally gone downy ocean, hon, and I'll be back before you know it with a story as salty and vinegary as a bucket of Thrasher's Fries.

My Own Home State

2011-11-24T13:40:45Z

My brother-in-law and his son, Easton, MD

I spent most of this fall in my home state of Maryland. Each time I return there I am struck by its beauty. This post is an effort to capture a glimpse of the place where I am from, and the people I love who are still there.

Michael taking my sister and her husband out for a sail, Easton

We rented a beautiful place for our family to get together for a few days, on the Eastern Shore. The house was right on the Miles River, which feeds into the Chesapeake Bay.

The girls, Easton

It was a chilly September evening, but my two eldest nieces were not going to let the swimming pool go to waste....

Shoes! Easton

The adults wore flip flops, but my nephew preferred sturdier hiking sandals.

Headquarters, Greenbelt

Our home base this year was the home of my dear friend Kim (having two Kims in the house did sometimes get confusing), and her husband Joe. I stayed much longer than I had planned, but Kim and Joe were endlessly welcoming. Well, Joe did start using "goddamn" as an honorific when addressing my husband, but that was just his way of showing that he cares.

Kim and a chilled Chardonnay Viognier, Greenbelt

Most days ended with wine and snacks, and the house was full of conversation and easy laughter. I liked this chardonnay viognier blend, but the most memorable bottle we drank was a Blank Ankle Vineyards 2006 Crumbling Rock red table wine. Black Ankle is a Mt. Airy vineyard, and it's great that the days of describing a bottle as "pretty good, you know, considering it's a Maryland wine" are over. Black Ankle is winning national awards, and can be served without any apologies whatsoever.

Baxter reporting for duty, Greenbelt

This is Baxter, our handsome Siberian Boxer Beagle. He lives with his other family in Greenbelt now, because it would have been too awful to transplant a husky mix to the Saudi desert. He came over to Kim and Joe's house for visits while I was in town. Here he is staking his claim to the spot under the dining table. His job is to anchor people's feet as they dine.

GVFD Crab Feast, Greenbelt

We timed our trip so that we could be home to help sling crabs and pour drinks at the Greenbelt Volunteer Fire Department annual fundraising crab feast. This is the fire department where Michael volunteered as a medic when we lived in Greenbelt. I recaptured a little of the satisfaction that comes with volunteering in your hometown when I put on my old company 35 t-shirt and hauled trays of crabs from the steamer truck into the firehall, to the tables packed full of my friends and former neighbors.

Service with a Smile, GVFD, Greenbelt

My eldest niece ate her share of crabs, and then decided it would be more fun to help her grandma and aunt and uncle at the crab feast than to just sit around. The next generation of volunteering has begun!

Garden Party at David and Jan's, Cheverly

For the second year in a row, our friends David and Jan feted our return to Maryland. David is my oldest friend, though he's really not that old! (Why isn't there a word for the person who has been your friend longer than anyone else?) ANYway, this year they put on a gorgeous lunch in their back garden, together with their next door neighbor Andrea, with whom we have become friends thanks to David and Jan.

Drinks and fruit, Cheverly

David and the Elephant Ears, Cheverly

Every year David's garden is more lush, and now he's also hatching plans for Andrea's yard. He gave me the tour after I sprayed on the usual half can of mosquito repellent. Many other people can wander around Maryland unprotected. Not me.

Kim and Greg, skatin' it up! Laurel

Kim is a retired DC Roller Girl, and her newest thing is learning to dance skate. I thought dance skating was the pinnacle of coolness when I was a junior high schooler. Kim and her friend (and rink guard) Greg took me skating a a few times at Laurel Skate Center, which is also where I went skating when I was a kid. They say you can never go back, but I went back to Laurel Skate Center and it was EXACTLY the same.

