Non mettere in bocca! (aka: Don't put it in your mouth!)

Italians love babies. I mean, they really love babies. And since I have a baby, we are a hit anytime we are off base. Last month, I had the opportunity to visit Rome twice. And I think Maddie might just be the most loved baby in that historic city. The funny and endearing thing about Italians is that they have an opinion about everything when it comes to babies. There is no privacy. There is no belief like we have in America that the way you parent is your choice. They say it takes a village, and in Italy, they take that saying seriously. So here are my favorite baby moments from our trips!

- Lei è freddo. Translation: She's cold! Now first let me paint you a word picture. We're in Rome with about 3 million other people. It's in the 80s. Maddie is wearing a short sleeved onesie and no socks. And she's a chunker...the kind of baby that makes people count the rolls on her arms and thighs. And she does NOT like the heat. She turns red, gets a rash, and wails. I don't think she's ever been cold in her life. But over the course of those trips, I probably had a dozen random strangers stop me to point out that she wasn't wearing socks and must be FREEZING. They would tug her shade blanket down over her feet, rub her feet to show me how cold she was, or just repeat over and over, lei è freddo. There are now a bunch of italians that think I'm a terrible mother because I didn't put socks on my baby.

- Non mettere in bocca! Translation: Don't put it in your mouth! We took the train to and from Rome. Maddie was a hit on every trip. On our return to Naples, we sat across from an italian grandmother. She was very interested in Maddie, but spent most of the two hours scolding her (and us!) for putting things in her mouth...including her own fingers. She would reach across the seats, pull Maddie's hands out of her mouth, and say "Non mettere in bocca!" She was also completely appalled that I would let Maddie take toys that had fallen on the floor and put them back in her mouth. I went so far as to use google translate to communicate that germs are healthy for babies. It fell on deaf ears. She was also a bit upset that I wouldn't give Maddie water even though I told her that I was breastfeeding. In the end, after a very animated conversation with several other italian ladies sitting around us, they decided that Maddie was healthy but should probably be fed more italian food.

- The mystery of the nursing cover. On one of the train rides, I sat beside two very nice italian ladies. One spoke English and translated for the other as they coo'd over Maddie. When I took out my nursing cover, they stared. Finally, one of them asked me what I was using. I explained that the nursing cover was used in America for privacy and so that others would not be uncomfortable. They had never seen such a thing and spent a great deal of time discussing how prudish Americans are and how an italian would never cover while breastfeeding. I actually love this aspect of my current home! As a side note, they loved Maddie so much that before she left, one of the ladies told me that after meeting us, she now is thinking that she will have a baby this year :-)

- Indian photobomb. This favorite moment has less to do with italians and more to do with the eccentric moments of traveling. While we were in the Vatican, Maddie was hanging out on me in the carrier when an Indian couple walked up to us. They started touching her hair (which is red in the sunlight) and then asked for a photo. I'm not sure why we were an attraction...her red hair? Her very pale skin? The carrier? But somewhere on Indian facebook is a picture of Maddie and I in the Vatican!

- And finally, the Italian restauranteur. I think my favorite Italian on this trip was the restauranteur pictured below. This was a lovely lady who spent about 30 minutes with us while we waited to be seated for lunch. She loved Maddie and my nephew Jake and finally grabbed Maddie out of my arms to go show her around to all the other restaurant patrons.

Like in any culture, I have moments when things irritate me here in Italy. I roll my eyes or give a sigh and think about how much better things would be in some other place. Anyone who has lived overseas knows that this is just part of the cross-cultural experience. But these are the moments that make me love this life. And I am privileged to see this part of Italian culture!

Ikea + Italy = Sad Faced Emojis

Life has changed a bit more since my last post. I am dubbing this the year of life transitions. We now have TWO kids in the home! Nope, I didn't have a secret pregnancy. But we did welcome Marty's middle son Brenden into our home and into our lives as a forever change. So Maddie now has one of her big brothers living with us and we couldn't be more thrilled. It's a lot of change in a short period of time, but we wouldn't have it any other way. So all that to introduce today's topic...cue the Jaws theme...Ikea. I know, it's such a small innocent sounding word. And yet it strikes fear in the heart of any shopping-hater or crowd-o-phobe.

So last Saturday it was time to furnish Brenden's bedroom. Furniture costs at our base store are ridiculous, so we decided that the best move was to take a deep breath and embrace the Ikea experience. We loaded up our two cars (because you need a lot of space to bring home a dozen ikea boxes), said a quick prayer that Maddie wouldn't devolve halfway through the Ikea maze, and set out on our adventure. Little did we know that it would end up being only the first of two Ikea trips that day. And in an attempt to process my Ikea-related PTSD and find true healing, here are the highlights and lowlights from our trip(s).

1. First and foremost, Ikea and Italians don't mix. I blame this more on Ikea than on the Italians. A large multinational store should do a little more cultural contextualization and planning before moving into a new market. For anyone who has never visited an Ikea, their stores are planned out in a complex maze system that takes roughly 1-2 hours to navigate if you're not stopping to shop. There is a central corridor with arrows pointing you in the correct direction, sample rooms and furniture models on all sides, and hidden doors that can serve as cut-throughs if you knows where you're going. If everyone follows the arrows, you have organized chaos. If no one follows the arrows, you simply have chaos. Italians don't follow arrows. Or street signs. Or directions. Or commonly accepted crowd control rules. They also don't believe in stepping to the side of the walkway if they want to get into a deep and heated discussion with 20 of their closest friends. So you're left with large loud milling crowds of people wandering in no consistent direction and blocking any means of navigating the store in the manner it was intended.

2. We have conquered the yellow tags! This is a big win for our family. When we shopped at Ikea upon arrival in Italy, we had to spend some time learning their tagging system. We figured out that red tagged items meant you could pick up your items yourself in the warehouse. All we could gather about the yellow tags was that we had to stand in line and talk to someone in that particular department. We had no idea what happened after. So we only purchased red tag items. This time, we realized that all of the mattresses were yellow tagged, and since Brenden needed a bed, we had no choice. It was time to figure out the yellow tags. So we stood in line and after much pointing and use of google translate, we got a nicely printed paper. We had no idea what to do with the paper, but luckily we ran into an American couple who explained that we simply had to pay downstairs for the items on the paper and then go to the depot to get our purchase. Yellow tags, conquered!

3. I need to learn some Italian. I (wrongly) assumed that at an international store like Ikea, there would be at least a little English capability with the customer service staff who help with the aforementioned yellow tags. I actually really enjoy cross-cultural communication in most aspects of life (I am an expert chicken clucker when ordering food while traveling), but in a high stress environment like Ikea when there are a dozen people waiting in line behind me, my inability to communicate becomes a problem. I fully realize that it's my problem and not theirs, hence my need to learn some Italian. Thank goodness for google translate...a beautiful useful crutch for this busy mamma who hasn't had time to study Italian since Maddie's birth!

4. Cute babies are universally able to transcend the language-cultural barriers. While standing in line for the yellow tag, I was pushing Maddie back and forth in the stroller trying to keep her asleep. I've found that using a white noise app on my phone and tucking the phone into the stroller helps her sleep through pretty much anything. So as I rocked her back and forth, the couple in front of me started looking around and with my limited Italian, I realized they were trying to figure out why they were hearing an odd noise. So using my excellent cross-cultural communication charades skills, I explained the white noise app. Then of course they wanted to see the baby (because Italians love babies!), and I soon had a whole cluster of Italians cooing at Maddie and saying "bella." I seriously think that with enough time in Italy, she will think her name actually is Bella.

5. Sadly and as anyone who is an Ikea shopper will tell you, assemble yourself can sometimes mean assemble-yourself-until-you-realize-a-piece-is-missing. And so after Marty and Brenden brilliantly packed all of our boxes into the cars and we made it home, carried the boxes up the stair and began assembling furniture, we realized that yes, we were missing the central support leg for the bed. To be fair to Ikea, apparently it doesn't always come with the bed and you have to buy it separately. But I feel like that could have been mentioned when we were getting the other pieces. Saturday also happened to be our once a month parents night out where our daycare opens on a Saturday evening so parents can have a date. So you guessed it, Marty and I spent our date night going back to Ikea for the missing leg. 1.5 hours later we finally staggered away from Ikea with our $5 support leg. Because...and this brings me to item #6...

6. Who knew that the only time Ikea in Italy is more crowded than a Saturday afternoon is on a Saturday at 7pm! Apparently all of Naples likes to hang out in the corridor of Ikea on a Saturday evening.

So a little the worse for wear and still occasionally having flashbacks, we have conquered Ikea in Italy.

Jet Setting Mommy (aka: 6 flights with a 4-month old!)

