So, just because, I thought I'd post a few of the pieces of writing that I did during this, my first semester in graduate school.

*************************************************

My Desert Experience

Not long after I returned to the States after teaching English to university-aged women in Northern Saudi Arabia, my friend and I found ourselves inside her silver Lexus, with little boxes of ticky-tacky flashing by, pondering what I had learned over the previous two years.

While we talked, I looked out the window and wondered, where are the camels? Was that reflection me? Where in the world was I? Psychologists call excessive blinking and trying to make sense of it all, culture shock. I lacked narrative; I called it confusion.

“Perhaps Saudi Arabia was your desert experience.” My friend suggested.

Not understanding, I asked. “What is a desert experience?”

Subjugation

Still on the ground, seated at a plane window with New York blurred in gray, life was hope unheard, unanswered. I squirmed to count women passengers on my Riyadh flight with their heads not covered, “one, no, no, no… OH.” Besides myself, buttoned to the neck, only one other women wasn’t utterly concealed in black. And to think! I had felt conservatively dressed before boarding.

After stewing in discomfort, I grabbed my wadded-up abaya, headed for the back of the plane, slid home a bathroom bolt, and locked eyes in the mirror as my shoulders, my breasts, my waist, the v at my thighs, my knees, and my ankles all disappeared under shapeless black. I wrapped a matching length of black material around my head, felt unbearably stifled, and immediately ripped it off. The put it on. And ripped it back off. . When I self-consciously emerged with my head still uncovered, a waiting Saudi lady praised,

“How pretty you look now,” with a smile in her voice. But, of course, I never saw her face.

Survival

Even if one prefers oceans, the Arabian Desert provides glory in bittersweet orange sunrises and peace in its flushed pink sunsets. In daylight, white camels plod across the desert, leaving prints in sculpted sand. After dark, men cry, “Allah Ahk-bar.” Stars hang in the sky, touchable, as if dangling from an infant’s mobile.

For me, in far-away Sakaka, walking became a means of surviving my post in remote desert. Wrapped in nearly unbearable black, my friend and I’s daily walks enabled an all-to-brief respite from the gun-toting guards and barbed wire that surrounded our compound. During one walk, two men in stiff white collars and checkered red headscarves, veered their truck off the road to chase us across the sand calling, “Hello! Kiss me!”

But most of the time, we women were left alone to vent and rail against what was happening in our lives and what was not happening in our lives. We walked, broiling, damming the powers that be, and collected black fossil-like stones. When summer arrived, another type of escape became a necessity: at night I slipped into my garden’s pool. The guards could not see the moon silver my naked flesh.

Strength

To survive that summer, I needed a break, away. So, in order to comply with my employer’s mandates for good womanhood, I sought permission before purchasing a weekend plane ticket to the city of Riyadh, and arranged for our bus to transport me to the airport. Then, also like a good woman, I warmly thanked them for providing.

Still, one scant hour before take off, they still forced me into an argument.

“No bus.” One boss said.

“Are you saying that I cannot use the bus that my contract pays for?” I asked.

“Take a taxi.”

“Not one taxi in this city - in this bloody province - will drive an unmarried woman. You know this!” I countered, indignant.

Another boss said. “Ok, you can go. But you will first give me your passport, until you return.”

I closed my eyes. I was not going to cry. They were not going to win.

I said. “Sir, I am getting on an airplane. That is fact. I have a ticket for Riyadh that I will use tonight. Or, tomorrow, you will buy me a ticket to the United States. Either way, I am getting on an airplane, with my passport. You, however, may choose my destination.”

A good woman would thank them for allowing her to travel during her break. I did not.

Salvation

I am not the first to travel from subjugation to salvation, hopeless to confident. My friend explained, “In Old Testament days, the Israelites were slaves in prosperous Egypt doing ‘harsh labor with brick and mortar.’ The Israelites became so low in spirit that God took pity on them and convinced Moses to lead them away.

After 40 years of hardship in the desert, the Israelites finally entered their promised land. God commanded, love “with all your heart, soul, mind and strength…”

Today, hope answers my confusion. And that’s a narrative that I can build a future on.

Dear Friends and Family,

Reemergence, the process of returning to my walled world in Sakaka, is not easy. However, out of necessity comes skill and skill I have indeed acquired. Take this last reemergence as an example:

My plan was to arrive from Larnana International (Cyprus) to Queen Alia International in Amman (Jordan) at 9:50. Visa, Immigration and bag collection by 10:30. Pre-arranged airport pick-up also at 10:30. Arrive at City Mall around 11. Debenhams, coffee pick-up, Carrefour necessities, ATM and meet co-worker all within 90 minutes. Return to my taxi at 12:30. Stuff shopping into next to my travel bag, have the first taxi drive us to the border taxi service office, obtain a second taxi, cross the border and be in Sakaka (Kingdom of Saudi Arabia) before 9 pm.

While not clock-work precise, the airport went according to plan and I rushed into City Mall, with my sturdy, dedicated shopping bags (that yes, traveled empty with me throughout Cyprus) in one hand and my list (prepared with pleasure + leisure before departing Amman for Cyprus) in the other – my plan of action fixed on my brain.

First, I steamed into a department store and selected a sweater in a quarter of the time that it took to find a cashier and complete the purchase.

Next, I sailed into Starbucks and ran smack into my personal version of 50-foot-waves in rough waters. The man shook his head at me.

“What do you mean?” I nearly literally cried. “What does Starbucks sell if it doesn’t sell coffee???”