Kims on Wheels, Laurel

They've still got the same sign on the back wall that lights up to say "all skate," "reverse," "trios," and "slow down." And the disco ball? It's still spinning, and those flashes of light chasing my wheels across the roller rink floor were still magic, just like when I was eleven.

Trailer of pumpkins, kid not included, Greenbelt

I was in Greenbelt for several Sundays, so of course I visited Greenbelt Farmers Market. It is not the same: it's getting better! This year, several new vendors signed on, including a crepe vendor! We had our eye on that crepe stand when we were visiting other area markets four years in in preparation for founding the Greenbelt market. Now people do their shopping, then get a crepe and sit in the grass next to the city parking lot and visit with friends while everybody's kids run around together. What a perfect Sunday morning! The market has just closed for the season, but it'll open again next spring.

Greenbelt Lake path, Greenbelt

Now I'm back in Saudi Arabia, full from a potluck American Thanksgiving feast. I am feeling grateful for my new life here, and also glowing with gratitude for my family, for my Stateside friends, and for the beautiful State of Maryland.

Crossing into Paradise

2011-11-02T18:21:06Z

A Christiansted watering hole

In August, we flew from crisp, squeaky clean Switzerland to lushly humid and cheerfully ramshackle St. Croix. The largest of the three U.S. Virgin Islands is exactly unlike Switzerland. Let's generalize, shall we? In my five days in Switzerland, I saw roads and trains and public utilities that seemed scrupulously well-maintained; trim, chic and sturdy architecture; immaculately maintained parks and vineyards; and a mood of cheerful efficiency.

Forty-eight hours later, my cousin Perry picked us up at the airport in St. Croix. The Cruzan Rum stand by the open-air baggage carousel was open for business. However, it took some time to find the luggage attendant and determine that our bags had not been loaded onto the prop plane that flew us in from Puerto Rico. As we drove into Christiansted, I noticed jungly undergrowth threatening to creep across the road and swallow it. We stopped at the market for some groceries and picked out single beers from the cooler by the cash register, because the island has no law against drinking and driving.

A roadside plea to the power company

On the way to my cousin's place, we saw a sign tacked onto a sawhorse next to the road. On it, a homeowner had scrawled a desperate plea for the power company to help them because their electricity had been knocked out by a big storm that happened months ago. I was told the power company doesn't generally answer the phone.

Christiansted back street scene

Back home on the estate property that Perry's husband Chad manages, we punched in a code to open the heavy iron gates, and drove up the hill to a beautifully maintained and completely self-sufficient resort. Estate Belvedere, like other well-managed island properties, has back-up plans for power, water, and security. That's the way it is.

The juxtaposition of these two places within such a short period of time was an eye-opening illustration of what different social contracts can look like. I'm not here to make a value judgment; I'm just noticing the difference. In Switzerland, taxes are high (though the difference in tax rates between Switzerland and the U.S. was not as significant as I would have guessed), but citizens expect clean, efficient, good-quality public utilities and services. In St. Croix, citizens pay U.S. federal taxes but no local taxes. Here, the people who can afford it have a back-up plan for even the most basic of services, because, well, the power company doesn't generally answer the phone.

The view from Estate Belvedere

Armchair social commentary aside, St. Croix is a paradise, even in the "off" summer season. It's humid, but the air is sweet and soft and the ocean breezes are ever-present. It's hot, but the pace is leisurely. The roads are iffy, but the radio's got plenty of old-style reggae on it. And the land is lusciously green and the water is turquoisey blue and the clouds put on a show across the wide sky. It is beautiful, so beautiful that the pictures of it don't look real.

The view from Frederiksted

Michael and I spent about a week in St. Croix, diving and snorkeling and boating in the warm Caribbean waters, and exploring the island. Perry and Chad are both certified as dive instructors. So I felt like I was in good hands, even though I got dive certified just this last spring and this was only my second dive trip. We explored the canyons at Salt River, and Chad and I saw a blacktip shark. Chad spotted it, tapped my arm, pointed off to our right, and then placed his hand perpendicularly against his forehead, like a kid playing "shark" in the swimming pool. The shark was maybe 50 feet away from us, and turned and swam in the other direction. Wow!