Once again, life got busy and blogging went into a deep deep drawer. But I'm determined to find ways of self expression during this journey of motherhood, so today while Maddie is (hopefully) happily playing at daycare, I am taking a breath and sitting down to write.

Our most recent adventure included a little bit of Italy, a little bit of Germany, and a lot of the good old USA. We just returned from almost 3 weeks in the states enjoying some much needed family time and a lot of Maddie introductions. Growing up overseas, I know that one of the most painful aspects of living internationally is being far from family and friends. As a new mom, this fact is particularly difficult since I want Maddie to know and love those people that I know and love. In light of that, Marty and I are committed to at least Maddie and I getting back home a couple times a year during our stay in Italy. And so, a few months ago I found myself purchasing plane tickets to visit my mother-in-law in Virginia and my own family in Orlando. I'm a fairly self-assured traveler, but traveling with a baby is a whole new ball of wax (shout out to my parents who flew all over the world with FOUR children!). 6 flights, amazing family time, and way too much American food later, here are my top ten observations from my first solo travel with baby:

1. Babies experience the same bubble-guts as adults during airplane travel. This results in stinky explosions the likes of a sewer plant meltdown. Thank goodness for travel blogs that recommended bringing one diaper per hour and multiple changes of clothes. All were needed. On that note, changing an explosive diaper in an airplane bathroom requires the skills of a contortionist and the balance of a gymnast.

2. People are really nice to moms traveling alone with a baby. Which made me feel intense guilt for the many mean things I have thought during my many travels (please Lord don't let me be sitting by that mom with her baby! why can't those parents make their child stop crying? can't they make airplanes with no children allowed?). Lord forgive me. People were actually approaching me on the plane to tell me that they were sitting in row x seat x and if I needed any help just come get them!

3. I have an amazing baby. She was the only baby on our long haul (9 hours 40 minutes!) flight to the states and when we disembarked, people stopped me to say they hadn't even known there was a baby on the plane.

4. American food is good. I mean, really good. I'm not sure who gained more weight during our trip, Maddie or me. But we both definitely came back slightly pudgier than when we left.

5. I miss family. I love living overseas, but my time spent with my mother-in-law and my family was water for my soul. I loved watching them love on Maddie. I loved watching her get to know them. I loved conversations with people who KNOW me. I loved the fact that they encourage me as a new mom but also know that I am still the person I was before becoming a mom. Honestly, I miss my family.

6. If you have to do layovers with a baby, do them in Germany. I flew through Munich on the way, and Frankfurt on the way back. All is efficient. Airport and airline staff are helpful. Everything is clean. Most things are on time. Two thumbs up, Germany.

7. Italy is the exact opposite. Nothing is efficient. No one is helpful. Nothing is clean. Nothing is on time. I love living in Italy, but it doesn't get two thumbs up right now. After 24 hours traveling back, the baggage handlers decided not to unload the luggage onto the conveyor belt in Naples. They just didn't do it. Marty and I had decided that I would hand off Maddie to him outside security (I had to get special permission from the Italian head of security to do it) and I would go back inside and wait for the luggage. Well an hour later, Maddie was hollering at the top of her lungs for food and I was stuck inside under strict instructions from security that I couldn't leave or else they would send all my things back to Germany. I finally just decided to buck the rules in desperation and went out to my hungry baby. It took 2 more hours for the luggage to come out and for me to get permission to have my bags released to me. All this after 24 hours of travel and 3 flights. Two thumbs down, Italy.

8. Baby jet lag is real, folks. Maddie has been a champ, but her poor brain doesn't know night from day. And this tired mamma has decided that jet lag in mom and baby is a very unfortunate combination.

9. Baby bassinets on airplanes are awesome, except when your baby decides she doesn't like them and only wants to be held. For any of you who travel, Lufthansa and some other airlines offer bulkhead seats with an attached bassinet. The bulkhead seat is awesome regardless, as it affords some extra space. The bassinet is also awesome if you have a baby who is willing to sleep in it without hollering.

10. Travel with a baby is hard. Everything aches after many many hours of holding the baby and lugging way (way!) too much stuff through the airport. On a side note, the Frankfurt airport is way too big for transit with a baby. When the sign says 18 minutes walk from one gate to the other, it's just depressing. I also decided that I will never travel alone with that much carry-on stuff again. Next time I'm paying for an extra suitcase.

But guess what, even with the aches and pains and fatigue and stress, it's so worth it. And so on June 27th I'll do it all over again, heading to the states for some family time and a work conference. From what I hear, it's harder the older Maddie gets. But so worth it!

Motherhood (or a lifetime without sleep)

It's been far too long since I pulled up this blog. The reason? Motherhood. As I think back on the life journey whose moments are captured in this blog...from Kuwait to DC to marriage to Virginia Beach to Italy, I am amazed at the twists and turns that led to this beautiful moment in time. Marty and I have a daughter! And she is amazing. So this blog is now a blend of life. It is mommyhood with its ups and downs. It is Italian living and European adventures. It is self discovery as I take on the biggest challenge of my life: finding a way to be wife, mommy, employee and still myself. It is adventures that now include a beautiful squirmy delightful little girl. It is getting up in the middle of the night because Maddie May is sick and my sleep is secondary to her cries. It is lying in a hospital bed moaning in pain during that messy horrific incredible experience of childbirth. It is filling up my phone with pictures of our daughter as we explore the French Alps. It is learning to parent with Marty and feeling my heart fill with joy as he dances around the living room holding Maddie and singing Piano Man. It is the pain of separation as I drop her off at daycare so I can resume managing the global operations of a nonprofit literacy organization. It is fighting the guilt that I'm not that perfect mom who already has the baby book filled in with special moments and keepsakes (at least I'm keeping the keepsakes even if they're just being thrown in a pink box). I'm not just Global Nomad Gal now. I'm a whole bunch of other things and this is life. And I wouldn't trade it for the world...although in my crazy moments I might trade just a smidge of it for a good night's sleep.

This blog is one way that I still find the "me" in the midst of all my other roles. It is my creative outlet. It is the clickety clack of the keyboard while the baby monitor hums with the sound of white noise and sleeping baby grunts. It allows me to take a moment to remember...to think of adventures lived and special moments to memorialize. Writing allows me to share stories with those that I just can't always find the time to connect with in this new crazy life. In mommyhood, I find that time takes on a strange pace. It races by during Maddie's happy moments. And it slows to a crawl on sick days and cranky days and gassy days. There aren't enough minutes in the day to do all that I would like to do. I want to be the perfect mom. I imagine most moms want to be perfect. And we set for ourselves an impossible goal. I will never be perfect. I'll never have enough tummy times for Maddie. I'll shout to the rooftops that I got her into a sleep routine and she's logging 8-hour chunks at night, and then she'll get hit with a bug and she'll wake up more times than when she was a newborn. I'll get her dressed in the perfect outfit and time it perfectly for that morning spit-up. And then I'll realize that all of the clothes that still fit her are in the wash and I'll take her to daycare in PJs. I'll plan the perfect schedule to have dinner ready when Marty comes home and then be inundated with work and forget to thaw the chicken. I'll make grand plans to learn Italian and take music lessons and then I'll cancel everything because you know what? Maddie and Marty are more important. But I also know that there is still an entire life left to live. And there will be time. But for this moment, family is my adventure. And I'm lucky enough to be living my family adventure in Italy. We get to raise our daughter in a place where her 9 week birthday was celebrated at a chalet near Mont Blanc. I got to drown the sorrows of hearing her first cough in baguette and French chocolate. She got to be baptized by a British Anglican priest in a beautiful old church in Naples, surrounded by family and people from a multitude of nationalities. She gets to hear English and French and Italian and Spanish every day as she learns to speak. She got to ride a train to Rome with mommy and daddy and Nana when she was only three weeks old. She was nursed sitting on a bench in the Pantheon. And on the side of the road in Northern Italy. And in a charming little restaurant in France. These are the moments to treasure.

So as I get back on track with my favorite creative outlet, I hope to share these moments. I don't want to stop being Global Nomad Gal. But now I get to be a Global Nomad Mom raising a new little global nomad girl, and that's pretty awesome.

Napoli Sundays

This week has been primarily focused on settling in...and by that, I mean that Marty has been bravely assembling furniture while I unpack box after box (after box after box). We're finally making a dent in the piles of cardboard. And the best part- we finished the nursery! And I love it. The living room is still a work in progress. The 8 "some assembly required" bookshelves still sit un-assembled in a corner, surrounded by the 500 lbs of books that we brought with us. The bedroom is sparse at best. And all my beautiful wall hangings lie piled in the guest bedroom. We're saving those for last, ostensibly because you should always wait to decorate until all of the furniture is assembled. But mainly because our walls are plaster and Marty needs time to prepare his heart for the arduous task of putting up anything on the walls. But our apartment is starting to feel like a home and we finally feel a bit more ready for this baby to arrive.