The man assured me that Starbucks would no longer be selling whole bean coffee anywhere in Jordan. I protested that there were at least 30 bags of coffee the week previous. The man shook his head. I pointed to a line of French Presses on the wall and asked what customers were supposed to use to make coffee in them. The man shook his head. I asked if he could call another Starbucks store and ask if they had whole bean coffee. The man shook his head. I explained that I was being sentenced to 3 months in the middle of nowhere Saudi Arabia without Starbucks coffee. The man smiled.

Suddenly very dejected yet undeterred from my main goal, I walked to the next store and bought a loaf of olive bread from the best French bakery I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting abroad. Then I high-footed it to the two story, of French origins, grocery and home goods store, Carrefour and immediately set out on my pre-scripted version of a shopping spree. Into a double-decked basket, I tossed:

• Brown sugar (which you can buy in Sakaka but it has the consistency of a brick)
• Whole wheat flour (my friend Bob and his excellent Red Mill have made it to Amman – hooray!)
• Polenta
• Chocolate chips (at “our” grocery stores chocolate chips are only found in Betty Crocker cookie mixes)
• Canned Ocean Spray cranberry sauce (a little taste of Thanksgiving in February) (not that anyone in my family ever buys nor eats tinned cranberries – but when living abroad, one’s food standards can be compromised)
• Stove Top Stuffing (which my family does buy – but we won’t admit to)
• 6 cans of artichokes
• Sea salt (just within the last few months has Carrefour started carrying a lovely brand of Fleur de Sel – so vital to good quality veggie dishes)
• Rusks (a cracker substitute; the ones in KSA have too many artificial ingredients for me to buy)
• Mint chocolate (yes, in candy bar form, to eat when the craving sets upon me)
• A full-sized shovel (I’ve not been able to buy even the most basic gardening implements in Sakaka – although the co-worker who kindly carried the shovel for me assured me that he could find me a shovel if I got off my high horse and just asked)
• Fennel
• Leeks
• Irish cheddar
• Parmesan

Leeks waving from the top of one bag, I greeted my co-worker, whose eyebrows shot to his hairline at the sight of my bags; nonetheless, he kindly helped me carry my goods to the taxi. I climbed into the back seat and immediately imparted my very real pain regarding Starbucks to our driver. In an act of beautiful compassion, our driver picked up his phone and arranged for our second taxi to drive by another Starbucks as we departed Amman. But, in an act of unfeeling contrast, neither did the second Starbucks have coffee at their largest store in Amman. The lady shook her head at me and told me to come back in a week. I forcefully resigned myself to my fate while my co-worker bought himself a cookie – and then one for me too (perhaps to shut me up?) (and no, friends and family, we cannot blame him for that!). And then it was Masalama and good-bye to Amman.

Between Amman and the Jordanian/Saudi border, there is not a lot to see. Desert, police posts, desert, lots of desert, a desert “castle” now called Qasr Kharaneh built in the 8^th century, miles of desert, a few military instillations, the border outpost town of Azraq whose restaurants lure customers with freshly skinned goats hanging from meat hooks, and, of course, more desert. While we drove, a little black cloud appeared over my head and must’ve begun to drop over my face because my co-worker found himself in the position of valiantly trying to cheer me up, “Remember what you like about Sakaka.”

“Not much.” I smiled without sentiment.

“Nothing?” he replied incredulously.

I thought about how to explain. “Yes, I have experienced a few generous, truly humbling moments of hospitality and kindness in Saudi; however, on an every day level I feel less human in Saudi.”

“For example, do you remember when we crossed the border into Jordan? What did the guards do? What did they say?”

He couldn’t remember. So I supplied, “They smiled and said, ‘H’Allah. Welcome to Jordan.’ A Jordanian taxi driver taught me the word – while many Jordanians taught me the sentiment – behind the informal word Arabic word for welcome. Everywhere in Jordan we were greeted with, ‘welcome… welcome…’

Contrast this with the first time I crossed the border into Saudi. The taxi driver rolled down the window so the guard could check me against my passport. The Saudi border guard looked at me, quickly looked away from me and, although the conversation was in Arabic, clearly began to berate our driver about my not wearing a niqab [the black face veil for females]. I looked at the guard, stuck my nose in the air and said distinctly, “Mafi Arabi” [I don’t speak Arabic] – by which I meant, ‘I cannot understand you well enough for you to make me wear the niqab’ – although I clearly understood a little bit. The Saudi guard stopped, frowned at the taxi driver, ignored me, and we continued on into Saudi Arabia.

While in Saudi, I am a woman to be systemically marginalized - and a bad woman at that! Although I obey the law and wear an abaya and although I cover my head in deference to the sensibilities of the people that I live amongst, I will not compromise my own principals to the extent of covering my face. In Sakaka, I am less than every man, undeserving of basic sanitation such as flushing toilets, undeserving of adequate supplies even as I do my best to pave their children’s way into the future.

I feel that I live without respect from the people that I have come to Saudi learn about – I came to Saudi to learn about Saudi Arabia and Islam out of respect - that is my reality in returning to Sakaka.”

And - here's a surprise - that was the end of my co-worker's attempt to cheer me! Although, to be strictly honest, the border crossing that soon followed went relatively smoothly. We were stamped out of Jordan, I donned my abaya and covered my head, we were waved into Saudi Arabia without comment, and we drove the four hours to Sakaka. At my request, we briefly paused at our local corner store for fresh milk and then we were dropped off, in front of our gate, at the compound. My co-worker and our compound driver were then kind to the point of helping me carry my bags to Villa 19. I thanked them.