Note to potential travelers: rent a Jeep in St. Croix. The stone facade behind the Jeep is a remnant of a wall from the sugar plantation that once stood here.

We rented this snazzy red Jeep for the week. When I was making the travel arrangements, I thought I was being kind of silly by choosing this Jeep instead of a normal econo-rental. However, now I understand that parts of the island would have been impassable without it.

Rainforest Road

We spent an afternoon at an organic farm in the mountainous rainforest area of St. Croix. We were in search of vegetables for the family dinner we were going to cook that night at the estate, so we followed the road as it narrowed and went from paved, to gravel, to dirt, finally winding its way to the Ridge to Reef Farm.

Community house at Ridge to Reef Farm

They were packing up and preparing for the farmers market in Frederiksted when we arrived. They did have a few things to sell us, though: bananas, and some homemade jam.

Bananas ripening at Ridge to Reef Farm

The porch at Ridge to Reef's Community House

We had to wait a little while for someone to help us with our purchases. We walked around the farm, and then kicked back here on the porch. Not a bad way to spend some time. That evening, Chad made dessert. He chopped up the bananas and browned them quickly in a skillet, tossing in some Cruzan spiced rum and lighting the whole thing on fire! Delicious.

You put the straw in the coconut and drink it all up!

Perry told me her sister once asked her when she was planning on moving back to the States. "Never!" Perry said. She lives in a Caribbean island paradise. Why would she go back?

Cousins, reunited after 25 years

The Iron Road

2011-10-10T02:25:30Z

The view from the bottom

We walked a path through farmers' fields to reach the trailhead on a crystal-clear Swiss morning, up a trail, a set of steep wooden steps built into the hillside. Then we spotted the cable mounted on the side of the hill, next to a nearly vertical track uphill. We scrabbled upwards, and soon reached the first series of ladders and handholds and footholds attached securely into the rock.

A metal "road" underfoot, a cable to clip into at waist height.

My husband and I were climbing for the first time on a trail called a "via ferrata," Italian for "iron road." Our mellow and patient Swiss friend Dmitri guided us. Mountain routes that would otherwise be inacessible--or at least really hard for people who aren't climbing experts--are made passable with ladders, hand- and footholds, bridges, and cables that can be clipped into. In this way, climbers can clip in to the cable and follow the route, knowing that a slip might mean a bump or a scrape, but will not likely lead to a terrible fall. The Italians created a series of iron roads to move troops during World War I, but the trail we were following was a new one near Martigny, Switzerland.

Clipped in and climbing

Ladder rungs are mounted into the rock outcroppings. Foot pedal-like footholds are placed where the natural rock hand- and footholds are lacking. Wire bridges span chasms. Running as a literal lifeline alongside these is a cable that traces the route continuously from start to finish.

We wore climbing harnesses with two short ropes attached. At the end of each rope was a carabiner. As we climbed, we clipped the carabiners into the cable, and those ropes ensured that if we fell, we wouldn’t fall far. Periodically, the cable threaded through an eye-bolt mounted in the rock. Each time we reached one of these eye-bolts, we would unhook one carabiner, and re-hook it on the far side. Then we would unhook the other carabiner, and re-hook it on the far side. In this way, we were never fully untethered from the cable.

Acting cool on the outside before it was my turn....

The most extreme part of the climb was when we had to cross a wire bridge strung across a chasm hundreds of feet above a waterfall and a rushing stream. There I felt newly grateful for the yogic notion of "drishti." A drishti is a point of focus, a single spot onto which you can insistently, belligerently screw your eyes in order to create steadiness and balance.

