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.

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 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.

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 judgement; 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 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.)

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.

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!

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.

Here I am, about to tell you about the steep, cobblestone streets of old Istanbul, about the soaring beauty of the Hagia Sophia and the creepy Basilica Cistern. I'm about to describe the lemony chicken lentil soup I had with a glass of butter-colored wine at a corner cafe in the old city. I'm getting ready to talk about how much fun it was to travel with four dear friends from my former life in the book trade. That's before I get into a description of the bucolic retreat I took on an island off the west coast of Ireland. But I am overwhelmed with another concept. So I'm going to run with it.

The experience of travel, like food, like lovemaking, cannot be conveyed with words. We humans have tried and tried, throughout the ages, and thank goodness for that: it's a pleasure to read others' words about all of these things. But seriously, Seriously! You can't understand it until you do it. It's really important to see as much of the world as you can. Yourself, with your own five senses. It makes the experience of living richer and more meaningful; it changes everything. It's that big. You have to travel! You must! Until you venture out of your home territory, you are only half living.

Turkish tulips

Think you can't take the time off? Yes you can. People do it all the time; figure it out. If you really, truly cannot take any time off from your job, then step 1 is to reconsider your job. Your life is ticking away.

Can't afford it? Cancel the cable TV subscription, stop buying crap at the shopping malls, keep driving that old car, find a more affordable place to live, whatever it takes. I met a woman last year who was traveling in India because she was unemployed and it was cheaper to do that than to stay at home.

Just-born lamb with mama sheep on Clare Island

Waiting until the kids are older? Nooooo!! Kids need to see the world too! The families I know who travel with their children are having a blast. Their travel itineraries include kid-friendly stops, of course. But if you're spending time with your children at the park near your house, then why not try it out in Barcelona or Amman or Addis Ababa? I have friends whose 5-year-old declared that "Chicken" is a really great country. (She meant Turkey, of course.)

Scared? Aha! That's the best reason of all. If you're afraid to venture out of your safety zone, that's a sure signal that it's time to put your toes in the water. Fear is a much clearer sign than indifference that you need to be packing your bags, stat.

The Bosphorus Strait, dividing Europe from Asia

Get out and see the world! Do it! I could really give myself a good smack for waiting until age 40 to climb out of my sheltered cave and take a good look around.  

My recent month in Istanbul and then in Ireland got me to thinking, again, about how inadequate words and pictures are at getting to the big truths about life. (Ever notice how travel tends to make one think about life's big truths?)

At a yoga retreat on Clare Island, off the west coast of Ireland, I practiced yoga in a studio with windows facing the sunrise over the sparkling, deep blue Clew Bay. There I decided to experiment with a long-established routine. For years, I have been writing three pages of, well, anything, in a journal every morning. It's a good way to reconnect with my thoughts, my priorities, whatever's going on in my brain. It's great! On Clare Island, though, it occurred to me that I can also do a morning check-in with a thoughtful yoga session. In other words, I could sit on the couch and write about, say, how grateful I am that my husband is coming home tomorrow, and how preoccupied I am about an upcoming deadline. Or I could try some backbends or twists or forward folds, and actually experience the tension, the release, the defensiveness, the gratitude. It's right there in my body. I do a bit of yoga, and it illustrates how words can't touch the place where I am. They can't really touch any place. They can only describe it.

Drying fish near the Black Sea

My husband and I are taking scuba diving lessons. I am learning to breathe underwater using a regulator, and at the surface using a snorkel. We have textbooks, and do classroom lessons as well as practice sessions in the water. This is another example of words being inadequate for the job. It is not possible to learn to scuba dive only by reading the book. You have to gear up and fully submerge yourself, experience the sensations for yourself.

It is not possible to experience the world only by reading about it. You have to see it, smell it, dive fully into it. So go! Go go go right now!

Hiking in a stiff wind on Clare Island, Ireland

Masoud was my driver on a fine, clear morning in Jordan. He told me stories as we drove north out of Amman, through a green, hilly countryside dotted with olive groves and vineyards. We were heading to Jerash, one of the best-preserved Roman cities in the Near East. Someone told me that, outside of Italy itself, there are more Roman ruins in Jordan than anywhere else in the world.

Masoud comes from a Pakistani Palestinian family that fled to Kuwait. In 1990, Masoud in turn fled to Jordan (as many Kuwaitis did) when Iraq invaded. Shortly after the invasion started, he saw an Iraqi soldier standing in a supermarket aisle scooping Nivea face cream onto pita bread and eating it. Masoud said the soldiers had probably never before seen modern shops and goods like those in Kuwait. He told me that the Iraqi soldiers took everything, the stores were looted and empty, there was no food to be purchased. So he came to Jordan.

Here is a tale that Masoud told me:

One day last December Masoud's cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello Hamid, this is Nasser calling from Egypt."

Masoud paused a beat, then "Nasser! How are you, my friend?" 

"Why didn't you say that he had the wrong number?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know, I wanted to see what would happen," he said.