After I closed the front door on our good nights, I leaned my shoulder blades, rear and the base of my skull against our heavy front door, ran my eyes across a can of artichoke hearts gleaming from the top of a bag to our gas stove, and thought,

“Tomorrow morning I am making Eggs in Purgatory” – as cooking has become my way of remaining emerged, and as sane as possible, in Sakaka.

* * * *

Eggs in Purgatory with Artichoke Hearts, Potatoes and Capers
modified from (I suspect): Bon Appetite

I ripped this recipe from a magazine while on an airplane from Seattle to Riyadh only to later discover that I only kept half the recipe. And yet, it sounded too good not to make so I’ve made it a few times – improvising the end - and find it a pretty darn healthy, fabulous breakfast (or lunch or dinner for that matter). It can be served on its own but I especially like it with crusty bread (and the olive bread from Amman was very good), a small side of tart fruit, and, of course, a savory cup of Starbucks coffee!

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 ½ cups chopped onion

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme, or 2 teaspoons dried thyme

½ teaspoon dried crushed red pepper

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional: I welcome extra spice)

Course kosher salt

1 can artichoke hearts, medium dice

1 can sliced artichokes, slivered

3 – 4 cloves garlic, minced

1 28 ounce can of diced tomatoes in juice

2 medium potatoes, skinned and diced into slightly smaller than ½ inch cubes

2 tablespoons capers, rough chopped

A little more course salt + freshly ground pepper – to taste

1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

8 large eggs

Heat the olive oil in a heavy, large skillet over medium heat. Add chopped onion, thyme, and crushed red pepper; lightly sprinkle and sauté until the onion is tender and golden brown, about 10 minutes. Add artichokes and minced garlic; stir 1 minute – do not let the garlic burn! Stir in tomatoes with their juice and bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover skillet and simmer for 15 minutes to allow the flavors to blend.

Add the potatoes. Stir. Then add the capers. Stir until the potatoes are covered with liquid. Resume simmering, on medium heat, regularly stirring so that the tomatoes do not burn and cook until the potatoes are tender and edible. Taste the dish. Add salt and pepper as necessary.

For the finish, you have two choices, I choose based on what pans or dishes I have available:

Finish (A)

Pre-heat the oven to 375. After the potatoes are tender, transfer the purgatory to a large baking dish. Sprinkle with the Parmesan cheese – but do save a tablespoon or so to sprinkle on top of the eggs. Using a spoon, make 8 little holes (or fewer if your dish is too small for 8). Crack the eggs into the holes, sprinkle with that little bit of remaining parmesan. Place the eggs in the oven and change the oven setting to broil. Bake until the eggs are just done.

Finish (B)

After the potatoes are tender, remove from the heat and sprinkle with the parmesan cheese – but do save a tablespoon or so to sprinkle on top of the eggs. Using a spoon, make 8 little holes (or fewer if your pan is too small for 8). Crack the eggs into the holes, sprinkle with that little bit of remaining Parmesan. Cover the pan and cook the eggs over medium-low heat until the eggs are just done.

Purgatory is a very warm place – so serve while warm!

* * * *

With lots of love,

Laura

City Mall in Amman: a place that isn't especially exotic

but is lovely to spend a few hours shopping in.

The desert between Amman, Jordan and the Saudi Border crossing. It is, I think, worth seeing once but again, not much to see.

A railroad crossing in Saudi Arabia. I love the painted tires!

Our compound, wreathed in morning fog.

One good reason to be back in Sakaka: to borrow and hug one of our compound cats! (Admittedly, I especially love hugging this one who answers to the name Oliver.)

“Is this a good book about Cyprus?”

The bookshop keeper tilted her head at me, drew her brows together, and asked, “What are you looking for?”

“Well, I am visiting Nicosia, and while I see Nicosia, I don’t really understand it. I don’t understand Cyprus.”

“Ancient Cyprus or modern Cyprus?”

“Modern, mostly. I wish to better understand the current division of Cyprus, understand what I see today.”

The bookshop keeper leveled sunken, brown eyes at me and said, matter-of-factly, “In 1955, people began to struggle for… we wanted Britain out and we wanted to rejoin Greece. But Britain had this idea of divide and rule…”

The keeper was interrupted by the needs of another customer while I propped my hip against a bookcase and started to fix an age on the keeper: every hair on her head was naturally white, her face was very lined, but not deeply so, her movements were stiff but retained alacrity. She had to be in her early 70s… hmm… 2011 minus 70 puts dates one at 1941. I shivered. This lady wasn’t lecturing by brainwashed wrote: 1955 and whatever else she would tell me was her history, the entirety of her life. Just as Vietnam vets can describe the walls of their POW camps, as Iraqi moms can still feel the embrace of their dead sons, like Tibetans torn from their Buddhas, and some-what like Jews that fled their Holocaust, the events that divided Cyprus impacted – no, dominated – this woman’s life.


“Divide and rule?” I prompted the bookshop keeper when she had finished.

“The Ottoman empire ruled Cyprus for hundreds of years but they were not good and both Muslim Cypriots and Christian Cypriots had… what is the word? complaints against them. After war, the Ottomans gave Cyprus to the British Empire. Cypriots were not unhappy because they hoped that Britain would help them reunite with Greece. But the British they built bases to overlook the Suez Canal and used this policy called “divide and rule” in Cyprus: the British began to call us Christian Cypriots and Muslim Cypriots, the British helped Turkey, and Turkey helped Muslim Cypriots want to break away from the Christian Cypriots. But Cypriots – Christian… Muslim – we are Cypriots first.