We haven't had too many Italian adventures this week, but Sundays are our Napoli day since we've decided to attend a church in the city. This means that every Sunday finds us driving 45 minutes from our home to downtown Naples, where the beautiful Christ Church Naples is located. The church was built in 1863 and is the largest Anglican church in Italy (although like any non-Catholic church in this beautiful country, large takes on a different meaning with about 35 attendees). We've really enjoyed it thus far, and are settling into the slightly different "feel" of the Church of England versus our Rwandan-affiliated churches back home.

One of my favorite parts of Napoli Sundays is the drive. We've been experimenting with different routes into the city. Our biggest issue? Cobblestone streets. It doesn't sound like a major problem, but driving over those paths makes for a bone jarring teeth clacking labor inducing trip. So our new goal is not to find the quickest path or the shortest path, it is to find the path with the least cobblestone. Potholes are acceptable...otherwise we wouldn't be able to drive anywhere. But smooth roads are the goal. Today was fairly successful, although I did almost get into my first Napoli accident. As we learn our way around, we've found that me driving and Marty navigating is the best process (since I have zero sense of direction). So Marty puts a lot of faith in me as I navigate the beautiful chaos of these roads (my Kuwaiti driving experience comes in handy here!). In our area orientation, we received several hours of lecture on how to drive here...I like to call the course "the many ways to die in Naples." But a lecture and practical application are two different things, and the only way to learn is to try! I've done a pretty good job if I do say so myself, but today I got caught between two vehicles...one trying to merge off the freeway from the middle lane, and one trying to merge into the middle lane from the on ramp. Where was I? In the right hand lane exactly where I belonged, but we still almost went crunch. Luckily Marty's sharp intake of breath and the view of two vehicles inches from our car saved us from our first mishap. Success! So this week marks the start of our third full week here. It already feels a bit like home. I'm eager to continue exploring and to start learning Italian, but as Marty wisely reminds me, we can't do it all at once especially this close to baby time. Step by step!

Introducing the New Adventure: Welcome to Napoli

After going dark on this site for the past 3 years, it's time to come back online. Welcome back to my blog! You'll probably notice a few changes if you used to follow my adventures, namely that the location has switched from Kuwait to Naples, Italy. Oh and I'm married, living overseas as a Navy dependent, and...surprise! 8 months pregnant. I've also left the counseling field, and have a job that I love managing all of the international work for a global education nonprofit. And last but certainly not least, Marty (husband), baby and I were accompanied overseas by our loyal collie, Aiya. So this blog will hopefully be a renewed look into life overseas, with all of its adventures, misunderstandings, culture shock, language learning and surprises...just from a slightly different perspective than what I was writing a few years ago. So let's jump right in...

We landed in Italy 9 days ago. This move overseas was so much different than past moves. I've always traveled and moved solo. This time it was with an (awesome) husband, a dog, a bun in the oven, and a whole lot of help from the US Navy. When we found out that we were going to be stationed in Italy, I got a quick lesson in moving with the military. It's a whole different ball of wax. No longer was I packing 7 50lb suitcases and hopping on a flight. Nope. This time, we had movers. And when I say movers, I mean we had THREE different packing experiences. The Navy allows us to put some of our stuff in storage, ship some of our stuff in an express (air) shipment, and ship everything else on a cargo ship. Sounds great, right? And it is. Except, what needs to happen before the movers arrive? Well, you have to sort your stuff into these three different categories. All your stuff. Every single item in your house. And don't forget, there is a 4th category: whatever is going into the 4 70lb suitcases that you will live out of during transition and that will go on the plane with you. So June and July were a time of organized chaos as Marty and I sorted and sorted and sorted. And then the storage people came. Followed by the express shipment people. And finally, the cargo shipment. And then we said goodbye to our first house as a married couple, packed up the cars and the suitcases and the dog, and spent 8 weeks visiting family, traveling up and down the eastern seaboard, sleeping in more hotels than I can count, and attending a 6-week schooling for Marty. And then the day finally came when we boarded that military flight for Italy and began our new lives. And I can say this with certainty...moving overseas solo is fun and adventurous. But moving overseas married brings a whole different level of joy and fun and I wouldn't trade it for the world!

Since most of this initial post is catch-up, I thought it would be fun to post one Napoli (Italian for Naples) adventure story, so here goes. Our first week in Naples was primarily spent in an orientation program, learning about the culture, doing paperwork (lots and lots of paperwork...it's the military way!), buying a car, and getting settled into our apartment. But today we decided to venture into downtown Naples. We visited the area back in June and did some exploring in a rental car, but today we decided that it would be smart to try out public transportation so that we could see what works for visiting family and friends when they are in town. Being 8 months pregnant, we didn't want to be too overeager so we decided on one destination: Christmas Alley. It's a year-round market street in Naples that sells absolutely stunning nativity scenes. We had done some research into how to get into Naples, so we put on our walking shoes and headed off. It's important to note that the area where we live is fairly isolated, so there is one bus that goes by roughly once an hour. That bus takes you to a train station about 10 minutes away. Then you can train into the main Naples station and catch the metro from there to other parts of the city. Simple, right? But this is overseas living, so it's never simple! So in 10 simple steps, here is a recap of our day:

1. Drive from our apartment to the espresso shop where they sell public transportation tickets. Decide (wisely as it would later turn out) to spend more on the 140 minute tickets instead of the 60 minute validity tickets. Leave the espresso shop feeling very accomplished, tickets in hand.

2. Park near the gate, walk through the roundabout, and to the bus stop across the street. Realizing there is no bench, perch on the edge of a random box sitting in the stop and try not to touch anything since the entire street is covered in trash. Avoid swarms of bees lurking around said trash. Look up expectantly at every vehicle approaching since you expect the bus to arrive momentarily according to the schedule.

3. One hour later, sweaty and stinky, decide that it is entirely possible that the bus will never come. Decide with Marty that we wouldn't want our visitors to go through this, so we'll just drive them to the train if they want to go into town without us. Decide that we should learn how to drive to the train so that we can be ready for visitors. Walk back toward housing, get car, and successfully drive to the train station. Feeling very accomplished as we find a parking lot and make our way into the station!

4. Find the correct station track and sit down. Realize that we are now 1.5 hours into our adventure and have only made it 10 minutes from home. Sigh with 8-month pregnancy fatigue but decide to power on. Wait expectantly for the train that is due in 5 minutes.

5. 25 minute later, hear multiple announcements in Italian that seem to indicate that various trains that might or might not be ours might be late. Start asking some very kind Italians for guidance, and realize that yes, the train is late. After 40 minutes of waiting, the train arrives and we are off to Naples!

6. After 2+ hours in transit, we make it to Naples. This pregnant lady is starving, so instead of catching the metro to the Christmas Alley stop, we exit the central station and stumble upon a Kabob shop. Excitement ensues! Giant sandwiches in hand, we decide to hoof it to our destination instead of going back to the metro. Thank God I am married and my man is good with directions. 20-something minutes later (traveling at a snail's pace due to the aforementioned pregnant me), we made it. And it was so cool!

7. Walk through Christmas Alley oohing and ahhing at the exquisite creations. Make our first Napoli purchase- a very cool ceramic pasta measuring tool. End up at a gelato restaurant and thoroughly enjoy a Nutella gelato cone.

8. Overcome by fatigue, we head back to the closest metro station. Unfortunately, we had to climb a mountain to get there. But we made it, easily got on the correct metro, and rode it to the central Naples station so that we could transfer to our train back to the suburbs. Unfortunately, our orientation did not include instructions on how to get back home. So with phones in hand, we did some quick research, decided we knew which train to board, and headed in that direction. We found a train bound for our town, got on, and quickly realized that this was a very different looking train (individual compartments). After walking the entire length of the train, we saw an official looking dude and asked him for help. It turns out that we were not on the local train, so we quickly exited stage left with 2 minutes to spare before the train took off.

9. Stopping for more directions, we were pointed toward the correct train. And miracle of all miracles, it all went smoothly! We got on the train, successfully arrived at our stop, and easily drove back home.

10. Enter house, collapse on couch, don't move for next 2 hours. Decide that any other public transportation trips will wait until after this baby arrives.

And here are a few photos from today's Napoli adventure...

The one-year anniversary

Last night I realized that in just a few short weeks, I will mark the one year anniversary of my departure from Kuwait. Strange. Maybe I'll celebrate with some good old fashioned hummus and pita bread. And on the tail end of this realization was the reminder that my blogging has been virtually non-existent over the past six months. I have realized that life in America is hectic. It is fast-paced. And it is so cluttered with electronics. Between my work computer, laptop, ipad, kindle, and blackberry, by the time I lay down to sleep at night my eyes have become just the luminescent reflection of pixels. I know that's not a very good excuse for the lack of blogging, but it sounds better than "I just didn't feel inspired."