Crossing the chasm

Before that late-August day, I had only used drishti to create more steady postures in yoga class. But that afternoon, as the clear Alpine sun shone down on my head, the only thing I could do was fix my eyes on a spot straight ahead of me on the cable, forward of my front foot, and take one step forward, and then another, and then another. Slowly, deliberately, the air moved in and out of my lungs. Right and left hands slid down the two waist-high cables, feet were carefully placed one in front of the other on the cable forming the bottom point of a three-strand triangle spanning two vertical rock faces.

Downhill through the vineyards to finish

We climbed to the halfway mark on the trail, where there is a connection to a road winding back down the mountain, through a vineyard. The second half of the trail was closed because a search and rescue training drill was in progress. The climb had been a walk in the park for Dmitri, but my arms and legs were getting shaky from exhaustion and adrenaline, and I was relieved not to have a via ferrata trail just as long ahead of me as I had behind me.

It was a terrifying experience, and I want to do it again. I like the single-mindedness of climbing, and I suppose that’s partly because there are consequences to letting my mind drift. I love the feeling that comes with reaching further than I thought I could, the fire in my legs when I plant my foot on the next higher spot and then straighten up to my full height. It’s a sport that motivates me to become more strong and more flexible, and it makes trips to the gym and sessions on the yoga mat feel more purpose-driven.

I am looking forward to doing more climbing, both outdoors and on the climbing wall. It’s pretty thrilling to discover this sport in my 40s. I just celebrated my 42^nd birthday, and it’s great to feel like I’m still getting stronger as I get older.

(Thank you, Michael Cooney, for all of the photographs in this post.)

Ramadan and Repat

2011-08-03T12:32:26Z

Traditional nighttime Iftar feast, to break the daytime fast during Ramadan

The month-long Ramadan celebration started on August 1st. For the next moon cycle, Muslims will fast during the daylight hours, and then break their fast with the traditional Iftar meal at sundown. I went for a walk through the neighborhood last night at around 9 p.m., and passed several households that were brightly lit, the driveways and curbs crowded with cars. I can picture the dining tables inside these houses in a few hours, groaning with food and surrounded by family and friends until the early morning hours.

This morning Michael came home from his first night shift during this Ramadan and declared that he would eat nothing until he went to work again this evening. He is a paramedic, so he has a “hurry up and wait” pace at work. When there are no patients to attend to, his shift is quiet, especially at night. Last night, though, his Saudi colleagues brought in a huge midnight Iftar feast, and he stayed up all night eating and visiting.

Other than the night-time Ramadan celebrations, August looks like a ghost town on our compound, with most of the resident expats off on holiday. On my night walks, I can stroll down the middle of the street and not be passed by a single car. I don’t even try to do anything outside during daylight hours, and I have been watching too much TV. I can’t seem to work up the motivation to do much of anything.

Time stands still during the afternoon when it’s hottest, and I feel the overwhelming pull of the couch for afternoon siestas. Time also seems to jump instantly forward: another day has gone by, the white-hot sky has dimmed into blackness, and where did all those hours go?

All this hermit-like behavior makes me feel sluggish and throws off my internal clock. Am I sleepy, or just hot? It feels wrong to stay indoors, breathing air-conditioned air all the time and avoiding the sunlight.

Up the chimney on the climbing wall at our community's school gym

That said, my activity level has also been swinging to the other extreme: I have been improving my technique on the climbing wall in the gym at the nearby school. Also, a friend has been giving me swimming lessons (I already knew how to swim, but until now nobody ever taught me the proper way to do the various strokes.) A few times I have hauled myself out to the track shortly after dawn for some desultory jogging laps. Also, the gyms in our community (we have separate gym facilities for men and women) just got new equipment, and I have been getting a little carried away there with the fancy new weights. Plus, my yoga students are commenting that I have been cranking up the intensity in recent classes. I'm discovering that the secret to success as a couch potato is to find the proper balance balance between utter, slovenly sluggishness and intense physical activity.