We fighted for Britain in World War II but many of us wanted join Greece, especially after the war. Britain loved its bases and wanted to keep Cyprus while Turkey didn’t want Greece to have more land. In 1955, the Cypriot people began to struggle for… we wanted self-determination, we wanted Britain and Turkey out. We stopped in 1959, when there was agreeing between Britain, Greece, Turkey and leaders of our Cypriot people. In 1960, Cyprus became the Republic of Cyprus, Makarios was president. They made a 10-point Constitution, very good for Muslim Cypriots. They had maybe 18% of the population but they got 15 of 50 seats in government, 3 ministers for cabinet, and to be Vice President.

But there were problems so in 1963 Makarios wanted to change the constitution to 13 points so the Muslim Cypriots stopped coming to work at the government. In 1964 Turkey bombed Cyprus – but they knew so little about Cyprus that they bombed their own people. So British pilots flew and bombed Cyprus, to help Turkey.

On the 15th of July 1974, junta from Greece helped put Makarios out of Cyprus. On 20th of July 1974, Turkey forgot all agreements it had made and illegally invaded Cyprus, to help the Muslims it said. But instead, Turkey got 36% of Cyprus – and keeps an army of 50,000 here. 200,000 people – 70%, by percentage of population (more than in World War II) – were forced from our homes.

I can’t go back to my home! A few years ago, my niece from America came to see me and she asked me to take her to my home, which was my father’s home. I refused. [physically shaking a bit] I cannot use my passport to visit my home. And a Turk lives in my home. Someone told me that the Turks cut down the olive trees that my father had planted. No, he lives there, maybe for many years, but he doesn’t own it. He lives in it. It is my home. I cannot see it. I wish to remember my home, happy, how it was.

In the invasion, many people died. 1400 people we do not know what happened to them. Women… young children… we don’t know. Turkey won’t help us know. My father, and other men, he was made to dig large holes and not properly bury bodies.”


Another customer walked in, which provided shopkeeper and careful listener with a break. Still propped on now sleepy feet, the bookshop keeper pointed me to a low couch by the shop window while she bustled and bristled at the new customer. When finished, she sat on a chair across from me and sighed.

“In 2004, we could vote to reunite. Papadopoulos [then President of Cyprus] told us we choose, he would deal with whatever we voted. But I could not vote yes. If I voted yes, I could only have 1/5th of my house back – I could have my bathroom only! That is not right.”

We were interrupted again. When she returned, I said, “What you have told me is very sad. Is there a solution?,” I asked curiously.

“No.” She answered, switching from strength to bitterness. “In 1922, the Turks made genocide against Armenians. You know?”

I nodded.

“Turks are warring people. In our village, the Turks put my father, and all parents into the church. And then, they bring daughters into the church and they… they rape… the daughters on the alter of the church. When the parents cried, and said, “No. Take me instead.” Parents were killed. Daughters cried. My father he watch.

Many Muslim Cypriots leave Cyprus because it is so bad. The Turkish government brought ignorant people from Anatolia to live on Cyprus. The Turks give them houses – nice houses. They put many families in one house, they don’t know how to live any other way. And they don’t know about electricity, or refrigerators. Some use refrigerators for shelves, putting clothes in them. The Turkish government gives them money to live on Cyprus, but they can live there for 30 years. They are not Cypriots!”

Now I was the one slightly shaking. Raised in stability, educated with words, not experience, I do not know injustice at this level, loss of home, loss of lives, rapes and mass graves. Yes, I could match words to pictures within my imagination, but I cannot truly understand. I said this, and squarely met her eyes, joined my hands at my heart and thanked her for helping me understand her Cyprus.

And yes, there were – there are – gaps in her narrative. The biggest gap, of course, was any sympathy for Muslims, or Turks on the other side. Not wanting to show any disrespect, nonetheless I felt compelled to ask, “How do Christian Cypriots feel about Muslim Cypriots?”

“Before the invasion, there were not big problems between Muslims and Christians. I will tell you a story. My father owned a farm and a mill and he had many workers to help him. One worker, he liked and respected very much, was a Muslim Cypriot. That man wanted to get married but did not have the 100 pounds – a lot of money in those days - for the [bride price]. So he asked my father to loan him the money. And my father, he agreed, he loaned him the money, without interest and then, as a wedding gift, he gave the couple 50 pounds. The couple was very happy. My father was a good man.

20 years later, my father and my uncle were locked by the Turks into the church. They were very sad, very afraid. In walked a Turkish general, it was the same Muslim Cypriot that my father had helped. My father walked up to the man and said, ‘My brother! Can you help?’ The man looked angry at my father and said to him, ‘I am the boss now.’ When my father appealed to the man again, the man knocked him down and kicked him very hard. My uncle, who was there, said, ‘What are you doing? My brother, he loved you like a son!’ The man knocked and kicked my uncle down too and repeated, ‘I am the boss now.’ My father and uncle had blood in their pee for weeks after that man kicked them.”

Her eyes were rimmed with pain. And I couldn’t help wanting to offer comfort: I reached out and hugged her, while she remained stiff and absorbed in her memories.

“I cannot forgive. I cannot forget. I cannot forgive.”


At that point, we returned to the business of finding me a book but the bookshop keeper couldn’t restrain herself from further driving her point home. She showed me an older, glossy coffee table book filled with pictures of destroyed churches and icons that the Turks have ruined or over the last decades. And then she discovered one more story to tell me, being that I am an American.

“When Sadaam Hussien invaded Kuwait, many American military people came to Cyprus. One day, a man with patches on his shoulder came into the shop and I asked him, ‘Iraq’s military attacked Kuwait. Why is the United States helping Kuwait?’