Much of my writing comes from a place of emotion, whether it is anger or sadness or frustration or excitement. My inspiration is the feeling that if I don't write out my thoughts, I'll implode. And so, since my return from Kuwait, I have felt less inspiration. I guess that's a good thing. It shows a renewed balance in my emotions (a far cry from the angry exhausted woman who boarded that last flight from Kuwait almost a year ago).

It has been an incredible year, full of so many blessings. Anytime I speak of Kuwait, or think about Kuwait, or write about Kuwait, or read about Kuwait, I feel this odd mix of relief and angst. Many have asked me if I would do it all again. If knowing what those 2 years and 3 months would do to me, I would change my mind and skip that particular "adventure." My answer is usually no, although there is often a short pause of consideration before the answer. Kuwait was my grand adventure (not my only adventure, but certainly a big one!). It was also my desert experience. Yet I wonder if it is possible to enjoy God's incredible blessings to the same extent if they do not come at a time when the desert has parched all from your soul? America is not perfect, and already I am feeling the antsy pull of the nomadic life. And yet this past year has been full. After waiting for several months, God provided the perfect job...one that allows me to travel and get out some of that angsty nomadicism so that I can more fully enjoy my everyday life in DC. I have journeyed back into the church and the community of believers, finding a very solid place in a new theological realm (Anglicanism). God has brought me an amazing man and I look forward with anticipation to the future. There is much that is good on this side of a desert.

And so. I continue this journey into the unknown. Confident. Believing that despite the odd twists and turns, the desert experiences, the disappointments, the anger that still lurks in dark corners of my soul when I think of Kuwait, despite all this. God is good, and greatly to be praised.

Everybody's Broken

I've never been a big Bon Jovi fan, but I saw the music video for this song posted on a friend's facebook wall this morning and I fell in love with the conclusion: everybody's broken. Here are the lyrics...

"Everybody's Broken"

Welcome to the party
Come on in and disappear
You're feeling like a stranger
But all your friends are here
Little lines and cracks
Around your eyes and mouth
Something's trying to get in
Something's trying to get out

It's ok, to be a little broken
Everybody's broken, in this life
It's ok, to feel a little broken
Everybody's broken, your alright
It's just life

Step into the deep end
Make yourself at home
When you wonder why your breathing
Know your not alone
It's so hard to believe
It's easier to doubt
You're trying to hold in
But your dying to scream out

It's ok to be a little broken
Everybody's broken

In this life
It's ok to feel a little broken
Everybody's broken, your alright
It's alright, it's just life

Take a look around
Tell me what you see
Is who you think you are
Who you want to be

It's ok, to be a little broken
Everybody's broken, in this life
It's ok, to feel a little broken
Everybody's broken, your alright
Just keep on going
Eyes wide open
Everybody's broken

As a counselor, my job has been to sit with people in their brokenness. And in turn, friends have sat with me in my brokenness. The lyrics say, "Take a look around, Tell me what you see, Is who you think you are, Who you want to be." As an idealist, I find myself constantly disappointed by the world. I believe that our world was created to be this perfect beautiful place, full of shalom (peace). And then that shalom was broken, and the world we live in is not the way it was supposed to be. We are all broken. And so we navigate this life in our brokenness, but too often we try to caulk the cracks and tightly shut our eyes, blinding ourselves to the questions and the pain and the injustice that surrounds us. But what if we decided that it's ok to feel a little broken. What if we chose to live out of that brokenness; to open our eyes and acknowledge that in our brokenness and in our pain is the recipe for the kind of compassion that can change the world.

On Politics: Compassionate Conservatism

So now that I live in DC, politics is of course front and center in daily life. The upcoming 2012 elections are about to turn this place into a frenzy of finger pointing and jabs and uncomfortable conversations. I was in DC for the 2004 elections, and it wasn't pretty. My own political views have changed over the past few years, and I now wait for the upcoming melee standing on a different side of the fence. But my core beliefs are the same, and I like to think that although I choose one political party (how I long for a viable third party!!), it does not mean that I cannot see the good - and the bad - on both sides of the aisle.

Assuming I don't get too many hateful comments from this post, I hope to continue blogging my observations about this race over the next year...but here is my first tentative tiptoe into the subject, based on an evening of simmering thoughts after reading this article and several other recent articles on compassionate conservatism. What is particularly striking to me is Perry's strong repudiation of this particular brand of republicanism. This was Bush's brand, and I understand Perry's desire to distance himself from that. Perry hopes to make the federal government inconsequential (his words, not mine). Now I am not saying that the current state of the federal government, and its spending in particular, is ideal. Far from it. But it saddens me that the current front-runner for the Republicans (or at least, one of the front-runners), is turning his back on one of the only parts of recent Republican politics that I can stomach. Bush was many things, and there are many things done by his administration that I cannot stand. And before anyone gets up in arms, I will readily admit that I voted for him (twice!). By the end of his time in office, I was no longer a fan. I was ready for something different. But I will be the first to say that there are several things about Bush that I admire. I do believe that he is a good man, a President who strongly believed that what he was doing was best for his people. Lest you forget, he presided over the worst terrorist attack on American soil. And in those days after September 11th, we all - Republicans and Democrats and Independents and others - stood together in solidarity as we watched our president speak to the nation. But for me, what I appreciated most about Bush was that he wasn't just a conservative, he was a compassionate conservative. Bush presided over the biggest and most radical spending on HIV/AIDS prevention and medication in our history (targeted toward Africa and the Caribbean). I think that much of his brand of conservatism was derailed by 9/11 and lost somewhere in the great war machine...but I also would dare to guess (based on Bush's rhetoric surrounding the wars) that even his decisions in that arena were somewhat motivated by the ideals surrounding this political view - ideals of freedom and justice. I do not believe it was done right, and I certainly believe that many failures of those wars can be blamed at least in part on other aspects of the administration (including faulty intelligence). But I digress...

Back to Perry and his repudiation of compassionate conservatism. As a moderate (or even sometimes liberal) Christian, I can get behind conservatism on some levels. But I also spent many years living in a socialist country (gasp! socialism?!). I believe that socialism is far from a perfect system, but I also believe that as a Christian, it is at least a step closer to what the Bible describes of Christ's followers in the first church. I believe in helping those less fortunate- through our churches and our nonprofits and yes, our government. Is it a flawed system? Absolutely. But because it is flawed, does that mean we stop trying? Absolutely not. And so I cannot get behind Perry, or any other Republican who seeks to make the federal government inconsequential. Would I rather get a bigger paycheck every two weeks because I am paying less taxes? Of course. Would I rather that the taxes that I do pay go toward items of significance, not an astronomical debt, bureaucratic drivel and unending wars? Naturally. Do I believe that huge changes need to be made in how our federal government operates? Yes. But I am not willing to sacrifice the idea of compassion to accomplish all that. Call me an idealist, but I think we can hope for something better.

*Coming soon: I am working on a post about Women and Christianity. I've been working on it for a while, and have blogged about this before. So hopefully I'll get a bit of inspiration and will publish it soon to the blog!

On women, feminism, christianity and the world

This post has been percolating in my mind for quite a while. I've written on this issue in prior blogs, but it's been quite some time since I allowed the thoughts free reign where others can read. Since coming back to the US, the issue of women has been heavy on my heart, particularly as the topic pertains to my faith and world issues. A couple weeks ago, the english-language Kuwait newspaper posted another front page article about an abused domestic worker seeking shelter at her embassy (here). This is one horrifying story in an endless stream of publicized atrocities. This one story reflects the lives of countless other women who suffer silently behind bolted doors. This week, the story of the nanny living in the Ghadafi home shocked CNN readers around the world- the image of her burned head and body causing an outpouring of response. Our news is so flooded with stories of horror, sometimes it feels easier to just freeze out the world. But I am convinced that as humans, as spiritual beings, and for myself as a woman, I must persist in my indignation. I must be horrified by every story. I must cringe and cry and scream for justice even when it feels like nothing has changed, nothing will change, and no one can really do anything to stop it. I believe in being informed, even when that information makes us weep at the depravity of the world.

And so I come to the broader topic of women...a topic that is fraught with emotion and politics and theology and the age old battle of the genders. As a Christian, it's not considered acceptable to call oneself a feminist (at least that is the common perception, although not applicable to all within the faith). There are times where I have carried the label proudly. There are other times when I have struggled to find an alternate word, an alternate label that will have less tendency to send people around me running for the hills. I wrote a post on feminism several years ago (in a long abandoned blog). You can read it here. I think that age, experience, and a lot of travel in between the writing of that post and today have perhaps nuanced my opinions on this matter, but it is still a good foundational commentary on why I still call myself a feminist in Christian circles.