Shannon, my dear friend and ruthless swim coach

I am counting the days until my husband and I take our long annual holiday outside the Kingdom. Saudi law requires that we leave the Kingdom for at least a couple of weeks each year. Expats call this "repat," short for repatriation. Not that Saudi Arabia cares whether we actually return to our home country or not. We just have to leave this one. No problem! We will leave in late August, and our first stop will be in Switzerland, to visit some friends Michael made last summer when he was in Zanzibar.

Estate Belvedere, St. Croix

Next we will go to St. Croix and stay with my cousin and her husband, who manage the Estate Belvedere, a four acre guest estate that includes the ruins of a 1700s sugar mill. There I'll get to meet her two children for the first time. New cousins! We hope to do some boating, diving and snorkeling there, and enjoy beautiful sunsets with fruity rum drinks in hand. I can’t believe my good fortune, to have a crazy-fun cousin who actually lives on a Caribbean island!

Our last Sunday night potluck dinner before we left the U.S.

After St. Croix, we’ll go to Maryland and spend a few weeks catching up with friends and family. Part of our time will be in our hometown of Greenbelt, which will be celebrating Labor Day as only a New Deal-era planned community can, with a three-day festival and a parade. We’ll also enjoy a few Sunday dinners with the group of friends we’d been having Sunday potluck with for the last ten years or so before we left the country. Of all the things I miss about living in Greenbelt, Sunday potluck dinner is at the top of the list.

Ocean City Boardwalk

While in Maryland, we’ll also spend some time at our family condo in Ocean City. (Marketing plug! Did you know that I wrote a travel guide to Ocean City? It’s the most recent, most definitive guide to Maryland’s seaside resort!)

Idyllic Eastern Shore spot for our big family celebration

Plus, we’ll spend several days on the Chesapeake Bay on Maryland's Eastern Shore. We rented a house big enough for our entire extended family, and there we will have our annual all-purpose family holiday. We call it Thanksbirthmas. Since we only make it home once a year, we have one giant blow-out dinner party and present exchange. I love this new tradition that our family has started, and this year we’ll get to enjoy it in a quintessentially Maryland spot, on the water between Easton and St. Michael’s on the Eastern Shore. It’s fun to plan a trip home as a visitor. We’re like tourists who already know all the good spots, and we will actually have time to kick back and enjoy our home state.

At the end of September, we will head back to Saudi Arabia, suitcases full of things that cannot be had in our newly adopted country: Old Bay Seasoning, Q-Tips, Optive eye drops, My Organic Market decaffeinated coffee, Glide Dental Floss, and new clothes in sizes that fit my 6’4” husband.

As much as I’m looking forward to our travels, I am sure we’ll be just as excited about returning to our own home sweet desert home.

Desert Diving

2011-07-19T15:39:14Z

Red Sea Life (photo by Rachel Abel)

Moving to the desert is a great way to get dive certified. It worked for me!

When I lived in Maryland, I think I knew one or two people who were into diving. Here in Saudi Arabia, half of my friends are open water certified, and have made dive trips to the Red Sea, Thailand, the Philippines, and Mexico. My husband and I got our dive certifications this spring, and in early July we traveled to Yanbu--not far from Jeddah--with our compound's dive club.

Saudi Arabia's west coast borders on the Red Sea, which, according to DIVE: The Red Sea ("The definitive Red Sea guide"--Sunday Times) is "the epitome of all that is enticing and fascinating about tropical reefs, with fabulous coral walls and gardens stocked with mythically beautiful sea life. For divers it remains the stuff of legend." And for most divers, a legend it will remain, because it is very difficult to get the proper entry visas to visit Saudi Arabia.

You can dive the Red Sea from Egypt, Jordan, Israel, and a few other places, but Saudi Arabia has the most coastline. Plus, because of the country's strict visiting policies, its underwater treasures are safe from the ravages of over-tourism. At every dive location on our trip, we were the only group there.