The man said, ‘It is the right thing to do.’

I said, ‘Well, Turkey’s military attacked Cyprus. What is the difference?’

The man wouldn’t answer at first. And then, quietly he said, ‘Oil.’”


I understood. I understood that the bookshop keeper’s way of extracting vengeance – her method of living with her memories, her method of seeking justice – is to impart her story to whoever will listen, to put face to injustice, to re-live crimes that have not yet faded into history in hopes that there will yet be reparation. And I must admit, I walked away from her shop wrestling her feelings, sharing little hope that she will find justice in her lifetime.

But we did find me a book! Titled Echoes from the Divide, Across the Cyprus Divide, my new book “explores attitudes and prejudices on a human level.” Despite the sadness of the history that the bookshop keeper imparted, I hold hope that if generations following our keeper are able to literally cross their divide, explore prejudices, and find ways to make amends, then future Cypriots will compel themselves into a better future, away from their bitter past.

Love,
Laura

Dear Friends and Family,

Call me crazy – oh, and so many of you have – but I actually do love exploring alone. Without a companion, my traveler self shifts into a puzzlement: in countless conversations, people have indirectly or directly commented, “Really? By yourself? A woman traveling by herself? Why???” No matter which explanation I use, amusingly, people remain unconvinced. However, I have long since discovered that traveling alone sends a visual cue of accessibility and allows me a free pass in questioning people about whatever interests me, to learn from them - while some people have questions for and want to learn from me.

Cyprus was especially good for encounters that yielded me bits and pieces of information that allowed me to piece together an understanding. Although the island appears an epitome of peace and prosperity, there remains a matter of very real dispute. In 1974, Turkey invaded and continues to occupy, despite toothless international condemnation, 36% of the island: war crimes were committed (on both sides, I believe), refugee status and property rights remain very real issues, and almost every Cypriot I met was eager to tell me about, or at the very least elude to, the 1974 illegal occupation by Turkey. However, other conversations included:


** When asked, “Why are all taxis in Cyprus Mercedes brand cars?”

A Cypriot taxi driver informed me, “Mercedes are good cars, they go, and they don’t need so many repairs. But I have 3 American cars: a 1948 Plymouth, a 1952 Chrysler, and a DeSoto.” He proceeded to tell me about fixing up his cars – he uses his British passport to visit Istanbul with friends (“Istanbul isn’t that bad” – he assured me), buys parts, and returns them to Cyprus in a suitcase. He drives his cars in… “what is the word?” classic car rallies and keeps a sheaf of classic car pictures plus EBay part print-outs in his taxi’s glove compartment. I admired each picture before paying an exorbitant rate (taxis in Cyprus are both Mercedes brand and exorbitantly priced) before climbing out at my destination.


** In very rusty English, another taxi driver asked me “Is it true there are do not pass areas in New York?”

I imagined so, “New York’s traffic is terrible and they try new ways to make their traffic better.”

“No, no.” he protested. “Places in New York where people do not go.”

“Ah. Yes, I am sorry to say there are places in New York where people do not go.”

“Why?” he asked. “Is it the black people?”

I dug deep to give an intelligent reply, “I think it is about poor people: people do not have money, do not go to school and do not have jobs - but they do have guns. This is bad.”

“The black people have guns?” he asked again.

“There are many people with guns: there are many white people with guns and people from Vietnam or Mexico… and some black people.”

“Oh! White people too. That is very bad.”


** Speaking of New York, a lady at the hair salon where I bravely faced my phobia of foreign haircuts, asked if I, like herself, was from New York.

“No, Seattle.”

“Well, I thought you were from New York. You talk fast like a New Yorker.”

She went on to explain that her husband is Cypriot and that in order to please themselves, and their families, they move back and forth between Cyprus and New York. “Cyprus is better for the kids,” she explained.


** Just before departing, I had to journey into the bowels of an airport office in order to pay a fee. Apparently other passengers very much object to this detour but for me, it was an adventure that afforded me a kindly proffered cup of coffee, allowed me to compliment the lady on the sandbottle decorating her desk (a common souvenir from Petra, Jordan) and suggest the book Married to a Bedouin.

“Are you single?” the lady asked. I nodded.

“You have time to read. I have four boys! I don’t have time to read!” This lead into an interesting, albeit troubling discussion regarding raising kids in this age of electronics. The lady’s youngest son spends a lot of time on his PlayStation… and “he even plays it with his teacher! So, ok, he and his teacher have a good relationship and his teacher can influence him in his studies. But those games are violent and they look so real… and isn’t there something wrong with playing video games with one’s teacher?”


** Noting my long-time fixation on this very computer, another lady asked me if I liked Facebook.

Although I was finishing a blog entry at that particular moment, I have undeniably taken to FB and sheepishly replied, “Yes.”

“Me, too.” She agreed. “My husband – he prefers video games – but I like Facebook.”


** A fierce argument broke out during the 2 hour mini-bus ride to Nicosia. Sitting just to the side of the line of fire, in the front seat, of course I couldn’t understand a word – but I didn’t really need to. The man behind the driver was upset because the mini-bus was running later than he needed; the driver was upset because that is just how it goes with mini-buses. After a good 15 minutes of arguing, we had arrived in the outskirts of Nicosia and the driver dropped the man off at a roundabout so that he could get a private taxi. Soon the other passengers were dropped off as well and the driver, worried that the argument had upset me, told me that the male passenger, a Romanian, had accused her of not liking Romanians.

I made the right noises. And she went on to explain that they had a Cypriot pensioner who worked in the front office who wasn’t at all mindful when he organized the mini-buses. “I work for 18 hours a day… and I shouldn’t be yelled at by passengers. Crazy Cypriots!” she scoffed.