Living in the Middle East for two years, these issues were a part of daily life. Whereas the question of women's rights has become more subtle in America, it hovered like a giant pink elephant sulking in the corner during my time in the Arab world. I saw it on the faces of women at the shelter where I volunteered- abused domestic workers who had fled from physical, emotional and sexual abuse at the hands of their employers. I saw it in the culture, the head coverings, the difficulty that many female students faced if they wanted to pursue their studies outside the country, the stories of abuse when women are seen as property, and my own experience of harassment in public. I also saw it in the triumph and excitement as four women were elected as members of parliament- the first women in Kuwait to be elected as MPs. In the Middle East, the issue of women is still a whisper...there are a few who dare to speak loudly, but they are the exception.

In coming back to America, my first few weeks were filled with the wonder of being able to walk around my neighborhood at night without whistles and yells and cars following me. I went shopping and actually bought clothes that were sleeveless and lower-cut. I looked men in the eyes and didn't worry that the eye contact would lead to problems later. I was back in the land of equality! And then I started to notice the subtleties of gender, especially in Christian circles. I started looking for a church, and as I read through their sets of beliefs, I stumbled across items like this:

Jesus is the Shepherd of his Church and he has called, qualified, and gifted certain men to imitate Him in the delegated task of caring, guiding, and teaching His people.

and this:

Women play a vital role in the life of the church, but in keeping with God’s created design they are not permitted “to teach or to exercise authority over a man” (1 Timothy 2:12 ESV). Leadership in the church is male.

(Note that aside from this particular issue, the church whose beliefs include these statements is a wonderful community of Christ-followers and might become my church home, if I can reconcile this particular road block.)

I started visiting churches, and noticed how I could go an entire service and not see a woman on stage. Women could run the child care, could sometimes be part of the worship band (although rarely the leader), could be commissioned as a missionary; but at no point did a woman stand up to lead a part of the service. It is subtle, but it is there. When I go up to receive communion, I receive it from a man. There's nothing wrong with that, but am I really supposed to believe that if a woman handed me the bread and the cup in remembrance of Christ, it would be a sin? I cannot believe that. In Christian circles, we still live in a man's world. And if what we practice at home (read: in the church) is a message of inequality and starkly separated gender roles, then how can we presume to be the hands and feet of Jesus to a world full of women who have been neglected and abused, simply because they are women?

I do not presume to have an answer for all my questions. I wish there was a simple way to reconcile christianity and my questions about femininity. I see a stark contrast between the American church and much of the worldwide church. In America, I see men "leading" because they can. They have the power. In the worldwide church, I see women standing in the gap- leading in so many places where there are simply no men qualified to lead. I see women going into the world by the thousands- stepping out in faith to be the hands and feet and mouth of the church. I see women who are amongst the wisest and smartest theologians I have ever met, but who cannot stand up within a non-liberal evangelical church and teach what God has shown them. And for myself, a woman who is not gifted in children's ministry, I find myself wanting to participate in a church but having no easy outlet for my giftings of leadership and teaching.

Simply writing these thoughts has started my mind spinning...but I think this post is already long enough. Please feel free to comment, and perhaps that will get me working on a follow-up post. This is simply an introduction to my questions and struggles as they pertain to this issue. And remember, if you comment, be kind! I am not trying to start a gender war...I just think these are questions that need to be talked about. Out loud. In the context of our faith.

Color in the Soul

I've abandoned this blog for far too long. The past 4 months have been a time of transition, change, goodbyes, new friendships, reconnecting with old friends and learning how to live all over again in the beautiful city of Washington, DC. I'm not even sure how to go about encapsulating all the ups and downs since I left Kuwait. But here goes, in the hopes that I can start blogging again regularly, although from a very different place in life...

Leaving on a jet plane: After shipping off about 500lbs of personal stuff, surviving the worst dust storm in 20 years (that hit the night before the movers came to pack my stuff, resulting in about 10lbs of Kuwaiti dust making the journey to DC), and the bittersweet tears of goodbye, it was finally time to board my last plane out of Kuwait. There was a slight glitch when the airport went on lockdown due to a security threat, but once the sirens stopped, we were allowed to board and I soared off to a new life.

Living the nomad's life: For the first two weeks after flying back to the states, I set some traveling records visiting Portland, Montana, Orlando and finally DC. My personal items from Kuwait were shipped in 2 man-sized boxes to my new place in DC, and my amazing parents helped me prep about 300lbs of books to mail from Orlando to DC. In mid-April, I finally made it to my new home.

Unemployment (aka: hours spent job hunting online, setting up life in America, going to interviews, re-learning the public transportation system, watching all 6 seasons of Bones, and enjoying a glass of red wine with dinner): I spent mid-April to mid-July job hunting. After spending way too many hours trying to find a suit that fits, the interviews began. Although it took longer to find the right job than I had thought, I am profoundly grateful for the number of interviews and offers received over those 3 months, considering the current economic climate. I felt strongly that God had the perfect job for me, so despite the dwindling savings, I held out for the right offer. This time of unemployment was a much needed opportunity to decompress, process my experiences, and learn that when the cashier talks to me and asks me about my day, that's just normal American friendliness. In some ways, culture shock was much easier than I had thought, but it still sometimes sneaks up on me. My new apartment and fantastically amazing roommate (who I met in Kuwait!) made the transition back to DC so much easier.

Employment (!!!!): Last week I was offered and accepted my dream job. So as of this blog post, I am the newest Program Officer for the International Reading Association's Global Operations Unit. I will be tasked with coordinating international affiliates in the hope of increasing literacy rates around the world. I'm absolutely thrilled to have found something that so perfectly incorporates my interest in nonprofit and education. And as an added absolutely incredible bonus, my job includes some international travel...an aspect that breathed new life into me after fearing that my nomadic days were at an end.

And so...there is most definitely life post-Kuwait. I find myself at times "homesick" for the Middle East, remembering the fun experiences, crazed driving, amazing food, and wonderful friends. But as some of you have heard me say, I also believe that Kuwait has the ability to suck the color out of your soul. And it wasn't until I had been back in America for a couple of months that I began to see just how true that was for me. Even as I experience moments where I miss the life I was able to lead over there, I find that color is slowly starting to seep back into my soul. DC is an amazing place full of so many opportunities to just live. From Jazz concerts in the Sculpture Gardens to dinners with friends to finding a new church to re-exploring the city with the amazing number of friends who have traveled through DC over the past few months...I had forgotten how beautiful color can be. I love little things like being able to call my family any time I want, and realizing that I can hop on a plane and celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas with family and friends...color.

As I start this next journey in life, I hope to keep blogging. My stories might not be as interesting as they were in Kuwait (although once the work travel starts, I have a feeling there might be some fun stories to share!), but I love to write so I plan to continue doing so. As the chaos of transition has eased, I have begun to truly process my experiences in Kuwait...the good, the bad, and the ugly. I feel more of a freedom to share now that I am back in the states, so perhaps some of those thoughts will make their way to this blog. I am beginning to realize that there is still quite a bit of raw emotion from my time in the Middle East, and I know that will take some time to unravel. I was trying to decide whether to keep this blog name, or change it since I am no longer a Kuwait City gal...but I have decided to keep the name because my Kuwait experience is a deep part of who I have become. The desert experience (both actual and metaphorical) has changed me and shaped me. So for this Kuwait City gal, now also DC City gal, it's time to step away from the computer and go live a little, but more to come soon!

The emotion of leaving

As I wrap up my life here in Kuwait (countdown = 22 days!), each day feels like an adventure tangled up in a mass of stress. There have been very exciting moments (like when my friend and I signed for an apartment in DC!), and very hard moments (like realizing yet again that I am leaving people that I might never see again). This is the life of the global nomad. There are a lot of ups and downs, but God has been incredibly gracious throughout. I'm coming up on that time in transition when the "lasts" begin...last time hanging out with someone, last time getting dinner at the chicken guys, last sessions with counseling clients, and on and on. And it is hard, but it is also good. As much as leaving feels incredibly difficult, I also know that this change is right for this moment in my life. So I push ahead, try to take my to-do list one item at a time, and trust that God will provide.

During this time, I've also found myself struggling a lot with anger. I know that transition is always an emotional time, and I am also feeling excited, sad, stressed, and a whole bunch of other things that I can't even identify right now. But over the past few weeks, I have struggled on a daily basis with an anger that just leaves my body shaking and my eyes burning. As I have processed the emotion, I've come to realize that much of my anger stems from a feeling of powerlessness as I leave the place I've come to call "home." For anyone who has been reading my blog over the past two years, you know that there are many aspects of the country, the culture, the society, and even my workplace, that bother me. From the treatment of women, to the veneer of spoiled riches, to the hidden ache of so much family dysfunction, to the desire of businesses (such as my workplace) to cover up anything uncomfortable so that they always look good to the people around...my heart just cries out: "this is not the way it's meant to be!"