We live in the desert in Saudi's Eastern Province, which is a couple hours by plane away from the Red Sea. This doesn't sound like such a promising location for learning how to dive. However, we have a swimming pool for confined water exercises, and we're about two hours away (by car) from a beach on the Arabian Gulf. That beach doesn't have much of interest for the diver, but hey, it's open water. Plus its brown, silty depths are ideal for testing underwater navigation skills!

During the recent trip to Yanbu, my husband and I both completed our advanced open water certification. The tough part for me was doing the required "deep dive." We dropped down to about 80 feet below the surface, along with our dive instructor Ricky, and his daughter, Rica.

The others settled down at the bottom fairly quickly, but my ears had trouble equalizing. I've had difficulties with this on every dive. So I had to stop and hover about every ten feet, moving my jaw around, shaking my head, swallowing, doing this whole complicated routine until my ears gave a satisfying pop. Then I'd drop down a little further, feel a bit more pressure, and do it again.

It wasn't much of a hardship to have to drop down slowly, anyway, because we were diving around an old shipwreck. It was eerie and thrilling to look down on the barnacle-encrusted hull of the Iona. Somehow, hovering in space (water-filled space, but still...) above a man-made object is much trippier than just hovering above the sandy bottom. If you've ever had a dream where you were flying, then you can imagine how this felt.

Finally I reached the bottom, and Ricky handed me a simple puzzle: pieces that fit together to make a small square of metal rods and joints. We had done the puzzle already, up on the dock before we boarded the dive boat, and Ricky had timed us. He timed us again underwater, and the point was to show us that everything happens more slowly at depth.

Puzzle success! (photo by Ricky Rabang)

After we surfaced from the deep dive, we got back on the boat to rest and wait for the next dive. Divers have to spend a certain amount of time on the surface between dives in order to avoid decompression sickness. We use a table to determine how long we must stay on the surface, based on how deep we just went and how long we stayed under.

Until that day, I had never in my life been seasick. When I re-boarded the boat, though, the combination of a pitching deck and a set of inner ears that had just been thoroughly messed with made me feel just awful. Another diver (who is also an emergency room doctor) suggested that the best cure was to get back in the water. So I put my fins, mask, and snorkel back on, jumped in again, and did, in fact, feel much better. I floated around and checked out the beds of coral and schools of fish stretched out below me as far as I could see.

Finally, though, I had to pay for all the churning that my stomach had been doing earlier, and I fed the fishes.

That taken care of, I was once again right as rain, though I will say I picked through the strange hotel box lunch a bit more carefully than I otherwise would have. I had a lower tolerance level for mystery luncheon meat than normal.

Coral Wall (photo by Rachel Abel)

In the afternoon, we dove again and checked out several walls of coral. It's fun to explore a vertical surface, partly because the visual reference makes it easier to keep track of your depth (if you're a new diver like me, it's hard to tell exactly how deep you are unless you glue your nose to your gauges the whole time.) We swam around some "foothills" of coral, where we saw several sting rays settled down on the sandy bottom. Two of them were parked side by side in their own coral carport. They were completely still except for their rubbery gray edges, fluttering ever so slightly in the bottom current.

We also checked out a wall that dropped down, down, down to who knows how deep. It was a little disconcerting to look down and not be able to see the bottom at all. It was also thrilling.

When our run of dives was over, we secured all our gear and the captain (who chain-smoked and cursed with zeal) turned the boat around for shore. He crossed the open water ridiculously, absurdly fast, like any self-respecting Saudi driver would. The boat hit wave after wave with resounding, jaw-cracking crashes. Those of us who didn't squeeze back into the hot, crowded helm of the boat got soaked by the waves that repeatedly washed over the rails.

As it happened, I was the only woman on this dive trip. When we got back to the harbor, I had to throw my abaya on like a beach cover-up over my (still soaking wet) bathing suit. I took a certain satisfaction in putting my abaya to such a non-traditional use.