“You aren’t from Cyprus?” I asked.

“NO!” She nearly exploded in response, flexing her black-painted nails. “I am from Russia. I have been here for 25 years and I won’t get a passport from here.”


** “Yes,” a museum security officer said. “Maybe 10% of the population is foreigners.”

“Is that good or bad?” I asked.

“Well, for me it is good. I like many people. But for older Cypriots, immigrants is not good.”


** “The economy is ok here – it is just winter. I am lucky to have a job in the winter.” One lady told me. Another man told me, “Government workers make 3 times the wages and pensions that private workers get. The economy in Cyprus is good but the government has to stop this.”


** In rapid, nearly incomprehensible English, a leather jacket clad, techno-listening, aging Cypriot taxi driver coughed, asked me where I was from, proceeded to tell me that I was “very sweet” and asked for my number. On another day, I greeted an African man in a mosque with the Arabic greeting of, “Salaam Allecombe.” He smiled at me, asked where I was from, asked for my number, asked me if I were Muslim, smiled and then asked me for my number again.

Living in Saudi Arabia, I often feel that the attention I receive stems from not-so-healthy sexual repression. I still sometimes feel that I am regarded (to quote my earlier self in India), “as an absolutely free, 4-course meal (complete with all-you-can-drink beer!) walking down the street, an open invitation – irregardless of quality, available and free.” In Cyprus, it felt nice to back in a country where yes, I get attention but with a little bit of subtlety behind the assumption that I’m free and readily available.

** After teaching me to say, “Kalli-mera” (good morning), one man abruptly transitioned into inquiring, “Have you heard about the lawsuit in America?”

“No.” I admitted, instantly curious. “What lawsuit?”

“A lawyer in America is suing Turkey for money for property.”

Curiosity piqued – what possible jurisdiction could that fall under? I checked Google and found that a recent legal precedent allows lawsuits against international commercial entities. Commercial entities are key as no country, including the United States recognizes the Turkish declared Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC); however, the TRNC operates in the States as business entity, on business visas. In a 2010 class action suit titled Greek Cypriots, et al. v. TRNC and HSBC Bank USA, one Telemachos Fiouris and other Cypriots are suing the commercial establishment of the TRNC for denial of access to and enjoyment of land and property held in the north, and HSBC, the only known bank to clear money through this entity, for “knowingly aiding, assisting, supporting and benefiting from the fraudulent property schemes.”

The suit baldly walks through the sordid history of the invasion, the gaps in even the legitimacy the commercial existence of the TRNC, and is reportedly seeking compensation in the billions while the American attorney behind the case builds on his record of pushing lawsuits against entities that would “hide behind their flag and country.”


** The night before my departure, the restaurant host who better resembled Michangelo’s David than the law student that he made the mistake admitting to me that he is, couldn’t quite summon the English needed to answer the question that I put to him,

“Why is Turkey still in Cyprus? What is the basis for their argument?”

“Listen to me,” he admonished and then he gave me a very good run down of the history of Turkey’s occupation – that by then I had heard and read several times, with very little variation.

I stared into his gorgeous eyes and thanked him. “But here’s what I know about law: that to make a good case, you have to understand the other side’s argument and you have to argue – very well – against them. So what is Turkey’s argument?”

Although he did admit that there had been attacks on Cypriot Muslims in the past, he told me that, “This is about politics – not about religion. In my opinion, they have no good argument.”


** The curly-haired lady at the comfy Starbucks that I frequented while in Nicosia, answered my, “And how are you?” with, “I’m always the same.”

I didn’t find that a good answer. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope tomorrow will be better!”

“No! You misunderstand me. I’m always the same because I’m always good.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear that you are always good! And yet I still hope that tomorrow will better – even better than today!”

We smiled at each other.



Not that I don't adore traveling with others but I will say that in Cyprus, I found good reasons for exploring alone.

Love,
Laura

Mercedes taxis waiting at a taxi stand in Paphos, Cyprus.

A DeSoto - very similar to the one in my taxi friend's pictures.

You, too, could go to Petra and get yourself a pretty sandbottle.

I didn't. But you could!

A breath-catching icon from a museum in Nicosia.

(Part of) a Cypriot tribute to liberty - near the "Green Line" in divided Nicosia.

Dear Family and Friends,

Whenever, wherever possible, I find myself a public bath and now, whenever, wherever includes tonight, in Nicosia.

Early this morning, with the help of a lady at the Cypriot Tourist Information Office, I located and made an evening appointment at the local, traditional hamam (known everywhere except for Cyprus as a Turkish bath). Later, as the sunset prayer - Nicosia has a Muslim side (literally) - echoed over the roofs of my hotel’s neighborhood, I pulled on comfy drawstring pants and zipped into my polar fleece. Shop lights flicked to life and cars switched on their headlights as I wended downtown on old town lanes. It was actually dark by the time I tugged open double-doors and stepped into an open room. Tipping my head back, I noted four gothic arches, which ably supported a large, cut-stone dome. A tubular curtain blocked the dome’s oculus and flowed to the bottom tips of a lighted crystal chandelier. Twisting my head side to side, I decided that I quite liked the look of curtained lounges that lined the square room.

An attendant greeted me and gave me a basket of essentials: 2 XXL towels, black rubber sandals, a curved metal bowl, a bottle of drinking water, and a package of panties.