As a counselor, I have the unique privilege (and burden) of stepping beyond the "always must look good" polish of this society and digging into the muck and mire beneath. And it so often leaves me reeling. My work at the Filipino embassy has brought this into stark relief. Every Wednesday, I sit with a group of women...all of them runaway domestic workers who have fled from difficult (and often horrific) circumstances. I hear their stories, and it breaks my heart. I just can't understand how people can treat other human beings this way...and on such a massive scale. Even though the embassy is constantly putting girls on planes to send them home, the shelter stays filled. Twenty girls leave, and twenty more girls show up at the gates. It never ends. And the same story is repeated at the Sri Lankan embassy, and the Indian embassy, and the Nepalese embassy, and more. And I feel so powerless to change anything here.

This week I was involved as a first responder and counselor during a very difficult incident. I won't go into the details because I can't, but suffice it to say that it was probably the most difficult day in my past two years in Kuwait. Thank God the situation was resolved and the person was ok, but it drained every last ounce of emotional energy from me, and again, it left me so angry. I am angry because this country has almost zero resources for mental illness. I am angry because seeking help is a sign of weakness, and will bring shame to the family. I am angry because if someone decides to hurt themselves, rather than get them help at the proper facility, it becomes a legal/police issue. I am angry because even those of us who want to help can't, because it's a "liability." And I am angry because even though we see the signs of people struggling all around us, there is so little that we can do to help. Shame is a powerful force here. Looking good is the almighty holy grail. And underneath, fractured hurting people try to make it through the day. I'm not saying that this is unique to Kuwait, but I am saying that it seems to exist on a much more pervasive scale here. And I can try (and have tried) to help people with whom I come in contact. I know all about the proverbial "helping one person at a time" is the only way to start making a difference. But I feel so overwhelmed in the face of my own powerlessness. And so, as a good friend (and soon to be roommate!) reminded me yesterday, that's when it comes back to faith. I must believe that even though this is not the way it was meant to be, God has a plan. I must believe that He cares about each individual person so much more than I could ever imagine. And I must believe that even though I am leaving this place, God has still used me...even if it was just one life at a time. And so I choose to take a deep breath, and hand over my anger to God...moment by moment. I choose to trust in His goodness, not only in my own life, but in this country that has been my home but also my heavy burden for two years.

On Living in the Middle East

Many people have asked me what it's like to be living in the Middle East at this time. One of my friends was watching a news show that had a chalk drawing of North Africa and the Middle East. They had placed little drawn flames on all countries that are currently in turmoil. The flames covered the map- Tunisia, Algeria, Egypt, Sudan, Yemen, Syria, Jordan, Palestine, Iraq, and Afghanistan. That's an impressive list! Here in Kuwait, things are calm. The Gulf Region (Kuwait, UAE, Qatar and Bahrain) is a tiny rich enclave in an often unstable region. The people in my corner of the world are kept content (or at least silent) but a constant flow of money and government perks. And yet, this is also a country that is 2/3 foreigners- many of whom hail from Egypt and surrounding countries. The past few weeks have been a constant murmur of voices- anxious Egyptians following the news 24 hours a day, citizens of other countries checking in with family and friends. We are calm, but it feels like we are standing on the precipice of history. It's scary, but it's also exciting. We are seeing the common man (and woman!) standing up en masse and saying, "enough is enough." It's reminiscent of all the revolutions and uprisings that led to the freedom of democracy in our western world. As Americans, I think we too often see the images of men with scarves over their faces yelling in Arabic, riding camels through the crowd, and we think "oh, how scary...those Muslims are scary!" The reality is that we are simply seeing our own revolutionary history played over again with slightly different cultural twists. Perhaps it's scary that some of the political parties maneuvering into power are extremist muslims. Perhaps we fear losing our "allies" in the region. There are a lot of perhaps. We can't know what the future will hold, but we can cheer with the crowds and shout our own versions of freedom. That's my perspective on things...feel free to take it with a grain of salt.

A Trip to the Indian Consulate

In Kuwait, anything out of the norm can turn into an adventure. Today, my big outing was to the Indian visa consulate to submit my paperwork in anticipation of my upcoming trip to Delhi and the Taj Mahal! This particular adventure could only be started after a week of research and phone calls to find out the exact process so I could be prepared. After finding out that the embassy (conveniently located near my work) does NOT process visas, I found out that the visa consulate (absolutely not conveniently located anywhere near my work) was the place to go. So I spent some time on google maps- definitely not up-to-date for Kuwait- to find the exact-sort-of-not-really location of the building. For those not familiar with Kuwait, street names are not exactly in fashion here. Some streets have names, with dubious arrows pointing in wizard-of-oz-scarecrow directions. Occasionally, there is a helpful arabic sign with a possible street name, but unless I can sit in front of it for 3 minutes trying to sound out the arabic script, it's a lost cause. In any case, I had high hopes and equal measures of determination as I left work and headed into Kuwait City (a mess of one way streets, traffic, and potholes).

My adventure started off well, aside from one minor traffic inconvenience caused by a police checkpoint (but they don't usually stop pale white girls). I finally made it to Kuwait City (downtown Kuwait), but made my first mistake when I took a left before the Grand Mosque, instead of after it. I quickly realized the error of my ways, and corrected it by turning the wrong way up a one-way street. My bad. I tried to do a u-turn, but decided that turning into on-coming traffic was not my best plan ever. I finally found a place to take a left, and realized to my horror that I had turned into a large souq area (outdoor marketplace). I navigated through the mess of traffic and people, and frantically looked for an easy place to get back to the main road. While I was looking for a turn, I failed to notice the abnormally large concrete "road fix" (aka, someone poured way too much concrete over a pothole, basically turning it into a reverse protruded mess). I think I screamed a little when my car shuddered over the concrete, metal grinding. I thought about stopping to make sure that the passenger side of my car was still there, but decided to just shrug it off and continue boldly forth.

I made a turn, ended up back on the main road, and turned at what I thought was the correct light. Alas, I was mistaken, and I ended up right back in the old souk. This time I avoided the pothole, and finally made it back to the main street. Within a few minutes, I found the correct turn, and miraculously saw a sign saying "Ahmed Al Jaber st", victory! Unfortunately, the only information I had on the consulate was the building name, and someone forgot to actually put a name sign on the building. So I drove, stopped and asked directions, turned around, stopped and asked directions, turned around, stopped and asked directions, and finally maneuvered my car into a dingy side alley. Fortunately, it's a predominantly Indian area, so several helpful store clerks pointed me in the right direction, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the big "Indian passport and visa services" sign. Once I found the right room, everything went smoothly. The people were incredibly professional and quick (a far cry from the total chaos of Kuwaiti ministry offices). Within 20 minutes, I had submitted my paperwork and received the good news that my visa would be ready in ten days. They told me they would call when it was done, and perhaps for the first time in 2 years of navigating paperwork in Kuwait, I believe them!

When I returned to my car, I was delighted to see that it was all in one piece. I worked my way back through traffic, through another police checkpoint, and decided to reward myself with a trip to the salon. All in a day's [after] work.

Turning the page...

It's been too long since I spent some time blogging. So here goes! The past couple of months have been full of decisions and change. For any readers who are not on my facebook, the big news is that I've decided to leave Kuwait (hmm, does that mean I need to change my blog title?). My time in Kuwait has been memorable- at times amazingly good, at times dark and lonely. But it has been a journey that I do not regret. However, it's time to move on and start something new. I've decided to move back to the US for a time, to be near friends and family. I'm planning on moving to DC in April...so I'm starting the job hunt and setting up my life there! I'll try to keep this site updated as the journey continues, but today my mind is here. Although I'm incredibly excited about DC, I'm also feeling sad as I consider the end of this incredible adventure. Here are a few recent highlights from life in the desert!

1. Last night I went to the US embassy social hour (also known as happy hour). Once you get through the layers of security, you emerge into an oasis of american-ness. There was a live band playing classic rock, good food and drinks, and fun company! There's something special about this kind of event when you live overseas!

2. Filled up my gas tank this week for $7. I am soooo going to miss gas prices in the sandbox!

3. Sitting at work surrounded by my coworkers- 2 Kuwaitis, 2 Egyptians, a Jordanian, an Indian, an American and an American-Venezualan! The conversation flashes between english and arabic. I just love the multi-culturalism!

4. Paying $9 for a doctor visit, and getting refills of all my meds for $11. Gotta love living in a social welfare state.

5. Realized today that when I visit India next month, it will be my 17th trip of the past 2 years. I've visited the US twice, Ethiopia twice, Dubai twice, Lebanon twice, Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Bahrain, Oman, Afghanistan, Ukraine, Sri Lanka, and Turkey. So many suitcases and plane rides. So many memories.