"Hamid, I am calling you because something has happened. You are a smart man and I know I can trust you, so I am calling you for help."

"Of course, Nasser, how can I help?"

"I was doing some digging in one of my fields, and I found some treasure, Hamid. I think it's probably very valuable and I need to figure out how to sell it. I can't keep it here, because I'm afraid it will be stolen, and I need the money. I know you will know what to do."

My jaw dropped. "Nuh-uh! You are making this up!" Masoud assured me he was not.

Masoud told Nasser that he would consider the situation and call him back in a few days (Nasser called on Masoud's cell phone, so he had the number.) Then Masoud spoke to a friend, who agreed to fly to Egypt and meet with this man Nasser to see what it was all about. Masoud called Nasser back and told him that a trusted friend was coming to see him. The friend flew into Cairo and Nasser met him there. Then he drove the friend several hours outside of the city, into the farmland. He took a very confusing route, and kept looping back and forth, so that the friend could not have retraced their journey. Finally, they arrived at Nasser's farm, and Nasser showed the friend what he had found buried on his property.

There were 300 gold scarabs, each weighing nearly a kilogram. There was also an ancient book, decorated with gold leaf. My friend looked through the book. It was illustrated, and it seemed to be telling a story that involved giant golden scarabs. Nasser refused to allow Masoud's friend to take any photographs. He said that he wanted to find a buyer for the entire treasure, but that if he could not sell the ancient artifacts, he would simply melt down the scarabs and sell the gold.

When Masoud's friend came back from Jordan and told him this, Masoud knew he had to find a buyer for the treasure. Nasser couldn't just melt down what might be priceless Egyptian artifacts! And since the initial phone call, the Egyptian government has fallen, and now Nasser is even more unwilling to turn the treasure over to the authorities. He asked, what authorities? So Masoud is contacting some people he knows, and he will see what happens. Maybe there is someone in Dubai who will be interested.

"But you can't just ship Egyptian treasure out of Egypt. You'd have to smuggle it out," I said.

"I know," he said.

"And you're never going to find a buyer unless you have something to show them. You don't even have any pictures."

"I know."

"Eventually this guy is going to figure out that you are not Hamid."

"I know."

"If you broker a deal, you could show up with the money and this guy could just kill you."

"I know, I know."

 First glimpse of The Treasury at Petra

It was especially thrilling to hear Masoud's story just a few days after seeing the Treasury at Petra--where Indiana Jones found the Holy Grail in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I do have to point out, though, that while the Treasury was amazing, the Monastery (which can only be reached by climbing 800 stairs) was even more impressive. I guess the film crew didn't want to schlep that far into the mountains.

The Monastery at Petra

Jordan is packed with jaw-dropping Roman and Nabatean archaeological treasures, and now it's also packed with refugees from Palestine, Kuwait, and Iraq. Many of the Iraqis who fled here during the Gulf War were quite wealthy--and Masoud has stories about this, too.

Before the U.S. invasion of Iraq, Masoud regularly took his car to a car wash, where an Iraqi man washed the car. Let's call the car washer Mohammed. Over time, Masoud and Mohammed became friends. When the invasion happened, Mohammed decided that he needed to go back home to his family. So he went home and for the next year or so, Masoud heard nothing about him.

Then one day, Masoud took his car back to the same car wash, and the owner of the car wash was very excited to see him. "Come with me, Masoud. I want to take you to meet someone." Masoud drove with the car wash owner to the finest hotel in Amman. They rode the elevator to the penthouse floor, where they were searched by bodyguards and then allowed to enter the suite to meet with ... Mohammed.

Here is Mohammed the car washer's story: he returned home to Iraq and his family, and was soon enlisted to man a roadway checkpoint just outside of his town. The American troops had not yet arrived in this part of Iraq. One night at the guard station, Mohammed was very tired, and fell asleep in the back room. When he woke up, it was morning and his fellow guards were gone. The checkpoint was completely deserted. Mohammed walked back to town, and found the whole town evacuated. He saw no one at all. He guessed that the Americans had rolled through, and everyone fled. On his way through town, he saw that the bank was closed, its doors secured with a padlocked chain. He went home to an empty house. 

Mohammed took a pair of bolt cutters from his tool box, walked back to the bank, broke the chain and entered. Inside, he found the vault open and $10 million in cash, shrink-wrapped in heavy plastic. He took the cash and lugged it home. And then he fled to Jordan. Now he is a millionaire businessman in Amman. 

Masoud also told me about a car salesman he knows who sold a 3-year-old Ford sedan for $100,000 to a newly arrived Iraqi with cash-stuffed pockets.

Amman, as seen from the Citadel

I spent a morning at the Citadel, which sits at the top of one of the city's many hills. Just before noon, the prayer call started. The calls blossomed from the minarets all over the city and were carried up the hill by the wind. The haunting, rumbling, moody sound rose from all directions, and I looked out over the crowded city and wondered how many households had stories to tell like Masoud's. And how many of those stories were true.