Inside my curtained lounge, I wiggled into pillows, opened the package and caught myself wanting to simultaneously laugh aloud and gasp in horror. In another life, I would’ve been horrified by what the undies portended (my body, nude in front of strangers). And I must confess that I was horrified this time as well: by the ill-fitting, hospital gown material, g-string panties that were dangling from my fingers. Indeed, I spent the entire evening digging uncomfortable wedgies out while blowing raspberries in petty revenge on the signs that read, “You may not remove your spa undergarments.” Anyway, shock and laughter aside, nonetheless, off came my clothes, I dragged on that bloody g-string, wrapped myself in a towel, and popped out of the curtains to ask, “Now what?”

Down a hall and past some showers was a serious wooden door. I slowly pulled it open and stepped into a moderate-sized hamam. Under another, albeit less open dome, rested a heated, many-sided pedestal that could hold 10 ladies, daisy-style (heads in a circular center, feet sticking out like petals). There were also perhaps 6 side rooms, each with horizontal mental pipes leading to spigots suspended over marble bowls. Rectangular marble stones, long-side up, served as chairs in front of the spigots while long marble benches rested in each room. A sign outside the hamam entrance admonished visitors to be quiet; however, the 4 ladies already occupying the pedestal chatted in more-than-moderate tones.

Inside the hamam, marble floors and pedestals were warmed, nearly to the point of being too hot for prolonged touch. The air was steamy but not the point of resting heavily in one’s chest. I spread my towel on a side room bench as far as possible from the ladies and assumed my favorite position: spine flattened against warmed marble, feet flexed but resting at 45 degreeish angles, palms turned up (Savasana). I lay still, at first feeling the steam rest on and cloud my skin – but as time passed, I felt my pores open to moisture. I moved to a spigot and used my curved metal bowl to cup water and sluice around and down my arched neck. Next I moved to the center pedestal, unfurled my towel, and pressed my chin on stacked hands while pressing folded elbows, hipbones, and insteps into warm marble. Heat coiled slowly into my abdomen. I closed my eyes and found myself deep in the memory of my first public bath in Korea, awkwardly clothed and slightly wet. Absently, I chuckled and startled the noisy hamam ladies.

In Korea, public bathes are called jjim-jil-pangs. Jjimjilbangs are a little different than tonight’s hamam: you do not wear any clothing, they are large, modern utilitarian with large soaking pools, and are as much about gathering community as they are about beauty. Mothers, grandmothers, children, friends, gather to catch the latest on dit while scrubbing each other’s skin with loofahs. Adjumas (“ladies of a certain age”) in large sets of dull underwear scrub layers of skin off paying customers and end their scrub by striking body pressure points, causing slapping sounds echo off ceilings and floors.

Raised in nudity-conscious western society, my bathtub-less Korean apartment quickly drove me to fantasizing about filling and climbing into my washing machine. Drawn by the allure of the word bath, one weekend I took myself to the rumored biggest jjimjilbang in Asia. Clueless of how to behave or where to go, I took off my top layer of clothing, rolled up my jeans and stepped into a three-story, ballroom-sized hall filled with pools and hundreds of naked women. My clothed-self was met with squeaks of horror. After a bit of exploration, I dutifully shed my clothing, although I couldn’t say whether that day I got more stares walking around clothed or nude. Despite the discomfort of being fully exposed to darker, thinner women and feeling like the Sesame Street song (“One of these things is NOT like the other, One of these things is not quite the same!”), I immediately adored pools of hot water and taught myself to ignore the stares.

During my 2 years in Korea, I often went to jjimjilbangs; however, no matter how many times I went, jjimjilbangs never became a comfortable experience. One time, at an out-of-the-way mountain jjimjilbangs, I plopped myself down on a scrub table. The adjuma scrubbed my back, turned me over, and took one round-eyed look at my pubic hair before calling another friend (or was it 2?) to come have a look at the crazy foreigner. It was glaringly obvious that these women were just then learning that head hair color is indicative of body hair color. After a silent sigh and a second or so, I lifted my eyebrows, dug out my elementary Korean and managed to scatter my audience, except for my scrubber, who proceeded to give me the most thorough scrub of my life and teach me the words for such useful body parts as boob and pussy. Jjimjilbangs were never comfortable – but they were always a good experience!

In Saudi Arabia, I’m back to fantasizing about filling my washing machine with warm water. I really would if I could! However, for sporadic bath substitution, I discovered a hamam in Amman. Last February, I dragged my aunt and a friend to the hamam: we soaked in a little pool, we got scrubbed and massaged with olive oil, and enjoyed the experience very much – aside from a teeny incident in the steam room, which caused second degree burns on my face which for a time made me look like the ugly cousin of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer… and still haven’t altogether faded, one year later. But no matter, in April, my friend and I were ready to try again. So we sampled a true hamam in Istanbul (designed by the architect that designed The Blue Mosque): with characteristic marble, warmed pedestal, domes, and scrub. I didn’t burn any part of my face that time and they allowed us to keep our undies - so we considered our genuine Turkish bath a rousing success.

Tonight was my first hamam by myself. I relaxed without sleep, letting the heat seep up and in. Eventually, an attendant arrived to scrub me. I climbed onto a table covered with a piece of spongy plastic and the lady began scrubbing at my left, back shoulder blade, and, using large circles, scrubbed me all the way down – yes, displacing the horrid g-string as she went along. She rinsed me by centering the pour of perfectly hot water in the small of my back. Eventually the lady asked me to turn over, and I lay, eyes closed as she crossed my collar bone, Xed across my chest and worked her way down. This time the rinse started at my belly button and spilled all the way to my tips of my shoulders. Next, the lady repeated the process using a brush and soap. As with getting a massage in the West, being scrubbed is both an impersonal and very personal experience. It feels healthy, gratifying… and good.