6. Spending time with the girls at the filipino embassy (shelter for domestic workers who have run away due to abuse). This past week we had about 25 new girls that are going to start our program (a combination of teaching the 7 habits and skill-training). Although hearing their stories is heartbreaking, it's such an honor to be part of this kind of work.

7. The food. Even after 2 years here, I never get sick of amazing Lebanese food...hummus, tabouleh, pita bread. I realized this week that I had eaten pita and hummus for 5 consecutive meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner, breakfast and lunch!).

8. I always feel such a sense of accomplishment when something gets done...mostly because even the simplest things become complicated! I finally got my heat working in the apartment- after 2 visits from maintenance and many conversations in a combination of broken english and arabic!

These are just a few of my favorite moments from the past week. I have been noticing that my cynicism at the culture here has been increasing daily since I decided to leave. It's as if the filter I force myself to wear (so that I don't become "that girl" that walks around criticizing everything) has been slipping. There are many things here that just tear at my soul...so many things that are wrong or evil. But there are also so many amazing aspects of living in this part of the world. There will be a time later for me to process the negative things I have seen and experienced here. But for now, I also want to take in all the amazingly unique parts of life here. I can honestly say that every day is an adventure! More thoughts to come soon...

Diet Coke Emergency & the Local Bakalas

I had a diet coke emergency tonight. When I opened my refrigerator earlier today, I realized I had only one diet coke left. I drank it quickly and decided I would run to the local bakala later in the evening. A bakala is basically a neighborhood grocery the size of a closet...there's one on every corner, and it's the place you go to pick up sodas, snacks, bottled water, etc. As the sun set and my need for caffeine increased, I decided it was time for the emergency run. And here came the eternal dilemma. You see, there is a bakala right across the street from me, and one about a block away. It seems like a no-brainer, right? Wrong. You see, women generally do not walk around the streets in Kuwait, especially foreign women. So if I want to visit the bakala a block away, I drive. It's easy...slightly ridiculous to walk a block, but easy. And I like the owners. They know me, and although they stare a bit, they're very kind. The bakala across the street is another matter. There are usually several men loitering around the front counter, they speak very little English, and they stare a LOT. And...to get there I have to walk across the street. It seems like a small matter, but it entails a lot of stares, honking horns, cars slowing down, and guys yelling out the window. It's not dangerous, but it is uncomfortable. I learned a long time ago that walking around Kuwait as a foreigner is not fun. When I first arrived, I took two walking trips from my campus to the bank one block away. By the second trip, I decided to file that particular journey away into the "not going to do that again" drawer. But tonight, I braved the street and the honking and the stares and walked to the bakala across the street, where I successfully solved the diet coke emergency.

This particular dilemma struck a chord with me tonight. Over the past few weeks, I've had several conversations with Americans who work for US entities (whether it's government or military). For them, security is always at the forefront of the list of concerns. Other Americans in Kuwait check under their cars, have high levels of security at their places of work, and even sometimes have escorts when traveling to foreign countries! For me, life in Kuwait just feels "normal." I realize that I live in the Middle East, but it doesn't feel dangerous. I don't check under my car for scary devices, I don't worry about kidnapping or being a target. I take holidays to places like Afghanistan, and do a side trip up to the Bekaa Valley (Hezbollah territory) to see some ancient ruins when I'm visiting Lebanon. Most people who have never been to Kuwait would be surprised how westernized the city is on the surface. I think there are probably more American restaurants here than in the states! TGIFridays, Hardy's, Johnny Rockets, Chili's, Crispy Creme, and of course two Starbucks on every city block. Sometimes it's easy to forget how different life is here, under the surface. I've been thinking a lot recently about these differences, and yet how normal it can feel. I'm flying out for the states next Wednesday night (yay for Christmas with my family!), and I haven't stepped foot on American soil in almost a year and a half. So I've been thinking about culture shock. I've been thinking (and dreaming!) about walking down the street in the middle of the day. I've even been thinking about how excited I am to go for a run outside (I must be crazy if I'm actually excited about running!). And that brings me back to my bakala dilemmas. Those are the moments when I remember how very different my life is here. Even though I can call Subway to deliver my 6" veggie sandwich on wheat, I can't stroll down the street when I feel like being outside. I drive like a maniac...because everyone else drives like a maniac. I spend my days making sure that I don't accidentally bump into a man...my physical space bubble has gotten about three feet deep since moving here! When I drive or am just walking around somewhere, I keep my gaze straight forward and am careful not to make eye contact with men. I am careful to wear extremely modest clothing anytime I leave my house. And the list goes on. Not all these things are bad. They're just different. And that's where culture shock comes in. The reality is that I have been living in a place that is extremely different...if you just scratch the surface. It will be interesting to see what kind of culture shock hits when I land in the states. I'll keep you posted!

The Day I Hired a Maid

It's finally come down to this...I can't keep up with the dust in my apartment. In America, a good sweep and an occasional vacuum cleaning can keep the dust balls at bay. Not in Kuwait. I sweep several times a week, but I hate to mop and dusting the wood just makes me sneeze. So, as part of my stay-cation (vacation where you stay at home), I decided to invest in having someone clean my apartment. You have to understand that this is not my norm. I've resisted the whole "I have someone do everything for me just because I can" mentality for almost two years. But now, it's time. And so, yesterday I went down to the guard in my lobby and asked him if he could find me a maid who speaks some English to come early Friday morning. Rani showed up at 8:30, and as I sit here typing, she is cleaning and pulling dust balls out from the darkest corners of my "I thought it was relatively clean" apartment.

Having someone clean your apartment (especially when it's a relatively small apartment and you're invariably 20 feet away from the person cleaning at all times), is slightly awkward. Do you help? Do you just pretend they're not there? Do you chat with them...not quite possible since Rani's English and my Hindi are not up to par! She has managed to find enough English to scold me twice: once as she swept out a giant dust pile from under my bed and once when she said "one year no cleaning, not good! clean one time one week." Point well taken, Rani.

I did find out that she is Indian, has a husband and two sons back in India, and has been in Kuwait for 7 years. She's been cleaning houses for 5 of those years, and has only been back to see her family twice since first arriving in Kuwait. One of her sons is in 10th grade, and the other just finished college. She was married at 14, had her first son at 15, and her second son at 17. What a different life. She did tell me that I need to get married..."husband, good!" I assume that she is here in Kuwait working so that she can send her sons to school. I find myself so torn...feeling guilty that I need to hire someone to clean my house, but also knowing that the money I pay her is precisely why she's here...living in a very difficult country so far from her family.

Total cost = $25 (I paid her twice the normal fee...but what can I say, after seeing all the dust, I figured what the heck!).

When she left, she made it clear that I should be hiring her twice a week to clean. She also offered to cook! And she said that we are sisters. Thank you Rani!

A typical trip to the chicken guy

We just started our Eid vacation (Muslim holiday) here in Kuwait, so I have the entire next week off! I decided not to travel this time, since I've been out of the country five times in the past 6 months. I'm using the time to clean (loooong overdue!), rest, read, and think about the future. After cleaning out most of my fridge tonight, I decided that a trip across the street to my favorite chicken guys was in order. The chicken guys are basically my alternative to cooking my own food. Their little rotisserie chicken restaurant is my favorite local hangout. All the guys that work there are Syrian, and they know me well. I've probably been by their restaurant three times a week every week for the past year! None of them really speak English, but they all come out to say hello and I sometimes go inside to drink tea and chat. We laugh a lot since our conversations are basically one-sided monologues. I jabber in English...and get a lot of blank stares and laughter. They respond by jabbering in Arabic. I understand a bit, but generally just stare back and laugh. And so it goes. Tonight, I stayed in my car waiting for my hummus, falafel sandwich, and fries (it took three guys to understand what fries were). One of the guys came over to the car to chat...it went something like this:

Chicken guy: Salaam Aleykum (hello!). You no drink syrian whiskey inside? (gesture to restaurant.

Me: Syrian whiskey?

Chicken guy: [laughter]. This Kuwait. No have whiskey. Syrian whiskey = chai tea.

Me: [laughter]. This Kuwait. No have alcohol. Not good for foreigners, but oh well. But thank you for tea. Inshallah (god willing), tomorrow.

Chicken guy: [gesture to my apartment building across the street]. You have whiskey inside? You bring whiskey, I drink?

Me: [laughter]. No have whiskey. Alcohol illegal. No whiskey. Sorry.

Chicken guy: You get whiskey from american embassy? You bring, I drink?

Me: No, I can't get whiskey at american embassy. No have whiskey. No have alcohol. Sorry.

Chicken guy: You take me, we drink whiskey.