As we disembarked, all of us were carrying our gear. Here I had another uniquely Saudi moment. In the blazing afternoon sun, there I was wearing this completely impractical, black, flowing robe that comes down to my ankles and has long, flowing sleeves. I was about to make an unsteady step from the floating dock onto the firm wooden dock, and I had an armload of diving gear. A man from the hotel was standing on the wooden dock watching me, but unlike any other man on any other dock in any other country I can think of, he did not offer me his steady hand.

I looked at him. He looked at me. He could see that I was having difficulty. However, it is not appropriate for a Saudi man to take a strange woman's hand. Finally, we did the best thing we could. I handed him my armload of gear. Then I stepped onto the dock, and he handed my stuff back. We nodded to one another, and I continued on down the dock.

Hotel Pool Rules (Check out the third one from the bottom.)

Back at the hotel, the Saudi madness continued. The hotel has just one swimming pool, but it is not appropriate for men and women to be in a swimming pool together. So the hotel simply forbids women to use the pool. Lovely. All of our dive gear had to be rinsed off and laid out to dry on the hotel's pool deck, so that job fell to Michael. Here's another example of what a hassle all this sexism is for everyone!

All bellyaching aside, though, seriously, I am absolutely thrilled to have this rare opportunity to see things that most westerners simply will never see, above the surface of the water and below. And I am grateful for experiences that show me how different my culture is from others'. These annoyances are eye-rollers, for sure, but I never forget how lucky I am to be here, and what a grand adventure it is!

The Literary Sheep-Shearer

2011-06-19T15:00:55Z

Michael Joe O'Malley

I spent a couple of weeks on a wee tiny island off the west coast of Ireland this spring. There's a beautiful yoga retreat there, built on the land that once belonged to a man named Michael Joe O'Malley. A couple owns the retreat, and the wife, Ciara, knew Michael Joe when he was alive. She and another guest at the yoga retreat had stories to tell about him that were so colorful and improbable that I don't even care if they're true. The kind of stories that tend to get inflated with every retelling, until Michael Joe is elevated to the status of a legend. On the other hand, maybe every word is an absolute fact. Clare Island is dropped way out in Clew Bay and accessible only once or twice a day, weather permitting, by ferry (on one of two ferry boats, run by two feuding families.) People can get eccentric, isolated like that.

I'll tell you what I know about Michael Joe O'Malley, with sincere apologies to those who knew him if I've gotten anything wrong.

Michael Joe was a writer, a scholar, a farmer and a sheep-shearer. He invited writers and artists to come and stay with him on the island. His extensive library included works by Karl Marx, Lao Tse, scores of Irish poets and writers, and an early translation of Patanjali's yoga sutras. However, one would not call his place a salon or a retreat, exactly: he lived in what might best be described as a shed, with the line somewhat blurred between inside and outside. That can be problematic in rainy Ireland. He brewed his own hooch, and ate all his meals from a grimy teacup. But he was comfortable in his home, and that made everyone else comfortable.

Back in the 70s, the lady artists would come to visit Michael Joe, getting off the ferry in mini-skirts and go-go boots, and the farmer men on the island would line up at the dock and stare. Ciara was an 18-year-old aspiring writer when she met Michael Joe. It is fitting, all these years later, that Michael Joe's land is now being used for yoga retreats, thus ensuring that a stream of women continue to come off the ferry. The farmers still find an excuse to come down to the dock for its arrival.

Michael Joe had no use for the Catholic Church, and he knew its history well enough to quote facts about church-instigated invasions and atrocities throughout the ages. He once went streaking past the church on a Sunday morning, ostensibly to protest.

In the early 80s, Ciara was staying at Michael Joe's half-inside, half-outside house piled high with books. One day, the young parish priest comes to the door. Apparently the priest makes annual visits to all those who have not been coming to mass. On Clare Island it is also a tradition, twice a year, to hold mass in someone's home.