After my scrub, once more I lay on the marble pedestal. Alone. Relaxed into the marble. I adored jjimjilbangs and would be happy to go back at any time… but it is worth seeking, whenever, wherever possible, quiet sensuality and ease with one’s body at a hamam.

With a surprising amount of post-bath euphoria,

Love,

Laura

Yes. These are real.

And, yes, I wore them.

And, oh YES, I will bring my own non-wedgie-giving undies next time!!!!

(Sorry Buster).

Dear Friends and Family,

February, in my memory, is dreary. Gray clouds sag with rain and the weather is unendingly cold to the point that one cannot remember warmth, let alone summer. With perfect clarity, I recall February carrying the feeling that I existed in a series of inescapable boxes. I used to awake in a box (my bedroom), I drove a box (my car), I commuted in a box (a bus), and I rode an elevator high up into another box (work). Somewhat detached, I’d put in my time at work and then I’d reverse though that same series of boxes. Boxes. Boxes. Again. And again. Not even Valentines Day nor my birthday could bring life to February. I used to seek windows, longing for the world beyond, and rain would splatter against glass in negative reply.

Where I live now, in the deserts of Saudi Arabia, rain is a miracle. “Al Hamd’Allah,” Arabs say. My girls earnestly describe sagging gray days as “beautiful” and they beg me to prop open the door of our windowless classroom so that studying English doesn’t interfere with their ability to enjoy the weather. I agree to their pleas because I, too, love rain. I love the rush of wind and subsequent smack of drops against glass. I savor rain’s unpredictability. Where I live now, believe it or not, a sunny day is everyday dreary.

Anyway, no matter where I live, that dreary February feeling of living in boxes returns year after year; the distance between February and June feels intolerable. Luckily, this February, school breaks between semesters, giving us a welcome disruption of the ordinary, gifting us with a holiday. Unluckily, official notice of our holiday caused me uncharacteristic distress. It was a week before I was able to work through the realization that I needed leave the confines of Saudi Arabia, I had to really relax but also that I would feel better once I had worked through my options for the future. My original plan was to spend a few days in Jordan before returning to Sakaka – but in a startling example of life not going to plan, yesterday I landed in Cyprus.

* * * *

Cyprus… Cyprus… for those of you going through the same process that I myself went though a few days ago: Cyprus is, as my friends pointed out, a guitar-shaped island, west of Lebanon and south of Turkey. Statistically, Cyprus is the 3^rd largest island in the Mediterranean and the 81^st largest island in the world. Not to say that Cyprus is actually large: it is only 149 miles end to end, and, at its widest, 62 miles across.

Personally, I associate Cyprus with Greece and Greek mythology and, indeed, legend has it that beauties in the form of Aphrodite and Adonis were Cypriot-born, as was Pygmalion. But the history of Cyprus goes back further than that: waters wells in western Cyprus are estimated to be 9,000 to 10,500 years old. Perhaps more interestingly, remains of an 8-month-old cat buried with its human have been discovered and dated around the same time period, pre-dating Egyptian civilization and (thank you, www.wikipedia.org), “pushes back the earliest known feline-human association.”

Besides being old, Cyprus offers a geopolitically strategic location that a host of brand-name conquering civilizations took advantage of: the Phoenicians, Mycenaeans, Hittites, Assyrians, Egyptians, Persians, Umayyads, Venetians, Byzantines and Ottomans along with the modern day Brits, Turks and Greeks. Richard the Lionheart captured and used the island as a launching point during the Third Crusade; after he rescued his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, his sister Queen Joan of Sicily, and one Berengaria of Navarre from the clutches of the then-Cypriot-ruler, the Lionheart went so far as to declare himself the King of Cyprus (why not?) and married Berengaria in Limassol with no less than “great pomp and splendor.” (Naturally.)

Modern Cypriot history seems to stem from misrule and the resulting poverty brought on by the Ottoman empire, which caused uprisings from both majority Greek Orthodox Christian and the minority Turkish (Sunni) Muslim communities. Cyprus was eventually ceded by the Ottomans to the Brits, who subsequently built still-intact strategic military bases positioned to overlook shipping interests in the Suez Canal. Cyprus became a modern Republic in 1960 but became complicated by a Turkish invasion and occupation in 1974, causing issues that have yet to be resolved to this day. According to every source that I’ve read, the Cypriot capital, Nicosia, remains the only divided capital in the world.

Not that I could summarize any of this when I landed in Cyprus. Instead, all that I could have told you upon landing is that Larnaca is a small, European port city. And that even in February, grass grows green and red geraniums open to the sun. As our bus pulled away from scrupulously modern and clean international airport, evidence of Cyprus being one of the most advanced economies in the world soon became obvious. Perhaps one of the only countries to grow its economy in the economical doldrums of 2009, brightly painted billboards (“Deloitte: Winning is a state of mind.”) were positioned beside the major smooth Cyprian highway, which was occupied by modern cars, and marked by the occasional prosperous-looking, smoke-stacked factory. Although the total population of the island is far less than 1,000,000, there were big-box stores and everything that I could see from my bus window bore immediate testimony to the success of governmental economic policies, which apparently shifted the Cypriot economy from agriculture to light manufacturing + services some 20 years ago. Cyprus joined the EU in 2004.

Landing in Larnaca mostly allowed me to escape February’s dreariness. I desperately wanted to throw back my head, spin in circles, and cry with joy. My series of “boxes” had been banished and instead of longing for the world, I was lucky to once again amongst it.

Love,

Laura