Me: [laughter]. No, sorry. No have whiskey. You go Syria to drink whiskey.

Chicken guy: Can get sadiki (bathtub made vodka] in Kuwait. Cost a lot. You buy, we drink?

Me: No. Sadiki very bad for stomach. Sorry. No can drink alcohol in Kuwait.

Chicken guy: You have husband?

Me: No. No husband.

Chicken guy: [incredulous laughter]. No have husband? No have baby? No baby? You no want husband and baby?

Me: [uncomfortable laughter]. No have husband. No have baby. Maybe inshallah someday in the future.

Chicken guy: You have boyfriend?

Me: Yes, have boyfriend (sorry, sometimes you gotta lie in these situations...it's a safety thing). Have very nice American boyfriend.

Chicken guy: Boyfriend drive green car?

Me: [confused laughter]. No, boyfriend no drive green car. Boyfriend no come to this restaurant.

Chicken guy: You have American boyfriend. So he in Kuwait?

Me: Yes. He in Kuwait. Is my food ready? Must bring food to American boyfriend.

Chicken guy: [disappointed laughter]. Ok, ok. I go get food. You bring me whiskey!


Most of this was in a combo of English and Arabic. He said a lot more that I didn't catch, but I'm ok with that. Never a dull moment in Kuwait!

Pause

There are moments in life when you pause to reflect on the journey. Too often, I am caught in the whirlwind of the immediate. Pressing needs supplant reflection. The urgent suffocates the significant. And the now, trapped in the hectic tumult of activity and thought, holds me prisoner. When I pause, the fatigue of life catches up with me, and instead of truly being silent in the pause, I succumb to sleep or the sweet nothingness of mindless entertainment. I call it staring at a wall. Whether it is the comforting darkness of true sleep, or the numbness of my television, I disappear. I have spent too long caught in the pendulum, swinging from urgent immediacy to eerily calm nothing. And so I stay. Caught in a place that is no longer my place. Hoping for next steps but always too overwhelmed to take that lunging leap. Only a few short months after I moved to Kuwait, I wrote of caravans. Two recent comments on that post brought me back to read it anew. And I marveled at the caravans that have entered my life, and exited my life, in the span of those months. I find myself now, sitting with nervous energy, waiting and waiting for my caravan. In the pit, I wonder if God is there, if perhaps I might just hear the sound of approaching caravans. There is a whisper, a tremor, and yet nothing. There is hope, but it feels nearly impossible to hold that tender thread. The journey has been sweet, beauty in the divine sovereignty. The past months have been full- of life and travel and friends and family. Mine is not a cry of complaint. It is deep delighted laughter at the journey God has formed for me. But in the midst of laughter is a silent river of questioning tears. It is my mascara worship. It is my questions, my uncertainty, my longing, my pause.

To read the Caravans post, simply go to: http://kuwaitcitygal.blogspot.com/2009/05/caravans.html

Korah Dump: Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

I started this post two months ago, but the emotion of this experience was still too raw. I was finally able to complete it, and hope that those of you reading about Korah will continue to educate yourselves about the situation (there are several excellent blog entries and videos online if you google the name). Now that I am back in the blog mode, check back soon for more!

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There is something haunting about the Korah Dump. This is the kind of haunting that weighs on your soul, the kind that is unspeakable. And yet, it must be spoken. In the Bible and in historical texts, there are multiple citations of a place called Gehenna. It was a historical cite outside of Jerusalem also called the Valley of Hinnom, and it was the place where child sacrifices were made, and where the bodies of the unwanted were dumped. It was deemed to be an accursed place, and in the original text of the New Testament, the word Gehenna is used 11 times by Christ as the word for hell. During my recent return trip to Ethiopia, I walked into Gehenna. Just a short distance outside Addis, this place is called the Korah Dump. And it is deeply haunting.

I spent a month in Addis back in June/July, helping to provide leadership to a summer trip for high schoolers. We worked in orphanages, visited HIV-positive women to bring them grain, taught skills and crafts to a group of women, and saw the kind of poverty that is unimaginable in the developed world. In a country where the average yearly income is $90, poverty takes on new meaning. Poverty in Ethiopia does not discriminate. It affects the young and the old, people from every ethnic group, Christians, Orthodox, and Muslim. Poverty is the 6 million orphans in Ethiopia. It is the fact that 1 in 6 children die before age 5, most from preventable diseases. It is a prevalence of malaria and leprosy, in an age where malaria and leprosy should not exist.

Although my heart was broken in so many ways on that initial trip, God wasn't quite done with me. I decided to return to Addis for a long weekend in August, thinking it would be fun to have a little more time with my family. It was a sweet time, but God also brought me back so that I could see something that I could never imagine. When I returned to Addis, I found out that half of the group was planning a trip to a slum area outside of Addis. We planned to spend some time playing soccer with the kids, and then a contact had arranged for us to walk over and see the Korah Dump. So on Saturday, we piled into the bus and headed out. We stopped in front of a church in the middle of the slums, and stepped out into a crowd of children. Immediately, small hands grasped us. Children crowded in, and we were ushered into the church. We sat on small wood pews and started singing with the kids. Within a couple of minutes, I had 3 little girls jostling for a spot beside me. I had already spent a month playing with kids at local orphanages, but these children were different. They was an intensity to their smiles, to the way that they gripped my fingers. They crawled into my lap, and held tightly to my neck. They brushed my hair and kissed my cheek and asked me over and over for my name. And as they squeezed close to me, I felt torn. I knew about this place. It is a place for the unwanted. Korah means cursed. It is an area outside of Addis that was created for the least of the least...the lepers. Over 100,000 people live in this slum area. They are lepers, HIV-positive, orphans, elderly. There is no running water, and no sewers. And to my shame, as these little girls crawled on my lap, I couldn't help but wonder about them. Were those white spots on the girl's face leprosy? What other diseases might they have? And something inside of me broke. And I hugged the girls and let them put their hands in my hair and accepted their kisses. I determined in that moment that I would not see them as cursed or forgotten. And that is why I must speak of the unspeakable...because little girls should never have to live in hell. They should not have leprosy when leprosy is preventable and treatable. They should never have to be held at arm's distance because they are sick or dirty. There is something so deeply wrong with this world, and to me, the Korah Dump symbolizes all that is evil and shattered in our world.

After the church, we began our trek to the actual dump. As we crested the hill, we saw what appeared to be grass, intermixed with some garbage. It smelled a little, but it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated. And then I began to walk, guided by several young inhabitants of the area. And as I began to pick my way across the "grass," I realized that I was walking on decades of garbage, with a thin layer of sickly grass overtop. Underneath, my feet was the accumulation of human waste...not just material, but also biological. I picked my way through the swamp, trying to avoid the deeper rivers of human waste. I suddenly found myself standing on the edge of an impassable pit, the stench overpowering my sense of smell. And then one of the young men from the dump appeared at my side and started to reach toward me- he wanted to carry me over the waste. I was torn between the desire to avoid the cesspool of filth, and utter shame at the thought of this young man, who lived in this every day, carrying me so that I could stay clean. I thanked him and stepped forward alone, and my foot sank into the muck. I trudged along, sweating from the combination of heat and stench. In the distance, we saw a giant brown mountain rising above the landscape. As we approached, we saw cranes on top, and what appeared to be people climbing all over the mountain. This was the fresh dump, the active dump. The cranes labored day and night adding to the pile of trash and human waste, and the people climbing on the mountain were the laborers. These people spend their lives sorting through the waste, looking for materials that can be sold- plastic bags, water bottles, wire, shoes. Most of the laborers were women and children. These are the untouchables, the people from the surrounding slums who are governed by the rich masters (the owners of the dump, living in gated villas around the slum). Many of them are orphans, lepers, utterly poor. They live in this Gehenna, this hell on earth. And my concept of what poverty means was shattered. My knowledge of what is evil and wrong plummeted to a new depth. This is horror. This should not be. The children proudly showed us their finds...plastic bags full of tennis shoes, pieces of wire, empty water bottles. They smiled, and they held our hands, and they proudly showed us their world. On top of the mountains were little cardboard lean-tos...this is where the poorest of the poor live. They don't even live in the slum, they live on the mountain of waste. And yet they also take pride in their world. I don't know how to feel about all this. I was horrified, I was shamed, I was broken. There is no logical explanation for a world that would allow these women and children to live like this. In the wealthy wasteful society in which I currently live, and the wealth wasteful society that I grew up in, there is no framework to understand what we saw at the Korah Dump. And I think that is why it has taken me so long to publish this post that I started two months ago. I have no conclusion, no answer, no witty sarcastic comment. I can only put into words what I experienced, and hope that through my experience others will educate themselves and that together we can find a way to stop this kind of horror from continuing.

With brokenness,
Amy