So the priest comes to the door, which is standing wide open, and Michael looks up from his reading, gives the man a nod, and returns to his book. Ciara is there, too, and can't help offering a hello and a comment on the weather, feeling all the while as though there's a scarlet A on her chest. The priest is clearly uncomfortable, but finally gets around to it. He doesn't suppose, he says, that Michael Joe would be interested in hosting the mass in his home. Michael Joe acknowledges that this is a longstanding Irish tradition and after all, these are his neighbors. So he says yes, he will do it. The priest looks around the place and tentatively suggests that a few of the ladies from the church could come over and help with some cleaning. Michael gets angry at this, and declares that if his home is good enough for him, it's good enough for everybody else.

As the date for the mass looms nearer, Ciara decides that she really needs to do some cleaning. She starts with the walls. With the first soapy swipe of the sponge, the dirt flows down in muddy streaks. She tries to clean Michael Joe's teacup, and it falls apart, its cracks all having been held together with accumulated grime. Each attempt at creating some kind of order produces disastrous results.

The night before the mass, Michael Joe says to Ciara that the one thing she didn't do, that she could have done, was to clean the floor. Ciara was surprised: she thought the place had a dirt floor. Michael goes out into the cold, drizzly night and returns back inside, dragging the garden hose. He hoses down the whole floor, revealing a pitted, uneven concrete slab. Mud puddles form in the low places.

In the morning, mass is scheduled for 11:00, and one early parishioner shows up at 10:30. Michael Joe has not yet even stirred. Ciara welcomes the parishioner, and goes to let Michael Joe know about the arrival. Michael Joe says that's fine. More parishioners arrive, and more, and then the priest shows up. Then the service starts, and still Michael Joe has not put in an appearance.

Finally, during the sermon, Michael Joe saunters into the kitchen and begins his morning ablutions. He is standing at the kitchen sink, shaving, as the priest starts in about loving thy neighbor. Michael, with a face full of shaving cream, gives a snort. "Love thy neighbor? Hmmph." His continues with editorial comments and asides, along the lines of the priest having no right to offer such advice, coming as he does from the Catholic Church. He keeps up his commentary until the mass effectively grinds to a halt, the timid priest being no match for Michael Joe.

Then Michael Joe breaks out the home brew. All the parishioners begin drinking, and the priest gives up and leaves.

Here's another tale that one can only hope is true:

Michael Joe had a government job. He was the official in charge of making sure all the farmers dipped their sheep in some kind of chemical bath once a year to prevent a certain parasite. Well, he decided that there was no way he could personally make sure that every farmer dipped every sheep. So he just filled out and signed the certificates each year and handed them out to all the farmers. Efficient.

One year, an anthropologist--perhaps Dutch, perhaps German, certainly female--was researching life on the island, and spent the day with Michael Joe. It was the time of year to hand out the sheep-dipping certificates. At the end of the day, Michael Joe and this anthropologist went to the pub, and Michael Joe sat at the bar filling out his stack of official documents, pint in hand. He finished one and handed it to the gent sitting just behind him. The anthropologist asked what these certificates were all about. Michael Joe earnestly explained that the government was very concerned about the declining population on the Clare Island. So it was his job to go around and inspect all the men. At which point, the man who'd just been handed the certificate turned around and said to Michael, "Hey, you put me down as 7 inches, but I wasn't fully erect."

I wonder if a reference can be found somewhere in an obscure German or Dutch anthropology journal about this unique Irish government program.

No book has yet been written about Michael Joe O'Malley, though one should be! It was clear that the stories I heard barely scratched the surface. I hope I have gotten the facts straight in my retelling of these few tales. Then again, I can imagine that Michael Joe himself never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

Michael Joe's farm today. Now it's home to a family farmhouse and yoga studio, along with guest cottages, horse barns, and polytunnels to extend the organic garden's growing season.